‘You’ll need some help, Mum,’ Kate said. ‘Around the house and in the garden. Just until you start feeling better, I mean.’
They were sitting either side of the kitchen table in her mother’s Cornwall home; Radio 4 burbled in the background and the cat slept in front of the Aga. That everything should be so familiar, so as it should be, only underlined what Kate already knew: that life was about to change for the both of them.
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Patricia snapped. ‘I’m not an invalid, Kate. The doctors said I could be walking by the end of the year, didn't they? Didn't you hear them say that?’
Kate pursed her lips. ‘They also said that there weren’t any guarantees,’ she said. ‘And that you weren’t to rush things.’
Her mother rolled her eyes and groaned. ‘Oh, honestly, how am I meant to ‘rush things’ when I’m trapped in this wretched thing?’
She slammed her hands on the sides of the wheelchair.
‘You know what I mean,’ Kate said quietly.
On the few occasions that she returned to her childhood home, Kate found herself still intimidated by her headstrong mother. Even now - frail and unsteady after the accident - she contained the ferocity that Kate had feared in her youth.
On the drive from London earlier in the month, she’d imagined a diluted duplicate of her mother in the hospital, sedated and sentimental after her brush with death.
Instead she was met with a stony expression and the rhetorical question, ‘Why must you always be later than you say?’
Her mother took another biscuit from the tin and broke it neatly in two, passing a piece to Kate.
‘You’re staying longer than I thought,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t term start on Monday?’
‘That’s what I want to talk to you about.’
Patricia frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
Kate cleared her throat. ‘I’d like to stay with you,’ she said. ‘Just until you’re feeling better.’
Patricia took a sip of her tea. She’d feared that her daughter would make this proposal and the thought of surrendering her independence, even temporarily, filled her with dread. Until the road accident last month, she’d not once felt her seventy years.
She looked through the French doors beside her and saw the dozens of plump, brown apples on the lawn. She’d been pretending not to notice them; the defeat that they symbolised. She’d always used the surplus fruit that the apple tree bore; there’d not been chance for rot to set in. But things were changing now, she knew that.
‘What about school?’ she asked, careful not to sound too committal.
‘I’ve spoken to them already,’ Kate said.
‘And Brian? What about Brian?’
‘He’s happy for me to stay with you.’
Patricia raised an eyebrow and Kate sighed.
‘He’s not having an affair, Mother. He’ll come down at weekends. If that’s okay with you, of course.’
Patricia sniffed. ‘So long as he doesn’t bring that ridiculous sports car.’
‘Is that a ‘yes’ then?’
She shrugged. ‘It’s nothing permanent, though.’
‘Of course,’ Kate said, standing to clear the table.
As she reached for her mother’s cup, Patricia took her hand in her own.
‘Thank you,’ she said quietly.
A split second’s silence passed before she let go.
‘Be careful with that cup,’ she said in her usual bossy tone. ‘It’s bone China.’
Monday 30 November 2009
Sunday 27 September 2009
Shanghai
Sitting alone in the busy Spring restaurant, Adam stared out of the window onto the rainy streets of Shanghai. He crossed his arms and let out a sigh. Tomorrow he’d be back in London and the life he’d left behind him a year ago. The idea filled him with sorrow and he topped up his glass, finishing his third bottle of Tsingtao. If he was to get through tonight, he would have to be drunk.
When the rushed waitress placed his starter of spring rolls in front of him, he forced a smile. Though he’d been hungry before arriving here, his appetite was now gone, his mood flat. Of the dozen countries and cities that he’d been to in the last twelve months, Shanghai held the most fascination: the perfect blend of tradition and innovation; the wafts of delicious food on the streets; the busyness and anonymity to rival even that of London. And, of course, there was Jenna.
He imagined her in the empty chair across the table in the restaurant. They had come here so often that the table was unofficially reserved for them.
At Jenna’s request, they’d said their goodbyes last night, lying on crisp white bed sheets in her hotel room, spent after love making. Though they’d known each other only three weeks, their connection was immediate; their separation inevitable.
‘Isn’t there any way you can stay longer?’ she’d asked last week as they strolled through People’s Square.
‘I won’t have a job to go back to if I stay,’ he said.
Jenna stopped walking and smiled slyly. ‘And?’
‘And I can’t do that,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s alright for you, you’re freelancing. You can write anywhere. But you know what the job market’s like at the moment. I was lucky to even get a sabbatical. I can’t afford not to be working. You know my situation.’
As the words passed his lips, he knew that it was himself he was trying to convince.
He saw Jenna’s face fall and he hated himself for it. How had he become this man who would sacrifice passion for security? After all, what really was there to go home for? An empty house and the confirmation of divorce? A tedious office job that he’d loathed for a decade? A real man would have a backbone; a real man would do what he wanted and not what was expected.
He put his arm around Jenna’s shoulders and pulled her close.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. And he was, more sorry than he’d ever been about anything.
It was gone eleven o’clock by the time Adam left the restaurant, his step a little unsteady, his speech a little slurred.
The rain had stopped now and he was passing a closing karaoke bar when he heard his name called. He turned to see Jenna standing under the glow of a streetlight. He blinked, sure that he was imagining the scene.
‘Adam,’ she said again. ‘Let me come with you.’
When the rushed waitress placed his starter of spring rolls in front of him, he forced a smile. Though he’d been hungry before arriving here, his appetite was now gone, his mood flat. Of the dozen countries and cities that he’d been to in the last twelve months, Shanghai held the most fascination: the perfect blend of tradition and innovation; the wafts of delicious food on the streets; the busyness and anonymity to rival even that of London. And, of course, there was Jenna.
He imagined her in the empty chair across the table in the restaurant. They had come here so often that the table was unofficially reserved for them.
At Jenna’s request, they’d said their goodbyes last night, lying on crisp white bed sheets in her hotel room, spent after love making. Though they’d known each other only three weeks, their connection was immediate; their separation inevitable.
‘Isn’t there any way you can stay longer?’ she’d asked last week as they strolled through People’s Square.
‘I won’t have a job to go back to if I stay,’ he said.
Jenna stopped walking and smiled slyly. ‘And?’
‘And I can’t do that,’ he said quickly. ‘It’s alright for you, you’re freelancing. You can write anywhere. But you know what the job market’s like at the moment. I was lucky to even get a sabbatical. I can’t afford not to be working. You know my situation.’
As the words passed his lips, he knew that it was himself he was trying to convince.
He saw Jenna’s face fall and he hated himself for it. How had he become this man who would sacrifice passion for security? After all, what really was there to go home for? An empty house and the confirmation of divorce? A tedious office job that he’d loathed for a decade? A real man would have a backbone; a real man would do what he wanted and not what was expected.
He put his arm around Jenna’s shoulders and pulled her close.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. And he was, more sorry than he’d ever been about anything.
It was gone eleven o’clock by the time Adam left the restaurant, his step a little unsteady, his speech a little slurred.
The rain had stopped now and he was passing a closing karaoke bar when he heard his name called. He turned to see Jenna standing under the glow of a streetlight. He blinked, sure that he was imagining the scene.
‘Adam,’ she said again. ‘Let me come with you.’
Thursday 27 August 2009
The Other Side of the Window
Trish pulled back the blind and peered onto the street. The salesman was at the Gambles’ now, just over the road. Knowing he’d soon be with her, she felt nerves ripple through her body. She knew it was pathetic, but since his last visit she’d been unable to think of anything but his return. There was no denying his good looks, but - and perhaps she was imagining it - there’d also been a kindness in his eyes, something that suggested he’d understand her circumstance.
She stepped away from the window and pulled her straggly blonde hair into a ponytail. It really needed cutting, but Xavier was still on holiday and she enjoyed his home visits for the social – as much as practical - reasons.
‘Girl, you need to get out there again,’ he said last time he'd been over. ‘Sorry to say this, but it ain’t right that you’re stuck in this house all the time.’
Of course she agreed with him, but what she didn't say – because she wasn't sure he’d understand – was that it wasn’t that easy. Since the accident the very thought of stepping outside filled her with a bone aching dread. What had once been as natural as waking was now a challenge she knew she couldn’t face. And God knew she’d tried enough times.
Hearing the knock on the door, she felt herself root to the spot. What if she’d imagined that he’d been flirting with her last time? What if, when she asked him in for a cup of coffee, he made his excuses and left? What if-,
She cut her questioning mind short and made her way to the front door. Life had been strange for too long, she knew that. It was time for some normality.
She stepped away from the window and pulled her straggly blonde hair into a ponytail. It really needed cutting, but Xavier was still on holiday and she enjoyed his home visits for the social – as much as practical - reasons.
‘Girl, you need to get out there again,’ he said last time he'd been over. ‘Sorry to say this, but it ain’t right that you’re stuck in this house all the time.’
Of course she agreed with him, but what she didn't say – because she wasn't sure he’d understand – was that it wasn’t that easy. Since the accident the very thought of stepping outside filled her with a bone aching dread. What had once been as natural as waking was now a challenge she knew she couldn’t face. And God knew she’d tried enough times.
Hearing the knock on the door, she felt herself root to the spot. What if she’d imagined that he’d been flirting with her last time? What if, when she asked him in for a cup of coffee, he made his excuses and left? What if-,
She cut her questioning mind short and made her way to the front door. Life had been strange for too long, she knew that. It was time for some normality.
Thursday 23 July 2009
Balloon
Hello Michelle,
Thank you so much for your message. You’re quite right, it is my birthday today (though, sadly, not 21 again!) I’d completely forgotten I’d filled in those details on my profile, so your message was quite the nice surprise!
I still can’t believe how supportive everyone on the forum is being, but I suppose we’re all in the same boat, aren’t we?
Anyway, how are you? How was your cousin’s wedding? What did you wear in the end? I know exactly what you mean about choosing an outfit that detracts attention, by the way. I never used to wear skirts before, but these days I practically live in them. I put some jeans on the other day and the legs just looked like deflated balloons. I felt so self-conscious, but then I reminded myself of how lucky I was to have survived. Do you ever have moments like that?
It’s funny (coincidental) that you mentioned your dream. I’ve been having one similar since September. Like you, I dreamt that something was pressing down on my legs. It was so heavy that I couldn’t lift it and no matter how much I screamed, no one heard me. Sometimes I even wake up convinced that I can taste smoke in my mouth. I told my psychiatrist about it and she said that these kinds of dreams are ‘a way for the mind to process and deal with a traumatic event’ and that ‘they’ll pass in time’. Perhaps she’s right, but every morning that I wake from one it’s like I’m reliving that day. As if going through it once wasn’t enough.
In answer to your question, I am getting a little better in the wheelchair (my arms are certainly a lot stronger than they’ve ever been!) I’m still not used to the looks I get from people, though. You’d think people had seen it all in London, but it seems that a woman without legs is still quite the head-turner. It sounds like you’ve been having similar reactions. I suppose it just takes some time to get used to it all, doesn’t it?
Anyway, on a brighter note, what are you doing for New Year’s Eve? Friends have invited me round for dinner, but I’m tempted to stay in with the cat and a good novel in front of the fire. It feels like a long time since I’ve had any normality in my life.
Well, if I don’t hear from you before, I hope that you have a lovely Christmas and see 2002 in with style.
Best,
Tilda
PS - I’ve just re-read what I’ve written. It probably won’t surprise you to know that I’m not as calm and collected as I come across. Like you, there are mornings I wake up and don’t even think I can get out of bed, but I’m taking it a day at a time. I think that’s the only way to get through it, isn’t it?
Thank you so much for your message. You’re quite right, it is my birthday today (though, sadly, not 21 again!) I’d completely forgotten I’d filled in those details on my profile, so your message was quite the nice surprise!
I still can’t believe how supportive everyone on the forum is being, but I suppose we’re all in the same boat, aren’t we?
Anyway, how are you? How was your cousin’s wedding? What did you wear in the end? I know exactly what you mean about choosing an outfit that detracts attention, by the way. I never used to wear skirts before, but these days I practically live in them. I put some jeans on the other day and the legs just looked like deflated balloons. I felt so self-conscious, but then I reminded myself of how lucky I was to have survived. Do you ever have moments like that?
It’s funny (coincidental) that you mentioned your dream. I’ve been having one similar since September. Like you, I dreamt that something was pressing down on my legs. It was so heavy that I couldn’t lift it and no matter how much I screamed, no one heard me. Sometimes I even wake up convinced that I can taste smoke in my mouth. I told my psychiatrist about it and she said that these kinds of dreams are ‘a way for the mind to process and deal with a traumatic event’ and that ‘they’ll pass in time’. Perhaps she’s right, but every morning that I wake from one it’s like I’m reliving that day. As if going through it once wasn’t enough.
In answer to your question, I am getting a little better in the wheelchair (my arms are certainly a lot stronger than they’ve ever been!) I’m still not used to the looks I get from people, though. You’d think people had seen it all in London, but it seems that a woman without legs is still quite the head-turner. It sounds like you’ve been having similar reactions. I suppose it just takes some time to get used to it all, doesn’t it?
Anyway, on a brighter note, what are you doing for New Year’s Eve? Friends have invited me round for dinner, but I’m tempted to stay in with the cat and a good novel in front of the fire. It feels like a long time since I’ve had any normality in my life.
Well, if I don’t hear from you before, I hope that you have a lovely Christmas and see 2002 in with style.
Best,
Tilda
PS - I’ve just re-read what I’ve written. It probably won’t surprise you to know that I’m not as calm and collected as I come across. Like you, there are mornings I wake up and don’t even think I can get out of bed, but I’m taking it a day at a time. I think that’s the only way to get through it, isn’t it?
Saturday 18 July 2009
Well
With a flick of her thumb, Caroline tossed the coin into the deep well. It tripped, then fell through the metal grid. She waited for the inevitable splash. She waited and waited, but no sound came. A frown creased her brow. How disappointing. Standing on her tip-toes, she rested her hands on the stone and peered into the opening. The damp smell reminded her of the copse back home after the rain, when the leaves on the trees looked like sleek leather and the mud squelched beneath her feet.
Overhead, seagulls circled and squawked in the sunny, cloudless sky; in the distance, an ice cream van jingle-jangled along the Cornish roads. The image of a ‘99’ flashed in Caroline’s mind. How long had it been since her last? Two hours at least. That was respectable. They were on holiday after all.
‘Did you make a wish?’
She turned to see her mother. She had one hand on Lizzie’s wheelchair, the other shielding her eyes from the sun. She was wearing the ‘No 1 Mum’ baseball cap that Caroline gave her for Christmas.
‘I can’t tell you what it was,’ Caroline said, rejoining her mother and sister. ‘Or else it won’t come true.’
Not that it was difficult to guess what she’d wished for since her wishes had been the same for the last ten years.
Caroline looked at Lizzie, a scarf protecting her sister’s bald head from the sun. Her eyes were so sunken that they looked like two spoon scoops in snow, and her usually pallid skin looked even greyer here in the country; here where everything was so fresh and lush.
Caroline took the wheelchair from her mother and the three of them made their way towards the picnic benches on the other side of the cliff top.
‘Why did that well have a grate over the top, Mammy?’ Caroline asked.
Her mother took a moment to answer. ‘I suppose in case someone fell down by accident. Are you girls hungry? I’m starving. I can’t wait for my sandwich. Doesn’t it look nice over there? I hope we can get a table.’
‘How would they fall down by accident?' Lizzie asked. Her voice was so thin that Caroline strained to hear. ‘Someone couldn’t fall down a well by accident.’
Their mother made a show of shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s in case an animal or something fell down. You know, like a cat or a dog. You know what it’s like on the farm. Animals can’t be controlled. It’s probably for some reason like that.’
They reached the picnic area and took one of the benches in the shade, ‘so that Lizzie doesn’t get too hot in the sun.’
‘Will you girls be alright here?’ their mother asked. ‘I’ve to go to the loo. I’ll be back in a minute. Start eating if you like, but make sure to save me some cake!’
Their mother laughed a laugh that sounded forced.
The girls watched their mother make her way towards the wooden block of washrooms.
When she was out of sight, Lizzie said, ‘You know why there’s a grate over the top of the well, don’t you?’
‘No,’ Caroline replied, unwrapping her clingfilmed celery sticks. ‘Why is there a grate over the well?’
Lizzy rolled her eyes. ‘Jesus, Caroline, you’re so silly. You don’t know anything.’ She leant forwards in her wheelchair. ‘It’s to stop people throwing themselves down there. It’s to stop them killing themselves.’
Caroline’s breath caught in her throat. She stopped unwrapping her celery sticks. What did her sister mean?
She had heard of people killing one another, but she’d never imagined that someone would want to kill themselves. Sure, why on earth would they?
‘Do you think Mammy knew that?’ she asked.
‘She did indeed.’
‘So why didn’t she tell me?’
‘Because she doesn’t like to talk about death, does she?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because of me. Because of me being ill.’
This made no sense to Caroline, and the expression she wore must have communicated this to her sister for she said, ‘She thinks the mention of death upsets me.’
‘And does it?’
Lizzie looked away. ‘Not at all.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly.’
Lizzie looked back and Caroline could tell from the tears in her eyes that she was lying. She rested her hand on her sister’s, but said nothing. What was there to say?
Overhead, seagulls circled and squawked in the sunny, cloudless sky; in the distance, an ice cream van jingle-jangled along the Cornish roads. The image of a ‘99’ flashed in Caroline’s mind. How long had it been since her last? Two hours at least. That was respectable. They were on holiday after all.
‘Did you make a wish?’
She turned to see her mother. She had one hand on Lizzie’s wheelchair, the other shielding her eyes from the sun. She was wearing the ‘No 1 Mum’ baseball cap that Caroline gave her for Christmas.
‘I can’t tell you what it was,’ Caroline said, rejoining her mother and sister. ‘Or else it won’t come true.’
Not that it was difficult to guess what she’d wished for since her wishes had been the same for the last ten years.
Caroline looked at Lizzie, a scarf protecting her sister’s bald head from the sun. Her eyes were so sunken that they looked like two spoon scoops in snow, and her usually pallid skin looked even greyer here in the country; here where everything was so fresh and lush.
Caroline took the wheelchair from her mother and the three of them made their way towards the picnic benches on the other side of the cliff top.
‘Why did that well have a grate over the top, Mammy?’ Caroline asked.
Her mother took a moment to answer. ‘I suppose in case someone fell down by accident. Are you girls hungry? I’m starving. I can’t wait for my sandwich. Doesn’t it look nice over there? I hope we can get a table.’
‘How would they fall down by accident?' Lizzie asked. Her voice was so thin that Caroline strained to hear. ‘Someone couldn’t fall down a well by accident.’
Their mother made a show of shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s in case an animal or something fell down. You know, like a cat or a dog. You know what it’s like on the farm. Animals can’t be controlled. It’s probably for some reason like that.’
They reached the picnic area and took one of the benches in the shade, ‘so that Lizzie doesn’t get too hot in the sun.’
‘Will you girls be alright here?’ their mother asked. ‘I’ve to go to the loo. I’ll be back in a minute. Start eating if you like, but make sure to save me some cake!’
Their mother laughed a laugh that sounded forced.
The girls watched their mother make her way towards the wooden block of washrooms.
When she was out of sight, Lizzie said, ‘You know why there’s a grate over the top of the well, don’t you?’
‘No,’ Caroline replied, unwrapping her clingfilmed celery sticks. ‘Why is there a grate over the well?’
Lizzy rolled her eyes. ‘Jesus, Caroline, you’re so silly. You don’t know anything.’ She leant forwards in her wheelchair. ‘It’s to stop people throwing themselves down there. It’s to stop them killing themselves.’
Caroline’s breath caught in her throat. She stopped unwrapping her celery sticks. What did her sister mean?
She had heard of people killing one another, but she’d never imagined that someone would want to kill themselves. Sure, why on earth would they?
‘Do you think Mammy knew that?’ she asked.
‘She did indeed.’
‘So why didn’t she tell me?’
‘Because she doesn’t like to talk about death, does she?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because of me. Because of me being ill.’
This made no sense to Caroline, and the expression she wore must have communicated this to her sister for she said, ‘She thinks the mention of death upsets me.’
‘And does it?’
Lizzie looked away. ‘Not at all.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly.’
Lizzie looked back and Caroline could tell from the tears in her eyes that she was lying. She rested her hand on her sister’s, but said nothing. What was there to say?
Tuesday 7 July 2009
Models
‘Mum, how did World War Two start?’
Amelia turned from the washing up. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart.’
‘You always say that.’ Harriet let out a sigh and muttered under her breath, ‘Dad would’ve known.’
Amelia looked away. Four months had passed, but still she wasn’t used to Jack being past tense. Her friends had assured her that this was normal, that it’d take time to accept he was gone. But how could they say what was normal? They’d not watched depression consume their husbands; they’d not come home to a final note on the dining room table; they’d not broached suicide with a nine year old who still played with dolls.
Drying her hands on the tea towel, Amelia sat at the kitchen table opposite her daughter whose attention was fixed on a model aircraft. Since finding Jack’s collection of Airfix sets in the loft, Harriet had spent the summer holidays perfecting the art of their creation. Looking at her now, Amelia felt a pang of guilt for not paying her enough attention recently, so wrapped up she’d been in her own loss.
‘What’re you making?’ she asked.
‘A Messerschmitt.’
‘Can I help?’
Harriet fixed her eyes on her as if weighing up her model-making abilities.
‘You could put these on.’ She handed her a sheet of stickers. ‘But I need to finish this bit first.’
Furrowing her brow, Harriet pressed the plastic parts from their mould with trembling hands. Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth just as her father’s once had.
‘Hari,’ Amelia said. ‘I know things have been hard around here recently. I haven’t been a very good mum to you in the last few months. And I’m sorry.’
Harriet looked up quickly. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay,’ Amelia echoed. She glanced at the calendar on the fridge. ‘There’s still two weeks of the summer holiday left. How about we do a bike ride tomorrow?’
Harriet thought for a moment, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. ‘Can we go to the military museum instead? Dad said he’d take me, but-,’
She trailed off and the incomplete sentence hung between them.
‘Of course,’ Amelia said.
‘I think Dad would like that.’
‘I think he would too.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m getting there, sweetheart.’
‘Me too.’
‘Good.’ Amelia forced a smile and swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Now, what do you want me to do with these stickers?’
Amelia turned from the washing up. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart.’
‘You always say that.’ Harriet let out a sigh and muttered under her breath, ‘Dad would’ve known.’
Amelia looked away. Four months had passed, but still she wasn’t used to Jack being past tense. Her friends had assured her that this was normal, that it’d take time to accept he was gone. But how could they say what was normal? They’d not watched depression consume their husbands; they’d not come home to a final note on the dining room table; they’d not broached suicide with a nine year old who still played with dolls.
Drying her hands on the tea towel, Amelia sat at the kitchen table opposite her daughter whose attention was fixed on a model aircraft. Since finding Jack’s collection of Airfix sets in the loft, Harriet had spent the summer holidays perfecting the art of their creation. Looking at her now, Amelia felt a pang of guilt for not paying her enough attention recently, so wrapped up she’d been in her own loss.
‘What’re you making?’ she asked.
‘A Messerschmitt.’
‘Can I help?’
Harriet fixed her eyes on her as if weighing up her model-making abilities.
‘You could put these on.’ She handed her a sheet of stickers. ‘But I need to finish this bit first.’
Furrowing her brow, Harriet pressed the plastic parts from their mould with trembling hands. Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth just as her father’s once had.
‘Hari,’ Amelia said. ‘I know things have been hard around here recently. I haven’t been a very good mum to you in the last few months. And I’m sorry.’
Harriet looked up quickly. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay,’ Amelia echoed. She glanced at the calendar on the fridge. ‘There’s still two weeks of the summer holiday left. How about we do a bike ride tomorrow?’
Harriet thought for a moment, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. ‘Can we go to the military museum instead? Dad said he’d take me, but-,’
She trailed off and the incomplete sentence hung between them.
‘Of course,’ Amelia said.
‘I think Dad would like that.’
‘I think he would too.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m getting there, sweetheart.’
‘Me too.’
‘Good.’ Amelia forced a smile and swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Now, what do you want me to do with these stickers?’
Thursday 2 July 2009
Wednesday 1 July 2009
Neighbours
Full of expectation, Patty Jefferson rapped again on the door of number three Honeydew Drive. The house had been unoccupied for almost a year when someone moved in last week without being seen by any of the neighbours.
The arrival was a mystery to the other residents of the cosy cul-de-sac, not least of all Patty who viewed change as she viewed ready meals and toupees: with an inherent sense of trepidation.
Hearing footsteps approach on the other side of the door, Patty patted her neat silver bob in preparation of making a first impression.
Her smile soon slipped when she heard the footsteps retreat. As if in a trance, she stared at the peephole in the door, the Tupperware box of cookies suddenly heavy in her hands. She’d not even been given the opportunity to introduce herself. How rude!
Before she knew it, she was eye-level with the letterbox.
‘Helloooo,’ she called into the hallway cluttered with children’s toys. ’It’s Patty Jefferson. From number seven. I hope you’re settling in alright. It would be lovely to meet you. We’re a friendly bunch here in Honeydew.’
No response; simply silence.
As she closed the letterbox, Patty couldn’t help feeling deeply disappointed that her efforts had fallen flat. Maybe she was making more of this than necessary, but the idea that she didn’t know someone in the street was as foreign to her as Beirut. She’d long pushed to the back of her mind that there could be truth in the Daily Mail’s claims that the concept of community was extinct, but perhaps they’d been right all along.
She was halfway down the porch steps when the door opened behind her.
Brimming with anticipation, she turned on her heels and almost dropped her Tupperware in shock at the sight in front of her. Standing in the doorway was a woman in a hijab looking at Patty with wide, fearful eyes.
Patty was suddenly aware of her own stillness and willed herself to do or say something, anything. She’d only ever seen people like this in the news, in war-torn areas that couldn’t look any less like Cricklewood.
Still, ignorant she may have been, rude she was not.
‘I brought these for you,’ she said, holding out the Tupperware. ‘I hope that you can eat choco-, I mean, I hope you’ll enjoy them.’
The woman’s hands trembled as she took the box from Patty. Could it be that she was just as nervous about this meeting? Patty wondered. The idea had never occurred to her before, but, really, weren’t they both strangers to one another?
‘Thank you,’ the woman said quietly.
‘Oh, you’re welcome.’ Patty said, her voice louder than usual.
The woman smiled shyly. ‘Would like come in?’ she asked.
Patty was taken aback. She hadn’t imagined that she would receive an invitation to this woman’s house and it took a moment for her to form a response.
‘That would be lovely,’ she said at last, surprising herself with her answer.
The arrival was a mystery to the other residents of the cosy cul-de-sac, not least of all Patty who viewed change as she viewed ready meals and toupees: with an inherent sense of trepidation.
Hearing footsteps approach on the other side of the door, Patty patted her neat silver bob in preparation of making a first impression.
Her smile soon slipped when she heard the footsteps retreat. As if in a trance, she stared at the peephole in the door, the Tupperware box of cookies suddenly heavy in her hands. She’d not even been given the opportunity to introduce herself. How rude!
Before she knew it, she was eye-level with the letterbox.
‘Helloooo,’ she called into the hallway cluttered with children’s toys. ’It’s Patty Jefferson. From number seven. I hope you’re settling in alright. It would be lovely to meet you. We’re a friendly bunch here in Honeydew.’
No response; simply silence.
As she closed the letterbox, Patty couldn’t help feeling deeply disappointed that her efforts had fallen flat. Maybe she was making more of this than necessary, but the idea that she didn’t know someone in the street was as foreign to her as Beirut. She’d long pushed to the back of her mind that there could be truth in the Daily Mail’s claims that the concept of community was extinct, but perhaps they’d been right all along.
She was halfway down the porch steps when the door opened behind her.
Brimming with anticipation, she turned on her heels and almost dropped her Tupperware in shock at the sight in front of her. Standing in the doorway was a woman in a hijab looking at Patty with wide, fearful eyes.
Patty was suddenly aware of her own stillness and willed herself to do or say something, anything. She’d only ever seen people like this in the news, in war-torn areas that couldn’t look any less like Cricklewood.
Still, ignorant she may have been, rude she was not.
‘I brought these for you,’ she said, holding out the Tupperware. ‘I hope that you can eat choco-, I mean, I hope you’ll enjoy them.’
The woman’s hands trembled as she took the box from Patty. Could it be that she was just as nervous about this meeting? Patty wondered. The idea had never occurred to her before, but, really, weren’t they both strangers to one another?
‘Thank you,’ the woman said quietly.
‘Oh, you’re welcome.’ Patty said, her voice louder than usual.
The woman smiled shyly. ‘Would like come in?’ she asked.
Patty was taken aback. She hadn’t imagined that she would receive an invitation to this woman’s house and it took a moment for her to form a response.
‘That would be lovely,’ she said at last, surprising herself with her answer.
Saturday 27 June 2009
Burnt
Her second cold shower of the hour and still she felt baked. She’d been sunburnt before, of course, but this scorching intensity was something entirely new and unwelcome. It was as if the sun had somehow penetrated her pores and begun to boil her muscles. The slightest movement sent ripples of pain through her body and she’d convinced herself that even her bones felt hot. She wouldn’t have been surprised if she was being slowly cooked from the inside out: microwaved. Could that happen? she wondered as she stepped out of the shower onto the cool bathroom tiles. It seemed an equally grim and realistic possibility.
After a failed attempt at drying her red raw skin with a towel that felt like a scouring pad, she walked back into the hotel bedroom, her wet feet slapping on the bare floorboards. Collapsing on the bed, she lay on her back and stared up at the futile fan on the ceiling, wondering once again why she’d insisted she join Carl on his business trip to Delhi.
‘You know it’s going to be hot, don’t you?’ he’d said when she suggested it. ‘Really hot, Jenna.’
‘God, don’t patronise me, Carl,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen Slumdog Millionaire. Don’t you want me to come or something?’
‘I just want you to think about what it’ll be like. I’m going to be working. You’ll be on your own a lot.’
‘I can entertain myself.’
‘Fine.’
‘Fine.’
And so that was how she found herself in Delhi, neon red and nauseous after just two days. How had she been so stupid?
‘Oh my god,’ Carl said when he arrived back at the room, dropping his briefcase. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I fell asleep by the pool, she said. ‘I feel sick. Carl, I think I’m going to die.’
‘You’re not going to die,’ he said, sitting beside her and kissing her forehead, somehow finding the one spot that didn’t feel on fire. ‘Do you want me to hose you down?’
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ she said, ‘it hurts.’
‘It wasn’t a joke.’
‘Look at me,’ Jenna said. ‘I look ridiculous.’
He kissed her again. ‘You look beautiful. Obviously you look better when you’re not radioactive, but even now there’s a certain attraction.’
She failed to repress a smile. ‘Pervert.’
‘Lobster.’
‘Is there any after-sun left?’ she asked, nodding towards the bathroom.
‘I’ll go and see.’ He came back a moment later with a bottle that he placed on the bedside table as he knelt beside her.
‘What are you doing?’ Jenna asked, sure that her sun-fried brain was playing tricks on her and what she was seeing was a mirage. Surely he wasn’t about to propose. Not here, not now. She’d imagined this moment so many times before, but this exact scenario had never been one she’d pictured.
‘Maybe this isn’t the ideal time,’ Carl said, taking a small black box from his chinos, ‘but I wanted to ask you at a moment we’d both remember. And I don’t think either of us is going to forget this in a hurry-,’
‘Carl-,’
‘Let me finish.’
As he took the ring from the box, her heart thump, thump, thumped against her chest.
‘Jenna Andrews, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
She looked down at the finger on which he’d slipped a silver band adorned with a single sparkling ruby that matched the red of the rest of her body.
‘I can’t believe you’re asking me this now.’
His face fell, ’What’s wrong?’
‘Carl, I look like a knob.’
He sighed and took her hand in his. ‘Jenna, I love you. Burnt or otherwise. Are you going to marry me or not?’
She looked once again at the ring and tears welled in her eyes.
‘Of course I’ll marry you,’ she said.
And with that Carl kissed her again, on the lips this time, with a want and need that eclipsed all the pain of the sunburn. For now, at least...
After a failed attempt at drying her red raw skin with a towel that felt like a scouring pad, she walked back into the hotel bedroom, her wet feet slapping on the bare floorboards. Collapsing on the bed, she lay on her back and stared up at the futile fan on the ceiling, wondering once again why she’d insisted she join Carl on his business trip to Delhi.
‘You know it’s going to be hot, don’t you?’ he’d said when she suggested it. ‘Really hot, Jenna.’
‘God, don’t patronise me, Carl,’ she said. ‘I’ve seen Slumdog Millionaire. Don’t you want me to come or something?’
‘I just want you to think about what it’ll be like. I’m going to be working. You’ll be on your own a lot.’
‘I can entertain myself.’
‘Fine.’
‘Fine.’
And so that was how she found herself in Delhi, neon red and nauseous after just two days. How had she been so stupid?
‘Oh my god,’ Carl said when he arrived back at the room, dropping his briefcase. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I fell asleep by the pool, she said. ‘I feel sick. Carl, I think I’m going to die.’
‘You’re not going to die,’ he said, sitting beside her and kissing her forehead, somehow finding the one spot that didn’t feel on fire. ‘Do you want me to hose you down?’
‘Don’t make me laugh,’ she said, ‘it hurts.’
‘It wasn’t a joke.’
‘Look at me,’ Jenna said. ‘I look ridiculous.’
He kissed her again. ‘You look beautiful. Obviously you look better when you’re not radioactive, but even now there’s a certain attraction.’
She failed to repress a smile. ‘Pervert.’
‘Lobster.’
‘Is there any after-sun left?’ she asked, nodding towards the bathroom.
‘I’ll go and see.’ He came back a moment later with a bottle that he placed on the bedside table as he knelt beside her.
‘What are you doing?’ Jenna asked, sure that her sun-fried brain was playing tricks on her and what she was seeing was a mirage. Surely he wasn’t about to propose. Not here, not now. She’d imagined this moment so many times before, but this exact scenario had never been one she’d pictured.
‘Maybe this isn’t the ideal time,’ Carl said, taking a small black box from his chinos, ‘but I wanted to ask you at a moment we’d both remember. And I don’t think either of us is going to forget this in a hurry-,’
‘Carl-,’
‘Let me finish.’
As he took the ring from the box, her heart thump, thump, thumped against her chest.
‘Jenna Andrews, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’
She looked down at the finger on which he’d slipped a silver band adorned with a single sparkling ruby that matched the red of the rest of her body.
‘I can’t believe you’re asking me this now.’
His face fell, ’What’s wrong?’
‘Carl, I look like a knob.’
He sighed and took her hand in his. ‘Jenna, I love you. Burnt or otherwise. Are you going to marry me or not?’
She looked once again at the ring and tears welled in her eyes.
‘Of course I’ll marry you,’ she said.
And with that Carl kissed her again, on the lips this time, with a want and need that eclipsed all the pain of the sunburn. For now, at least...
Wednesday 17 June 2009
Amends
She would die in the old manor she’d lived for all of her eighty years; Michael knew that the moment Sarah called to inform him of their mother’s second heart attack.
‘You’ll come home, won’t you?’ said Sarah.
‘Have you taken her to hospital?’
‘She won’t go.’
‘Then I’ll be down in the morning.’
His sister sighed. ‘You can’t come now?’
‘It’s midnight, Sarah.’
‘And I suppose you’ve been drinking.’
‘I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine. I’d hardly call that drinking. ‘
‘Well, it’s nice to see where your priorities lie.’
‘I’m not arguing about this. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Michael said, hanging up.
At forty-five, Sarah was five years Michael’s junior, but it was in the old manner of their relationship that she talk to him like a misbehaved child; more so in the months since she had moved back with their mother, looking after her as she would the family she so longed to have.
‘What’s happened?’ Phil asked as Michael pushed open the bedroom door.
‘Mother’s taken a turn for the worse. I’m driving back in the morning.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
Michael smiled as he slipped into bed. ‘I can’t see Mother being keen on that, can you?’
‘Well, I’ve never met her.’
‘So isn’t that answer enough?’
Phil took Michael’s hand in his, a touch - after twenty five years - as familiar as his own reflection.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, in all honesty.
Lying in Phil’s embrace, Michael stared at the red digits of the digital alarm clock. Was it normal for him to feel numb at the news that his mother was close to death? Probably not. But their relationship had never been one he’d call normal. In fact, he wasn’t at all taken aback that the only emotion this news stirred in him was relief.
‘She’s in the kitchen,’ Sarah said when he arrived.
‘How is she?’
‘She’s had a heart attack. How do you think she is?’
Michael followed his sister into the stuffy room where their mother’s two tortoiseshell cats were curled in front of the Aga.
Their mother was in her rocking chair beside the television that she never watched, a blanket over her knees.
‘Look who’s here, Mum,’ Sarah said softly. ‘It’s Michael.’
Michael sat in one of the kitchen chairs beside her.
‘Hello, Mother.’
It’d been a year since last he had seen her and her deterioration was immediately apparent: no shine in her eyes, no colour in her skin. The pale purple cardigan she wore had more life in it than the body it covered.
Looking at her now, Michael couldn’t see even a shadow of the woman he’d long held in such contempt, and he felt a pang of regret for so defiantly cutting her out of his life. Could it really be too late to make amends?
‘Michael?’ his mother said, putting out her hand.
‘I’m here,’ he replied, taking her hand in his. ‘I’m here.’
‘You’ll come home, won’t you?’ said Sarah.
‘Have you taken her to hospital?’
‘She won’t go.’
‘Then I’ll be down in the morning.’
His sister sighed. ‘You can’t come now?’
‘It’s midnight, Sarah.’
‘And I suppose you’ve been drinking.’
‘I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine. I’d hardly call that drinking. ‘
‘Well, it’s nice to see where your priorities lie.’
‘I’m not arguing about this. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ Michael said, hanging up.
At forty-five, Sarah was five years Michael’s junior, but it was in the old manner of their relationship that she talk to him like a misbehaved child; more so in the months since she had moved back with their mother, looking after her as she would the family she so longed to have.
‘What’s happened?’ Phil asked as Michael pushed open the bedroom door.
‘Mother’s taken a turn for the worse. I’m driving back in the morning.’
‘Shall I come with you?’
Michael smiled as he slipped into bed. ‘I can’t see Mother being keen on that, can you?’
‘Well, I’ve never met her.’
‘So isn’t that answer enough?’
Phil took Michael’s hand in his, a touch - after twenty five years - as familiar as his own reflection.
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine,’ he said, in all honesty.
Lying in Phil’s embrace, Michael stared at the red digits of the digital alarm clock. Was it normal for him to feel numb at the news that his mother was close to death? Probably not. But their relationship had never been one he’d call normal. In fact, he wasn’t at all taken aback that the only emotion this news stirred in him was relief.
‘She’s in the kitchen,’ Sarah said when he arrived.
‘How is she?’
‘She’s had a heart attack. How do you think she is?’
Michael followed his sister into the stuffy room where their mother’s two tortoiseshell cats were curled in front of the Aga.
Their mother was in her rocking chair beside the television that she never watched, a blanket over her knees.
‘Look who’s here, Mum,’ Sarah said softly. ‘It’s Michael.’
Michael sat in one of the kitchen chairs beside her.
‘Hello, Mother.’
It’d been a year since last he had seen her and her deterioration was immediately apparent: no shine in her eyes, no colour in her skin. The pale purple cardigan she wore had more life in it than the body it covered.
Looking at her now, Michael couldn’t see even a shadow of the woman he’d long held in such contempt, and he felt a pang of regret for so defiantly cutting her out of his life. Could it really be too late to make amends?
‘Michael?’ his mother said, putting out her hand.
‘I’m here,’ he replied, taking her hand in his. ‘I’m here.’
Tuesday 27 January 2009
Tuesday 13 January 2009
Little Things
I see him every morning, sitting at the bus stop outside my window. He catches the 73 at the same time every day. I don't know if he's noticed me or not. People look out of windows more than they look in, don't they? It seems nosier to look in than out. I wonder why that is?
He's not at the bus stop yet. But it's only five past nine. I came back from breakfast early, worried that I'd miss him. Silly isn't it? His bus doesn't even come until quarter past. Sometimes I get nervous just waiting for him to come, like I'm on a blind date. That's silly, isn't it?
I haven't told anyone here that I watch him. They'd just worry. They'd think that I was going to try and hurt him or something stupid like that. But I've never wanted to hurt anyone else. They all say they understand, but they don't. None of them.
Like when the nurse came in a couple of weeks after I first got here. She was only about my age, a year older maybe. She took one look at me, at the bandages on my arms, and she said, 'Why does a pretty girl like you want to do that to herself?'
I just looked out of the window. I didn't say anything. I don't anymore. There's no point. They only think you're lying anyway. And so I keep quiet. It's best that way. Well, most of the time. Sometimes though, like today, I feel like a jug that's filling up, just filling up with words and thoughts that are going to come spilling out at any moment.
And then I look at him at the bus stop and I think that he's the person I'd like to spill my thoughts onto. I'd like to drench him in everything I'm holding in.
I know it sounds silly, but I think I can trust him. He looks like someone people tell things to, like someone who's holding loads of secrets. He looks like he's sensitive, thoughtful. He wears cords and he's got a 'Make Love Not War' sign on his bag. It's little things, I know, but it's something all the same. Everything's made up of little things.
I remember when I was younger, years and years before all this happened, and mum took us to a museum somewhere. I don't remember what else was there, all I can remember is a huge picture of Donald Duck.
I said, 'Look at that picture.' And mum said, 'Go and look at it up close.'
Sam and I walked over and we looked at it. It was behind glass which had tiny handprints all over it.
'It's all jelly beans,' Sam said. She didn't sound impressed at all. 'It's made out of jelly beans.'
She walked back to mum and I stood there looking at the picture of Donald Duck, at all the jelly beans that made him up. Yellow, blue, red, green. I thought that was one of the best things I'd ever seen, and all the rest of the day I wondered how they'd managed to make him look exactly the same as he does in the cartoons.
Sometimes, when I look at the man at the bus stop, I think like that. I think about all the little things that make him who he is. I think about where he went to school, about who his best friend was, what his favourite film is, what book he's reading at the moment. I think about how he holds his knife and fork, about which side of the bed he sleeps on and whether he uses the shower gel or the shampoo first. I think about what the first tape he bought was.
I think about all these things, and I know it's silly. But it gets me through the day. It gets me through the day because I want to find all these things out.
I can see him coming now. He's jeans with the right knee torn. I’ve seen them before. Oh god, I should look away. He's going to see me. I should look away, but I can't, I just can't. He's getting closer. He's getting closer. Oh god, he's looking in. He's seen me. He's seen me and-, and he's smiling. He's smiling at me.
He's smiling at me.
And I'm smiling back.
He's not at the bus stop yet. But it's only five past nine. I came back from breakfast early, worried that I'd miss him. Silly isn't it? His bus doesn't even come until quarter past. Sometimes I get nervous just waiting for him to come, like I'm on a blind date. That's silly, isn't it?
I haven't told anyone here that I watch him. They'd just worry. They'd think that I was going to try and hurt him or something stupid like that. But I've never wanted to hurt anyone else. They all say they understand, but they don't. None of them.
Like when the nurse came in a couple of weeks after I first got here. She was only about my age, a year older maybe. She took one look at me, at the bandages on my arms, and she said, 'Why does a pretty girl like you want to do that to herself?'
I just looked out of the window. I didn't say anything. I don't anymore. There's no point. They only think you're lying anyway. And so I keep quiet. It's best that way. Well, most of the time. Sometimes though, like today, I feel like a jug that's filling up, just filling up with words and thoughts that are going to come spilling out at any moment.
And then I look at him at the bus stop and I think that he's the person I'd like to spill my thoughts onto. I'd like to drench him in everything I'm holding in.
I know it sounds silly, but I think I can trust him. He looks like someone people tell things to, like someone who's holding loads of secrets. He looks like he's sensitive, thoughtful. He wears cords and he's got a 'Make Love Not War' sign on his bag. It's little things, I know, but it's something all the same. Everything's made up of little things.
I remember when I was younger, years and years before all this happened, and mum took us to a museum somewhere. I don't remember what else was there, all I can remember is a huge picture of Donald Duck.
I said, 'Look at that picture.' And mum said, 'Go and look at it up close.'
Sam and I walked over and we looked at it. It was behind glass which had tiny handprints all over it.
'It's all jelly beans,' Sam said. She didn't sound impressed at all. 'It's made out of jelly beans.'
She walked back to mum and I stood there looking at the picture of Donald Duck, at all the jelly beans that made him up. Yellow, blue, red, green. I thought that was one of the best things I'd ever seen, and all the rest of the day I wondered how they'd managed to make him look exactly the same as he does in the cartoons.
Sometimes, when I look at the man at the bus stop, I think like that. I think about all the little things that make him who he is. I think about where he went to school, about who his best friend was, what his favourite film is, what book he's reading at the moment. I think about how he holds his knife and fork, about which side of the bed he sleeps on and whether he uses the shower gel or the shampoo first. I think about what the first tape he bought was.
I think about all these things, and I know it's silly. But it gets me through the day. It gets me through the day because I want to find all these things out.
I can see him coming now. He's jeans with the right knee torn. I’ve seen them before. Oh god, I should look away. He's going to see me. I should look away, but I can't, I just can't. He's getting closer. He's getting closer. Oh god, he's looking in. He's seen me. He's seen me and-, and he's smiling. He's smiling at me.
He's smiling at me.
And I'm smiling back.
Saturday 10 January 2009
In The Night
Sitting beside her on the sofa, he stretches and yawns. ‘Up to bed?’ he asks. Always a question though the answer has never differed. Not once in a marriage of thirty years.
And so they go, to the room in which she’s not slept for a year. Not since last September. A year in which she has grown bony and gaunt; a year in which she’s forgotten how it feels to be at peace.
While her husband’s body has stilled with sleep beside her, his breath deep and slow, she has stared at the ceiling, her heart racing against her chest, that afternoon playing before her in the faint moonlight.
Tonight is no different of course. Why should it be? Why should any night from now on be different? A moment of distraction had changed her life forever, broken the heart of a family she’d never known but now couldn’t shake from her mind.
She spoke about it at first, told her husband about the bad dreams, the fear and the sweats, but he’d said simply, ‘It was an accident, Sherry. You heard the judge. A terrible accident. You can’t go on blaming yourself.’
How wrong he was, because ever since that day guilt has swelled within her, suffocating the self she knew. Oh, she functions as she always did – she tidies the house, cooks the dinner, finishes the crossword in the paper - but inside she is shattered, haunted by memories only she can recollect: the dull thud of the body on the windscreen, the spiderweb crack in the glass, the blood spreading out on the concrete as realisation swept over her like a wave of pain. She had killed someone, she realised as sirens wailed in the distance. She, Sherry Murray, a woman who had lived her life without so much as a parking ticket, had killed someone.
They can say all they want: that the girl shouldn’t have been crossing the road, that it was a blind bend, that there was no way she could have stopped in time, even doing just 30. They could tell her the cold facts again and again, but it would make no difference. It wouldn’t bring the girl back.
So perhaps two lives had been claimed that day, she thinks now, tears fresh in her eyes. One of a girl whose life had been ahead of her, the other an old woman for whom death would be now be a relief, a purge of pain.
And so they go, to the room in which she’s not slept for a year. Not since last September. A year in which she has grown bony and gaunt; a year in which she’s forgotten how it feels to be at peace.
While her husband’s body has stilled with sleep beside her, his breath deep and slow, she has stared at the ceiling, her heart racing against her chest, that afternoon playing before her in the faint moonlight.
Tonight is no different of course. Why should it be? Why should any night from now on be different? A moment of distraction had changed her life forever, broken the heart of a family she’d never known but now couldn’t shake from her mind.
She spoke about it at first, told her husband about the bad dreams, the fear and the sweats, but he’d said simply, ‘It was an accident, Sherry. You heard the judge. A terrible accident. You can’t go on blaming yourself.’
How wrong he was, because ever since that day guilt has swelled within her, suffocating the self she knew. Oh, she functions as she always did – she tidies the house, cooks the dinner, finishes the crossword in the paper - but inside she is shattered, haunted by memories only she can recollect: the dull thud of the body on the windscreen, the spiderweb crack in the glass, the blood spreading out on the concrete as realisation swept over her like a wave of pain. She had killed someone, she realised as sirens wailed in the distance. She, Sherry Murray, a woman who had lived her life without so much as a parking ticket, had killed someone.
They can say all they want: that the girl shouldn’t have been crossing the road, that it was a blind bend, that there was no way she could have stopped in time, even doing just 30. They could tell her the cold facts again and again, but it would make no difference. It wouldn’t bring the girl back.
So perhaps two lives had been claimed that day, she thinks now, tears fresh in her eyes. One of a girl whose life had been ahead of her, the other an old woman for whom death would be now be a relief, a purge of pain.
Tuesday 6 January 2009
Veronica Marie Jefferson
If there was one thing that Veronica Marie Jefferson savoured, it was the once familiar smell of success. A girl born into privilege, she’d scored straight As in her school exams, gained the highest First that Oxford had ever known, and later won a Pulitzer prize for her cutting edge journalism.
Ten years ago she’d surpassed even herself by giving birth to Angela - or Angel as she was called at home - without the need for an epidural. She’d dismissed offers from nurses with a wave of a hand, sure that it was only women who’d never risen to a challenge in their lives that took such an easy option. No, no, she would do this properly, she’d thought as the nurses’ cooing blurred around her.
Twelve hours later, she held her baby in her arms. The pain had been excruciating, of course, but she’d done it. She had done it because she’d been determined.
Since then, on Richard’s insistence, she had become a full-time mother, and the job was the first that she couldn’t quite manage. Yes, she was wonderful at the cooking and the cleaning, the school runs and the sleepovers, but, and she’d never admit this to anyone, she just couldn’t find a bond with her daughter. In fact, if home was a professional environment and Angela was her employee, she’d be fired with immediate effect for her poor effort and complete lack of ambition.
Though she’d allowed a little leeway in the first few years and had resisted the urge to put too much pressure on her daughter to walk and talk (though she was still quicker than Liz-next-door’s simple Sally, thank you very much), it was now that Veronica was starting to panic. Though she had her mother’s good looks, Angela had neither her way with words or her father’s mathematical mind. In all honesty, she was turning out to be decidedly average at best and a heart-stopping letdown at worst.
Whenever Veronica brought this up with Angela in family meetings, however, Richard would cut her off immediately.
‘She’s ten, darling,’ he’d say, the number in verbal italics as if Veronica could have forgotten.
‘I was winning short story competitions at ten,’ she’d retort, aware of her daughter sitting beside her, all goggle eyes and goofy teeth. ‘I don’t think it’s unfair of me to have expectations of her, Richard. There must be something she’s good at, for God’s sake, but I feel like we’ve tried everything.’ She looked at Angela and sighed loudly. ‘What do you want to do with your life? What are you passionate about?’’
Her daughter shrugged, a habit that Veronica loathed. ‘Don’t know,’ she said, more to the table than her mother.
‘How can you not know? I knew I wanted to be a journalist when I was seven. You’re ten! Didn’t I ever tell you about the review I wrote on The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe? My teacher thought I’d copied it from the Times Literary Supplement. How can you not know what you want to do? Time’s getting on, Angela. Isn’t there anyone you admire? Anyone you want to be like?’
She waited for a moment and prepared herself to be modest after hearing that all little girls wanted to be like their mothers. Me, Angel? She’d say, patting her daughter’s head as if she were an obedient dog. Oh, you’re just so sweet. Richard, did you hear that? Angel said she wants to be just like me, I can’t believe she-,
‘I like Ariel,’ Angela said suddenly, nervously picking the skin around her thumbs. Another horrible habit. ‘I’d like to be like her.’
Veronica drummed her fingers on her chin. Ariel, she thought. An unusual name. An actress? That could work, given she could pull enough strings to get Angela into the Sylvia Young school. A musician? Perhaps, though Veronica still hadn’t recovered from Angela’s terrifying recorder solo in the school concert. She still couldn’t believe that the audience had applauded!
‘Who’s Ariel, sweetheart?’ she asked at last.
‘The little mermaid.’
It was moments such as this that Veronica wondered if she’d brought the wrong child home from the hospital. And if it really was too late to take her back.
A few days later though, ever the lateral thinker, she decided to make her daughter a swimmer. A swimmer! What fun! At last, she’d told Richard, something she’s interested in. Something she wants to do.
He’d not shared her enthusiasm, though, and said simply, ‘Don’t be too pushy with her, Ronnie.’
‘As if I would be,’ she replied, already imagining another trophy cabinet beside her own.
Angela’s lessons were on Saturdays at 8am, and every week Veronica would go to watch her daughter from the sidelines, her nerves in shreds as if watching soldiers cross a minefield. Should she be splashing that much? she’d wonder. Shouldn’t she be quicker? Is that grunting sound normal?
Taking Andre the teacher aside one morning while Angela changed, Veronica asked, ‘How’s she getting on?’
He nodded quickly. ‘Fine. She’s getting on fine.’
‘Fine? That’s all? Do you think she’s good enough to go professional?’
‘She’s only been coming here for three weeks.’
Veronica met his eye. ‘That’s not what I asked,’ she said.
He sighed. ‘Most professionals start swimming a lot younger than Angela, but she could make it if she sets her mind to it.’ He handed her a leaflet from his back pocket. ‘Look, there’s a gala in two weeks. Why don’t you see if she wants to enter? It’ll be a good chance for her to swim competitively. And you can see how she’s doing compared to her peers.’
‘Wonderful,’ Veronica said, slipping the leaflet into her Prada handbag. ‘That’s just perfect.’
A moment later, Angela appeared from the changing rooms and Veronica forced herself not to see her daughter’s pasty limbs sticking out of a stretched Speedo suit, but instead a little mermaid. A little mermaid whose success she could make her own.
In the two weeks leading up to the gala, Veronica felt as if she were competing in the event herself. Every day she was up at 5am to take Angela to the swimming pool for two hours before school, then she’d be the first at the gates of St Joseph’s Primary at three-thirty, bundling her daughter into the back of the car for another an hour of swimming in the evening. Everything in the house began to smell of chlorine, and the tips of Angela’s fingers were permanent prunes. But what did that matter in the long run?
‘Do you think she’s doing too much?’ Richard asked one evening over dinner during which a silent Angela turned from shades of white to shades of green.
‘She wanted to be a mermaid, Richard,’ Veronica snapped. ‘A mermaid has to swim!’
‘I feel sick,’ muttered Angela.
‘No you don’t, darling,’ Veronica said, setting down her knife and fork and putting on her ‘fighting talk’ voice. ‘You feel fear. And what did I tell you about fear? Hmm? Come on, what do we say to fear?’
Angela made a sound that could have been her swallowing her own tongue, then turned the greenest green that Veronica had ever witnessed on human flesh.
‘Come on sweetheart,’ she encouraged through gritted teeth. ‘What do we tell fear?’
Her daughter looked up, burbled, ‘There’s no fear here,’ then vomited into her plate.
Veronica smiled with pride, then looked to Richard who was staring at her with his jaw dropped.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Nerves. What can you do?’
The drive to the swimming pool on the morning of the gala was beyond tense. Angela was in the back, already in her swimming costume at Veronica’s insistence, and Richard was in the passenger seat with the, ‘Go Angel, Go!!!’ banner folded in his lap.
‘She knows it’s not all about winning, doesn’t she?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘Don’t start that talk with me, Richard,’ Veronica said in a forced cheery tone. ‘You know what I think about that kind of thing. If she doesn’t want to win, she shouldn’t be taking part.’ She looked in the rear view mirror and caught her daughter’s eye. ‘Right, sweetheart?’
‘Right,’ Angela nodded.
Though she wasn’t one to judge, Veronica was certain that the majority of the other parents at the gala were the sorts whose children shouldn’t be in public swimming baths. The sorts who wouldn’t have paid the money she had to get Angel ready for this competition. No doubt they’d just hoped the school swimming lessons once a week would be enough to see them through to victory. The fools. Oh, of course she should pity them, but they were probably happy in their own little ways. People were like that, weren’t they? Even she’d seen Wife Swap enough times to understand that.
When Angela appeared with the rest of the swimmers at the deep end of the swimming pool, Veronica stood up holding the banner above her head.
‘Go on, Angel,’ she screamed, hearing her echo bounce back. ‘There’s no fear here!’
Rows of common faces turned to look at her, but she paid them no heed. Poor things, she thought, not giving their children any support. Still, someone had to keep the state schools running.
Feeling Richard’s hand on her knee, she turned to look at her husband.
‘You’ll be okay whatever the outcome, won’t you?’ he said hesitantly.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I mean, you won’t make her feel terrible if she loses.’
‘How can I make her feel terrible?’
‘By making her feel like a failure.’
‘A failure is someone who loses,’ she said. ‘And she’s not going to lose, is she? We’ve paid all that money. She’s had the best training possible.’
‘But what if-,’
‘No, Richard. No what ifs. She’s not going to lose. Is that understood?’
Moments later, a whistle was blown and the swimmers dived into the pool in a blur of action. All except for Angela who stood at the edge and, with her legs crossed, looked as if she was going to wet herself.
Though she opened her mouth to shout for her daughter to move, Veronica was silent and it took until the swimmers had swum one length for her to realise that Angela wasn’t going to be joining them.
Before she knew what she was doing, she had grabbed Angela’s swimming bag and hoisted herself over the wall separating the spectators from the swimmers, her heart thumping hard against her chest.
Though someone tried to stop her, she barged past and marched over to her daughter who was shivering now, tears wobbling in the corners of her eyes.
What the hell are you doing? She wanted to scream. I’ve paid good money for you to win this gala, and you’re making a complete show of me.
But while that may have been what she thought, it wasn’t what she felt. And as she wrapped a towel around her trembling body and held her close she wondered if perhaps they had come together after all.
Ten years ago she’d surpassed even herself by giving birth to Angela - or Angel as she was called at home - without the need for an epidural. She’d dismissed offers from nurses with a wave of a hand, sure that it was only women who’d never risen to a challenge in their lives that took such an easy option. No, no, she would do this properly, she’d thought as the nurses’ cooing blurred around her.
Twelve hours later, she held her baby in her arms. The pain had been excruciating, of course, but she’d done it. She had done it because she’d been determined.
Since then, on Richard’s insistence, she had become a full-time mother, and the job was the first that she couldn’t quite manage. Yes, she was wonderful at the cooking and the cleaning, the school runs and the sleepovers, but, and she’d never admit this to anyone, she just couldn’t find a bond with her daughter. In fact, if home was a professional environment and Angela was her employee, she’d be fired with immediate effect for her poor effort and complete lack of ambition.
Though she’d allowed a little leeway in the first few years and had resisted the urge to put too much pressure on her daughter to walk and talk (though she was still quicker than Liz-next-door’s simple Sally, thank you very much), it was now that Veronica was starting to panic. Though she had her mother’s good looks, Angela had neither her way with words or her father’s mathematical mind. In all honesty, she was turning out to be decidedly average at best and a heart-stopping letdown at worst.
Whenever Veronica brought this up with Angela in family meetings, however, Richard would cut her off immediately.
‘She’s ten, darling,’ he’d say, the number in verbal italics as if Veronica could have forgotten.
‘I was winning short story competitions at ten,’ she’d retort, aware of her daughter sitting beside her, all goggle eyes and goofy teeth. ‘I don’t think it’s unfair of me to have expectations of her, Richard. There must be something she’s good at, for God’s sake, but I feel like we’ve tried everything.’ She looked at Angela and sighed loudly. ‘What do you want to do with your life? What are you passionate about?’’
Her daughter shrugged, a habit that Veronica loathed. ‘Don’t know,’ she said, more to the table than her mother.
‘How can you not know? I knew I wanted to be a journalist when I was seven. You’re ten! Didn’t I ever tell you about the review I wrote on The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe? My teacher thought I’d copied it from the Times Literary Supplement. How can you not know what you want to do? Time’s getting on, Angela. Isn’t there anyone you admire? Anyone you want to be like?’
She waited for a moment and prepared herself to be modest after hearing that all little girls wanted to be like their mothers. Me, Angel? She’d say, patting her daughter’s head as if she were an obedient dog. Oh, you’re just so sweet. Richard, did you hear that? Angel said she wants to be just like me, I can’t believe she-,
‘I like Ariel,’ Angela said suddenly, nervously picking the skin around her thumbs. Another horrible habit. ‘I’d like to be like her.’
Veronica drummed her fingers on her chin. Ariel, she thought. An unusual name. An actress? That could work, given she could pull enough strings to get Angela into the Sylvia Young school. A musician? Perhaps, though Veronica still hadn’t recovered from Angela’s terrifying recorder solo in the school concert. She still couldn’t believe that the audience had applauded!
‘Who’s Ariel, sweetheart?’ she asked at last.
‘The little mermaid.’
It was moments such as this that Veronica wondered if she’d brought the wrong child home from the hospital. And if it really was too late to take her back.
A few days later though, ever the lateral thinker, she decided to make her daughter a swimmer. A swimmer! What fun! At last, she’d told Richard, something she’s interested in. Something she wants to do.
He’d not shared her enthusiasm, though, and said simply, ‘Don’t be too pushy with her, Ronnie.’
‘As if I would be,’ she replied, already imagining another trophy cabinet beside her own.
Angela’s lessons were on Saturdays at 8am, and every week Veronica would go to watch her daughter from the sidelines, her nerves in shreds as if watching soldiers cross a minefield. Should she be splashing that much? she’d wonder. Shouldn’t she be quicker? Is that grunting sound normal?
Taking Andre the teacher aside one morning while Angela changed, Veronica asked, ‘How’s she getting on?’
He nodded quickly. ‘Fine. She’s getting on fine.’
‘Fine? That’s all? Do you think she’s good enough to go professional?’
‘She’s only been coming here for three weeks.’
Veronica met his eye. ‘That’s not what I asked,’ she said.
He sighed. ‘Most professionals start swimming a lot younger than Angela, but she could make it if she sets her mind to it.’ He handed her a leaflet from his back pocket. ‘Look, there’s a gala in two weeks. Why don’t you see if she wants to enter? It’ll be a good chance for her to swim competitively. And you can see how she’s doing compared to her peers.’
‘Wonderful,’ Veronica said, slipping the leaflet into her Prada handbag. ‘That’s just perfect.’
A moment later, Angela appeared from the changing rooms and Veronica forced herself not to see her daughter’s pasty limbs sticking out of a stretched Speedo suit, but instead a little mermaid. A little mermaid whose success she could make her own.
In the two weeks leading up to the gala, Veronica felt as if she were competing in the event herself. Every day she was up at 5am to take Angela to the swimming pool for two hours before school, then she’d be the first at the gates of St Joseph’s Primary at three-thirty, bundling her daughter into the back of the car for another an hour of swimming in the evening. Everything in the house began to smell of chlorine, and the tips of Angela’s fingers were permanent prunes. But what did that matter in the long run?
‘Do you think she’s doing too much?’ Richard asked one evening over dinner during which a silent Angela turned from shades of white to shades of green.
‘She wanted to be a mermaid, Richard,’ Veronica snapped. ‘A mermaid has to swim!’
‘I feel sick,’ muttered Angela.
‘No you don’t, darling,’ Veronica said, setting down her knife and fork and putting on her ‘fighting talk’ voice. ‘You feel fear. And what did I tell you about fear? Hmm? Come on, what do we say to fear?’
Angela made a sound that could have been her swallowing her own tongue, then turned the greenest green that Veronica had ever witnessed on human flesh.
‘Come on sweetheart,’ she encouraged through gritted teeth. ‘What do we tell fear?’
Her daughter looked up, burbled, ‘There’s no fear here,’ then vomited into her plate.
Veronica smiled with pride, then looked to Richard who was staring at her with his jaw dropped.
She rolled her eyes. ‘Nerves. What can you do?’
The drive to the swimming pool on the morning of the gala was beyond tense. Angela was in the back, already in her swimming costume at Veronica’s insistence, and Richard was in the passenger seat with the, ‘Go Angel, Go!!!’ banner folded in his lap.
‘She knows it’s not all about winning, doesn’t she?’ he asked in a whisper.
‘Don’t start that talk with me, Richard,’ Veronica said in a forced cheery tone. ‘You know what I think about that kind of thing. If she doesn’t want to win, she shouldn’t be taking part.’ She looked in the rear view mirror and caught her daughter’s eye. ‘Right, sweetheart?’
‘Right,’ Angela nodded.
Though she wasn’t one to judge, Veronica was certain that the majority of the other parents at the gala were the sorts whose children shouldn’t be in public swimming baths. The sorts who wouldn’t have paid the money she had to get Angel ready for this competition. No doubt they’d just hoped the school swimming lessons once a week would be enough to see them through to victory. The fools. Oh, of course she should pity them, but they were probably happy in their own little ways. People were like that, weren’t they? Even she’d seen Wife Swap enough times to understand that.
When Angela appeared with the rest of the swimmers at the deep end of the swimming pool, Veronica stood up holding the banner above her head.
‘Go on, Angel,’ she screamed, hearing her echo bounce back. ‘There’s no fear here!’
Rows of common faces turned to look at her, but she paid them no heed. Poor things, she thought, not giving their children any support. Still, someone had to keep the state schools running.
Feeling Richard’s hand on her knee, she turned to look at her husband.
‘You’ll be okay whatever the outcome, won’t you?’ he said hesitantly.
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘I mean, you won’t make her feel terrible if she loses.’
‘How can I make her feel terrible?’
‘By making her feel like a failure.’
‘A failure is someone who loses,’ she said. ‘And she’s not going to lose, is she? We’ve paid all that money. She’s had the best training possible.’
‘But what if-,’
‘No, Richard. No what ifs. She’s not going to lose. Is that understood?’
Moments later, a whistle was blown and the swimmers dived into the pool in a blur of action. All except for Angela who stood at the edge and, with her legs crossed, looked as if she was going to wet herself.
Though she opened her mouth to shout for her daughter to move, Veronica was silent and it took until the swimmers had swum one length for her to realise that Angela wasn’t going to be joining them.
Before she knew what she was doing, she had grabbed Angela’s swimming bag and hoisted herself over the wall separating the spectators from the swimmers, her heart thumping hard against her chest.
Though someone tried to stop her, she barged past and marched over to her daughter who was shivering now, tears wobbling in the corners of her eyes.
What the hell are you doing? She wanted to scream. I’ve paid good money for you to win this gala, and you’re making a complete show of me.
But while that may have been what she thought, it wasn’t what she felt. And as she wrapped a towel around her trembling body and held her close she wondered if perhaps they had come together after all.
Monday 5 January 2009
The Day-Moon
There was a day-moon on the winter morning that the young woman’s heart was broken. Perhaps she wouldn’t have noticed it if she’d accepted his offer of a lift home, but as it was she’d walked along the coastal path, her body and heart still trembling from what he’d said an hour ago. Over the table in the café he’d spoken five words that eclipsed all she had come to know. ‘I don’t love you anymore.’ That was all. Five words. She’d heard each individually at first and taken a moment to piece them together, ‘don’t’ and ‘love’ as clear as the halo moon above her now.
Sitting at a wooden bench overlooking the sea, she crossed her arms and tucked her hands into her jacket pockets, the icy breeze harsh against her face. But though she was numb from the cold, she couldn’t bear to go back to the flat because within the four walls of every room were reminders of happier times: smiling faces would look out at her from photographs on the fridge, his neat handwriting would be on the Post-It pad by the telephone, his books on his side of the unmade bed, his cologne in the bathroom cabinet. She would have to box all this up at some point, she knew that, but right now the thought of doing so lent his leaving a permanence she didn’t dare consider. They’d only taken a break of two weeks, but in that time he’d decided that their love was over. And she’d missed him more than she’d ever thought possible.
‘Cold out, isn’t it?’
Startled by a voice beside her, the young woman turned to see an elderly lady lower herself onto the bench. In a heavy looking duffel coat, she leant back in the seat, stretched out her legs and sighed as if slipping into a warm bath.
‘The doctor says I shouldn’t be out in this weather, really,’ she said in a voice as scratchy as old vinyl. ‘My circulation’s not what it used to be. But I said to him, ‘’I’ve got to go out,’’ I said. ‘’Can’t keep myself cooped up all day.’’ Besides, what’d happen to Bernie here?’ She nodded down to a shivering Jack Russell that the young woman hadn’t noticed until now. ‘A dog don’t understand bad circulation. If he wants to go for a walk, you got to take him for a walk.’ She tutted as if talking to the doctor. ‘Can’t let something like the cold stop you doing what you want, can you?’
‘No,’ said the young woman. ‘I suppose not.’
They sat, then, in silence, these women of different generations both looking out at the sea that rolled back and forth, back and forth.
The young woman wondered for a moment if she should go home now that her solitude had been interrupted, but no sooner had the thought entered her mind than she asked herself what the point would be. Though it was true that she was no longer alone here, at least it was only her flesh that was cold. At home it would be her heart and soul that would be chilled by the reality that he no longer lived with her, that he was nothing more than a ghost in the flat, made up of memories. And so, to make conversation, she said in a quiet voice, ‘A moon in the daytime doesn’t seem quite right, does it?’
The old woman shook her head and pursed her near-blue lips. ‘But we can’t have the summer if we don’t have the winter. I remember when I was a little girl I used to think that winter would never end. It seemed like I was waking up in the dark and coming home in the dark, never seeing any sunlight at all. I couldn’t wait to get out and play again. And then I thought the same when the summer came. I couldn’t even imagine a day that I’d have to wear more than a cotton dress. But, course, the seasons change, don’t they? Nothing lasts forever.’ She adjusted the headscarf she was wearing and looked at the young woman as if for the first time. ‘Do you mind me talking to you?’ she asked. ‘It’s just I don’t see no one all day and I’ve got to talk to someone else I worry I’ll never speak again. My throat goes all dry, see.’
‘I don’t mind,’ the young woman said, and in an instant heard his voice again: I don’t love you anymore. Each heavy word carried a bruise if its own and she wondered, If nothing lasts forever, would this pain in her heart cease at some point? And if so, when? In the fresh green of spring? The sticky heat of summer? The dull gold of autumn? The thought of still feeling this way in a year’s time filled her with a bone-aching dread and she decided that a heartache in winter must be the cruellest of them all.
‘Course, what we forget,’ the old woman beside her said, clearing her throat, ‘is that it takes time. The seasons, I mean. We don’t wake up one day and it’s summer outside, do we? First the mornings get lighter, then it starts getting warmer, then the evenings get longer. It doesn’t happen overnight.’
‘When do you think it will get warmer?’ she asked.
‘Like I said, it’ll take time. Can’t rush it, can we? Give it a few months, we’ll soon feel the difference.’
Nodding in agreement, the young woman stared ahead at the pearly day-moon and imagined the seasons changing before her. It would be weeks, months even, before she’d see any change. But change would come, wouldn’t it? It was inevitable. That was nature, after all. And if it happened around her, wouldn’t it happen within her, too?
After the old woman and the dog left, the young woman stayed at the bench and watched as the day-moon became the night-moon and the stars pierced the dark sky with light. Change was already in the air.
Sitting at a wooden bench overlooking the sea, she crossed her arms and tucked her hands into her jacket pockets, the icy breeze harsh against her face. But though she was numb from the cold, she couldn’t bear to go back to the flat because within the four walls of every room were reminders of happier times: smiling faces would look out at her from photographs on the fridge, his neat handwriting would be on the Post-It pad by the telephone, his books on his side of the unmade bed, his cologne in the bathroom cabinet. She would have to box all this up at some point, she knew that, but right now the thought of doing so lent his leaving a permanence she didn’t dare consider. They’d only taken a break of two weeks, but in that time he’d decided that their love was over. And she’d missed him more than she’d ever thought possible.
‘Cold out, isn’t it?’
Startled by a voice beside her, the young woman turned to see an elderly lady lower herself onto the bench. In a heavy looking duffel coat, she leant back in the seat, stretched out her legs and sighed as if slipping into a warm bath.
‘The doctor says I shouldn’t be out in this weather, really,’ she said in a voice as scratchy as old vinyl. ‘My circulation’s not what it used to be. But I said to him, ‘’I’ve got to go out,’’ I said. ‘’Can’t keep myself cooped up all day.’’ Besides, what’d happen to Bernie here?’ She nodded down to a shivering Jack Russell that the young woman hadn’t noticed until now. ‘A dog don’t understand bad circulation. If he wants to go for a walk, you got to take him for a walk.’ She tutted as if talking to the doctor. ‘Can’t let something like the cold stop you doing what you want, can you?’
‘No,’ said the young woman. ‘I suppose not.’
They sat, then, in silence, these women of different generations both looking out at the sea that rolled back and forth, back and forth.
The young woman wondered for a moment if she should go home now that her solitude had been interrupted, but no sooner had the thought entered her mind than she asked herself what the point would be. Though it was true that she was no longer alone here, at least it was only her flesh that was cold. At home it would be her heart and soul that would be chilled by the reality that he no longer lived with her, that he was nothing more than a ghost in the flat, made up of memories. And so, to make conversation, she said in a quiet voice, ‘A moon in the daytime doesn’t seem quite right, does it?’
The old woman shook her head and pursed her near-blue lips. ‘But we can’t have the summer if we don’t have the winter. I remember when I was a little girl I used to think that winter would never end. It seemed like I was waking up in the dark and coming home in the dark, never seeing any sunlight at all. I couldn’t wait to get out and play again. And then I thought the same when the summer came. I couldn’t even imagine a day that I’d have to wear more than a cotton dress. But, course, the seasons change, don’t they? Nothing lasts forever.’ She adjusted the headscarf she was wearing and looked at the young woman as if for the first time. ‘Do you mind me talking to you?’ she asked. ‘It’s just I don’t see no one all day and I’ve got to talk to someone else I worry I’ll never speak again. My throat goes all dry, see.’
‘I don’t mind,’ the young woman said, and in an instant heard his voice again: I don’t love you anymore. Each heavy word carried a bruise if its own and she wondered, If nothing lasts forever, would this pain in her heart cease at some point? And if so, when? In the fresh green of spring? The sticky heat of summer? The dull gold of autumn? The thought of still feeling this way in a year’s time filled her with a bone-aching dread and she decided that a heartache in winter must be the cruellest of them all.
‘Course, what we forget,’ the old woman beside her said, clearing her throat, ‘is that it takes time. The seasons, I mean. We don’t wake up one day and it’s summer outside, do we? First the mornings get lighter, then it starts getting warmer, then the evenings get longer. It doesn’t happen overnight.’
‘When do you think it will get warmer?’ she asked.
‘Like I said, it’ll take time. Can’t rush it, can we? Give it a few months, we’ll soon feel the difference.’
Nodding in agreement, the young woman stared ahead at the pearly day-moon and imagined the seasons changing before her. It would be weeks, months even, before she’d see any change. But change would come, wouldn’t it? It was inevitable. That was nature, after all. And if it happened around her, wouldn’t it happen within her, too?
After the old woman and the dog left, the young woman stayed at the bench and watched as the day-moon became the night-moon and the stars pierced the dark sky with light. Change was already in the air.
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