by Gillian Best
‘The door was open. The word flew out.’
She threw the sponge into the sink. ‘Stop it.’ Water splashed on her cardigan, and didn’t sink into the wool, instead it dripped onto the floor.
‘You don’t have dementia.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’
I went to the sideboard where the phone and the calendar were and I looked to see if anything was listed under today’s date. It was blank. But the day before, there was an appointment scheduled for half past three. I went back to the table and picked up the picture.
‘Where was this taken?’
It was her in the picture. She wore a modest swimming costume, several decades out of fashion now, and stood on a sandy beach looking over her shoulder at the sea.
‘Cap Gris Nez,’ she said as she tied the threadbare floral apron on.
‘When you arrived?’
A clean spoon crashed onto the draining board. ‘Before I left.’
Another spoon clattered against the aluminium. ‘Was that your best swim?’
She was about to drop another but I grabbed her hand. ‘What do you mean?’ I prised the last piece of cutlery from her and set it quietly in its place.
‘Your fastest.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, arranging the plates on the side to drip dry.
‘How can you not know?’
She turned off the tap and brushed the crumbs off the counter onto the floor for Webb. Pointing at the freshly washed dishes she simply instructed: ‘Dry.’
I took the old frayed cloth that hung in front of the stove and stood to her left, drying the dishes.
‘The time was never the point.’
‘But it’s what you wrote on the walls.’
Her focus moved from the dishes to the counter, which she cleaned with such intensity I thought she might actually remove the finish. ‘Do you go to the White Horse Inn often?’
‘Just once. But I saw your name and the date and a time.’
‘I’m sure that’s not all you saw.’
‘It was an informative evening.’
‘I’ll bet. I hope Brian made you pay for your drinks.’
‘I told him you were my neighbour.’
‘Did he believe you?’
I shrugged. ‘Who knows? I had to pay for my drinks though.’
‘You only get a free drink after you’ve swum the Channel. One drink per swim. Those are the rules.’
‘How many free drinks has he given you?’
‘Ten.’
‘That many?’
She cocked her eyebrow at me. ‘And how many times have you swum the Channel?’
I dried a spoon and set it down carefully on the counter.
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘Was it the only time you swum from France?’
‘Henry, why all the questions?’
‘The door was open.’
‘Most doors do.’
‘Yours is never left open. Webb might run out into traffic again.’
‘He’s learned.’
‘What if he hasn’t?’
‘Then he’ll lose another leg.’
‘Why was your door open? Someone could have just walked in.’
‘Someone did,’ she said. She ran her gloved fingers over the bottom of the saucepan and, satisfied that it was clean, she rinsed it once more in the sink before handing it to me.
‘I was caught up in other things,’ she said.
‘What things?’
‘Have you always been this nosey?’
‘No.’
‘Don’t feel it’s a skill you need to pursue for my sake.’ She removed the washing-up gloves and dropped them in the sink.
I looked at them, floating on top of the soapsuds, and then I looked at her.
‘Something’s not right,’ I said.
She smiled politely.
‘Is it John?’
She shook her head.
‘The children? Iain? Harriet?’
She shook her head again.
‘Who then?’
Martha shook her head and looked at the floor.
I lowered my voice. ‘Is it you, Martha?’
She closed her eyes and looked away. Before she spoke, she drew in a large breath and exhaled loudly.
‘If you must know, Henry, I’ve just had some news from the doctor.’
‘What did he say?’
‘She.’
‘What?’
‘The doctor. He’s a she.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘What did she say?’
Martha pressed her lips together and smoothed her cardigan down. She looked out onto the street, through the window that was the same in my house and was my prime twitching location when I was waiting for her.
She lowered her voice. ‘She said.’
Pausing, putting her hands in her pockets and lifting her chin. Then she continued, ‘She said I have cancer.’
That word filled up every inch of space in the kitchen. It oozed into the cupboards and it mouldered at the bottom of the fridge. It went down the plughole and lay down on top of the butter dish. It floated into the lounge and settled with the dust onto the picture frames that sat on the mantle. It crept into the bathroom and wrapped itself around the towel rail. It ran up the stairs and flung itself into the bedrooms, burrowing deep under the duvets until it settled back down in the kitchen, in the space between Martha and I.
‘You can’t have cancer. You’re in good health. You swim the Channel for Christ’s sake.’
She glared at me when I cursed and I blushed.
‘Apparently, cancer doesn’t care.’
‘Is she sure?’
She glared at me. ‘Why would she say such a thing if she was anything less than absolutely certain?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I.’
It was only the second time I had ever heard her come close to apologising.
The first time was the day I had met John.
All that had separated me from the end of my shift was another loop and a half around the centre of town. As I drove down the high street I focused not on trying to find another boarded up shop but on what I might eat for my supper. Driving a bus was monotonous but it suited me.
Nothing out of the ordinary had happened that day. Mrs Baullard had got off in front of the Iceland and had advised me of the low prices I ought to be taking advantage of. Dottie and her two boys had been waiting after school and had all smiled and waved to me as they got on.
Down near the harbour is where I picked John up, though I didn’t know his name at the time. He was standing at the stop but it wasn’t immediately clear to me whether or not he was waiting for the bus, or just standing there. He didn’t look like the sort who took the bus: grey suit, waistcoat, nice tie. Maybe it was his posture. He didn’t look expectant which is what you normally get from people waiting on the bus. I had been driving a bus since I moved to Dover, over five years previously, and had learned where people fit into the grand scheme of things. John looked like someone who had a motor and drove.
Since he was at the stop, I pulled up to the curb and opened the doors.
‘Hi,’ I said, as he stepped on board. ‘Car in the garage then?’
He looked more upset when I spoke to him. As if he had spent a lifetime driving and was suddenly demoted to the bus.
He smiled awkwardly. ‘Sorry.’
‘It’s 90 pence.’
John fumbled with his wallet and shoved his free hand into his jacket pocket, producing a mess of coins that he moved around a bit, looking for the right combination.
‘Here,’ I said, picking out the correct fare. ‘It’s easier with two hands.’
He looked at me and for a moment I thought he was going to say something but he must have changed his mind because he simply nodded curtly and took a seat at the back.
The bus was filling up with the afternoon crowds of school children and child minders but the bus was by no means cr
owded. I watched him in the mirror and he looked anxious, staring out the window. It was as if he was searching for something he had lost.
The last loop of the day can be the hardest. I wanted to be at home and away from the repetition. I was at the point when all I heard in my head was that nursery rhyme the wheels on the bus go round and round, round and round, and not even the loud music coming from a group of teens could drown it out.
When I was a child my father always made me say hello to the bus driver when we got on and thank him as we were leaving. I had thought it a ridiculous affectation then, something he did to show anyone within earshot that he was better than they were. Now though I think he was trying to teach me to be kind. There is a peculiar type of loneliness that comes from being surrounded by people who ignore you.
I stopped the bus at the harbour where John had originally got on and I looked out at the water, which was calm even though there were steely grey skies hanging low over it. The clouds kept coming, piling up on top of one another and it felt like a storm was brewing out in the Channel. I glanced in my mirror and saw that John was still there. He was looking at the sea too.
I waited to see if he was going to get off but he stayed put. From then on, each time we neared a stop I slowed down even if no one was waiting, but he didn’t get out of his seat. A couple of times he looked around as though his stop were coming up, shuffling around in his seat, wringing his hands and edging nearer to the aisle, but he didn’t press the request button and he didn’t get off my bus.
When I arrived at the changeover spot the next driver waved at me and I wondered what to do about John. I turned the engine off and before I got off I looked at him and there was something about the way he was staring out the window.
I went over to him. ‘Did you miss your stop?’
His attention snapped back to me. ‘Sorry?’
‘Your stop. You’ve done a few loops around town now, I thought maybe you missed the right one?’ I wanted to ask if he was alright.
He smiled tentatively. ‘I’m not familiar with this.’
I nodded, expecting him to go on but he didn’t.
‘You live locally then?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes. Just over on…’ He glanced out the window and his lips looked like they’d found the words he was searching for but his voice was silent. ‘Up the hill a ways,’ he said, tapping at the window.
‘You’re on the wrong bus. You need to head back into town and change onto the 5A bus.’
He nodded along as I spoke but I wasn’t certain he followed me.
‘You know, it’s on my way, let me run you up there. My car’s just round the corner.’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
‘It’s no bother, really. I’m going that way.’
He seemed uneasy at the offer of a drive but he got up and walked off the bus with me. My car was a tip and I pushed the empty crisp packets and chocolate bar wrappers off the seat for him.
‘What street?’ I said as I put the car in gear.
‘Sorry?’ John said. He squinted out the window as if he was trying to get his bearings. Like he was a tourist who had visited Dover before and was now relying on a faded memory to navigate.
‘Don’t come into town much?’
‘My wife tends to the myrtle bush in the front garden,’ he said.
I glanced at him and the man I had thought he was, smartly dressed on an afternoon out in town, faded away and in its place was an old man fidgeting with the buttons on his jacket.
‘Myrtle?’
He nodded, suddenly appearing more confident in the conversation. ‘Doesn’t look like much, scraggly branches this time of year, but soon enough there will be blossoms. Pink.’
‘You see them down by the shore mostly,’ I said as I drove up the hill. ‘Just let me know when to turn off.’
His fingers went at his buttons.
‘My neighbour has a bush like that.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The myrtle.’
‘My wife has a myrtle bush in our garden. Not much to look at, this time of year.’
‘You find them down by the shore for the most part,’ I said, wondering if he would notice my repetition.
‘That’s where my wife’s plant came from, the shore.’ He turned to me and beamed. ‘She swims.’
‘Is that so,’ I said.
‘Every day. She’s training.’
‘Is she?’
‘The Channel, of course.’
‘Is your wife’s name Martha?’
His face lit up. ‘Martha.’
‘I think I’m your neighbour,’ I said. ‘I’m Henry, I live at 105.’
He smiled and nodded as he watched the rest of the houses go by and he had the strangest expression on his face, it was as if he wasn’t actually there with me in the car.
‘Henry,’ he said. ‘Yes.’
When I pulled into my driveway Martha was standing at the foot of their garden. I parked the car and John fumbled with his seatbelt until I released it for him. The moment his foot hit the pavement, I heard Martha shouting to him.
‘John! What took you so long?’ She rushed over and rested her arms on top of the fence.
He shook his head and ignored her.
‘Have you got the milk?’ she asked.
He brushed her words away with his hands as if her question was designed exclusively to irritate him and walked past her, into their house.
‘Thank you,’ she said to me. ‘For driving him home from the shops.’
‘I didn’t.’
‘Say again?’
‘I didn’t pick him up at the shops, he was down by the harbour.’
‘He was?’
‘He was.’
‘He went out for milk.’
‘Right.’
‘Hours ago. Just to the corner shop.’
‘Maybe they ran out,’ I said.
‘Maybe.’ She feigned a smile.
‘You’re always welcome to pop round to mine if you run out of something. No sense going all the way to the shops.’
‘Thank you.’ She ran her fingers across the cracked white paint on the fence. ‘We didn’t run out of milk.’
‘I thought you said that’s why he went to the shops.’
‘It is.’
She pointed to the ground at my feet. ‘You really ought to cut that periwinkle back before it takes over.’
‘Periwinkle?’
‘There, the blue-ish purple flower.’
‘Right, thanks,’ I said. I put my hands in my pockets and looked at her. She seemed to not want to go inside just yet. ‘Everything alright?’
‘Mmm,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I hope John wasn’t too much trouble. Thank you again for driving him home.’ She turned toward their front door and started walking away slowly.
‘Anytime,’ I said.
I sat in her kitchen unable to move as she ran her fingers around and around the oversized buttons on her jumper. I wanted to do something useful but there was nothing I could do to reverse the diagnosis. Cancer was cancer and life had changed irrevocably.
‘When are you expecting John home?’
The kitchen was still, as though it was waiting for the news we had already had. Or maybe it was as though the kitchen was sitting in a stunned silence unable to digest everything we had heard. Everything looked the same but felt different. Things that were normally part and parcel of getting on with life took on a poignant air, the calendar depicting different coastal scenes from around the country, pinned to the wall above the phone counted the days until the end of the year with no guarantee of who would be around to see them all.
‘He’ll be back the day after tomorrow,’ she said.
‘Not sooner?’
‘Why would he come home sooner?’
The way she said it made me feel that what I was missing was obvious. ‘You haven’t told him have you?’
‘Why would I?’ She got up and filled the kettle, putting a
teabag in the mug I always used when I came over, a white and blue pattern that made me think of tropical seas.
‘Why would you not?’
‘Because he’s having a lovely weekend away.’
‘But this is awful.’
Her back was to me but I saw her lay her hands flat on the counter. I saw her adjust her plain gold wedding band.
‘It will still be awful when he gets back.’ She turned to face me and crossed her arms over her chest. ‘Don’t you think it would be worse to ruin his weekend?’
The space in the kitchen was filled with the shriek of the kettle.
‘No,’ I said, as she poured the water.
‘Let him enjoy another couple days. It’s kind.’
‘It’s cruel.’
‘What would you know about it? Over there, all by yourself.’
Her voice was sharp. I got up from the table and stood in front of her. I wanted to say something that would make everything okay, though I suspected that if she knew I was even considering the possibility of there being words enough to fix this she would shout and curse me for being so impractical and naïve. So I didn’t try and find those words.
‘You know where I am if you need anything.’
I shut the door firmly and went back to mine. When I stepped inside my house I promised myself that I would not do anything rash and that I would not cave into my more base nature. I sat on the right hand side of the sofa because that was my side even though there was no one in this house right now who would lay claim to the other one. It was a habit and I suppose the way I prayed.
The sofa was from a charity shop, covered in a brown tartan fabric that had looked comforting when I bought it. There was one cigarette burn on the underside of the left hand cushion which I had flipped and swapped with the right, just in case.
Though I knew that just in case would never happen. Not now. Not since I had come home to the house I had shared with my wife and daughter and there had been an open door that I hadn’t taken enough notice of.
It had been a Wednesday in November. It was late enough to be dark, but not dark enough to be late. Around dinnertime. You could have walked into any of the homes on our street at that time and opened the front door to be greeted by the flavours of chicken, beef or lamb. I walked into our house and was met by the smell of a roasting chicken.
