Leona Charles: Meeting the Neighbours

Well, Followers, I can gladly say that there's been no more drama in school this week. In fact, with the strange little Oliver gone (and thankfully, no more dreams), school life has been pretty plain sailing. The kids are great. I'm getting on well with William and Holly. We've been invited to William's birthday this weekend, so my social life is slowly but surely starting up again. Thankfully the party is in Glasgow. It feels good to think about heading there.

I met another one of my neighbours earlier this week. Other than my encounter on the stairs with Chris, and a few meetings in the supermarket, I hadn't come across anyone else. To be honest, I sometimes wondered if there was anyone else in the building. It always seems to be so quiet. On Saturday morning, I was startled to hear the sound of something coming though my letterbox, landing on the floor with a dull thud. I don't tend to get much mail here, other than the occasional bill or leaflet. As yet, I've received no menus to local takeaways.

Lying on my floor was a bulky, padded brown envelope. As I lifted it, I pressed down, trying to guess what was inside, and wondering if I'd ordered something online and forgotten about it. I looked at the address, written in black marker. It was addressed to Geraldine Hayden, number 1a. I sighed, looking at the name. I was 1c. He'd put it through the wrong letter box. I pressed down on the package again, trying to guess what surprise was in there for Geraldine. It was certainly well padded.

It was with a nervous feeling that I realised I would have to go downstairs and hand this in. I could just put it through the letterbox, I thought. But hadn't I wanted to meet some of the locals? I took a deep breath as I slipped into my trainers, preparing to walk downstairs and meet whoever Geraldine was.

As I walked downstairs, I imagined a girl about my age, also having just graduated and struggling to make friends here. Maybe we could be friends. I felt my stomach flutter as I stood outside the door. The whole building was silent around me. I listened hard, for footsteps, voices, any other sign of life. No one ever seemed to play music, or even have their TV up loud. If there were any barking dogs or whistling pet birds, they were certainly never home when I was.

Cautiously, I pressed the little grey doorbell. I listened hard for a chime, but I couldn't hear one. She's obviously not home, I told myself. I waited a few seconds, hearing nothing. I was about to push the envelope through the letterbox and head back upstairs, when I heard the sound of slow shuffling footsteps heading towards the door. I could feel her on the other side, standing there. Keys rattled in the lock and the door swung open.

The small woman looked up at me with pale blue eyes. She looked about 60, judging by the wrinkles around her eyes. Her white hair was pulled back into a bun. She wore a long grey dress. She looked like a head mistress, I thought, but there was certainly a look of surprise on her face the moment that she looked up at me.

“Hi,” I said uncomfortably, forcing a smile.

She didn't respond, not straight away. She stayed focussed on my face, as if she was trying to figure something out. I was about to speak again, when eventually she spoke.

“Abigail.”

I tried hard to stop my gasp, as I quickly shook my head.

“It's you,” Geraldine said, smiling as she reached up to touch my hair. “You haven't changed.”

I shook my head again. “I'm not Abigail,” I said.

Geraldine stepped back. The smile on her face replaced by a cold look of betrayal, as if I'd played some sort of cruel trick on her.

“Abigail's my mother's name,” I said, feeling desperate to see her smile at me again. She didn't react. “I'm Leona.”

“This was put through my letterbox by mistake,” I said, handing over the envelope. Geraldine looked down at it, cautiously reaching out to take it. She grabbed the corner, pulling it close to her chest.

“Thank you,” she said.

“You're welcome,” I said, forcing a smile and turning back towards the stairs.

Geraldine spoke again as I started to walk. “She's dead, isn't she?”

I froze, turning back to look at her.

“Your mother,” she said. “She's dead.”

I nodded.

“She said she'd never come back here, not unless she could stop it. Is that why you're here?”

“I just...” I mumbled. “I found her notes. I wanted to come, and I got the job at the school.”

Geraldine's skin became pale as she shook her head. “She was trying to protect you. You shouldn't have come back.”

I took a step down, heading back towards Geraldine, but she was already closing the door, leaving me alone on the landing.

I felt sick as I stepped back into my own flat, locking the door behind me. I listened hard for the sounds of movement from Geraldine's flat below me. Nothing. Of course.

Mum's box of notes sat in the corner of the living room. I'd put off looking at them for a few days, but as I got closer, looking at the old worn notebooks piled on top, I was sure I would find something new. She knew Mum. And that meant that Mum had definitely lived here at some point. Perhaps I had too. Skimming over the entries in the notebooks, I tried hard to remember as far back as I could.

I remembered going to my first day at school, holding Mum's hand as we headed out of the only house I remember living in. I tried to focus. What was before that? Who was before that? I closed my eyes, kneeling before the little box. There was nothing.

 With a sigh, I closed over the notebook, placing it back on the pile. As I stood up, I noticed the dark page sticking out at the bottom. Lifting the notebook again, I opened it at the dark page. A faded photo fell to the floor. I definitely hadn't seen this before. There was Geraldine, exactly as she had looked today, only in the photo she wore a tartan dress. On her lap, sat a little baby girl, in a plain white dress. I turned over the photo, and read Mum's handwriting. Geraldine and Leona, aged 10 months.