Polly Courtney - The Day I Died

When she reached the convenience store, she headed straight for the bottled water.

‘Evening,’ croaked the elderly woman behind the till. Despite the wizened face and white hair, she had incredibly sharp-looking green eyes.

‘Hi.’ Jo hardly dared ask the question. ‘Could you tell me, is there a bed and breakfast above this shop?’

The woman looked slightly taken aback. ‘Goodness! Who told you that? There used to be.’

‘Used to be?’ Jo’s hopes fell away. She had walked up another dead end.

‘Well, yes. About ten years ago!’

‘Oh.’ Jo paid her for the water. ‘And are you sure it’s not running any more?’

The woman laughed. ‘Quite sure! It was my little business, until they made me shut up shop.’

‘Oh, right.’ Jo nodded and broke open the bottle of water. ‘I don’t suppose you know of any others around here, do you?’

The woman looked at her. Jo could feel her eyes roaming the cheap clothes and knotted hair.

‘I’m new,’ Jo explained. ‘I–I arrived this evening. I was supposed to be staying with a…a friend, but that didn’t, er, happen.’ She could hear the lack of conviction in her voice and tried to assert herself. ‘We fell out. And I’ve got a job in Radley that starts early in the morning so I have to stay nearby.’

The woman raised an eyebrow. Jo held her breath. She had gone into too much detail.

After a long pause, the woman spoke. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know of any this side of Abingdon,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’

Jo nodded and made to leave.

It was a last-ditch effort, but as she leaned on the door, she looked back at the woman. ‘Who made you shut up shop?’

The shrewd green eyes narrowed for a moment. ‘The council. You know: rules, regulations, paperwork, fire hazards. That sort of nonsense. They don’t like me because I blocked the ringroad development going through my shop–but that’s another story.’

Jo nodded, seeing an opportunity. It was a long shot, but her only one. ‘Do you…still have the rooms and everything?’

The woman’s expression slowly changed to a sceptical smile. ‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Jo.’

‘I’m Pearl. Pearl Phillips. Are you really stuck for somewhere to stay?’

‘Totally. I’ve tried everywhere. There’s nothing this side of town–I’ve looked,’ she gabbled. ‘I can pay. I’ve got money. Like, twenty, maybe twenty-five pounds a night? I’m desperate! I wouldn’t tell anyone. D’you think maybe—’

The woman smiled and held up her hand. ‘Calm down, Jo. Let’s call it fifteen.’

‘Cornflakes or toast? That’s all there is, I’m afraid.’ Mrs Phillips looked at her expectantly from behind the kitchen counter.

‘Toast, please,’ Jo replied in a daze. Her head felt heavy. It was half-past six and she had slept badly, despite her exhaustion and the comfortable bed. Her mind had been racing with anxious, panicky thoughts that became less and less rational as the night wore on. Then at two a.m., having finally drifted off, she had woken with a jolt, her breathing shallow, covered in sweat, her pulse racing. The nausea had taken hold as she lay there willing her brain to shut down, ebbing and flowing for what seemed like hours. Sometime around dawn she must have dozed off again, only to be woken by the sound of birds and a blocked nose, which, on later inspection, turned out to be a nosebleed.

The landlady started ferrying jams and spreads onto the table and arranging them in an arc around her guest. Jo mumbled her gratitude, distracted by the incredible number of cat replicas that covered every shelf and surface in the room.

‘You like cats, then.’

There were china cats, furry miniature cats, cat teapots, cat postcards…Even the woman’s slippers were shaped like cats.

Mrs Phillips looked up and smiled. ‘Very observant. Yes. I’d get a real one if I knew it wouldn’t outlive me.’ She whipped the toast from under the grill and slid it onto a plate. ‘There you go. Gone are the days when a full fry-up came as standard, I’m afraid…Mind you, the marmalade’s home-made.’

Accepting the slightly burned toast, Jo’s eye was drawn to the stack of newspapers on the table–presumably copies that would later be sold in the shop. Her stomach flipped as she considered the possibility that the explosion she’d run from the day before might warrant coverage.

‘Pick a channel.’ The landlady pushed the remote control over and nodded at the small TV. ‘I like to see my news in print, but you probably prefer the television.’ She started flicking through the first of the papers.

Jo scrolled through the stations in search of some news, eventually settling for a mindless chat show. She buttered her toast, trying to guess Mrs Phillips’ age. Physically, she looked quite old, maybe seventy, but her mannerisms belonged to a younger woman. She was lithe and full of energy.

‘So, what brought you to Radley?’ She aligned the pages of the first newspaper and moved on to the second.

Jo jiggled her head, implying that she had too much toast in her mouth to talk. A bus . A night bus on its way to the depot. She couldn’t tell the truth, and she’d already told Mrs Phillips about the job at Trev’s Teashop. Nobody would move to Radley in order to work in a place like that.

‘A friend,’ she said finally. ‘I, er, wanted to get out of London for a bit–change of scene, you know.’ She took another bite to buy herself some time. ‘Um…my mate offered to put me up for a while, so I found myself a job–the job at the teashop–and then…’

‘Then you fell out with your friend,’ finished the woman, nodding. ‘And this friend–was it…a male friend, by any chance?’ She raised an eyebrow.

Jo looked at her. With a surge of relief, she realised that Mrs Phillips had assumed the most plausible story of all: that Jo had just split up with the boyfriend who she’d been planning to live with. She nodded.

‘I see. Ooh, kettle’s boiled. Tea or coffee?’

Jo opted for coffee, relieved. Mrs Phillips was a perceptive woman, she thought. And nosy, too. Jo knew she’d have to stay on the ball to avoid getting caught out by her own lies.

‘Have you always been a waitress? I’ll leave you to add milk and sugar.’

Jo stuffed a large piece of toast in her mouth and made a winding gesture with her hand. Why hadn’t she thought about this? She should have invented a background. Sooner or later, people would start asking–of course they would. And she had to stick to a story. She’d already told Trevor her parents weren’t English–what other nonsense would she come up with?

‘No,’ she said, still chewing. For some reason, she could only think of one possible career path that involved part-time waitressing, and she wasn’t sure it would stick.

Eventually, it was time to swallow.

‘I’m an actress.’

‘Goodness! Really? Would I have seen you in anything? What sort of acting?’

Jo shrugged modestly. ‘It’s just minor parts, mainly–nothing big.’ She was trying to remember the name of a low-budget film or series that would seem plausible for a small-time actress. Nothing sprang to mind.

‘Go on,’ the woman goaded excitedly. ‘Try me. I might’ve seen you in something.’

Jo shook her head. This really was testing her acting skills. ‘No, really–it’s been mainly screenplays and short films, like…’ She thought frantically, trying to make up a name that sounded like a title but wasn’t likely to be one already. ‘The Goose ,’ she said finally.

Mrs Phillips was still looking at her expectantly.

‘And…’ God, this was hard, ‘Jim’s…Secret…House .’ Jo poured some milk into her coffee and stirred it ferociously. She could feel her cheeks burning.