I could have stayed in the hospital, applied for promotion, worked extra hours. More nights, more weekends. I could have; instead, I left and joined the nursing agency where the pay was better, and I could work what hours I wanted to make the income I needed.
I lived in a small studio apartment near the hospital. I’d learned to drive and used Mother’s car for a few years, but when it started to give trouble, I decided to get rid of it. It was only a five-minute walk to the hospital, it seemed to make sense. I considered buying another car when I joined the agency, but they insisted there were plenty of nursing homes in and around Bath that I could get to by bus.
Some of the places required a bit of a walk. It didn’t bother me; I liked the fresh air before and after being shut up for hours with sick or elderly people. The only day I had a problem with was on Sunday when the bus timetable ignored those who needed to be somewhere early. My solution to that dilemma was simple, I didn’t work an early shift that day.
Some months, I had a surfeit of jobs to choose from, allowing me to be picky as to which shifts I took. Other months, I had to take what I was given. I didn’t have the luxury to turn down work. The £400 a month I needed to pay the care home was a big chunk out of my salary, but it wasn’t the only expenditure. There were all the little extras my mother required: the hairdressing, manicures, chiropody, toiletries and clothes.
The rent on my studio apartment in Bath, despite its small size, took most of what was left. It was convenient when I was working in the nearby hospital but now it made sense to move out of the city to find something cheaper. Not bigger though, I liked my accommodation to be small, cosy. Almost womblike.
Apart from accommodation, I lived frugally. The navy polyester tunics and trousers I wore for work were hard-wearing and rarely needed replacing. The remainder of my clothes came from charity shops. The only thing I spent money on was shoes. Comfortable laced ones for work, sturdier ones for walking.
With the decision to move from Bath made, I spent a couple of weeks searching for suitable accommodation. Since I wasn’t interested in sharing with anyone, or renting a room in a multi-occupancy house, my options soon dwindled. Further, and further I went until, almost to my amusement, I ended up back where I’d started. In Bathford. The other end of the village from where I’d grown up.
I’d almost given up hope when I saw the advert on the noticeboard in my local Co-op. The tatty piece of paper with the corners curling and the telephone number barely legible probably put off a lot of people. It might have done me, except by that stage I was desperate. The information provided was basic:
Small studio apartment for rent. No children. No animals.
No indication as to cost. More annoyingly, no reference as to where it was.
The advert had obviously been there a long time. Unsurprising really. I took a photo and when I got outside, rang the number. It was answered almost immediately with a gruff curt, ‘What?’
Charming! ‘Hi. My name is Lissa McColl. I’m enquiring about your advert. For the apartment,’ I added when the silence lingered.
‘The apartment.’ As if he’d no idea what I was talking about.
‘The apartment,’ I repeated. ‘There was an advert on the noticeboard in my local Co-op. Near Bath United hospital.’
‘Right.’
One word followed by a long silence. I thought he’d hung up when I heard him take a deep breath.
‘When do you want to see it?’
‘I don’t want to waste your time.’ Or mine. If it wasn’t convenient for the bus, it wouldn’t be of interest regardless of how cheap it was. ‘It would help to know where it was.’
‘Bathford.’ He sounded surprised at my question. Maybe the advert had been written so long ago, he’d forgotten he hadn’t put the location.
It was so unexpected that for a second, I was unaccustomedly lost for words. Bathford!
‘Well,’ he said, waiting for an answer to his original question.
‘How about now?’ I said, checking my watch. The buses were regular, I could be there in an hour.
‘Now?’
‘Midday?’
‘Right.’ The surprise was even more obvious this time. He reeled off the address. ‘You know where it is?’
‘Yes, I’ll see you there at midday.’ The address he’d given me was on the High Street in Bathford. I’d walked the length of it many a time while I lived there. It was unlikely to have changed much over the years. The bungalow where I’d lived was further out of the village, down a lane off Prospect Place. I hadn’t been back since leaving. Our neighbour, Mrs Higgins, moved to Canada to live with her daughter after her husband died. She sent a Christmas card a few times; I didn’t send one back and hadn’t heard from her for a couple of years.
Bathford is three miles east of Bath. Once outside the horrendous traffic that clogged the city’s streets, the bus trundled along at speed. Twenty-five minutes later, I climbed out and looked around. It had been almost eight years, I expected to feel a twinge of nostalgia, to find everything looking familiar. Instead, it could have been anywhere.
Luckily for me, since the High Street was about a mile long, I reached the address I’d been given after a ten-minute walk. The houses of the village were predominately of Bath stone, the creamy gold stone that made even the most meagre house look pretty. This though, wasn’t meagre: Lily Cottage was a very pretty detached house. I found myself smiling at just how lovely it was, before frowning. Where was the small studio apartment?
Perhaps the advert had been misleading and it was a room in the house that was for rent. No matter how lovely, that wouldn’t suit me.
There didn’t seem any point in standing there, speculating, so I opened the small wrought-iron gate and walked the few steps to the front door. There was a doorbell and a brass knocker. I pressed the bell and when I couldn’t hear it pealing within, I added a couple of raps on the knocker for good measure.
The door was pulled open so quickly that I hadn’t time to take a step backward and found myself too close for comfort to the man who’d opened it. Although he must have been waiting for me to have responded so quickly, he looked startled as if I was an unexpected visitor and held the door as though he might need to slam it in my face.
‘I’m Lissa McColl,’ I hurried to say. ‘I spoke to you earlier. About the apartment.’
There was no change in his expression. Perhaps he wasn’t startled, and always looked oddly pop-eyed. He was a big man, tall and wide. When he remained silent and continued to stare, I shuffled back a step. ‘Is it possible to see it?’
‘Yes.’ He looked me over, not bothering to hide his assessment, his gaze taking in my chunky shoes, my unfashionably baggy trousers, the shirt that didn’t match. ‘You’d better step inside.’
Perhaps he sensed my hesitation and sudden unease, because he stood back, opening the door wide.
I didn’t know anything about this man, not even his name, and nobody knew I was there. I didn’t think I was a stupid woman, yet, instead of running away, I found myself drawn into the house.
The line of a poem I’d learned as a child popped into my head. ‘Will you walk into my parlour?’ said a spider to a fly.