Stranger Still

by Marilyn Messik

The cloud on my horizon was still Ruth. The initial pain and pulling in my middle regions had, thank goodness, faded a little but every time I thought about her the sickly, heavy discomfort returned. I’d phoned a couple of times, to find out how things were. I spoke to Rachael the first time, which meant I didn’t get a straight answer to anything. The second time I rang, Mrs Millsop answered and had to be persuaded to find Glory for me.

  “Not part of any job I took on,” she grumbled “running all over the shop, looking for people.” But I persisted and after a long wait, Glory came to the phone, although I could hear Mrs M holding forth in the background on nobody in the place ever being where they said they were going to be, when they were supposed to be there. Glory wasn’t over-communicative and sensing her unease, only increased my own. Things were pretty much the same she said, then turned away for a moment to ask an obviously hovering Mrs M, if she wouldn’t mind just checking on the children Glory had briefly left on their own.

  Turning back to the phone she said, “Nothing’s happened, nothing’s changed. Health wise, she’s better than she’s been for ages.”

  “It’s gone?”

  “We keep thinking maybe it has and then there’s just a little something that isn’t right, isn’t Ruth and then we know we’re wrong. We have to be ultra-careful, daren’t probe.”

  “Couldn’t you though? Without her knowing?” I realised as I said it, that just wasn’t possible and Glory, didn’t even dignify it with an answer. “Who’s down there with you?” I asked, I knew so little about the new set-up and for an instant felt a ridiculous, not-been-invited-to-the-party pang of exclusion but only briefly, it was a world away from my far more mundane day-to-day, and that was what I’d wanted.

  “Ed’s here.”

  “How is he?”

  I heard her affectionate smile, “Same.”

  I smiled too, “And Sam?”

  “Not living here, but visiting a lot, he’s not that far.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “Thought you knew; Oxford Uni Med School.”

  No, I hadn’t known, “How’s he getting on?” another stupid question. Sam had tried to kill me when we first met, but you can’t hold that against someone, certainly not a frightened, near feral six-year-old. Anyway, since then he’d more than made amends. There was a breakthrough technique I’d read about recently, magnetic resonance imagery, apparently it was going to revolutionise diagnostics because of the internal images it produced, but Sam had always been able to do that, no machine necessary.

  “Enjoying it?” I asked.

  “No, not really. Hugely frustrated he has to do it and obviously he’s younger than everyone else and treated as a bit of a prodigy which never makes for popularity, but he knows it’s necessary.”

  “Give him my love?”

  “Course.” I was surprised, usually any hint of sentiment brought forth an acerbic response, she was distracted though and as worried as I was, maybe more - Ruth and Rachael had taken her in, more or less brought her up, they were family.

  “I’d better let you go or Mrs M will have your guts for garters.” I was reluctant to cut the connection because of the flipping push-me-pull-you feelings I had. “Talk soon?” Reporting the conversation to David later, he wanted to know why I’d phoned,

  “Couldn’t you just… you know?”

  “Over a distance it would have to be urgent – and loud, sort of a scream and you don’t scream the place down just to say hello, how are you.”

  * * * *

  Closer to home I was doing my best with the Mother-in-Law; I wanted her to like me but as I’ve said, she had a tendency towards the unpredictable, and even before I’d complicated things by marrying her son, it was always difficult to know quite where you were with her.

  Melvyn made a point of reminding me often how badly Laura suffered with her nerves; as if I could forget, but he thought if he kept mentioning it, he could provide cover for the slight chill in the air when she was near me. I knew it was on his mind, because when worried he’d slide his glasses up onto his forehead to massage his eyes with thumb and fourth finger, but as he invariably had a lit cigarette between the forefingers of the same hand, it made me pretty worried too, although I could only assume, if he was going to put an eye out it would’ve happened by now.

  Laura was elegant in the extreme; slim and with deportment that owed everything to the Lucie Clayton Charm School and a lot of walking around with a pile of books on your head. That same head, weekly highlighted and coiffed was often briefly angled when she spoke - as if she’d just become aware of an odour beneath her finely arched nostrils and wasn’t quite sure what it might be. She was courteous if chilly, invariably beautifully turned out - I don’t think she’d have recognised a track suit if it bit her on the bottom - and on a constant diet, goodness knows why, I never spotted an inch of flesh she could spare. Nevertheless, she was inclined to wave food away, murmuring she couldn’t possibly, and had been known to toy with a slice of chicken and three petit pois for far longer than they deserved, before declaring herself absolutely stuffed. The woman was indeed a slave to her nerves, not to mention everyone else’s and when stressed, which happened often, would delve into her handbag for a ‘migraine’ pill. These took effect mighty quick, leading to Laura grabbing your hand, resting her head on your shoulder and murmuring how very, very fond of you she was. In the driving-around days it had made things problematic, changing gear with someone glued to your side was always a challenge. On the plus side though, there was never a chance of her sneaking up on you unexpectedly, preceded as she invariably was by a knock-out waft of heavy-duty perfume and the well-bred clink of chunky jewellery.

  When David and I got engaged she slipped into pink pill mode, and stayed there for quite a while, so I’d spent a lot of time with her firmly attached, muttering she couldn’t be more thrilled, no honestly, really really truly thrilled. I think she was probably drifting in and out for a good couple of weeks because she was thereafter a little hazy on the details of anything that occurred during that time, including our conversation about what I should call her. With a magnanimous wave of the arm that wasn’t wrapped round my waist, she’d said anything I liked, which I couldn’t help but think was taking a bit of a risk. But when I later tried a tentative ‘Mum’ she was aghast, and a flash of thought which I couldn’t help but catch, indicated she’d really rather I stuck to Mrs Gold, but she smiled tightly and said maybe we’d just go with Laura.

  She was though, extremely helpful whenever they came to visit, and was able to give me a variety of tips as to how David liked this, didn’t like that and mightn’t it be a good idea, as I was so busy, to do a little dusting every day, rather than let it accumulate for the weekend? I always thanked her enthusiastically, avoiding the amused eye of my husband and the worried one of my Father-in-Law. She and Katerina, also had a way to go with their relationship. Laura was invariably startled whenever she saw her and because she jumped, Katerina who could match her, nerve for nerve, jumped too.

  “Oh,” Laura would exclaim in the same tone of amazement each time, “it’s the dog!” whereupon both she and Kat would toss their heads and look pointedly in the opposite direction.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Over the course of time, I’d come to realise that the ‘listening’ with which I’d been tasked, was misnamed. It was more ‘hearing’ and I wasn’t thrilled about it, but as far as it’s ever possible to be sure of anything, I was sure Boris was on the side of the angels and worked to a strict moral code albeit uniquely his own. And there could be no disputing the outcomes of some of my alerts, so my conscience wouldn’t let me stop listening.

  There was the teenager walking home from school who was snatched from the street, then snatched back a wonderfully short time later. She’d initially been too shocked to scream, but I’d heard her anyway and acted. Boris never contacted me after the raised alarm, but sometimes I picked up things from the press. Apparently, in the brief time it took th
e nearest Panda car to get there, a white van had already been stopped in its tracks by a car diagonally and inexplicably blocking the road. The elderly driver could give no explanation as to exactly how that had happened, but by then there were screams for help coming from inside the van and the hysterical girl was helped out by passers-by. In no time at all, the grubby van driver had been hauled out of his grubby van and was face-down in the road with a bloody nose. He was being ungently restrained by a couple of hefty builders who were of the thump-now-ask-questions-later school of thought. Evidence in the van implicated the driver in at least two other recent appalling cases that hadn’t ended in recovery. He was currently awaiting trial.

  Another time there were ten girls from the Philippines who thought they were coming to Britain as au pairs. Crammed together and locked in the back of the lorry that had picked them up, one of them nursing a swelling eye where the man she’d questioned had hit her, the girls had come to the rapid conclusion this wasn’t what they’d signed up for. Fear and panic as realisation set in, multiplied by ten hit me like a brick to the head. The lorry was intercepted.

  A few weeks after that, there was a man who’d spent an evening in the pub nursing beer and grudges who’d come to the irrefutable conclusion that his ex-girlfriend needed teaching a lesson and that there was no time like the present. He’d been waiting by her front door when she came home from a night out and she knew as she saw him, what he’d come for. Her terror jerked me awake, and I amplified it and immediately shot it through to Boris. I only had a rough location, but the sound of sirens blaring up and down nearby roads paralysed him just long enough for her to kick him where it mattered, and run.

  None of the above was pleasant but it was worse when it was too late. When the bomb at the Ideal Home Exhibition went off in March of ’76, I was still living at home and was knocked off my feet in the kitchen by the combined emotional charge from the injured and the fleeing – but too late to do anything to help. Then in August, when things kicked off at the Notting Hill Carnival, there was the same broadcast of shock and fear as revellers tried to get away from violence that suddenly erupted around them. It had boiled over, fuelled by levels of anger and resentment simply not comprehended by the majority of men, women and children there to have a good time. The fight would have flared up and died down quickly were it not for the iron determination of a group of fascists, also there to have a good time. Their vitriol of hate and excitement peaked and surged above everything else. The police acted immediately, but damage was done; over 300 injuries on both sides, along with a major loss of trust. It was months later that Boris and Cornwall dropped in on me, but I instantly recognised what it was that seeped out from the material they gave me to hold; bile-coloured viciousness, I’d felt it before. I had no idea whether it was the same person, but it was the same hate.

  In the first few months of that year and newly married, I made an attempt to recalibrate, change my settings a bit. I’d become used to the wave of discomfort whenever Ruth came to mind, that was one thing, the ‘hearing’ was another, but I felt the touch thing was an oddity too far and cherished hopes it would vanish as unexpectedly as it had arrived. In the meantime, I had to deal with it by trial and error; some things were more problematic than others. Books were dreadful.

  Hendon Public Library had been heaven and haven to me from the time I was old enough to make my own way but now, gathering an armful of books became an exercise far more fraught. Sometimes, I was aware before I even slipped it off the shelf that a book was going to give me grief and I had to steer clear; others gave no warning until I had them in my hands. This ability had entirely its own logic; a book held for a long period of time allowed emotion to be absorbed and retained whereas a book swiftly read, not so much – unless the emotion at that particular time was overwhelming. I often wondered, would the emotion remain as long as the book existed, or dilute and dissipate over time possibly unknowingly absorbed by subsequent readers? Of a couple of things I was certain; negative stuff lingered longer, whilst joy was depressingly less evident and all this had made my once peaceful pleasure a darn sight less so, although I presumed my hesitant shelf-progress simply made me look like a woman who couldn’t make up her mind.

  What with running the business, the discomfort connected to Ruth, the try-not-to-touch rule, an ear open for anything I should tell Boris and an eye on what I shouldn’t tell David, there was a lot to think about, but it was Mac Fisheries that truly gave me pause for thought.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I’ve never been keen on fish – sneaky small bones, undiscovered until they’re in your mouth, eugh – unfortunately, my daily route to work, having parked the car, took me past our local Mac Fisheries, which even from the other side of the road wasn’t great, but one sunny day in April, as the smell from the fully stocked slabs outside the shop hit me, I gagged. For a sweaty few seconds, I was sure I was going to throw up under the critical gaze of all those dead fish-eyes.

  I thought I’d stood stock still but maybe I was swaying; either way I must have looked odd because Michele, who ran Young’s Haberdashery down the road stopped in concern, which was equally odd. Hilary, who spent a lot of time in the shop lusting over trimmings, often commented Michele wasn’t a natural people person and her successful business wasn’t down to customer service so much as no competition.

  “What’s up?” she said sharply, pausing alongside me. I nearly said; my breakfast but even the thought made me feel worse, so I shook my head. She already regretted stopping but having done so was stuck.

  “Well,” she said, “you’d best get along to your office then.” I wasn’t ready to open my mouth yet, so nodded slightly but must have swayed a bit more because Michele, and I could feel her intense reluctance, put out a hand to hold my arm, this was not a woman comfortable with contact, but luckily she had initiative. She shot out the arm that wasn’t holding me up and grabbed a passing young man.

  “Here, this lady’s come over funny. I’ll take her bag and the dog, you hang on to her,” she said, “it’s only up the road.” She removed bag handle and lead from my cold and clammy hand, “What’re you waiting for?” she demanded of him, “not got all day.” By sheer good luck, she’d happened to hijack a chap well used to bossy women, he lived with a mum and four sisters, so was more or less pre-programmed to obedience for a quiet life. Before I had a chance to insist I was fine, he’d looped an arm round my waist and we were hastening after Michele’s sensible brown brogues. The door of the agency was open, and my conscripted hero hung on manfully until he’d deposited me on the reception sofa.

  “No sweat,” he waved away my thanks, “likely something you ate eh?” And he departed before he could be roped into anything else. Michele’s relief at having seen me safely delivered was palpable, even more so as just then Brenda and Hilary arrived and she handed over bag, lead and responsibility.

  “Taken bad,” she said, jerking her head at me “walked her up the road, leave her with you, alright?” and she was off. Brenda, who came gloriously into her own at times like these, headed for the kitchen at speed and instructed Hilary to get my head between my knees. Hilary advanced purposefully, lit cigarette clamped in place to leave both hands free.

  I moved back on the sofa hastily, “No, I’m better.” Accustomed as I was to the smoke wreath which generally hovered murkily above Hilary’s head, it bothered me more than usual, and I turned my head away.

  “Sorry pet,” she said amiably, exhaling in the opposite direction. Head to knee action avoided, I rested it on the back of the sofa, then heard with astonishment what Hilary was thinking, as Brenda the Capable bustled back with a glass of water, tea, a damp cloth and a big smile.

  “We wondered when you were going to say anything.”

  “No,” I said, “honestly, it was just the fish.” She raised an eyebrow then seeing I meant it, moved a pile of papers to one side, perched a substantial tweed hip on the reception desk and handed me the water and the cloth.
r />   “On your forehead, it’ll help.”

  Hilary, blowing smoke considerately in the other direction, patted my knee.

  “I was the same,” she said, “put on right away,” she nodded at my stomach whilst I had a quick think about dates.

  “Here,” said Brenda, “drink the tea and look, couple of Ginger Snaps, they’ll settle your tum.”

  Obediently sipping and chewing, I felt a right idiot. I made to say something but Hilary shushed me;

  “No talking, it’ll pass sooner,” and then Joy turned up, flushed and breathless, doing a double-take as she saw us assembled.

  “Whoa! Welcoming committee?” then looking at the wall clock, “not late am I? Sorry, tried to clear up before I left.”

  I felt her anxiety and shook my head, “You’re fine.” She knew we weren’t clock-watchers, there was always someone to take over the reception desk if needed, and it wasn’t as if hordes were hurtling in at any one time. I felt if one of us needed to do something and got in a bit late or left a bit early, what did it matter, but Joy said;

  “It’s important I’m not late. Trevor says, ‘not on time; not on the ball!’” I saw Hilary and Brenda exchange a swift, expressionless look.

  “You’re fine,” I repeated. She smiled back uncertainly. What I appreciated about Joy was she’d never been a ‘what should I do next?’ kind of a girl but like the rest of the team, made and took day-to-day decisions completely in her stride without consulting anyone and rarely put a foot wrong. Initiative is worth its weight in gold – it oils the wheels, but recently there had been a fading of that confidence, I felt a stab of guilt. It wasn’t that I hadn’t noticed but I hadn’t raised it with her and I should have done, I could have reassured her.

  Kat who’d been sitting quietly by my feet, waiting for the talking to stop so she could head up to her basket for a morning sleep, stirred, shook herself in an elegantly understated manner and sashayed over to greet Joy, who to Kat’s surprise, recoiled. As an office favourite, this was not the reaction she expected. I knew when I had to go out and Kat got bored with Brenda, she’d descend to settle herself comfortably at Joy’s feet, which had the advantage of allowing her to greet me with a reproachful face whenever I came back. Joy always said she liked Kat there, made her feel guarded at which we all laughed, nobody felt genteel Kat was likely to strike the fear of anything into anybody.