Jean is fizzing. She keeps to the kitchen, scrubbing the floor, the stove, scouring the tabletop, boiling vegetables until the room is full of steam and she is glowing with sweat. She mutters under her breath whenever I’m near.
Don’t. Want. You. Out. Here – she says, rasping the brush across the tiles – Fraternizing with the hoi polloi. What will Bernard think?
~
I’ve finally managed to get it right, the words in the correct order with the correct tone, my arms raised in welcome, the slight smile on my lips.
Beautiful, says Bernard, Perfect!
Jean doesn’t wait to hear more. With her headscarf in her hand, she marches into the parlour.
I’m supposed to run myself ragged with the refreshments and the setting out and the hoi bloody polloi – snapping the scarf in front of her
– and stand there like a skivvy at the door! And madam there –
snapping it at me
– gets to sit round the back doing sweet fanny adams.
We can get a person to stand in on the door if you like, says Bernard, his voice meek as ever.
Like who?
Bernard doesn’t answer directly. It’s become his way, as if slowing down the conversation will ease the tension. It has the opposite effect on Jean, whose face goes purple in the waiting. He pulls the chair back away from the window, smooths the covers, carefully repositions the cushions. He doesn’t look at her.
I’ll make some enquiries for next week’s meeting. And afterwards, we can advertise, find an assistant.
But she is the assistant, insists Jean, We can’t afford to pay anyone.
Oh yes we can, says Bernard, Winifred’s a great success. The whole city is talking. So I’ve decided: we’ll be putting up our entrance fee.
~ ~ ~
Everything would have gone according to plan, it would indeed have been a great success, if it wasn’t for that visit to Hewitt’s shop. He’d called at Bernard’s house the day before; Jean was in the kitchen and I was keeping out of her way, sitting in the parlour, doing one of Bernard’s jigsaws. I saw Hewitt through the window, coming up to the gate. He rang the bell once. No sound from Jean, no footsteps in the hall. I held my breath, heard the flap of the letterbox as he lifted it, imagined him peering through the hole like a pig in a pen. Then he was gone, crossing the road at the end of the street. I thought I wouldn’t mention it to Jean. She wouldn’t need to know. But Hewitt wasn’t looking through the letterbox, he was dropping off a card. Jean brought it into the parlour, a smile of sly amusement on her face.
You have a suitor, was all she said.
She held the card up to the light, turned it this way, that way, enjoying the power of the words in her hand. Then slowly, carefully, she read out the message on the back:
‘To my dear Winifred. Kindly do me the honour of visiting me at my premises tomorrow morning. I shall send a car. Yours, as always.’
He’ll send a car, will he? Well, my dear Winifred, you must certainly do him the honour. Hark at old Hewitt – Mr Rochester more like!
~
To please Bernard, to not annoy Jean, I went. The car dropped me at the end of the road, and from there I walked, willing one foot to follow the other, right to the door of the shop. It was locked. The closed sign was up. Through the window, I could see he’d got a new serving girl, as sullen as the last one. She was leaning her elbows on the glass counter, cupping her face in her hands. When she saw me, she started, and rushed to open the door.
He told me to keep a lookout. He’d kill me if he missed you. He’s in the back room, she said, nodding at the curtain, You can’t go in, he’s with a customer. Running late.
I waited on the bench near the fire, trying not to look at her. She was not making the same effort; she was staring at my head.
Is that a dye? she asked.
I couldn’t tell her it was a wig. I said yes, it was a dye.
My mother does hers Venetian Blue, she said, To take away the smoke stain. It’s called a rinse, you know, Venetian Blue. It doesn’t end up blue, it rinses out. That’s why it’s called a rinse. You should try it.
I might. Thank you.
Black’s a difficult colour to pull off, don’t you think? she said, walking round the front of the counter, standing above me with her arms folded on her chest, Unless you’re Scarlett O’Hara.
It was quiet for a minute, then she looked at me again, with mocking in her eyes.
You’re not, are you? You’re not the Scarlett O’Hara?
Spite in the air, an old, familiar scent. Looking up into her face, I saw the mark under her pink chin; fainter now, but unmistakable: the birthmark shaped like clover. This is Alice Dodd.
twenty-one
Alice Dodd shook her head when I said my name; she didn’t know me. Finally, I realized she might remember who I used to be: I was Patricia Richards, but she would have known me after that time, when I was Lillian.
Might as well be Scarlett O’Hara for all it means to me, she said, Nope. Don’t ring any bells.
She took up a duster from the counter, wiped it in a halfhearted way across the glass, and sat down next to me.
Beats me why a person just can’t be who they are, she said, So why are you pretending you’re that old bag’s niece? All the time she spoke, Alice kept her eye on the curtain, just in case Hewitt appeared. I’d only been out of Jean’s company for half an hour, and already I’d made a mistake. I was too eager; in my attempt to find out about Joseph, I’d said too much.
We were sent away together, I said, trying to change the subject, We were sent to the fens. In a wagon. You must remember that.
I wasn’t sent with no one, she said, I was on my own. On a bloody farm with some stinking cows. Worked me like a slave. I think I’d’ve remembered if you were there, She took her eyes off the curtain and stared at me.
With that hair.
And your brother was sent away too, wasn’t he? I asked, trying to sound casual.
Her face froze.
It weren’t his choosing, she said, after a beat, He hurt his shoulder in a fall. The army wouldn’t have him. He was always falling, that one.
I remembered the first time I saw Joseph, balancing on the bridge. He told me how he watched me at Aunty Ena’s house, how he climbed along the parapet of the church tower to do it, surveying the land below.
It’s like being a bird, Beauty, he said, You can almost put your wings out and fly. Just like a bird in the sky.
And I remembered enough of Alice Dodd to know not to ask anything of her. I pulled out a handbill with my picture on it, and wafted it in front of my face.
If you’re too hot I can douse that fire a bit, she said, Can’t open the door when Hewitt’s got someone in the back. God knows what he does in there.
Her voice lowered to a whisper,
Some say doctoring stuff, you know, for women. He’s got a load of whatyamacallits – devices, that’s what he calls them. Rolling and unrolling the handbill, I sat, and said nothing. Devices and machines and gadgets. The fire was filling the room with a dry, parching heat; making my face burn and the hair beneath my wig itch with sweat. Then I understood: the story my father told me was true. He met my mother here, in this shop, before I was born. My hands rolling and unrolling the handbill are his hands, the heat is a crush of bodies, all eager to see the new device for measuring the feet. There’s shouting and laughter and a small red-headed man asking his customers not to swear. Hewitt, demonstrating the marvellous power of his machine, has one eye on the men all in a line, the other on the pretty black-haired assistant with the beetle-shaped brooch in her hair. The fire was choking.
I’m here tonight, I said, pressing the leaflet into Alice’s hand, Maybe you’ll come. And your brother too.
Alice unfurled the sweaty piece of paper and read it. A bitter smile spread across her face.
I don’t believe in the spirits, she said, Load of old squit. But my brother? Who knows, maybe he’ll turn up.
; ~ ~ ~
The woman in the mirror was dressed in a high-necked white blouse and a brown skirt almost down to her ankles, a head of shiny black hair curling over her shoulders. Jean didn’t bother much with me any more, so after she’d left to go and help Bernard get ready, I ignored the sneer of the Russian dummy on the dresser, and styled it myself. I never liked seeing through the mirror, but this time it was necessary. Tonight was going to be important; I wanted to look my best. The woman in the glass bent close, and with the tip of her little finger, rubbed a smear of Jean’s beautifying Red across her lips. It smelled of blood but when she smiled, her teeth shone white as snow. She whispered a long-forgotten question.
Who is the fairest?
I could hear Bernard in the room below me, coughing and repeating a phrase, over and over. He was practising his speech for the opening. The words ‘beautiful’ and ‘marvellous’ brought another sound: Jean’s familiar snort of derision. These were two of Bernard’s favourite words. I could only guess that this time he was planning to use them to introduce me. That would explain Jean.
I never did get that fitting done with Hewitt, on account of what he called unforeseen circumstances to do with his customer in the back. I knew at first hand what they would be, even if Alice Dodd could only guess. Hewitt didn’t get his opportunity to touch me that time, and my feet have got their old boots on still. Apart from that, I’m ready for tonight. I’m more than ready. I’m Beautiful. Marvellous. Perfect.
~ ~ ~
The venue is a gaunt church hall, chill enough to see your breath, with a pointed ceiling, a wooden stage along the whole of one end, and what would have been stained-glass windows on each side. They’re clear glass now, turning silver-grey in the darkening light. The floor is speckled with chalky spats of white; above us, on a narrow ledge, doves are settling to roost. I’m waiting in the back room with Bernard, who is coughing and humming – tuning his voice – while the space around Jean is filled with a prickly silence. She says not one word to me, even though she’s noticed my hair, and her lipstick colour on my mouth. She takes a slow, amused look at the length of my skirt. She speaks, sharp as a claw, to Bernard.
There’s an old man outside telling me he’s employed to help, she says, What shall I say to him?
Say he can help you set the chairs out, Bernard replies, just as brittle, Say he can stand at the door. When she’s gone, Bernard takes my hands in his, and sits with me on a little couch in the corner. His voice goes soft and sing-song again. He tells me that everything will be fine, that I must try to relax a little.
Every eye shall see you, he says, as if he’s reciting a poem, And how marvellous you are.
When he leaves to begin the service, I sit alone in the back room, trying not to feel the fluttering in my ribs. The thought of every eye on me doesn’t make me nervous; I’m used to being looked at now. It’s the thought of one particular pair of eyes out there, smiling, dark. At these times, Jean would normally be at my side, peeping round the doorway, remarking on one woman’s new hat, the awful state of another’s coat. I miss her.
I can hear them moving about, settling into their seats; the way the brightness of the sounds become thicker and more clogged as every chair is taken and the hall is filled. When Bernard announces me, I take up my position on the stage with my arms raised, and ask them to please sit. I would take a seat myself, but Jean, out of ill will or forgetfulness, has not provided a chair for me. So I stand and look. A hundred heads, more than a hundred, with scarves and hats, bare and bald, removing gloves here, repositioning an umbrella there, all looking at me. Not one of them is Joseph. I can’t see him. The faces are upturned, some smiling, a few familiar, but not one of them is Joseph’s face. Alice and her spite. She wouldn’t have let him know. High above the congregation are the doves, shuffling from side to side on a long ledge, now and then the last one in the line turning awkwardly around and resettling in the same space. Bernard has his eyes closed. His hands are carving a shape in the air: a balloon, a clock face – it’s hard to tell what it may be until he opens his eyes again and fixes his stare upon a woman in the second row.
This is most peculiar, he says, smiling to show there’s a joke coming, But I see a large red ball with a seal upon it. The audience is smiling too, now, but not the woman in the second row.
Did you go to the circus, madam? Were you taken there as a child?
She shakes her head. He’s at a loss for a moment – the circus is a certainty, normally – so he pauses, puts his hand up as if he’s listening to a message that must not be interrupted.
Then it’s . . . he says, playing for time, That’s it. A lady is rising, she wears a long coat. I see her holding your hand. Ah, thank you, madam, much obliged. You’re watching the parade, she says. At last, the woman in the second row nods her head.
We’d go see the elephants, she says, Come down from the station. My gran that’ll be. She always took me.
The audience sighs, Bernard sighs. I know him well enough now to recognize it as the sound of relief. Sometimes, I can’t tell whether he’s making it up – Painting the Scene, as he calls it, or Bringing Comfort, if the woman is wearing black. But today, I know.
Then I have your grandmother with me. She’s reminding you of the happy times you used to have. She’s convinced there will be more to come. But you must let go of something first.
A flurry of wings on the ledge above.
Whoever you are looking for is at peace, he says, Would it be your sister?
Daughter, she says.
A flash of white at the back wall: a feather, spiralling down to earth.
Ah yes, your grandmother is what we call an enabler, my dear. She is bringing a message from your daughter. She is at peace, she is in your grandmother’s arms. I would like to leave their love with you.
Silence in the room. The woman puts a handkerchief up to her face, presses it to her cheek. All eyes are on Bernard now, their conduit, their guide. The bird on the end of the ledge turns, flits open its wings and shows me its pearly breast; flies, in a swoop, across the space above their heads. Flying down towards me, sapphire blue, flying and falling; an arrow, a searchlight, a shooting star. And as I watch him, I am falling, too. Joseph has come.
shooting star
I try to think of it as beautiful. A clear sky, blue as a sugar bag. The colours below it are carved-out land. Green for the clutch of trees inside the plantation; butterscotch track between the tower and furthest farm. A flint church floats on a spray of corn. In the distance, a string of glitter marks the waterline. Birds in the field trail a farmer’s cart, blowing like confetti in its wake. The stone of the parapet is warm and brown. Joseph is standing on the edge.
Just like a bird, he says, opening his arms wide, taking in a lungful of pure light.
Watch me fly, Beauty!
twenty-two
There’s something familiar about the face, or not quite the face perhaps – the hair. The hair, that’s it. Black as ebony, shiny as a door knocker. He’s smiling; he’s lost his teeth at the front. A pair of glasses, round and thick, sit on the tip of his nose. The eyes behind them are kindly. His smell is goose fat.
Princess, says Mr Stadnik, How wonderful to see you! I’m in the back now, half lying, half sitting, on the couch in the corner. There’s no one else in the room. I can hear Jean and Bernard in the hall outside. From the echo of Jean’s shouting, I know everyone else must have left.
You fainted, child, he says, snapping his fingers, Clear out, pfff! That bird – it flew right at you.
He makes a diving motion with his hand, then stops suddenly, pulls himself back to look at my face.
Don’t cry, he says, reaching in his pocket for his handkerchief, Don’t cry! It’s a wonder to find you. After so long. So long a time.
There’s no blue about him; not the slightest hint. He’s on this side of life.
You can go now, says Jean, appearing in the doorway, Mr Foy will pay you what we owe . . .
Her words drop away when she sees us together. It’s like watching a silent film.
What’s going on here? she says, finally recovering.
Mr Stadnik gets up from the couch, introducing himself with a smile and a bow.
That’s all very well, Mr Stannick, says Jean, Now if you’ll kindly leave my niece alone – she needs to rest.
But she is not your niece, states Mr Stadnik, with a wide, black grin – Is she?
They look at each other steadily. Without taking her eyes from Mr Stadnik’s face, she calls out,
Bernard!
And again, almost a shriek,
Bernard! Come and see this!
~ ~ ~
For three days, I’m not allowed to leave the house. This isn’t Jean’s doing, it’s Bernard. In a state of panic, he declares I am unfit to go anywhere alone. He doesn’t quite put it this way, but I’m learning fast: I’m learning the language of lies.
You’re very popular now, he says, And some unscrupulous types will take advantage. The man barely knows you – a lodger, you say, in your grandfather’s house? I’ve seen him, he’s no more than a tinker, a street sweeper, that’s what he is. What kind of man is that to be associated with? A man who pushes a broom in the road! Don’t you worry about him. We are here, Jean and I, to protect you. He won’t bother you again.
This means: I’m very worried that Mr Stadnik will take you away from us. Our star turn. Our breadwinner.
I learn by listening. Jean is unable to speak quietly – or perhaps she doesn’t care if I do hear; perhaps she thinks I’m too stupid to realize what I am to them. Perhaps she thinks I should show my gratitude by being their puppet. They have created Winifred, after all.
Remember Me Page 16
