‘Don’t be silly. I’ve got rid of my blues, that’s all.’
Her thoughts centred on the manager for the rest of the afternoon. She had always liked him, ever since he took over about six months ago, but he was on a different plane from her. She had never dreamt that she would have lunch with him one day, and chat to him as though he were an old friend. His manner had made her think he was interested in everything she said, and that was heartening. She didn’t place too much belief in his last few words, though. He was just being polite.
Helen Milne was bored. She had never been one for sitting about doing nothing, and though she liked to read, she didn’t like to spend all of her days reading. If only she had some kind of hobby to pass the time. Frank was in his element looking after her, of course, and she shouldn’t complain, but that wasn’t how things should be. She had always looked after him, and seeing him with an apron round his paunch cheerfully whistling while he did the ironing, or peeled the spuds, or washed the dishes - well it was rubbing the salt into the wound, so to speak. He sometimes bought her a jigsaw puzzle, but the stroke had left her paralysed down her right side, and it was so awkward using her left hand that she often dropped the pieces. Still, practice makes perfect, as the saying went, so maybe she’d get better if she kept at it.
She was lucky she had Frank for a husband; not many wives were so blessed. She could hear him upstairs now. He had made their bed and vacuumed the floor by this time, so what could he still be doing, moving things about like that? Hearing his feet on the stairs, she couldn’t help the edge in her voice. ‘What have you being doing up there all this time? You don’t need to be so fussy. Nobody’s ever going to see it.’
He came round within her vision carrying a large box, which he laid down on the table, the first thing he had bought to help her cope with her disability. Its casters made it easy for her to move, and the top could be tilted to whatever position she wanted. He had got the high chair for her next; more comfortable for her to sit on all day than the sagging old armchair she had claimed before. Watching as he opened the box, she snapped, ‘Why did you trail that box of old snaps down? It must be covered in dust.’
‘I gave it a good brush out of the bedroom window,’ Frank said quietly, having learned to keep his temper with her. ‘I thought maybe you’d like to have a look through it, and throw out all the duplicates and mistakes.’
‘Ah, well.’ It was quite a good idea really, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. He had taken so many photos over the years, some of them inspired, some passable, but some double takes, or headless groups, or out of focus. Yes, they were the ones she’d need to weed out.
As her husband had known, this project took her over a month of closely inspecting each photograph, remembering where and when it had been taken, and discussing with him the forgotten names of many of the people in them.
She was nearing the end of her task when further inspiration struck him, and the very next day he came home from his shopping trip with, in addition to the usual groceries and toiletries, a large bag that she saw contained some bulky items, their corners poking through the plastic. ‘What have you been buying now?’ she queried, annoyed at him for apparently wasting money on things that weren’t necessities.
Tapping his index finger, knuckles swollen by rheumatism, against his nose, Frank delved inside the bag and took something out with the flourish of a magician producing a rabbit out of a hat. ‘What … ?’ she began, but he shook his balding head and eventually had six of the identical looking volumes spread over her table.
Intrigued in spite of herself, Helen lifted the nearest one and turned it over. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed in delight. ‘A photograph album. Why didn’t I think of that?’
He was pleased by her reaction. Everything he did, he did for her, and as a rule she gave no indication when she was pleased, although she was quick to let him know when she wasn’t. ‘I was wondering what to get for you to pass the time, and it just dawned on me you often used to speak about putting the snaps in albums.’
‘And I never got round to it,’ she nodded. ‘But will I manage to … ?’
‘I’ll give you a hand,’ he offered, having already considered the problem.
He also bought a handy laptop computer for her the following week so that she could add captions. Even if her fingers couldn’t quite cope at times with fixing on the circular ‘glue spots’ to the corners of the snaps, she found that she could type reasonably well with two fingers. Not only did this project keep her occupied for several further weeks, it also raised her spirits, and Frank thanked God over and over again for the inspiration that had come to him. His old Helen had returned - in spirit if not physically.
Having taught herself a new skill, his wife spent much of her time now diligently picking out the letters of things she wanted to write but couldn’t. Correspondence that had been lying unanswered for months was given her undivided attention, then, after having caught up with each and every postcard or letter he could find for her, Frank became intrigued by her suddenly taking to hiding what she was doing each time he went near her. No matter how much he hinted, how often he tried to catch her unawares, she would close the lid of her machine just enough so that he could see nothing.
When she took to sitting staring into space again, his heart sank. Surely she hadn’t lost interest in this hobby as well, this hobby that had kept her busy for so long? He had heard of people whose brain stopped working if they didn’t use it and he couldn’t bear the thought of her turning into a vegetable. He kept on and on at her, pestering her, actually bullying her to make her snap out of her lethargy, until he noticed that occasionally, after a spell of vegetating as he called it, there was a renewed spurt of activity on the laptop.
He stopped trying to see what she was doing, so it came as a surprise when she handed him several sheets of paper. ‘Read that,’ she instructed.
Taking his reading glasses from the mantelshelf, he sat down at the dining table and spread the papers out in front of him. ‘Don’t say anything till you’re finished,’ she added.
His eyes had sprung open at the sight of the neatly set out poems, one on each page, and his astonishment grew as he read them. There were ten in all, not expertly typed, by any means, the odd letter missed here and there where her finger had not pressed the key quite hard enough, but each one was perfectly centred. More to the point, when he started reading, he discovered that they were fairly good - not Byron or Wordsworth, of course, but outshining many he had read in magazines.
Having gone through them once, he started at the first again, unaware that Helen was watching him apprehensively, waiting for his verdict. At last, removing his spectacles and laying them on the table, he regarded her with pride. ‘They’re absolutely great. They really are,
Helen, I’m not just saying it. You should send them in somewhere.’
‘Nobody would want to print any of my drivel.’
‘They’re not drivel, Helen - honestly they’re not - none of them. My goodness, I didn’t know you had ability to describe your emotions like that.’
Her left hand made a small motion of appreciation. ‘I just wrote what I was actually feeling at the time. Thank you for not saying I’m off my head writing poetry.’
‘I don’t think you’re off your head. I think you’ve found a talent that’s been hidden all your life. You could make a fortune with it.’
‘It’s you that’s off your head.’ But she couldn’t hide the pleasure he had given her.
He managed to persuade her to correct the mistakes in one of the poems and print it again. Then, ignoring her protests that it was a waste of time, he posted it to one of the women’s magazines he saw at the newsagent. To his surprise as much as hers, an unfamiliar voice on the telephone almost two weeks later, asked to talk to Mrs Helen Milne. Frank watched her face as she listened to the caller, who went on at so
me length before his wife said, breathlessly, nodding her head, ‘Yes, all right. That will be very nice.’ Replacing the handset, she turned to him. ‘They’re going to print it.’
‘I knew it!’ he cried jubilantly. ‘What did I tell you?’
‘That’s not all, though. They’re going to send a photographer to take a picture of me at my laptop. He’s coming tomorrow at ten.’ Giving a quick glance round the room, she added, ‘You’d better clear all these papers and stuff before he comes.’
‘Yes, Captain.’ He stood to attention and saluted. ‘Whatever you say, Captain.’
‘Och, you,’ she giggled. ‘I can hardly believe it, you know.’
‘I can. I always knew you were special, lass, and I always will.’
Wiping the tear that had edged out, she sniffed, ‘I just hope they don’t lose all their readers after they print it. Who’s going to be interested in something an old wife like me has to say, I ask you?’
‘You’re asking for another compliment, that’s what.’ He had to tease her, otherwise he would have been in tears, too.
The photograph turned out very well, even Helen herself was pleased, and it looked even better when it appeared in the magazine a few months later. The poem itself had a marvellous reception from the readers, and Helen was asked to send some more.
‘We would like to print one each month for as long as you keep writing them,’ she was told on the phone. ‘As long as you keep up the standard of this first one.’
In due course, she received a cheque for £20, which became a regular monthly addition to the household income, and although Frank told her she should use the money for things for herself, she wouldn’t hear of it. ‘The pride I get every time I see my face looking up at me from a printed age under a poem I wrote is more than enough for me.’
His own heart ached with happiness at seeing her so happy, in spite of her handicap, and even better was to come. The publication sent on all the mail they had received in praise of her works, and as she said herself, ‘I’m proud of myself, you know that?’
He kissed the top of her silvery head. ‘And so you should be, lass.’
Many of their neighbours, and not so near fellow townspeople, came to congratulate her and tell her how much they enjoyed her poems, and she looked forward to each day now. Only on one occasion, as he got her ready to meet her fans, she murmured sadly, ‘I kept hoping Roselle would buy the mag, and write or phone me, but—’
‘She would if she knew, I’m sure she would.’
‘Aye, I suppose she would.’
But that was the only time she let her spirits down - as far as he knew, though he had the feeling that she had a little weep sometimes while he was out doing the shopping. He wished with all his heart that there was some way of finding where the Lewises had gone. If he knew, he would pocket all his pride and write to Roselle, pleading with her to get in touch. She was a kind-hearted lass, and she wouldn’t refuse.
Chapter Nine
Despite having believed that he would be able to cope just as well in New York as he had in Liverpool, Roderick Lewis was finding it hard going. Everybody seemed to be in too much of a hurry to stop and make friends; even the other members of staff in the huge building hardly knew more than one or two of the people on the same floor; even then, not particularly well. The usual acknowledgements made to anyone passing, or met in the lift, were a slight smile or an equally slight nod of the head.
He was beginning to feel depressed. He wanted company, someone to help to fill his evenings. He sometimes went for a walk, a different direction every time, but what thrill was there in sitting on a park bench by himself? Or looking in shop windows? He did venture a smile to anyone who walked past, but New Yorkers all seemed to be too busy to stop and speak. He wished that he had never left Cruden Bay. He wished - oh, how he wished -that he could hold Dilly in his arms again.
He became conscience of someone shouting, a woman’s voice, and opened his eyes to see a small child, little older than a toddler, running as fast as his podgy legs would carry him down the grassy slope, and heading straight for the lake. Not even taking time to look to see who was shouting, Roddy threw himself sideways into the path of the avalanche. The impact practically winded him, but he thanked heaven that his effort had not been in vain. The little boy, shocked, terrified, but obviously unhurt, began to yell at full pitch.
‘It’s OK,’ he assured him. ‘You’re safe now.’ Then, seeing the young woman racing towards them, he added, ‘Here’s your mummy, look.’
‘She’s … not … my … Mummy.’
Roddy’s brain clicked into gear. Not the child’s mummy? Had she kidnapped him?
Instinctively, he gripped the boy closer to protect him from this abducter. Just let her try to grab him. Just let her try!
‘Oh, God! Thank you! I never noticed he’d walked away. I was talking to my friend you see, and … oh, he could have drowned if you hadn’t stopped him.’
Her obvious concern made his resolve waver, but he kept his arms round the boy. ‘He says you’re not his mummy.’
‘I’m his nanny. His mother would kill me if she knew I’d been so careless.’
He had read of the violence in the Big Apple, but his mind could hardly get round this statement. ‘She’d kill you?’
‘Well, no, not really, but she’d fire me. I’d lose my job.’
The lovely, woebegone face won him over. This girl wasn’t a criminal. ‘I’m glad I managed to stop him.’
‘I don’t know how to thank you, though. I don’t have any money …’
‘I didn’t do it for money.’ He felt quite indignant that she could think such a thing. ‘I’ll have to be getting back to work now, but you’d better remember to take more care in future.’ He strode off, leaving her to clasp the boy against her.
He was kept extremely busy that afternoon, and had no time to dwell on what had taken place during his lunch break. The journey back to his lodgings when he finished work for the day was fraught with battling through home-going crowds and standing in a packed subway train. Then, in the dining room of Mrs Flynn’s boarding house, there was no peace to think; an argument had arisen between the two Norwegians and the two Irish boys who never seemed to be happy unless they were involved in some sort of confrontation. It wasn’t serious, of course, always sounded much worse than it was, but it was useless to try to blot it out.
At long last, however, he went up to his room, and stretched out thankfully on the bed. Now he could think about what had happened earlier. That young nanny had been a really nice girl, and he shouldn’t have been so cold towards her. He hadn’t even asked her name. She wasn’t a New Yorker, though, not with that English accent. He couldn’t place it, but she wasn’t from Liverpool, he was sure of that. The Scousers had a distinctive tongue that he would recognise straight away. He’d worked there long enough, hadn’t he?
She wasn’t from the north-east of England, either, not a Geordie nor a Yorkshire Tyke.
He wasn’t so sure about Manchester, nor Birmingham, they each had their own ‘speak’. She had a lovely soft voice, though, and he couldn’t help noticing the dimple in her left cheek, nor the way her silken fair hair curled on her shoulders, nor her divine blue eyes.
This thought came to an abrupt end as it dawned on him he had never noticed so much about any other girl at their first meeting. It could be their only meeting, came the next, unwelcome barb. Then his spirits lifted again. Perhaps she would come back to the park to look for him - or was that too much to expect?
He could hardly wait for the next morning to pass, making several mistakes because his mind was on planning what he would say to the nanny if she did turn up. It was quite difficult. He’d had no practice in chatting up a girl. The only girl he had really spoken to was Dilly, and that was in the dim and distant past. The untouchable past. The for
gotten past. Yes, it had to be forgotten.
At 12.30 he rose and walked out, speaking to no one, as usual. None of the other young men had ever made an effort to let him join in their conversations at break times, and he had always steered clear of any girls. None of them would want to have anything to do with him, anyway; they had made that quite clear. He was a hick from the sticks, as far as they were concerned. A numpty with ideas above himself. A tall, ungainly Scot they couldn’t understand. Although he thought he was speaking in perfect English, with no trace of accent, it seemed to be Double Dutch to them, and they had no interest in him. Well, good luck to them, he thought, as he walked out onto the sidewalk.
See? He was already Americanised. He didn’t even think ‘pavement’ any longer.
Roddy would have been astonished, and gratified, to know that several of the girls were thrilled by his broad vowels and the way he rolled his R’s. The only reason they had made no advances to the tall, broad-shouldered Scot was his cold manner towards them. They had no wish to be publicly snubbed.
He stopped on the way to the park to buy a filled bagel and a can of Coke, and then headed for the bench he had been sitting on the day before. He didn’t normally go there two days running, but this wasn’t a normal day. At least, yesterday hadn’t been. Finished his snack, he leaned back and closed his eyes. That was when the magic had worked for him before, but twenty minutes later he had to admit defeat. Bundling up his rubbish, he stood up and dropped it in the nearest trash bin. He didn’t feel downhearted - a little disappointed, that was all. He wasn’t beaten yet. There were plenty of other days to come.
Roselle was pleased to hear Dyllis mentioning her office manager more and more often. It probably wouldn’t lead to anything, but at least Mr Richardson was taking her mind off Roderick, which was a good thing. Roddy, however, although he was keeping his promise to write more often, didn’t seem to have any friends, male or female. If only he had stayed in Liverpool she could have kept an eye on him each time he came home, but he was at the other side of the world now and anything could happen to him.
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