Living on the Knife's Edge Read online

  "Yes, but what was I going to say? 'Oh, how nice to see you!'?"

  "Why not?"

  "Because it's so boringly middle-class, that's why not."

  "Ah yes, I forgot you're fighting to keep your identity as the last of the working class Mums." That was tongue in cheek, with a grain of truth for bite.

  They sat down over tea in the little front room.

  "She's loving Chelsea," Molly said, "I knew she would."

  "I'm not surprised. But I thought they were doing modern art now, and that she didn't like that so much?"

  "Oh, they are, and she doesn't. She's scathing about it; she says if they can't draw they shouldn't try to be artists! But she still loves the college, being with a bunch of art students who're all passionate about art." Molly laughed, "Although, as she tells me, some of them are more passionate about posing as artists than they really are about the painting or sculpting or whatever."

  She winked at him, knowing he would rise to this: "Bet says there's one young man who's been begging her to pose nude for him. She says he goes on about her cheekbones, but his eyes are looking at her chest!"

  Adam growled, "I hope she knows better than to..." before his brain caught up and he saw Molly twinkling at him. He laughed, "All right, you got me!"

  In the course of their conversations Adam learned some more about art, and a lot more about artists. He also shared with Molly, naming no patients' names, some of the fears and stresses he was learning to bear as a young doctor.

  Molly also told him she'd had Beth as a direct result of doing some nude modelling for an artist friend. "Randy buggers, they were, the lot of them," she laughed, "well, so was I, truth be told. Aren't we all?" she was looking directly at him, which made him go pink around the edges. She knew perfectly well how he felt about Bet, and she was teasing him, and warning him to mind his step with her daughter. He thought to himself that her eyes were perhaps more blue than grey.

  Bet came home, and the two of them went out for dinner at a bistro in South London, then to dance for a bit at a nightclub. If there was one thing Adam and Bet did well together it was dancing; they both liked to rock. Bet enjoyed the way Adam could get down and forget his role as her protective escort, and she liked the way he appreciated all of her. And she just liked to lose herself in the music; it was a kind of freedom. That night when he dropped her off he kissed her on the cheek, for the first time. He'd never done that before; he'd been too afraid of upsetting her fragile stability. She chuckled, took his face in her hands and kissed him on the mouth, thoroughly. "Thanks for a great evening, Adam," she said, "G'night!" He was left on the doorstep like a timid schoolboy, with hope unfurling in his heart. Bet still stunned his senses, and he loved it.

  In the meanwhile Bet was making a name for herself. She painted fast in acrylics in a raw, gritty style; street scenes from the rough part of her life between Brad and the Centre. Youths with screaming eyes and tense bodies, often being watched by bland, grey, Establishment observers. It figured. Then she got to where she could hold her own exhibition, and her work began to sell regularly. Adam was as proud of her as a new husband with a beautiful bride. Molly bragged about her daughter in supermarket aisles.

  And then came the day that everything changed, again. Adam rang at the Marlborough Street door, but no one answered. That was odd, he'd sent a text as usual. Once again he pushed the little button and he could hear the doorbell ring inside. Maybe she's in the loo, I'll just give her a minute, he thought. He rang once more, and then tried calling from his mobile – first Molly, then Bet. "The subscriber is not available." So he used the key Molly had given him and let himself in. Maybe it was just something stupid, like she'd suddenly realised she was out of milk.

  There was no one in the front room, but he heard a faint sound coming from upstairs. He called, "Molly?" and again, more loudly, "Molly?" But he could definitely hear something upstairs, so he went up. Molly's door gave way to his knock, swinging open.

  Molly was lying on her bed, weeping despairingly into the pillow she was holding on to.

  What? Why? Adam's thoughts whirled spasmodically through his mind. Had something happened to Bet?

  He went in and sat on the bed beside her, resting his hand on her shoulder. Molly rolled over to look at him, her eyes red and puffy. Adam thought she looked like a war zone victim.

  "What's happened?" he asked gently.

  "Bet. It's Bet. I couldn't reach you..." she bawled.

  "Tell me," he said.

  She'd had a call that morning, from the police. Bet had been in an accident; the driver, her boyfriend, was dead. She was injured, but not seriously. But the routine blood tests had found Bet positive for cocaine. Molly had rushed to the hospital, but Bet had refused to speak to her.

  Bet... had a boyfriend? Neither Molly nor Adam had guessed. His name was Jimmy, that was all Molly knew. Another art student, declared dead on arrival at the hospital. Adam didn't know what to focus on first. Bet injured? Molly upset? Bet had a boyfriend? When had this Jimmy come into the picture, and why had Bet said nothing about him? Strangely, he thought, he found his heart quite unwounded. Male pride perhaps slightly bruised, but nothing that would bother him.

  It was the drug test that had Molly truly in despair. Drugs didn't ever quite let go. They knew that. Bet was using again. Brave Molly, ever chin-up Molly, had gone beyond her limit in being brave. What now? What did the future hold for her damaged daughter? Was there ever going to be any future at all for Bet?

  It was Molly that Adam felt for in this. It was just not fair – not fair! – that she should have to go through losing her daughter, yet again, he thought, heart aching for her. And, perhaps, again, and again, until that final time. Sooner or later Bet would OD. They always did. Why the hell did life have to be like this?

  Adam reached out for Molly and drew her close. He kissed her, and her salt-stained overcast eyes. He held her tightly, and more tightly still, and whispered to her,

  "We'll win this fight. We will, we must. I won't allow you to lose Bet again."

  Her heart answered his brave and loving words, and she held more closely to him.

  The love that he'd never realized had taken root, had grown to fill him, and now it came flooding out for her, to hold her, comfort her, cradle her, draw her close, and closer still.

  "Come on," he said at last. "Which hospital?"

  The sister let them into the ward and drew the curtains around them. Bet was lying in the white hospital bed, her closed eyes looking bruised. She had a drip hooked up, a bandage on her head and a cast on the near wrist. They ventured a step closer to her.

  "Bet?" he said.

  She turned that too, too-familiar blank face toward them, the one he'd seen at Lynnwood, in the early days. That damned there's-no-one-home face.

  Then she blinked, there, suddenly present with them, aware and focused. She looked at Adam, and Molly, the two standing together. Adam suddenly realised that he still had his arm around Molly's shoulder, and she had hers around his waist.

  Bet choked. Then she choked again, tears welling up.

  She gasped, "Don't – Oh God!"

  "Don't make me laugh – I want to cry."

  Then her raw grief broke through again and she howled as Molly flung herself to hold her daughter. Adam patted a foot awkwardly while the burst of mutual sobbing passed.

  Eventually, Bet's wave of loss began to recede, and as Molly pulled away to give her a little space, Adam stepped closer.

  Bet reached out and took his hand, half-smiling through her ragged eyes.

  "About fucking time, Adam, about fucking time you woke up."

  ..................

  Adam is lying in bed, memory come full circle.

  Another year has gone since then. Our girl Bet's on the straight and narrow. At least for now. She's away doing an exhibition in Glasgow. So here we are in my Whitechapel loft, waking up together, my Molly and I.

  Well, anyway, I'm awake. She's asleep on my should
er.

  Light and shadow dance, to and fro on the white ceiling. Trees in the aftermath of the storm, and the early morning light. No, we're not married and living happily ever after. I don't think Molly quite trusts anyone that much. But it'll do us for now.

  The phone begins to ring, so early; it must be urgent.

  ### END ###

  A note from the author:

  Thank you for reading this story - I really hope you enjoyed it. What about leaving a review to tell others what you thought of the book? Whether it's a good or a bad review doesn't matter: hearing what readers honestly think is good for a writer, and for other readers.

  If you would like to learn something more about the author, visit my website. You can find other books I have written, and also discover some unpublished writing, and inside previews of books I am working on.

  My email address is davidr(atsign)weblink1.co.za. I welcome feedback, including useful criticism.

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  Pocket-sized Yarns (Athena Crowley and others) - I contributed to this excellent

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