Cath Staincliffe - Blink of an Eye

‘We could ring Georgia’s parents,’ said Phil.

‘Except I don’t have their number.’

All the benefits of the holiday were wiped out in one fell swoop. The warm glow replaced by cold tension.

I’ve managed the aftermath of house fires a number of times at work. Dealing with shocked and displaced families, or even worse, the bereaved. Firemen with tears in their eyes carrying small corpses. One time it was deliberate. Arson. Three generations killed while they slept. The grandfather coming back from his night shift to Armageddon. Me there getting him a place to sleep, clean clothes and toiletries, money for food and a visit from the doctor. Sitting with him while the police spoke to him. His daughter’s ex-boyfriend was convicted of the offence. She had ended the relationship and begun seeing another man. Seven people died that night, four of them children.

Naomi wasn’t there when the taxi dropped us back from the airport. I was glad, actually. I might have lost it, in the first full shock of seeing the damage; said things that couldn’t be undone.

It was bad enough from the outside: the ugly boards over the big lounge windows, and our bedroom above. Black smears on the walls, the front garden full of shards of glass.

Oh God! Our house. I’d been pregnant when we moved in. I’d loved the flat above the shop, with its bohemian flavour, but wasn’t sure about having a baby there. We’d no central heating, washing machine or even a shower, just a stained old bathtub. There was nowhere outside to put a pram or sit out.

We scoured estate agents’ windows and local newspaper pages to get an idea of prices. The biggest problem was the deposit. If we bought somewhere at the cheapest end of the market, with my salary and Phil’s average income, we could just about afford the monthly payments. But we had no savings.

In the event, Phil’s dad offered to help as soon as he heard we were considering buying.

The house had been empty and on the market for over a year. It smelt musty and damp from where the flat roof let in water. The decor was revolting: Anaglypta on the walls, and polystyrene tiles, swirly brown carpets and fussy ceiling lights. I relinquished my dreams of somewhere with a hundred years of history and high ceilings and attic rooms and bay windows. We saw that it had the potential to be a family home, though. And it was the only property we’d seen that was in an area we liked, not too rough and not too stultifyingly suburban. It was years before we could afford to replace the carpets or do more than slap paint on the embossed wallpaper, but we made it our own as best we could.

And here it was, blackened, ruined. Suzanne was in the kitchen and ran to us as we went in. She hugged us both and told us Naomi was at the hospital again but would be back soon. The smell was horrible, burnt plastic or burning hair.

‘The lounge is the worst,’ Suzanne said. She passed Phil a torch. We went up the half-flight of stairs and stepped in. The carpet was spongy underfoot from the water they had sprayed. It was dark with the windows boarded up. The sofa was a charred wreck, the books along the wall blackened. The television had exploded, its screen punched open. Next to it were Phil’s records. Unrecognisable. Irreplaceable. The curtains had melted and fused to the carpet.

I couldn’t speak. Just shook my head and bit my cheek.

Upstairs, our room was mainly smoke-damaged, apart from the smashed window; flames licking up from outside had destroyed that. Everything was covered with an oily black residue and tiny fragments of soot, like black snow.

We drank cups of tea, then Phil began to make a list of what we needed for an insurance claim, though he wanted to talk to Naomi before he rang the company so he’d got the facts straight. He thought they might have to send an assessor out. It could cost us thousands.

Suzanne had a note of the contact details for the fire officer responsible for investigating the fire. He’d be coming back to see us.

Phil goes very quiet when he’s angry. He doesn’t raise his voice or wave his arms about like I do; he doesn’t even swear. He goes quiet and it is scary.

That was what Naomi faced when she came back. She looked awful, hair lank, her clothes rumpled, a crop of spots on her face. Crying as she came in.

I went to hug her, relieved to see her there, aching for her as well as angry. She smelled of smoke and sweat.

‘Oh Mum,’ she sobbed. I got her to sit down. Offered her tea, but she shook her head.

‘How’s Georgia?’

‘Okay.’ She gave a little nod.

Phil said two words: ‘What happened?’

‘People came over and I was in the bathroom. Then there was this massive bang and the smoke alarms went off. Everyone just got out and someone rang the fire brigade. And I had to get Georgia.’

‘Where was Georgia?’ I said.

‘In my room.’

‘Was she hurt?’ I said.

Naomi hesitated, licked her lips.

‘Naomi,’ said Phil. His face was set and his eyes hard.

‘She’s in hospital.’ She swallowed.

I didn’t understand. ‘What’s she in hospital for?’

‘Alcohol poisoning.’

Phil groaned.

‘And she’s okay?’

‘They said she can go home later.’

‘How did it start?’ Phil asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘You must have some idea,’ he said steadily.

‘We had candles in the lounge. I think maybe that…’

I could see it. Them all pissed and rowdy, easy enough to kick over a candle; if it touched the curtains or one of the cushions… ‘You shouldn’t even have been here,’ I said, ‘and you know we’ve told you before, no parties.’

‘It wasn’t a party, just…’ she protested, then fell silent. Realizing perhaps that splitting hairs would get her nowhere. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I’m really sorry.’

Phil closed his eyes.

‘I’m so cross with you,’ I said, shaking. ‘You’ve ruined-’

‘I’ll help pay.’

‘How exactly? Don’t be stupid. But once we’re allowed to clear up, you can bloody well muck in.’

‘I will,’ she said in a small voice.

‘Someone could have died, Naomi,’ Phil said. ‘ You could have died.’

It was horrible. The whole situation was horrible. I’d thought the shock of what had happened might make her buck her ideas up, but Naomi’s rebellion had a way to run yet.

‘I suppose it’s the same old story,’ I said to Phil as we drove back from Suzanne’s. ‘Suzanne’s doing everything by the book, being Superwoman, and then Naomi’s in trouble and it’s all eyes on her. Whatever happens, we must make time to see her and Ollie. She seems so lonely sometimes. She hasn’t really got any close friends. Perhaps you could do something with them on Sundays when I’m at work, take them out or something? While Jonty’s away. I think you’re more neutral in her eyes. She’s cross that I won’t just take her word about Naomi drinking.’

‘Sure,’ he said.

Suzanne appeared to have it all – beautiful home, successful career, loving husband, now a baby – but we weren’t the only ones to find her prickly. Her judgemental attitude, her rigorous standards alienated people and left her isolated. Despite the brave front she was putting on about having Ollie, I couldn’t believe she wasn’t finding it a challenge at some level. I’d do all I could to make time for her and be available to help out, but I’d do it as subtly as I could, because I knew she wouldn’t want to admit to needing anyone’s help.

We drove on home as the light softened and the evening star rose in the west. My favourite time of year, but now everything beautiful was tinged with sadness. Our world had changed.