by Sarah Till
“But you never had anything to do with Gran. It was us who went to see her. We stayed over and you never went to see her. Ellis has never even met her. You gave her up for dead when Granddad died.”
The words reverberated those spoken over the years by Swiss Steve and it was like a stereo echo in my ears. I stopped in the middle of the glass corridor.
“Shiralee, do you know that I’ve just had to go and see my mother, who was murdered? On my way here, I placed a bet with myself on how long it would be before you started going on about inheritance. I at least thought that you might wait until we got out of the building.”
Shiralee looked at her feet.
“He started it.”
Jupiter shrugged into a tantrum.
“Well, I just want my share. What with you and Dad splitting up and us not getting anything...”
His voice trailed off behind me as I walked away. I hurried to the outside of the hospital and stood stock-still. The woman in the wheelchair had chain-smoked her way through ten cigarettes, the butts formed a mini-pyre that still smoked slightly at her feet. John Baxter tapped me on the shoulder. His voice was soft but a little edgy.
“Are you OK?”
My anger expressed itself in the tightness of my lips and the redness of my cheeks. I turned to meet his eyes as he touched me lightly on the shoulder.
“Are you?”
It was clear that he had been crying. His eyes looked sore and irritated. I realised that my question was as futile as his in this situation. John looked heavenwards.
“Your mother was a good woman.” I was sorely tempted to rip a cigarette from the wheelchair-bound woman’s hands as I sniggered to myself sarcastically. John sighed and edged round a little to face me. “Look, she told me what happened between you about your father and, well, other things, about you leaving your husband and all the trouble.”
I intervened quickly.
“I didn’t leave my husband, John, I....”
I could see Swiss Steve and the children approaching and it left me no time for an explanation. I took a business card out of my handbag and handed it to John. He took it and read it carefully.
“Thanks. I’ll call you about the funeral. Shall I...”
“Yes. If you could arrange it, I’ll get all the papers to you.”
“No need. Sally had a copy of them. She even had the clothes ready. I’ll see to everything. I’ll let you know when it is. Perhaps you could come over to the house and help me sort her things out?”
I paused and a thought that had been circling me for the past few hours finally came into land. As its wheels touched the runway, it slipped from my tongue.
“Have you any idea who did it, John? Had she, well, annoyed anyone? Well, more than usual? I mean, was she involved in anything?”
John looked surprised.
“Sally? No. No. She was busy with some writing, and she likes to argue with the local vicar, but apart from that she spent most of her time with me or walking. I just can’t understand it. It’s not as if anything was missing either. It seems so...so... pointless.” I stared at John as he wiped away stray tears. “At least I didn’t find her. I feel sorry for the paperboy. I’d better get back and see how the police are getting on. Is it OK if I stay there for the time being? All my things are there and...”
I nodded and touched John’s shoulder. I could have sworn that he recoiled slightly, but I couldn’t be completely sure. I focused on my journey as I turned to go. An hour and a quarter later, I reached the steps of the Euston tube. I still hadn’t cried or really felt an emotion.
Providence
I stepped o to the escalator and sank deep below the earth. Although my facial muscles were tense and I felt irritated at the way Swiss Steve had once again monopolised Shiralee and Jupiter – and just how had they found out about my mother’s death and got to the hospital before me? - I remained strangely calm. Even calmer now as I stood in the ticket area. The station was busy in the heat of late afternoon and beside me a couple argued about their destination.
I passed my Oyster card over the turnstile and pushed through into the humidity. As I walked through the familiar corridor, I marvelled at my inability to be upset, even in such dire circumstances as my mother’s death. I knew that I knew full well why, but it was so difficult to access the reasoning that I had built up. I had built it up right here. On the tube, on my daily commute to and from the office.
Kevin Jakowski had played a major part in what I called my alignment. My awakening. I pictured him now, frail in his armchair, his eyes laughing from his skull-like head and the jingle of his deteriorating vocal chords as his body shook with mirth. He had said those immortal words that had changed my life. I had taken them with me that day, and they had turned out to mean more to me than the posh, desirable residence he had bequeathed me. Those words had been the start of my rise to my authentic self, and my fall from grace. In between, I had to negotiate the ‘shoulds’ of the uninitiated and the horror of those who had different expectations of my role.
I had thought about it. Initially, I thought that he was referring to our work together with the agency and the double meanings that we had assigned to his advertising campaigns, much to his continued amusement. But the more I thought about it, the more it applied to my life. Kevin Jakowski had leaned forward and almost whispered through his hysterical laughter.
“Don’t forget, Jinny, everything comes from words. Think about it. Everything”
Chapter Three
I had gone home and spent an evening alone, thinking about who could have killed my mother. I had half expected John Baxter to call with an update, but he didn’t. Ellis was at an exhibition and had left a note. I must have fallen asleep before he came in. I dreamt of the cottage garden in full bloom and my mother pricking her finger on a rose thorn and bleeding to death in front of me.
I woke up wet with perspiration and Ellis was snoring beside me. It struck me that I hadn’t rung work yesterday. There had been a meeting to discuss the latest campaigns that I would be working on, along with my colleagues Damien and Julie. We were all seniors and got the pick of the best campaigns before the scrubby little no-status numbers were thrown to the lower ranks. I made a pot of tea and seethed over the fact that Damien and Julie would now have got the best of what was on offer. I really should have rung in. Ellis appeared in his usual early morning dishevelled state and sat beside me.
“Mornin’,” he croaked, “Sorry I was late. I kept trying to get away.”
He looked sorry and I laughed.
“It’s OK. You only missed me falling asleep on the sofa with my mouth open again.”
“No developments then? Was it horrible?”
He reached over and took my hand. I gripped his for dear life and sighed.
“Not horrible. She just looked like she was asleep. Her hair was blonde and actually she looked quite good. “
Ellis stared hard at me. I think he was looking for a glimpse of feeling or emotion.
“Any nearer finding out who did it, are they?”
“No, well, I haven’t heard anything. Seems that I am at least fifth in the line of communication, though. Everyone was there at the hospital before me.”
Ellis smirked.
“Steve probably flew them in on his imaginary helicopter.”
Ellis had only met Swiss Steve a handful of times, but each time Swiss Steve felt that he had to put on a full-blown show of masculinity. There was strutting, chest puffing and lots of references to how rich he was. This included cars, limos, the detached house he bought when we split up, his Jacuzzi, his string of teenage girlfriends and constant allusions to the proceeds of his work that he had ‘put away’ for ‘future use’. The truth was that Swiss Steve was broke. He was unemployable because all of London knew that he was a bank robber who had killed a man. On the rare occasions that he had been employed, his bolshy attitude towards anyone who asked him to do anything had him queuing up at the unemployment office within d
ays. I had often wondered where he was getting his money from in the early days of our divorce. Not that he felt threatened by Ellis. He had made it very clear that he had nothing but contempt for, ‘that little blond tosser’ and that he considered him completely feminine because he was an artist. On the rare occasions that they had met such as Jupiter’s graduation they had just stared at each other for a while and when Steve became loud and showy, Ellis became equally quiet and surly.
Ellis let go of my hand and ruffled his hair.
“What do you have to do today? Do you have to organise the funeral or anything?”
I shook my head and swallowed a mouthful of tea.
“I’m going into work.”
Ellis stared hard at me.
“No. No Jinny. Your mother has just been murdered. You can’t. I know I’ve been messing around and joking about but it’s really serious. Look. I’m worried about you.”
His eyes were watery and soft and he looked sad. I put my hand over his.
“I know you’re waiting for me to break. So am I. I keep waiting for something worse to hit me, I feel angry and I want to find out who did it. I feel sorrow. My mum’s gone. I understand that. I saw her, yesterday, lying dead. I do need to cry and to really feel this, but I don’t. I don’t, El. I just need to keep going until I stop.”
Ellis nodded his head.
“OK. I think you should stay here. But if you have to go in, at least let me take you. I’ll drive you across town. I have an appointment at ten.”
Before I had a chance to reply, he rose and went upstairs. I turned my attention to the portable television in the kitchen and vacantly stared at a woman who was talking about knife crime. I rested my chin on my hand and only half listened. My attention was captured when a picture of my mother flashed across the screen. I could only assume that it was a fairly recent picture as she was blonde and I noticed that her face had more wrinkles around her eyes. She was wearing a T-shirt and small pearl earrings. The news reporter was outlining the details of the murder. DI Payne was on the screen now telling me that there was no firm line of enquiry. Now the woman who lives next door to Mum was explaining how there had never been any trouble in the village and how uncharacteristic it was. I thought that it was Mum's five minutes of fame. A final shot of the cottage showed that several people had laid flowers outside the gate and that the front door was guarded by two policemen. Somehow seeing the cottage and the flowers made me see it was real. Until now it had all seemed a little surreal, as if I was in a film and that I was merely in the audience. It was beginning to sink in.
I dreaded the day that I would have to go back to the cottage. Mum and Dad had lived there since they had married and it was a source of great misery to me. My early teenage years had been akin to a United Nations peacekeeping mission as Dad philandered more and Mum took tranquilizers complimented by whiskey. Their life together was a circular performance of bad behaviour answered by bad behaviour and I was in the middle. Not that they noticed me waving my arms and crying and pleading for them to stop destroying each other. The pivotal moment when I knew that life had changed forever came one morning when I was fourteen and a half.
I had been in my bedroom brushing my waist-length hair when Dad knocked on the door. I stopped brushing and my heart began to beat faster. I barely managed to push the words out of my mouth.
“Come in.”
The door opened and he appeared looking very tired and unshaven.
“Virginia.” He stood in the doorway forlornly and I wanted to hug him. Instead I sat very still. “It's your mother. She was taken into hospital last night. It seems she has lost the use of her legs. They just went from under her.”
My hand went to my mouth and I gasped.
“Will she be alright?”
“The hospital is running tests. It's a total mystery, love, a sudden illness. Might even be a stroke. Don't worry, love, we'll go to see her tonight. You get off to school and I'll be here when you get back.”
I frowned in confusion. Dad was never home during the day. Dad loved his job. He lived for it. The nights away in posh hotels, the weeks at conferences abroad. He had never had a day off since I was born.
“What about work?”
My words sparked tears and he wiped large droplets from his cheeks.
“We'll see, love. We'll see. Get yourself off to school.”
He turned and shut the door. We went to see Mum every night for two weeks. The tests proved inconclusive and she arrived home in a wheelchair. Dad had to lift her into her chair and into bed. The kitchen was adapted so that she could reach the table in her wheelchair to help Dad prepare meals, but he cooked. She would bark instructions from her chair and criticise the smallest error. The bathroom was fully renovated into a wet room where she could shower in her wheelchair.
Dad never returned to work. He would rise at six a.m. and flick on the washing machine. He took Mum a cup of tea, then started breakfast. He would wake me at seven-thirty and we would lift her out of bed. I would go off to school at eight thirty. I would often look back as I stalked down the path towards the bus stop. Dad would sit at the kitchen table chain smoking. I would already have counted five cigarette ends in the ashtray when I set off for school. On my return at four p.m. the five had been joined by fifteen colleagues, bent and stinking. By bedtime, he would have forged his way through another ten. His fingers became yellow and his skin pale. His mouth, once a gaping cheeky grin, turned downwards.
Everything had changed. There were no longer the rumbles of anger. My parents never argued once after she came home from hospital. Equally absent was the passion. The laughter, the love and the embarrassing touches they used to share were completely gone. Hardly any words passed between them, save my mother's empty criticism.
By the time I left home for university, Dad had not left the house for a year. Initially, my mother had been taken to the day-care centre for physiotherapy one day a week. On that day dad would go into town, to the bookmakers, placing a bet on several horses that he could watch on the TV. He would get a haircut, maybe buy a paper. On school holidays I would go with him and we would buy a milkshake from the indoor market and just enjoy being amongst other people.
On the day I left, I stood at the kitchen door and stared at him. He had entirely stopped going out on mother's physiotherapy days. He preferred to stay in and look out of the window onto the unkempt garden and the farmland he owned beyond. He had long ago leased the land to a nearby farmer who grazed his cattle on it. He had gazed out, a cigarette clasped between his finger and thumb, the tip enclosed in his hand causing a pink glow. He would periodically and rhythmically pull hard on the cigarette and, after a prolonged inhalation, he would grudgingly exhale. He looked at me through his yellow eyes and a smile played on his lips.
“Now you behave yourself, Virginia.” He licked the nicotine from his lips and took another drag of his cigarette. “Don't you worry yourself about us. Go out and enjoy yourself. Go and get a life.”
I was eighteen and scared of leaving because I knew I would never live at home again. My mother's constant sniping and my father's passivity irritated me to the core, and I knew that this was the only way out for me. I went on to complete a media degree and worked in a graphics studio for a while. I met Swiss Steve and filled the abyss left by leaving my parents with his friends and his life. I almost forgot about life at the cottage, but the arrival of my children meant more frequent visits. With a more mature view of the world, I began to realise how unhappy my father was. One day, when Swiss Steve was pushing Mum in her wheelchair up to the post office then around town for a shopping trip, I attempted to address Dad's problem. I chose my words carefully, not knowing how much loyalty lay with Mum.
“Dad, don't you think you should have a break? I mean, mother's very demanding, what with her pills and her drinking and you’re not really getting a break.”
He turned his gaze from the garden and his hollow eyes greeted me.
“I said I'd loo
k after her and I will. It's my duty. I made a promise. Till death us
do part, Virginia.”
“But it's killing you, Dad. And she's so cruel to you. Look at you. You're thin, and all you
do is sit and smoke. All day, chain smoking. It's not good for you, Dad. Not good for you.”
No response was forthcoming save for a raising of his eyebrows and another click of his Zippo lighter. The glowing end of another cigarette backlit his grey face. Shiralee played at his feet and a small shower of hot ashes sprinkled her hair. I snatched her away and took Jupiter outside, away from the smoke. When mother arrived back, he merely went about his business of lifting her from her wheelchair and making the evening meal, albeit mechanically and with no love or care.
It actually took him nine more years to die. As I went through my own trauma of separation and my children leaving, I watched him as he reduced his food intake and increased his smoking habits. Mother constantly cajoled him, laughing maniacally at his rasping cough, commenting cruelly on his almost skeletal frame, until one day he didn't wake up. Mum rung me early in the morning and calmly informed me that he had passed away. I wanted to go to her but she forbade it, telling me to look after my children, that she would be fine. Two days later, on Wednesday, she had rung me to tell me that the funeral would be on Friday.
Friday came and I arrived at the church. Shiralee and Jupiter had asked not to attend. They would be present at the wake afterwards but both had exams and it was all too upsetting. I had arrived early and I stood by the church door, a solitary figure, waiting for the cars to arrive. Others arrived and lined the road in front of the village church. The car bearing my father's body stopped in front of me. For a long minute, I stared at the coffin and pain pierced my soul. Suddenly I remembered mother. She would need help out of the following car and into her wheelchair. In a split second I stepped forward and abruptly stumbled in my haste. Looking up, I saw that my mother was standing beside me. The realisation of the truth and the extent of her deceit made me stagger. She held out her arm to steady me, an involuntary reaction, perhaps. I looked into her eyes. I made my mouth move, although I was paralysed with anger.
