Remember Me

by Trezza Azzopardi

  Gurney’s teashop was still there. I wanted a cup of tea more than anything, from a little pot with a jug of milk, just like I’d had with Mr Stadnik. The women serving looked just the same, with their frilled aprons and their worn-out sighs, but they couldn’t be. I was forty years old; it didn’t take me long to understand that nearly everyone I knew would be dead. The Sisters had given me an address on a card. There was my case at my feet, with everything I owned inside it. I was just anybody, nobody. I thought, then, it would be possible to go on, order the tea and drink it and pay for it. I sat in Gurney’s and tried to have a plan; it was important to have one, Joseph had taught me that.

  I would go and find the birds in the pictures, have a life by the sea. That was it. I would go to the Assistance and explain to them that I didn’t need the room in that halfway house on the Dereham Road, because I was going to the end of the world, just like we had planned, Joseph and me. All I needed was a car. They could find me one of those, I saw plenty enough of them on the streets. I didn’t want a house or a garden – no tamping bulbs, no twining flowerheads, and definitely no roses – I’d had my share of them in Bethel Street garden, with their cloying stench, their cunning thorns, the sudden, unexpected bulb of blood on the thumb. I wanted a place where nothing would happen, where no one would call me by a name. I could lie down in the dunes, watch the birds crossing my sky. I would never see another spirit, never steal another thing. All I needed was a car. This is what I would say. I walked towards the Assistance with the words rolling over on my tongue, repeating them under my breath, afraid that the language would leave me.

  I couldn’t have known, could I? As if simply saying the words could make a difference, as if I could ignore the beating in my chest, the thoughts in my head, simply by saying some words. But the words were just noises. They didn’t mean anything. I couldn’t admit what I really wanted, not even to myself. I still can’t, if I’m true: I can lie to myself as easily as lying to others; as easily as they can lie to me. Denial trails me like a dog.

  thirty

  Robin was telling some tale about me to the boy at the bar. He was tugging at his beard, pointing over his shoulder and shaking his head in a sad way. He brought a bottle of beer back to our table, followed by the boy, carrying a tray. On it were two tall glasses of water with ice in them, and slivers of lemon.

  If I could ask you to just keep the noise down, the boy whispered, carefully putting the glasses in front of us, Only it disturbs the other customers.

  Robin winked at him, angling himself sideways, close to my chair. He put his hand over mine and pressed it flat.

  She’ll be fine now, won’t you, Gran? His look was serious but I could tell he was having a good time. I saw it in his face: almost a grin shining out of it.

  All right now, Win? he whispered, when the boy had gone, Get some of that inside you. Make you feel better. I drank it straight off. It wasn’t water, it was gin. It was cold and hot all at once. In my chest, the bird turned, fluttered, folded its wings. The woman was waiting. As soon as I put my glass down, she started up again.

  I just want to ask some questions.

  Robin smiled at her, took a swig of his beer.

  Go on, he said, We’re all ears.

  She gave him a sidelong look, drew a breath and fixed on me.

  I’m called Janice Barrett. Does that mean anything to you? I couldn’t say it did. So I said nothing.

  You don’t remember? Perhaps if I showed you a picture – she said, fumbling again with her bits of paper – Of me back then.

  She had reams of them, old newspaper cuttings with photographs, dates on the top in a ring of black ink. I didn’t want to see.

  I know your face well enough, I said, And your name. Thief. That’s your name.

  They both looked so amazed, I thought I’d have to repeat myself. The words were back, but I couldn’t be sure of the order.

  Everything I owned, I said, You stole.

  She glanced at Robin.

  Did I hear that right?

  He nodded, eyebrows up, draining the last of his beer.

  I stole from you?

  Everything I owned, I said.

  Her face fell. I’d caught her out. There was no denying it now. But she was cunning; she changed tack.

  It was you, Winifred, who stole, she said, sounding just like one of the Bethel Street Sisters, Doesn’t the name Barrett mean anything at all to you?

  I didn’t need to think to give her an answer.

  Your name means nothing, I said, smart with my new words, But I know your face. A face is my prisoner for life. She took another breath, bent her head towards me. Her voice was hard as flint.

  You took me, she said, It was May 1970, and I was five months old. You stole me. From my mother.

  finder’s keepers

  The Assistance building was what used to be the old labour exchange. As soon as I was in it, I needed to be out. The corridors were painted a shiny tobacco green, the colour they used in Bethel Street, and the only light inside the hall came from two sunken squares in the ceiling. The air was blue with smoke. The feeling came back straight away: I was swimming through the haze of spirits, underwater again. I took no no notice of the people at first; some of them standing in line at the counters, waiting their turn, others leaning against the walls, smoking. I wanted not to notice that man over there in the blue suit, smiling at me, that sunken-eyed pensioner holding a length of twine. I tried to ignore the sound of a bird, cooing on a ledge above me. There was a line to wait in, and wanting to be anybody, I joined it. But after a while my legs ached and my feet inside my too-small shoes were hot as coals. I had been twenty-four years in the company of women, and now I was surrounded by men. I gave up on the queue, followed an arrow that I thought would lead me out into the fresh air again. It took me to a room with more men, standing around the walls in ones and twos, and a row of wooden seats in the centre of the floor. I sat next to a woman with a baby. It was the comfort of seeing her that made me sit there; that, and my aching feet. I swear to you, I had no intent.

  You have to take a ticket, she said, pointing at a contraption on the wall. When I didn’t move, she got up, lifted the baby onto her shoulder and went to wind one out for me. She wore a headscarf with zigzags all over it. Her face wasn’t that young; she could have been my age; could have been me. The baby had the reddest hair.

  I’ve got red hair too, I said, when the woman gave me the ticket with the number on it. She glanced at my head, but didn’t argue.

  Supposed to be lucky, she said, with a laugh like a sob, Takes after her dad. He’ll be lucky, if I don’t catch him. The child stared at me with those eyes all babies seem to have: perfectly round, helpless blue.

  What she called? I asked.

  A mistake, the woman said, with another bitter laugh, That’s what she’s called.

  I’d done years of Conversation at Bethel Street, but without the help of the Sister, I couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so we were quiet, sitting side by side, her with her baby in her lap. The machine on the wall was clicking over numbers. I knew it couldn’t be a clock: there’s no such time as ninety-seven.

  When your number comes up, you go over there, she explained, pointing at the row of counters, And they give you a slip – waving hers at me – Then you wait some more, until they call your name.

  The machine clicked again, a man kicked a wall, an old man leaned out over his chair and spat between his feet, the machine clicked, clicked, the air got thick with smoke and hot with breath, and we waited, the woman and the baby and me, side by side, like friends. The thought did not occur to me. Even when the man came and stood at the door of the office and called out Mrs Barrett, it did not occur to me to offer. The baby was in her arms, she could have just carried her in. But she didn’t do that. She bent down, scrabbling for her shopping bag beneath her seat, her headscarf slipping off her thinning brown hair and gliding to the floor, all in slow motion, all underwater. When the boy calle
d again,

  No Mrs Barrett? like a question, turning over the sheet in his hand, she shouted,

  Hang on, will you! – handing me the baby, just for a second, until she got her bag over her arm and picked up her headscarf. And then the words came out:

  She’ll be fine here with me, love, you go on, I said, Get yourself sorted out. I’ll mind the little one. She looked back at us from the door, and smiled. I couldn’t have been thinking of it, could I? I had promised not to steal another thing, not so much as a daisy from the park. And I wouldn’t, seeing her smile like that, I wouldn’t steal her child. But she was gone such a long time. The machine clicked over, the man kicked the wall, the old one spat between his feet. They didn’t look at us. The baby asleep in my arms, straggles of her unlucky red hair stuck to her brow. She was too hot. It was no place for a child, all that smoke and him over there spitting: catch TB, she could. I slipped off my shoes, not to make it easier to run away – even then, to be true, I hadn’t got a thought in my head – but because the baby was so restful, snuggled against me.

  I think I even dozed myself, for a while, because when I woke up, I put the baby on my shoulder, just like her mother did. Only I was her mother now, and she was our child, mine and Joseph’s. She was no mistake. I lifted my case with my free hand, and swam, under blue water, to the door. Past the arrow pointing the way back, past the corridor with the long queues of dead men, faster now, looking for the double doors, faster, out into the sunshine, pouring from the sky in a blessing. Just like the day she was created. There was a pram with a teddy in it and three coloured hoops clipped to the frame. I dropped my baby in. Put my case on the rack underneath. I was away. We were away.

  thirty-one

  They would have seen me, Robin and Janice. I’d excused myself, told them I needed the toilet. I slipped out easy, they were huddled over the table, looking at the newspaper pieces. Her with her hair hanging all over her face like a camp follower, pointing at the pictures, and Robin shaking his head again in that sympathetic way he had. I left them to it. But that cafe is all glass: they would have noticed.

  I always go back. It’s easy to say run away, go far, but it’s just not possible. A man can see you a mile away. Land turns to water under your feet. I went back to The Parade. In the yard at the back, the dog was still barking, jumping up at the fence, so I made my way round to the front. The door had been busted open, hanging off its hinges. My legs wouldn’t get me up the stairs. I sat down on the floor in the front room, down with the pieces of burnt wood, crushed cartons, empty cans and broken glass. I just sat and waited. I didn’t have a plan.

  Of course, they knew where to find me. They were on my heels. Robin came in first and crouched at my side, so Janice had to kneel down as well, making a face as she pulled her coat round her. Robin put my case on the floor in front of me.

  It was only under the stairs, he said, Shall we have a look? He went into the street and caught a corner of the board on the window, tore at it. It gave slightly, and he jumped again, holding the edge this time, pulling it away in a glitter of sudden, streaming light. I could see Janice clearly now, one hand combing at her fringe, the other shading her eyes; Hewitt’s Shoe Repairs and Fittings in shadow at her feet. Robin tripped back in, shaking the dust from his hair.

  Let there be light, he said, Go on, Win, see if it’s all there. Janice spoke for me.

  It’s all there, she said.

  He turned on her, wide-eyed.

  How do you know? he asked.

  She was lost for words. I knew what that felt like well enough, so I enjoyed watching her search, taking in the room while the language did its dance in her head.

  I thought you were dead, she said, at last, But we came back this morning, and you’d gone.

  Robin was prowling the room.

  We? Who’s ‘we’?

  The police, she said, twisting her head to follow him, You can’t just leave a dead body, you know. It’s against the law.

  And stealing isn’t, he said.

  I didn’t steal her stuff. I was just . . . going through it, she said, facing me again.

  Robin gave a little snigger.

  Tell it to the judge, he said, under his breath, Fuck me. Win was right about you.

  He walked a circle round us, one hand trailing the wall, muttering about how you should never shop your mates. He could have been talking to himself for all the notice we took; we weren’t listening. Janice’s eyes were ice-blue in the window-light, fixed on my face.

  You brought me here, she said.

  I did.

  My mother never liked to talk about it. But before she died, she told me. She wanted me to know. She said that you’d done something.

  Staring hard, as if she’d given me a clue.

  She said you’d taken something that was mine. I had to make sure. But there was nothing in there – gesturing to my case – That had any meaning to me.

  I opened the case and fumbled about inside. The white baby mittens were easy to find. I held them out to her.

  These belonged to you, I said, You can have them back now.

  Janice took the mittens, turning them over and looking hard at the cartoons embroidered on the front. She held them to her face, breathed them in.

  What were you thinking of? To steal a child?

  I could have told her I was thinking of a soft spring evening in the church plantation, where she was made, the sun sparkling red through the trees and the scent of the forest beneath me. About Joseph and me planning our escape, in a car, to the end of the world, me and him – and her too, nestled deep inside. Or I could have told her how he jumped off the tower rather than face the shame of it, and how I went to the water to drown myself until a fat man looked over a frond and turned me into his gift from God. How the shoemaker, here, in this very place, took her out of me, piece by piece, with a bone-handled contraption used for scoring leather, not knowing, with every cut, how much of his own flesh he tore, his own blood spilled. How for years I was afraid to think and unable to speak, because all my thoughts were of her, and all my words about her. She would be my gift, bringing Joseph back to me – to us – and we could all live happily ever after. But I couldn’t tell her any of that, because she would think it was just a story, and everyone knows that stories aren’t real. So I told her what she wanted to hear; trying not to shout, trying not to roar. It was only what all the rest of them said.

  I was thinking of stealing you, I said, offering each word up to the air, Because I am a thief. I don’t know any better. I’m not right in the head, you see. Her lip curled with disgust.

  That’s what my mother said,

  holding the mittens between finger and thumb, turning them, inspecting them,

  That you were a thief – and a liar.

  She looked at me directly, a familiar, jutting chin.

  You knew that woman in the welfare office, didn’t you? Alice Barrett was her married name. Alice Dodd to you. She said you were always weird, even as a kid. But she thought you were harmless. She told you Joseph was still around. Married as well. You knew better, all right, Winnie.

  Janice raised her chin. On the skin underneath, I expected a birthmark, a tea-stained clover. There was nothing.

  You didn’t steal me because you couldn’t help it. You stole me out of spite.

  The roaring was close again now, bubbling on my tongue.

  Your mother was so spiteful, I said, And a liar. And a thief. She said Joseph knew about me, locked up all that time. She stole everything from me.

  What? Like a baby, for instance? she said, her eyes full of loathing, What could she possibly want to take from you? I couldn’t say what. A bedraggled glove with the eyes sewn on crooked? A chance to meet my lover again? It was a lifetime ago. Janice wouldn’t understand what was important then. A length of twine, a rotting beet tilled over in a field, a pair of slippers in cornflower blue. Mr Stadnik understood, though. All the small things, he saved; to keep away despair.

  M
y hope, I said, She wanted that.

  So you stole hers.

  For just one day, you were mine. One day, and then she got you back.

  Janice looked round the room, glanced at Robin, perched like a cat in the window. She gave a little jink of the head.

  Eventually. But not as I was, apparently. So, if you don’t mind, she said, and opened her hand.

  I nodded at the mittens in her lap.

  You can’t stop, can you? Even now. These, she said, throwing them down on the floor between us, Aren’t anything to do with me.

  Robin bent over and picked them up, held them to the light. He let out a snort.

  Bart Simpson!

  Exactly, she said, not taking her eyes off me, But she wouldn’t know that. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll take what’s mine.

  Holding her hand out flat in the space between us.

  There’s nothing else, I lied, I have nothing that’s yours.

  some lies

  The local paper described me as a monster. Well, it would, wouldn’t it? Makes a good front page. They said I was a butcher’s daughter too, practised with a knife. That was just false. He might’ve lived upstairs, but he was no father of mine. My father told stories, and lies, even, and might have pawned my mother’s slippers and brushes, but he never cut up an animal. The Telegraph said I’d done it before, stole a baby, but the mother got to me in time and never reported it. Then they’d had reports of other sightings. I’d been everywhere: Lincoln, Newmarket, Colchester, trying to steal a baby. All lies. The Times even ran a feature called Babysnatch Women, about kids that go missing from hospitals, warning mothers not to leave their children alone in their pushchairs when they’re out shopping. The first time, the day I left Bethel Street House, I saw two babies side by side in a pram. Neither of them was mine. All the articles missed the point: I wasn’t stealing Alice’s child, I wasn’t stealing anybody’s child. I was taking back my own.