a jolt on her arm that made her teeth clack together so she bit her tongue. She careered off the slide on to the concrete with Michael on top of her. When she tried to get up, a smarting pain in her wrist prevented her.
She rolled on to her other side and struggled up. She grabbed her brother and pushed him out of the arch.
They ran helter skelter up the path. Under the arch, past the flower beds, through the iron gates. They turned right on the main road and did not stop until they reached the zebra by the post office.
‘I rescued you,’ Mary panted. Michael’s face was chalk-white, the freckles on his cheeks like pencil dots. He had shrunk; the jumper their nan had knitted was baggy, his socks rumpled around his ankles. His elbow was bleeding.
He looked at the blood. ‘We should have gone straight home.’
‘We are.’ Mary set off down the street. ‘Pull your sleeve down.’
When Mrs Thornton came into the kitchen her children were scraping the remains of beans on toast off their plates and draining glasses of milk. She did not notice the bruise on Mary’s wrist and only found the plaster on Michael’s arm at bedtime. He had hurt it playing football, he declared, adding that he had scored a goal. The first statement was the only lie Michael Thornton ever told his mother.
As she often did when she kissed her son goodnight, Mrs Thornton told him he was her little angel.
10
Tuesday, 24 April 2012
Stella Darnell started her domestic and commercial cleaning business the day after she left school, aged seventeen, ignoring the application form to join the police her dad had given her. She did the cleaning herself, but when the jobs grew and she was threatened with turning away new clients she gave in to her mother’s advice and recruited other cleaners. She continued to clean and, bleary-eyed from late-night and early-morning shifts, clacked out quotes, invoices and receipts on a second-hand electric golfball typewriter into the early hours.
One night Suzanne Darnell appeared in the bedroom now serving as a makeshift office, in her silk dressing gown and blackout shades pushed up on her forehead, with two mugs of tea. Stella accepted the tea but, licking and stamping envelopes, had no time to chat.
Her mother pulled out carbon copies of letters and invoices stuffed in a bulging concertina file. ‘Spacing’s wrong and only put “yours sincerely” if you know the recipient’s name.’ She sat on Stella’s bed. ‘You haven’t given a payment due limit. Put “immediately” or you’ll waste time chasing payment and have cash-flow problems. You must look professional or customers will decide you won’t do a good job. You need a name – Stella Darnell won’t do. Clients will always ask for you.’
‘I’ve had no complaints.’ Hunting and pecking at the typewriter keys, Stella had tried to shut her ears to this advice.
‘You don’t know how many clients you have lost. Hop up.’
They swapped places. Suzie’s fingers flew over the keys, the juddering machine sounding like sustained gunfire. She churned out error-free letters, proposals and contracts until there was nothing to do and the vinyl record storage case serving as a filing tray was overflowing. The dawn chorus began and the indigo sky was streaked with pink as the last envelope was sealed.
Suzie grabbed the mugs. Pausing by the door, she said: ‘Clean Slate.’
‘What?’ Stella squared off the envelopes for posting.
‘That’s the name of your company.’
For the next year Suzanne Darnell handled the administration for Clean Slate. She visited second-hand shops for a filing cabinet, a waste bin. She brokered deals for cheap stationery. She set up a system – a tower of trays: ‘in’, ‘pending’ and ‘out’ – filed client accounts in folders and locked them in the cabinet.
Stella had to clean less, drum up new business. Suzie devised new packages and joined her in recruiting cleaners; they rarely disagreed about whom to
She rolled on to her other side and struggled up. She grabbed her brother and pushed him out of the arch.
They ran helter skelter up the path. Under the arch, past the flower beds, through the iron gates. They turned right on the main road and did not stop until they reached the zebra by the post office.
‘I rescued you,’ Mary panted. Michael’s face was chalk-white, the freckles on his cheeks like pencil dots. He had shrunk; the jumper their nan had knitted was baggy, his socks rumpled around his ankles. His elbow was bleeding.
He looked at the blood. ‘We should have gone straight home.’
‘We are.’ Mary set off down the street. ‘Pull your sleeve down.’
When Mrs Thornton came into the kitchen her children were scraping the remains of beans on toast off their plates and draining glasses of milk. She did not notice the bruise on Mary’s wrist and only found the plaster on Michael’s arm at bedtime. He had hurt it playing football, he declared, adding that he had scored a goal. The first statement was the only lie Michael Thornton ever told his mother.
As she often did when she kissed her son goodnight, Mrs Thornton told him he was her little angel.
10
Tuesday, 24 April 2012
Stella Darnell started her domestic and commercial cleaning business the day after she left school, aged seventeen, ignoring the application form to join the police her dad had given her. She did the cleaning herself, but when the jobs grew and she was threatened with turning away new clients she gave in to her mother’s advice and recruited other cleaners. She continued to clean and, bleary-eyed from late-night and early-morning shifts, clacked out quotes, invoices and receipts on a second-hand electric golfball typewriter into the early hours.
One night Suzanne Darnell appeared in the bedroom now serving as a makeshift office, in her silk dressing gown and blackout shades pushed up on her forehead, with two mugs of tea. Stella accepted the tea but, licking and stamping envelopes, had no time to chat.
Her mother pulled out carbon copies of letters and invoices stuffed in a bulging concertina file. ‘Spacing’s wrong and only put “yours sincerely” if you know the recipient’s name.’ She sat on Stella’s bed. ‘You haven’t given a payment due limit. Put “immediately” or you’ll waste time chasing payment and have cash-flow problems. You must look professional or customers will decide you won’t do a good job. You need a name – Stella Darnell won’t do. Clients will always ask for you.’
‘I’ve had no complaints.’ Hunting and pecking at the typewriter keys, Stella had tried to shut her ears to this advice.
‘You don’t know how many clients you have lost. Hop up.’
They swapped places. Suzie’s fingers flew over the keys, the juddering machine sounding like sustained gunfire. She churned out error-free letters, proposals and contracts until there was nothing to do and the vinyl record storage case serving as a filing tray was overflowing. The dawn chorus began and the indigo sky was streaked with pink as the last envelope was sealed.
Suzie grabbed the mugs. Pausing by the door, she said: ‘Clean Slate.’
‘What?’ Stella squared off the envelopes for posting.
‘That’s the name of your company.’
For the next year Suzanne Darnell handled the administration for Clean Slate. She visited second-hand shops for a filing cabinet, a waste bin. She brokered deals for cheap stationery. She set up a system – a tower of trays: ‘in’, ‘pending’ and ‘out’ – filed client accounts in folders and locked them in the cabinet.
Stella had to clean less, drum up new business. Suzie devised new packages and joined her in recruiting cleaners; they rarely disagreed about whom to
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