by Janet Ellis
‘I won’t keep you,’ said Sheila, folding her arms and heading for a chair. A sliver of pale cream slip showed beneath her skirt as she sat down. I didn’t think there was ever a time when she’d waited for an invitation. She had an uncanny knack of arriving when I was preoccupied, inserting herself into the proceedings with the air of a judge at a county show, marking my efforts. She had first appeared in our lives just as the removal van opened its doors to disgorge its load and as Michael was coming down the path, swinging the front door keys.
‘Our new home!’ he’d said.
Sheila was standing beside me, as close as if we were reunited friends. ‘Welcome,’ she said, her eyes on the furniture and effects being set down on the pavement. The chairs and cupboards, lamps and pictures exposed to the open air looked shabby and worn. ‘Lovely,’ she said vaguely. ‘Sheila. I’m three down.’ She gestured to her left, further along the crescent. She was probably about the same age as me, in her mid-thirties, but her hard perm and a certain expression on her face suggested she had long left playfulness and frivolity behind. She wore a neat jacket and skirt, not matching but still with the organisation of a suit. A large enamelled brooch, featuring some unspecific variety of flowers in a vase, glistened from her lapel. Her bosom was as solid as a bolster. Perhaps, I thought, she only has one, oval breast.
She came back later, unasked. Sarah and Eddie were upstairs; there were no carpets down yet and their footsteps were loud on the floorboards. She held out a china plate with a pale yellow cake on it; it was perfectly risen, neatly iced and already divided into slices. ‘Lemon sponge,’ she said, admiring her own handiwork. She glanced up to the ceiling, where the children now added a verbal fight to their stamping. ‘Would they like some?’ she said, smiling with tender sympathy at the ruckus.
I took the plate. ‘How kind of you,’ I said. ‘And just as soon as we’ve found our crockery, that’ll be devoured.’ I put the plate down on a sideboard that sat in the middle of the room, as though it would never deign to sit flat against the skirting board.
‘I’ve brought some serviettes.’ Sheila fished in her pocket and produced five tiny squares of yellow tissue.
Just the right number, I thought. I had no desire to offer my fractious offspring up for this woman’s further scrutiny. ‘The children are settling themselves in, I’ll call them later. Thank you.’ I smiled, taking the little paper offerings and putting them with the plate. I held out both my hands for inspection. ‘I’ll need a good wash before I eat anything,’ I said. ‘And heaven knows where the soap is.’
Sheila seemed on the verge of arguing that a bit of dirt wouldn’t matter. Or perhaps she was going to offer to feed me herself, holding the cake to my mouth. ‘Pop the plate back when you can,’ she said. She paused, casting a baleful glance at the twists of discarded newspaper that littered the floor, dropped carelessly as things had been unwrapped. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then,’ she said.
We all slept straight on to the mattress ticking and without pillowcases that night. We’d woken the next day with feathers in our hair.
Sheila settled herself now with an exhalation, as if the journey from the door to the table had been a long one. ‘Quick question,’ she said. There followed a long explanation about some sort of petition involving traffic, while I clanged pans and opened tins. I hoped I offered the right sort of responses during Sheila’s monologue, as I didn’t stop to listen properly. Whenever I turned round, Sheila’s gaze was fixed on a different area of the kitchen. When she eventually rose and said, ‘I knew I could count on you,’ I thought I must have missed something rather vital and wondered what I’d promised. Now Sheila was saying something about a car. And Adrian.
‘I said, “No wonder you’re running late. Adrian has no sense of time.”’ She had my full attention. ‘That was Adrian Cavanagh, wasn’t it? If anyone was going to ignore signs, it’s him. He’s always been a law unto himself.’ She had her hand on the door knob. ‘Had you met him before?’ she said.
I shook my head.
‘No? He is charming, isn’t he? Bit of a rogue, though.’ Sheila smiled into the middle distance, as though she were flicking through a whole catalogue of Adrian’s amusing misdemeanours.
I wiped my hands on my skirt. ‘He’s going to park there again, actually,’ I said. ‘I told him to ignore my sign.’ I wished I could say his name as easily as Sheila did. ‘He says he’s found a very good place to paint.’
Sheila smiled. Her cardigan was buttoned to the top, where a small, tight circle of pearls divided wool from neck. ‘Painting?’ she said. ‘That’s the latest thing, is it?’ She was still at the open door, unhurried in her departure. ‘There’s always a new craze for Adrian. And he likes to find new people, too.’ The way she said people made it sound grubby. ‘I’ve known him for years,’ Sheila said. ‘He’s not to be taken too seriously. As many people have probably discovered. To their cost.’ She looked hard at me. ‘Of course,’ she said, ‘you don’t have to worry about having your head turned by someone like him.’
There was a jangle of keys from the hall, the setting down of a briefcase and the loud, deliberate closing of the front door by a person who didn’t need to creep in.
Sheila cocked her head, listening to the sounds of Michael’s arrival. ‘Was that the front door?’ she said, knowing it was.
Michael called a hello cheerfully, but neither of us answered.
‘Always got something going on, has Adrian. Or somebody.’ Sheila was almost out of the door. She smiled at me. ‘His poor wife. Well, I’m off, I’m afraid,’ she said, as if I had been attempting to prolong her visit. ‘Byee!’ she yelled to the whole house, rattling the door closed without waiting for a reply.
I stood stock-still, feeling out of breath. I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to do next. I stared at the door. I half thought Sheila would stick her head back round it and throw another dart. When Michael came into the room, I muttered about having promised things to Sheila without realising I was doing it.
‘Backbone of the community, you.’ He laughed, but when he put his arms round me, I stiffened.
‘Good day?’ I said, moving away. The saucepan lid rattled and spluttered as the water came to the boil. I turned the dial on the timer and wondered where Adrian was now. It would be twenty minutes until the potatoes were cooked; how many more lots of twenty minutes would there be until I saw him again? Jaunty music and singing floated from the television in the sitting room. Eddie must have put it on. Light up the sky with Standard Fireworks. Dad brings surprises: Stan-dard Fire-works. ‘He should have asked if he could watch TV,’ I said. The evening rolled away in front of me, as dull and predictable as a candlewick bedspread. I opened a tin of mince and tipped it into a pan and stirred it. The children were full of bread and biscuits and I was scarcely hungry, so only poor Michael would sit down with any sort of appetite. Poor Michael. His poor wife, I heard Sheila say again.
Sarah had seemed so confident with Adrian. Where did she get that from? I’d been unable to look adults in the eye at her age. They were awkward, too. ‘Sorry to hear about your . . .’ they’d muttered, unable to articulate the awful fact. ‘Let us know if you need anything.’ If they’d tried to help, they’d have been rebuffed by my father. He was a force field, defying anyone to cross him to reach me. The last time I’d seen her, I’d asked her about embroidery. I’d held my needlework up to her face and showed her the loops of chain stitch going awry. I said I’d done it all wrong and it was ruined. She’d said it didn’t matter, that I could easily repair it. She was so pale that she made the white pillowcases behind her head look grubby. Give it to me, she said, and although she could hardly lift her hands, she guided the needle to and fro on the aida cloth. She was mine as long as she kept sewing. When she reached the end of the row, her hands dropped on to the counterpane and she closed her eyes. I waited for her to speak. She said nothing more. I took the cloth from her and left the room.
Years later, I remembered asking
my father why I hadn’t gone to her funeral. I hadn’t even known when it was happening.
‘You were too young,’ my father had said, although his heaving sobs and actual wailing hadn’t looked very grown-up to me. ‘Oh Marion,’ he said, ‘I used to watch your mother suffering, in pain, and wonder why someone so good was going through such agony. I thought it should have happened to me, instead. If anyone deserved it, I did.’ He’d paused to allow me to dispute this, but I said nothing. ‘But then I realised something, Marion,’ he said. ‘I was being punished. I had to watch her suffer, didn’t I? I couldn’t help her. That was torture for me, wasn’t it? I was the real victim.’
Sheila elbows her way into my thoughts once more. It’s as if she’s offering me that information all over again and observing my reaction, with her beady, fixed gaze. I could have ignored what she said. I could have dismissed it as irrelevant, even annoying. The odd thing is, many years later, it was to Sheila that I wrote, with my new address. And as soon as she had received my card, as if she’d had a stamped envelope ready, she had replied.
Chapter 27
I am still waiting to read the letter I put aside, savouring it like a treat. It will keep. But here is the letter with the blank window envelope. I know what it says, but when I open it this time I realise I have more than half a hope the contents might have changed.
1 November
Kent Hospital
For the attention of Mr And Mrs Deacon.
I note that we still hold several items here which remain uncollected by you, vis:
One pair of pyjamas, label reads: ‘Age 8’
Two books, The Wind in the Willows and A Boy’s Book of Stories
Various items (toothbrush, toothpaste, flannel) in plastic-lined wash bag
One colouring book and crayons (assorted) in red pencil case
Toy truck (boxed)
Please advise what you would like us to do with the above. I regret we have no facilities for further storage.
When Michael was admitted to hospital, three days ago, I was given a leaflet that made death sound like a procedure. It segued from Signs That a Person May be Dying to Should You Be Worried? to How to Inform the Coroner, without much interval.
Sometimes, there are no signs that a person may be dying. Sometimes, a person simply cannot hold on to life, because their hands are too small.
Chapter 28
I can still see that kitchen quite clearly. We’d left it pretty much as it was when we moved in, and after a while I didn’t notice the cups and saucers wallpaper or the pretend pine cupboard doors. I wasn’t the sort to tie a headscarf over my hair and start painting. Michael repaired things if he had to and, if the task was beyond him, we got a man in. After Adrian had left that day, it was the first time I’d felt ashamed of the decor and the silly little things I’d chosen to put on the walls. I was irked by the fact that Michael was still unaware of how gauche the room was.
‘Reader’s Digest,’ he said, holding the day’s post. He sat where Adrian had been, turning the pages. ‘Shall I read “Life’s Like That” out loud to you?’ he said.
‘If you want,’ I said, digging the can opener into a tin of peas to get a purchase.
‘What are we having?’ he said. Seeing the side plates piled in the sink, he said, ‘Oh, did you have visitors?’
I felt irritation rise in my throat, as sour as bile. ‘Mince and potatoes,’ I said, swinging away from him. ‘No, not really any visitors. Just the father of one of Sarah’s friends.’ Not quite the truth, but not really a lie, either. Just something to distract him. It was like pretending to throw a ball for a dog and watching while it hunted for it in vain. I could tell him about Philip now, if I wanted to. I could change everything about our life together in a few sentences. I imagined Michael’s puzzled expression at the realisation that I had betrayed him. He’d fill slowly with an unhappiness as sticky and dense as tar. My secret was as light as a feather as long as I held it in my heart, but if I were ever to throw my unfaithfulness at Michael, the words would become so solid in flight that he’d never get up again.
I turned to the stove, not wanting to look at him while I spoke about Adrian. ‘He’s a painter, an artist, he left his car here. Thought I’d better give him a cup of tea.’ I speared a potato with a knife point. It collapsed under the pressure, breaking into a soft, uneven mush. I drained the potatoes and added milk and butter and mashed them as if it were a task that needed my absolute, undivided attention. ‘Call the children, would you?’ I said. When he left the room, I exhaled with a gasp, exhilarated at being alone.
I could hear Eddie’s protestations about being summoned away from some programme or other, then he came and sat down. He regarded the flaccid meal with disdain. He knew better than to say anything. He bent low over the table so that he could transfer the food from plate to mouth across the shortest distance.
‘Sit up straight.’ Michael and I spoke at the same time. I felt him look across at me, but I fixed my gaze on Eddie.
‘I’m not very hungry.’ Sarah picked up her knife and fork without waiting for a response and balanced the smallest amount possible on the tines.
‘Slimming?’ Michael asked. It was not a question he took seriously, he didn’t need an answer. He got up and fetched a jug then stood at the sink, waiting for the water to run cold. When I saw him standing exactly where Adrian had stood, I thought he looked foolishly small. His shoulders were narrow, and his thin neck bent over as if his head were heavy.
‘What’s that?’ Michael pointed at the brown envelope on the sideboard. He picked it up before anyone could reply and slid the contents free. He held the photographs in front of him, looking first at his daughter, then at me. ‘You two get more alike every day,’ he said.
‘That’s what the man said.’ Eddie raised his head from his plate, where he’d been working hard to combine everything into one pappy mess. ‘That’s ’xactly what he said,’ he repeated, revelling in the attention. We were all looking at him. He pointed at Sarah. ‘And he held her hair. Like this . . .’ He extended his arms towards his sister.
He was too far away to touch her head but near enough for her to strike him, hard, on the arm. His yowl of pain vibrated round the room. Sarah lowered her head; her two curtains of hair closed in front of her face.
‘Sarah,’ her father said, turning to her, ‘that’s childish. Eddie’s a little boy, he doesn’t mean—’
‘Shut UP!’ She rose from the table with such force her chair upended behind her. ‘He knew what he was doing. Leave me alone.’ She couldn’t stamp from the room in her soft-soled slippers and she couldn’t slam the kitchen door because it was held permanently open with a wooden block, but she still exited with a flourish.
‘Stupid cow,’ hissed Eddie. Michael and I rushed to correct him to fill the silence. ‘Please can I get down?’ Eddie was half off the chair as he spoke, one leg lengthening, ready to run.
Michael righted the fallen chair. ‘What did Eddie mean about her hair?’ he said.
‘I don’t know.’ I began to slide all the uneaten mince on to one plate; it seemed as if everyone had left a much greater quantity than I’d prepared. Only Michael had finished his portion.
‘Need any help with that?’ He offered every night.
‘No, you go and sit down, leave all this to me,’ I said, as always. I repeated a familiar litany in my head: He’s been at work all day, he shouldn’t have to work at home, too. I didn’t know where I’d heard it said first, certainly not from my mother, who was dead before she could tie an apron on me. ‘Won’t take long,’ I said, hoping I sounded bright. Michael still reminded me of a dog waiting for an instruction. He actually put his head on one side.
‘Are you okay, Marion?’ He stood in front of me and put his hands on my shoulders.
‘Golly, Michael, careful.’ I nodded towards the slippery contents on the plate I held between us. ‘Yes, I’m fine,’ I said. Then, to distract him, I said, ‘Why don’t you ask Don and his
wife for dinner one night?’ I’d met his boss once at a supper dance. He was wearing a large suit, the jacket flapping around him as he danced. I could tell he wore a soft, loose suit of his own flesh beneath it. I couldn’t remember his wife at all.
‘Right,’ said Michael, sounding surprised. ‘I shall. You just let me know when.’ He waved towards the calendar, hung on a nail on the wall, where I wrote down our appointments.
‘I could certainly squeeze Don and Patricia – or is it Priscilla? – somewhere among the dentist and school meetings,’ I said. The discarded dishcloth, stained with green paint, still lay on the draining board where Adrian had flung it. It was like a relic of his visit.
‘What are you up to tomorrow?’ Michael said later, switching off one of several little side lamps balanced on thin tables. They all shook at the pressure of his hand.
‘Bridget’s coming,’ I said. We’d been at school together; she visited about twice a year. I was fond of her, although our conversation never changed and, once we had exhausted the lives of people we both remembered and exhumed a couple of classroom reminiscences, time hung heavy. Bridget had the hearty vigour of a games teacher. In fact, she had continued to play hockey for some years after she’d left school. ‘Oh, just with some girls from university,’ she’d said. ‘We’re quite rough – the men couldn’t cope.’ I viewed taking part in organised sport of any kind with deep scorn, especially once you were old enough to vote.
Bridget lived in some part of the north. She liked to come ‘down south’ occasionally. The visits were one-sided. ‘You’re welcome to come and stay with me,’ she always said. I mis-trusted the long train journey it would involve and feared what I’d find when I got there. Bridget often boasted about how undomesticated she was. She and her husband had recently taken up breeding dogs. ‘Little Westies. It’s chaos,’ she’d said. ‘If you keep dogs, you can’t expect to be tidy, of course.’ I imagined her having to clear a gangway between her old games kit and a litter of puppies, just so that I could get into bed.
