Habits

By Allys Astley

Peggy, a near octegenerian, has lived in her home for 40 years. Widowed a decade ago, she is coping well, until her home comes under attack, with no apparent motive.

Daisy, a young woman plagued with obsessions and insecurities, lives in a council flat with her boyfriend who is drowning in addiction. Daisy, haunted by flashbacks of disease smothering her childhood home, finds her life unraveling.

What mysterious forces bring these two distressed souls to Sister Bernadette’s prayer room? A magical haven, home to anyone who enters. There, Daisy confronts the trauma from her childhood, and Peggy contemplates the unthinkable - a trip to Canada, to visit her son.

But nothing could prepare her for what she discovers there.

'Astley's writing is beautifully sympathetic to the human condition.'

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sally O'Toole
• Release date: Mar 6, 2020
• ISBN: 9781527259652

Book preview

Habits

Habits

Copyright © 2020 Allys Astley

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2020

ISBN  978-1-5272-5965-2

Preface

Peggy, a near octegenerian, has lived in her home for 40 years. Widowed a decade ago, she is coping well, until her home comes under attack, with no apparent motive.

Daisy, a young woman plagued with obsessions and insecurities, lives in a council flat with her boyfriend who is drowning in addiction. Daisy, haunted by flashbacks of disease smothering her childhood home, finds her life unraveling.

What mysterious forces bring these two distressed souls to Sister Bernadette’s prayer room? A magical haven, home to anyone who enters. There, Daisy confronts the trauma from her childhood, and Peggy contemplates the unthinkable - a trip to Canada, to visit her son.

But nothing could prepare her for what she discovers there.

Chapter One: Daisy

She’s in Rani’s again, getting eggs. They’re cheap, powerful and legal. Half way round she stops, stands before the narrow chrome strip that sections the tins from the biscuits, and gets out her comb to put every hair back in place. What is that under her eye? A fleck of mascara? Her handbag is a plastic on plastic jumble as she chases around the compacts and lipsticks in search of a cotton bud. Gotcha, then more fumbling to locate the wet wipes. Her fingers are highly attuned to the contents, rejecting all but the smooth plastic rectangle. She takes out a wipe and wets the end of her cotton bud, shivering with disgust at the thought of moistening it in her mouth. She moves her face right up to the shiny bar to locate the black blot and applies the tip of the cotton bud with steady skill to remove it. A voice from behind makes her jump.

‘Are you looking for something? Can I help?’

She turns and expertly secretes her retouching tools in her pockets. ‘No, I’m OK.’ He shrugs a smile and walks off. What does that mean? Was he smirking at her? She furiously rubs her fingertip back and forth under her eye and consults the vertical oracle again. A reddening in her skin soaks into view. She rummages through her bag once more, pulling out concealer to fix the fault. It still doesn’t’t look right. How could he humiliate her like that? Could he know her intentions? Panic rising within her, she dumps the eggs on top of the soup, and walks briskly to the automatic doors that take too long to open. Outside she breaks into a run, desperate for refuge, desperate to be out of sight, but already loathing herself for leaving the eggs.

She can tell immediately the flat is empty. Relieved to know she is alone, she heads straight for the bathroom to check her face again. She puts on the overhead light and the one above the mirror, leaning in closer to fully inspect herself. What a mess, it makes her feel sick, it really does. She snatches the tweezers from the little indent in the sickly pink sink, the shallow dip intended for bars of soap. The thing is, no-one uses that stuff anymore. God the light in here is pathetically dim. How is she supposed to sort herself out? After plucking four more hairs from her eyebrows she looks repeatedly from one to the other. They are grotesquely uneven. As her hand fishes for her eyebrow pencil she notices the spot again, just under her lower lip on the right. It has been there for three days. Has it got bigger? It’s hard to tell with the terrible light and the make-up but yes, yes it is bigger, it really is. It should have gone by now. Skin cancer, it is skin cancer, she knows it. No less than she deserves for her ridiculous attempts to make herself normal - the sunbeds, the bronzing oils. It was only a matter of time before fate caught up with her. The bulb over the mirror fizzes and dies. The door slams - Dean. She won’t tell him, he’ll just make fun of her. She might ring the doctors later, if she has any credit left.

‘Daisy? Daze?’ He walks in on her without knocking. ‘Knew I’d find you in here messing about with that gorgeous little face of yours.’ He grabs her jaw and pulls her mouth onto his own, his dogtooth enamel briefly grating against her own. She notices everything about him at once. His day old body odour, overdue haircut, the dirt under his nails. She’s sure there is more plaque between his teeth than yesterday, the crease on the left side of his nose looks deeper, the bags under his eyes darker, even his forearms feel skinny and asymmetrical. Why can’t he see it, do something about it? It is all too much, she is swamped, suffocated. Her energy sapped, she submits to acceptance once again.

Chapter Two: Peggy

Peggy waits until early morning to venture out and check again. It’s chilly so she puts on her coat and slippers, the good ones with the rubber soles Michael got her for Christmas. She’d had to buy them herself of course, with him living in Canada, but he’d paid her back. It’s better to choose things like that yourself, make sure they fit properly. She can see from inside her front room that the windows are clear, but she wants to check the outside walls and the front door. No fresh marks, no further attack. The dread subsides a little as she slips back indoors and makes her way from the front to the back of her home. Her fingertips glide across the gallery of photos in the little hallway and across the front room, until she’s in the kitchen at the rear. She puts the kettle on and, out of habit, opens the bread bin to peel off the fiddly yellow tape from her sliced loaf. Next she takes the matches from the cupboard by the cooker, lights the gas grill and slips out two slices from underneath the wholemeal crust. Only then does the nausea hit. She waits for it to pass but it does not. She turns out the gas, puts the bread away, and scolds herself into trying a cup of tea instead.

She takes it to her comfy chair. It’s not quite as comfy since she had to get an extra, firmer cushion to prevent her sinking so low she struggles get up. Her house is now peppered with those screw-in white handles, since that sweet girl had visited. Grab rails, that’s it. Rather an alarming term, carrying with it a certain inevitability over her decline. She’s made it this far in life without grabbing things.

Bill’s chair, the other in the matching pair, is untouched, his saggy impression still visible. The two seater in between is for guests. It might as well be called Marion’s sofa these days. She will be here at eleven, to go to the Irish Centre, in four and a half hours’ time.

Peg used to enjoy her own company, never idle with the house to keep, and crocheting dolls’ clothes for the Irish Centre raffles. Of course before that she’d made clothes for the grandchildren - trips to the post office each month with a brown parcel for Alberta, but they were all grown up now and she hasn’t bothered much with the sewing machine since. Forty years in the trade was enough, all that leather and sheepskin for the bigwigs at the football club forever breaking her needles. It was just too quiet in her own home, one solitary needle rising and falling, two little bobbins spinning, - no clatter, no din, no orchestra. That’s what had done for Marion’s ears of course, the symphony of the factory.

Then there’s the garden. That had been Bill’s job, but she’d kept on top of it since he died, until now. Now she doesn’t like to go out in case she gets caught up in an attack. And when she’s inside, though she is a strong lady, she can’t help but worry over when it will happen again. All the time, no matter what she is doing, she is fearful of the next assault. Yesterday she had ridden the buses from seven in the morning until five at night. Really she’d wanted to stay out until after ten - that is the latest it has ever happened, ten o’clock at night - but she hadn’t dared because it was getting dark. There she was, marooned in her home, the image of the hooded figure an unwelcome intruder into her mind, prompting her to steal another peep round the curtains. Nervously she had glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, its black hand wading through treacle, the pinpoint accuracy of its arrow tip affording her not a second of early relief. At ten o’clock she had gone to bed - but there was no sense of victory. Tomorrow would be just the same. Not even Marion knows she has been riding the buses for a month.

Chapter Three: Daisy

Daisy has made her appointment at the doctors. She keeps her phone on vibrate to stop Dean checking her texts, but it’s right in the middle of the coffee table and he gets to it first.

‘Don’t forget your appointment at 2pm.’ He puts on a phony high pitched voice he must think sounds like a receptionist. ‘Christ you’re not going to the bloody doctors again, they’ll think you’re a nut job. Tell you what, I’ll come with you, you know how quiet you get with these people. What’s it all about? Tell me, I’ll tell him for you.’ He’s pacing up and down the intersection between vinyl and carpet in their living area, one foot in the kitchen, the other in the living room.

‘It’s OK, I’ll be fine by myself. You’re always telling me I need to do more stuff on my own, speak up for myself. Can I have my phone back?’

‘Yeah, but what’s it about?’ He’s doing a circuit of the room now. He stops at the scrummage of coats on the back of the door and starts rummaging through them, sticking her phone in the back pocket of his tracksuit bottoms. ‘I can help can’t I? If you tell me, I can help.’

‘Look it’s probably nothing, I just want to make sure.’ She knows he won’t let it drop, how this is going to play out.

‘Just tell me. Why won’t you tell me? Why not?’ She can tell he’s trying to avoid that word - hiding - because it will give her a chance to point out his paranoia again, and have a go at him over his smoking and stuff.

‘Because you’ll say it’s stupid. And it is, it’s embarrassing, so I’d rather just go on my own.’

‘It’s OK Daze, I want to help. I’ll come with you yeah?’

She can’t answer him so she goes to get ready. It’s 12pm, her appointment is at 2 - that should be enough time. From their bedroom she can still hear the chink-chink of his cigarette lighter, punctuated by cursing, and slamming it on the glass table top - the flint must be wearing down. It’s a miracle that table hasn’t shattered by now, it really is. He’s getting wound up, which winds her up. Christ isn’t he ever going to take a break and change out of that shitty tracksuit? She gets dressed before she looks in the mirror, she hasn’t got time for disgust today. Still it’s not right, you can tell there’s more of a bulge in her right thigh, those stringy bits in her neck are a sign of premature aging, she must have slept on her side again, she’s got that lopsided crumple. ‘I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it,’ she whispers in a spitty growl, pulling hard on her hair. She looks at the new box of eggs to calm herself, before changing her jeans for jeggings - less muffin top, and swaps to a bra with less padding - she doesn’t want the doctor to think she’s fat, or flirting. It takes her the remaining hour to do her hair and make-up. It’s a challenge, it really is, leaving the spot uncovered for the doctor to see, without looking like a total moose.

At quarter to she walks through the living area at quite a pace, hand ready to unhook her jacket from the back of the door. Damn, he hasn’t nodded out. ‘Back soon,’ she calls, but he’s up on her shoulder as she turns to shut the door.

‘Told ya, I’m coming with ya.’ He always shortens his words when he’s buzzing. She walks on, but he kind of dances up the street next to her, like paparazzi. He’s fumbling about in his denim jacket. It looks about three sizes too small over his tracksuit. He pulls out a strip of juicy fruit with the silver paper just about clinging to it, the exposed end coated in fluff.

‘Not gum Dean for chrissakes.’ It’s been a while since he’s resorted to whiz…or so she thought.

He’s a pain in the waiting room, getting up and handling the little stacks of carefully laid out help cards on the reception desk, messing them all up. Eventually, after neatly squaring them up twice with her free hand, whilst making notes on a spiral pad and taking non-stop phone calls, the receptionist’s irritation overrides her Pavlovian response to the phone. ‘Are you interested in any of these?’ She probably thinks he could probably do with them all, except weight management.

‘Nah love, looks like you could do with a dose of your own medicine though.’ He laughs loudly.

The call screen flashes up ‘Miss Margot Attercliffe room 18.’ Daisy is up in a flash, striding through the double doors. The thing is, he’s all hyper vigilant right now, and clocks her as soon as she stands, walking behind her like her shadow down the corridor.

She knocks timidly on the door. There’s a muffled sound from the other side, a voice, the words unclear. She’s about to knock again.

‘Just open the bloody door Daze.’ He bustles her into the room.

The doctor meets her eyes, not smiling, not frowning. She’s got that professional look, but a bit tatty round the edges, a bit knackered. She’s wearing glasses to make her look older - no, younger - lines around the eyes, hair lost its lustre. ‘Who’ve you brought with you?’ she says, gesturing slightly to the empty chair.

‘Oh, it’s my boyfriend, he wanted to come.’

Dean is left hovering in the middle of the room, neither of them inviting him closer. There’s another chair, but it’s on the back wall, an observer’s position. He drags it noisily to the centre of the room, ‘So she tells you the truth, you know?’

Blanked.

‘How can I help?’ The doctor’s voice is calm, and only a tiny bit weary.

‘Well, I don’t know where to start really.’ She’s already getting teary, she’s just so bloody scared it’s cancer. ‘It’s a bit embarrassing.’

No words from the doctor, but a nod of genuine attentiveness.

‘I feel a bit silly…’

Dean’s heavy intake of breath is a prelude to his contribution, someone’s got to spell it out, stop pussy footing around. But the doctor is quicker, ‘Perhaps it would be easier if I speak to you alone?’ Her hands move more than her face, ‘To start with.’ She stands and starts to usher Dean out of the room.

‘Wo wo wait a minute. She won’t tell you without me - will ya, will ya Daze?’ He sits back on his chair, splaying his legs widely in his tracksuit bottoms that have never been washed, reclining in victory.

‘He can stay.’ Daisy’s looking at the floor now. It’s white with grey flecks, the kind you only find in institutions. The air is dry and still, with only the faintest residue of the last patient to give it a temporary identity, a sickly perfume. This room sees scores of visitors, but retains nothing of them.

The doctor wrestles back control from Dean by continuing to ignore him. ‘OK, if you’re sure. So, you were saying…’

He buts in again, ‘That’s what I mean though love, she won’t say. It’s personal like.’

‘How do you know? I haven’t even told you.’

‘Oh common Daze, you don’t need to tell me, I’m there aren’t I?

‘It’s not her fault,’ he pulls his chair two foot closer to the doctor, leaving too little space between them. ‘But the thing is - and like I say it’s not her fault - the thing is, she can’t come.’

‘You mean…’

‘Orgasm, yeah. She can’t, never has, there’s something wrong with her.’

Daisy is paralysed, incredulous with embarrassment.

‘Margot? Can you tell me a bit more?’ The doctor can’t persuade her to raise her eyes.

‘My parents call me Margot.’ Nothing more forthcoming.

‘I’m sorry, what name do you prefer, it doesn’t say on your record?’

‘She’s Daisy, my Daze- aren’t ya? So, what can you do to fix her? Cos the thing is, it makes her really sad. She doesn’t say much, but I can tell she’s really upset.’

Exasperation turning to fury, Daisy explodes, ‘No Dean! The thing is I am upset right now, I really am, because I didn’t come here to talk about whatever gets on your prick about our sex life. I do want to speak to the doctor alone, I really do. Get out!’

He’s laughing as he backs toward the door, ‘Alright calm down. I knew you’d get like this. She’s really moody an’ all love, can you sort that out?’

He turns and opens the door, announcing to the corridor, ‘Well it was worth a bloody try.’

The doctor seizes the opportunity. ‘He seems a little…overbearing.’

‘Oh don’t start. Look, I know what I’m doing, he doesn’t knock me about or anything. He’s just an idiot a lot of the time.’

‘And the drugs. Where does that fit in?’ Of course, she must see it all the time.

‘It’s all him, I don’t touch any of it. He’s been better lately, but he gets edgy about stuff like this, coming to the doctors.’

‘Do you think he needs help?’

‘I thought this was my appointment.’

‘Yes, you’re right. So what have you come about?’

‘It’s this thing on my skin.’ She sticks her finger under the right side of her lower lip.

The doctor stands and peers closer. ‘Sorry, are you sure you’ve got the right place? I can’t see anything.’

‘Here,’ finger jabbing again. ‘I’ve left it uncovered for you to see. Yes here, I can feel it. It might have got a bit smaller. The thing is, it’s been there for five days now. If I hadn’t got this cancellation, I would have had to ring up as an emergency, I really would.’

‘Come over to the light, let me get a better look.’ They walk over to the examination couch and Daisy perches on the edge, whilst the doctor grabs the overhead lamp. Daisy flinches at the beam hitting her eyes. ‘Sorry, I’ll just angle it down a bit. Is it OK if I try and feel it? It’s just, I can’t really see anything except a little blemish, like a spot disappearing.’

Daisy nods, the vinyl gloves smells like bin liners, and feels artificial but intimate at the same time.

‘Come and have a seat.’ The doctor is smiling and gesturing back to the chair, dispatching the gloves into the bin with the yellow bin liner, which has a dodgy pedal.

‘You’re obviously concerned about this. Are you worried it might be anything in particular?’

‘I don’t know, that’s why I came.’

‘Anyone else made any suggestions?’

‘No. I don’t talk to people about stuff like this, because they’ll laugh at me.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘Dean says I blow things out of proportion. Even my friend Charlie says I’ve got a funny way of looking at things, that I’ve got nothing to worry about.’ As she answers Daisy can feel her irritation growing, this wasn’t the conversation she had planned.

The doctor though seems particularly interested in her response. ‘But you think you have got something to worry about? I can see you’ve been here quite a lot lately,’ she’s tapping the cursor on the computer.

‘It’s cancer isn’t it? Just tell me please.’

‘No Daisy, it isn’t cancer. It has no features of cancer. It’s the end of a spot, it should be gone in a few days if you leave it alone.’

‘Are you sure? Like one hundred percent, because I have been on a sun bed?’ Now she feels foolish, of course it’s just a bloody spot.

‘I am one hundred percent sure it isn’t cancer, honestly.’ The doctor has her hand on her heart, nodding. ‘You seem quite anxious.’

‘No I’m fine, I was just worried about this.’ Daisy is desperate for permission to leave now. Aren’t doctors always running out of time?

‘Your records mention some stress with your family.’

‘Oh that’s all sorted.’ She just wants to go, she really does.

‘Anything else you want to talk about?’

‘Nope.’

‘Sure?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Want to come back in a couple of weeks and let me know how things are going? It might be helpful if you stick with one doctor.’

‘Are you kidding? It’s hard enough getting an appointment with anyone. I think I’ll be fine.’

Later Daisy thinks a bit more about what the doctor asked, wondering why she didn’t answer her more honestly. That room really shut her up.

Chapter Four: Peggy

It’s happened again. Six eggs smashed. Four on the render, one on the door and one on the window. Peg is back inside running a washing up bowl of hot, soapy water to clean them off before anyone sees. It takes a lot of strength to get it off the door and window, it’s really dried on overnight. She hadn’t heard a sound, but then she’d gone to bed a bit earlier, more relaxed because it hadn’t happened for a while. This render is so difficult, all her cloths disintegrate on it. She rubs so hard it grates into her knuckles, but still she can see traces in the depressions. ‘Sorry old gal,’ she pats the wall, ‘That’s the best I can do.’

Back indoors she thinks again about calling the police but is afraid she’ll be labelled a time waster. After all it’s just eggs…and then more eggs, and then more. Someone wants to upset her, intimidate her, hurt her. Yes, she should call the police.

BREAK

They’re sending an officer out. She had hoped she could simply report it over the phone. She paces about her front room trying to imagine how it will seem to whoever attends, doing a bit of dusting and stacking up Bill’s Wisdens more neatly - the ones with the new logo, fifteen years old. She picks up a photo frame to give it a little dust, and sets it down in a more prominent position on the shelf. Bill with his Rolls Royce, twenty years loyal service as chauffer to the Lord Mayor. There is a knock at the door.

It’s a young male officer, ‘Mrs. North?’ showing his ID badge, ‘DC Aslam.’

‘Oh, yes, come in.’ Clearing her throat loudly, Peggy leads him into the front room and hovers in front of Bill’s chair, leaving only the sofa or the chair that is clearly her own to choose from. Having safely delivered him to the sofa she continues, ‘Can I get you a drink? Hot, cold? I know you young people aren’t as welded to the kettle as us older folk,’ she half chuckles half croaks, feeling her throat has not properly cleared.

‘That’s very kind, but I’m fine thank you. Take a seat.’ He gets out a notepad. ‘Tell me what’s going on then?’

‘Well, er, it might sound trivial but it’s been going on for so long now, over two months. I really do find it upsetting. I know I should just ignore it, but I can’t understand why someone would want to get at me. Perhaps they don’t, perhaps it’s just a prank to them, nothing better to do…but it can be anytime of the day you see, it makes me terribly nervous.’

‘What does? What is it that’s happening?’

‘Well, eggs. Eggs being thrown, deliberately, at my home.’

‘I see. And can you give me times and dates.’

‘Oh yes, well, not exactly, but at least three times a week anytime between midday and 10pm. Oh, and most recently it was after I had gone to bed. I found them in the morning. That was last Thursday, when I rang you, the police.’

‘Any idea who it is?’ He looks at his notepad before each question, even though he has not written anything down.

Peggy clears her throat again, ‘Well no, that’s the thing. Once I caught a glimpse of someone riding off on a bike, in a cream jacket with the hood up, but I’ve never seen any more than that. It