by Helen Fisher
I took in my surroundings, looking for anything that might help me. There was the usual shed stuff: a bucket of tools, masking tape, and a hammer; lots of nails and screws and unidentifiable pieces of metal, some glass jars, which used to contain jam, and some folded sheets spattered in paint.
I stared for a long time at the Space Hopper box. It had a little damage and I wondered about taping it up, to make it sturdier. And I knew that I would, because the Space Hopper box in my attic had loads of tape holding it together, I just never appreciated the fact that I put it there.
I suddenly remembered something and looked at my wristwatch, another way to check for evidence of my reality. Before the children were born, I went through a period of insomnia for six months and it was torture: awake all night, with fitful sleep between 5am and 6am full of strange dreams. One day I discussed my insomnia with some work colleagues, and on the whole they were sympathetic, then one of them said, ‘You’re probably sleeping more than you think.’
‘I’m awake all night,’ I said.
‘You can’t be sure,’ he said. ‘It probably just feels like that. But those long stretches in the night when you think you’re awake, you’re probably kind of dozing.’
I felt furious with this well-rested know-it-all. ‘Are you sleeping now?’ I asked him, my hostility quiet but sharp.
‘Right now? No, of course not,’ he said.
‘How do you know?’ I said. ‘If I can be wrong about whether or not I’m asleep at night, then surely you can be wrong about being awake now.’
He grabbed some paperwork and left, choosing wisely not to mess with me. After all, I hadn’t slept for a long time and probably looked dangerous. More interesting was another workmate who told me there was a sure-fire way to check if you’re dreaming or not. She said numbers don’t work in dreams, they get all muddled up, so what you need to do is always wear a watch and look at it a ridiculous amount of times when you’re awake. Every time you look at your watch, you must consciously ask yourself, Are the numbers in the right place? Then you must clearly answer yes or no. When you’ve been doing this for long enough, it becomes such a habit that it leaks into your dreams, and then one day, you’ll look at your watch while you’re dreaming, and ask yourself the question about the numbers being in the right place, and the answer will be no, because when you’re asleep they never are, and that’s when you know you’re dreaming. That’s when you can do whatever you like in your dream. It’s called lucid dreaming and is very good fun, because I’ve tried it. Give it a go, it works. I guarantee it.
My point is two things: one, in the shed I knew I was awake, in the same way that you can be confident you’re awake at this very moment. Secondly, when I looked at my watch, the numbers were all in the right place, even though it had stopped and the glass on the front was cracked. So we’re definitely talking time travel or insanity; there was no other option.
The sound of a dog barking again just a short distance away had me mentally strolling in the direction of the sound it made. I could picture the little squares of lawn from this, my mother’s garden, to the one next door, and beyond that all the fences in between, just low enough to peep over if you were a grown-up standing on tiptoes.
Now my mind’s eye took me through all the gardens to Em and Henry’s place, all the way down the other end of the street. Henry with his face like a sad puppy and lovely Em; the couple who had taken me in when my mother died. In the quiet world I had inhabited with my mother as a child, few people had really made an impression on me. But Em and Henry had, and they had stepped in, and brought me up. Of course I should go to Em and Henry now, I would be able to get my foot through their door more easily than my mother’s. After that, I wasn’t sure, but it was somewhere to start. Before I did anything, I needed another glimpse of my mother; I was emotionally thirsty and she was my glass of water. Then I needed to get out of here without being seen.
* * *
The kitchen door opened and clattered shut, startling me. I scooched forward and pressed my face against the rough wooden door. My mother was putting a bag of rubbish into a shiny steel bin with a proper bin lid. She shouted, ‘Faye, get your shoes on, we’re leaving,’ and then she paused, stood with hands on hips looking straight down the short, narrow garden, straight at me in fact, and took in a long deep breath of cold air. She closed her eyes and smiled. She looked so content and I realised I knew nothing about this woman, even though I loved her with all my heart. She didn’t look like me, with her smooth brown hair and grey eyes. She was natural-looking, slim, and wore a belt pinching in the waist of a long jumper over a long skirt that made her look even slimmer, and brown leather boots. I saw little me come to the back door, open it slightly, and say something to my mother who bent at the waist and cupped Faye’s face in her hands. ‘Of course you can,’ said my mother in reply to the question I couldn’t hear. They went inside and the key turned in the lock.
I knew they would go out the front door, so I unfurled myself. I was like one of the screwed-up plastic bags in my mother’s kitchen cupboard and it was hard to straighten up. I jogged cautiously down the side of the house and peered round the corner. They were just coming out, my mother with a large brown satchel over her shoulder and little me wearing a puffy pale-blue and green striped jacket (how I had loved that coat), with a chunky jumper underneath, and carrying a table tennis bat on which I was bouncing a red rubber ball – small bounces – and counting each one. Little me got a rally of bounces, before missing one. It bounced on the ground and shot high in the air. My mother caught it, and I saw my young self look at her gleefully, shouting, ‘Five!’
They walked companionably down the street, my mother’s long skirt thrapping her legs, and little me going at varying speeds, sometimes holding back, sometimes trotting, depending on what was required to keep the ball in the air. My mother chatted away and there was the odd interval of laughter. I had forgotten she was funny; I couldn’t remember our conversations, but I guess that’s true of many people. My friends remember a few lines their parents said to them when they were younger, the odd nugget of gold, and lots of nuggets of criticism, but nothing more than a small collection of well-worn anecdotes.
I walked behind at a short distance. I don’t think it was obvious I was following or anything, we were walking towards town; there was nothing suspicious about another person walking to town. The sun was out now, and it was cold, but milder than you might expect considering people had their Christmas trees up.
When I neared Em and Henry’s house, I slowed to a stop and watched my mother and little Faye walk on ahead. My eyes stung and I felt that sense of loss that walks hand-in-hand with beautiful moments; with knowing that something is over even before it’s begun. Knowing that one day all good things will be looked back on like dusty photographs, crackling video tape and stones in jars. How could they be together now, when for me it was already over, already gone? How could I stand here and watch them walk away from me? I thought of how lonely Esther would feel if she saw me walking away from her when I didn’t even know she was there. And for superstition’s sake, I glanced over my shoulder to check she wasn’t there.
5
As I focused on Em and Henry’s shiny red front door, my breath shuddered and I felt like crying with relief at the thought of seeing them, because I knew how these people treated strangers, and it was good.
I knocked and heard the muffled sounds of voices asking each other who could be knocking this early in the morning. Then the chain and a lock, a busyness of security behind a door that I could have smashed in with one hard kick.
‘Hello?’ Em said, and I saw Henry in the hallway behind her with a piece of toast in his hand. The comfort of kitchen smells enveloped me, and I wanted to just kiss Em on her soft powdered cheek and walk in as I had done a million times in my life. But this time she was blocking me, and her friendly face, though kind, was wary.
‘Sorry to call so early, but I’m here from the… uh… Sporting Gaze
tte. I understand you play bowls and I’m writing an article about… uh… recreation for adults in the area.’ Em and Henry looked confused and I worried that maybe they hadn’t got into bowling yet. I knew they played it when I went to live with them, but this would have been about two years earlier.
‘You do play bowls, don’t you?’ I wished I had a notebook to help play my part and pretend to check details that had been passed on to me. But I had nothing. How convincing could I be without a notebook and pen?
‘Yes, we do,’ said Henry. ‘Em, let her in, what are you doing leaving her on the doorstep?’ Henry wiped crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand.
‘Of course, come in,’ said Em, opening the door wide and pressing her hands against her front, as if to dry them.
The entrance way was welcoming, with thick carpet underfoot. The wallpaper was so familiar: pale pink and cream stripes but, more notably, the walls were bare. I had always known the walls as covered with framed photos of me as I grew up. I hadn’t realised that before me, there was nothing there.
I had always thought of them as old. But although they must have been in their mid-fifties, at least, they didn’t really look old to me now. I would have thought of them as old when they took me in, I would have just turned eight, and anyone over thirty looked ancient to me back then. I knew Em’s face like a wrinkled apple, Henry’s saggy cheeks like familiar old battered cushions. But right now their faces were quite smooth, and Henry had lots of hair, they were young to me now because I had seen them grow so very, very old. The only thing that seemed old about them now was their clothes: Henry with his baggy buttoned cardigan and leather slippers, and Em with her padded housecoat.
It would usually be my habit to simply walk into Henry’s arms and get a big, strong hug, press my cheek against his chest and breathe in the scent of Brut and something else, vaguely smoky. But all I could do was stand and wait, feeling fraudulent and lost.
Em sprang into hostess mode and ushered me into the living room, where the lack of photos struck me again. I had always thought they had loads, but clearly, not until I came along. Crocheted doilies clung to the backs of recliners, and their familiarity drew me to them; I touched one lightly.
‘Tea?’ said Em.
‘Please,’ I said, wanting a cup of tea more than ever before in my life.
‘Sit down,’ said Henry, and I did. Looking down beside the chair I saw a small pile of hardback Beano annuals and smiled. They were Henry’s guilty pleasure, and I had loved them too. I reached down and picked one up.
‘Minnie the Minx is my favourite,’ I said, opening it up.
‘I love the Bash Street Kids,’ he said, and we both chuckled.
‘How did you get our names? Did you speak to Susan at the bowling centre?’
‘Uh no,’ I said, quickly thinking that if they spoke to Susan they would be left wondering who on earth I really was. ‘I just, uh, got in touch with the club and got a few names and addresses of players.’
Em bustled back in with a milk jug and teapot and flumped down into a chair. I really felt terribly conscious about not having anything to write on, or with.
‘I have a few questions, but I seem to have left my bag somewhere. Maybe at the office. I don’t have any of my things.’
‘Do you want to come back later?’ Em asked. ‘We’re here all day.’
‘I just need my notepad, but if you have some paper? I’m sorry, so unprofessional.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Henry said, and he opened a drawer, handing me something to write on and a pencil. ‘You can lean on that,’ he said, pointing at the Beano.
‘Are you all right, dear, you seem a bit flustered, and you seem to have a few scratches.’ Em looked at my forehead and touched her own to indicate where she meant. I felt above my right eyebrow and could feel a few abrasions. There was no hiding them. I turned over my hand, and bruises were forming on my wrist.
‘I had a bit of a tumble this morning, missed a step, landed on my hand, and… I didn’t realise how much I’d scratched my head.’ Em looked at Henry with concern in her eyes, but whether it was concern for my fall, or concern about whether they should have let me into their home, I wasn’t sure. I was hurting, but the main thing was to keep the weirdness out of this situation; I wanted Em and Henry to keep me here, wanted to stay safe in their homey world which transcended time and space, and even time travel. They were a port in a storm, a candle in the night when all others have blown out. And here they were, not knowing me, and I teetered on the edge of their welcome, needed them to pull me closer.
With the paper and the pen to anchor me and occupy my hands, I decided to get on with the interview, hopefully put them at ease. I asked them questions and made notes and somehow did all that while watching the faces of two dear people, younger than I could possibly remember them. All their old habits and quirks were like stitches that held the essence of them together, and it felt comical, as though I were watching someone do a very good impression of someone I knew really well. And Em, sweet Em, who had died ten years ago. The way she fussed over Henry, and touched his hand, and ended each sentence of her own with a ‘didn’t we, Henry?’ or ‘isn’t that right, Henry?’ as though he were an integral part of her truth; things weren’t real unless they were confirmed by Henry. I knew how she felt, I still sometimes felt that way myself; his presence such a sturdy, reassuring comfort, now as then.
My piece of paper was full of quotes and information about bowling, that I had barely any recollection of writing down. Em went to make more tea, and I asked if I could use the bathroom. I walked up the stairs on legs made of lead, trailing my hand over the bare wallpaper that would only need to wait two years before becoming a gallery of memories of me, a map of my progress from age eight onwards. I flicked the old hook-and-eye latch of the bathroom door and sat on the closed toilet lid. The dolly that covered the toilet rolls made me smile and shake my head: basically a Barbie doll’s upper body and a big knitted dress that kept the toilet roll dust free. I held her on my lap and tried to absorb the facts. The attic, the box, the past, my mother, myself, and now Em and Henry, drinking their tea, using their toilet. I was just doing normal stuff now. But I did not belong. I was a visitor in a place not open to visitors. I had walked through the staff only door, the no admission door, the access only door. And I wasn’t staff. In a minute, someone was going to find me out and… do what? Kick me out of the seventies? Again I tried to keep my thoughts contained, like a bag full of kittens. The thoughts that urgently whispered, Are you sure that box can get you back to Eddie and the girls? I gripped the top of that bag tightly and urged the kittens to keep still.
I had a wee, flushed the chain and washed my hands – the smell of Imperial Leather took me back thirty years as surely as my Space Hopper box. As I unhooked the bathroom door I heard a knock downstairs, and again voices that I couldn’t quite make out, but whose sounds were of pleased surprise and ‘come in, come in’.
I descended the stairs slowly and peered over the bannister, gasped when I saw the back of my coat, the little blue and green one, me as a child, and the back of my mother’s head, chestnut hair shining.
I paused where I stood. Em had come alive with chatter, and I could hear her insistence that my mother and little Faye have something to eat and drink. By the time I had followed them into the living room they were all seated comfortably and I was an intruder, one person too many for this room. I smiled but I felt like I didn’t know how to do that properly anymore. When I looked at my mother, I had to look away, because it was going to be either a quick glance or I would be a deer caught in her headlights.
‘I’m just leaving,’ I said, trying to keep it nonchalant.
‘Ah, yes, our reporter,’ Em said, puffing her bosom out.
‘Stay,’ said Henry, though Em bristled slightly. I looked into his eyes, and whether or not he saw pain and desperation there, I’ll never know. But he said it again, ‘Stay. You’ve had a rough day,’ and he gently tou
ched my head, then gripped my upper arms. ‘Have another cuppa. You can meet our charming neighbours.’ He beckoned me to sit down and then left the room.
‘What’s your name?’ little Faye said, sitting wide-eyed, upright and overconfident like some kind of hippy Shirley Temple.
‘Faye,’ I said, the word like glue in my mouth, because I realised I should have thought to change it when I was halfway through my single syllable. I could have been a Dorothy.
‘Me too! That’s my name,’ said Faye Junior bouncing up and down.
Em took little Faye by the hand, possessively, I thought. ‘Do you want one of these?’ Em said, going over to the little silver Christmas tree hung with foil-wrapped chocolate bells. Little Faye jumped up and she and Em were kept busy for a few moments.
My mother stretched her hand out towards me, and her bracelets slid up her arm, jingling. ‘I’m Jeanie,’ she said.
I opened my mouth to speak, and there was not a drop of moisture to lubricate my words. ‘Faye,’ I said again, the word still so sticky it could barely leave my lips. I watched my hand get closer to my mother’s with the same awareness as if I were reaching out to touch an electric fence. But she didn’t seem to notice.
‘Great name,’ she said, smiling and nodding at little me in the corner by the Christmas tree. ‘What paper do you work for?’
‘Oh the Gazette, it’s like a supplement in the free paper,’ I said. Jeanie frowned slightly, and thankfully lost interest instantly.
‘I only read novels, poetry and cookbooks, I’m afraid,’ she said with a dismissive, easy smile. ‘Never newspapers.’
Em swung little Faye up on to her hip and sat down in a chair holding the child in her lap. I saw me as a child lean in to the comfort of Em’s embrace, one hand licking chocolate from her fingers, the other absent-mindedly rubbing the fabric of Em’s housecoat between her tiny fingers. I had no recollection of this happening to me and stared at the interaction between them as though it were video evidence in a trial of my memories. I know I shouldn’t expect to remember everything, I know that I don’t, and yet how could I not have some notion of it, especially when I could see how much this closeness meant to Em. She loved me, even then, and as she hadn’t been able to have children of her own, I could see what a gift I had been to her.
