She waved a hand in front of his face. ‘Hello! Anybody in?’
He stared at her for several moments.
‘What’s the matter, Simon?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Can’t talk about it,’ he muttered.
‘Oh. Would you like me to go?’
‘No! No, don’t go – look, I’m sorry. I’m just a bit . . . preoccupied . . .’
‘Preoccupied? You’re absent without leave, Simon. I’ve been talking to myself for the last ten minutes.’
‘Sorry.’
‘Stop saying that! Look, either you tell me what’s wrong or I go.’
He jumped up quickly, the flimsy canvas chair falling back as he rose.
‘Oh God!’ He put a hand to his face. ‘She knows!’
‘Who knows?’ Annie stood and placed a hand on his arm. ‘Who knows what?’
‘My mother! She saw us . . . in here . . . she saw . . .’
Annie picked up the chair and forced him to sit down again. ‘Start at the beginning, Simon.’
‘I don’t know how. But I can trust you, can’t I? It’s not really a secret any more, but at least you won’t spread it around. How though, how do I tell you?’
‘With words, Simon. You can tell me anything – I won’t be shocked.’
‘Promise?’
‘Promise.’
He swallowed audibly. ‘Do you know . . . what a homosexual is?’
‘Yes, I do.’
Seconds passed. ‘I’m one,’ he declared finally, his voice deliberately steady. ‘I used to wonder why I was never jealous of you and Martin. One time, I saw you kissing and half of me wished I was in Martin’s place, but the other half . . . I was so confused.’
She took his hand. ‘Oh Simon, Simon . . .’
‘I had one experience with a girl – Susan Birchall. It was horrible.’
‘But . . . but you may be ordinary after all! This could be a phase because of that bad experience . . .’
He shook his head vehemently. ‘No. I have a friend, someone from school. I am fond of him and I believe he cares for me too.’
‘But is it so terrible?’
‘Yes! Yes, it is! Everyone will expect me to marry and have children – especially my parents. Though my mother . . .’
‘What about your mother?’
‘Last night,’ he said, almost in a whisper, ‘she found us in here. She is the last person in the world who might accept. What we were doing must have seemed so awful to her . . .’ He broke off, his voice cracking with tears.
‘She’d have to know sometime . . .’
‘Yes! I suppose she would have to find out that her son is a pervert!’
Annie thought briefly about the real pervert she had known, the one who had been buried some weeks ago. Between Eddie Higson and Simon, there was no comparison. ‘You’re not a pervert! You’d never inflict pain or force your attentions. You’re just . . . different, that’s all.’
‘Yes – different. I’ll be an outcast unless I live some sort of pretended life, force myself to marry and have a family.’
‘That wouldn’t be honest, especially for your wife.’
‘I know! I know I can never be normal.’
‘You’re still the same old Simon.’
‘Yes. Salmon Pilchard, Old Fish Face.’
‘I never called you Fish Face.’
He smiled sadly through his tears then went to stand, hands in pockets and with his back towards her as he stared through a window.
‘Has she told your father what she saw?’
‘I doubt it. They don’t communicate. On the other hand, with a thing of this magnitude . . .’
‘Don’t you think you should talk to him first?’
‘I can’t. Except for Paul – he’s my friend – you’re the only one I’ve spoken to.’
They remained in the room for an hour or more, sometimes sitting silently, often pacing together as they tried to talk their way through to a solution.
Later on, Simon became even more agitated. His father had been out for some time, but was expected back shortly for evening surgery. There had been no sound in the house, no sign of his mother going through her customary tea-making ritual.
‘Knock on her bedroom door, Simon.’
‘I daren’t go near after what’s happened . . .’
‘Then I’ll do it!’
‘No!’
‘I’m not afraid of her, Simon.’
‘That’s why she doesn’t like you. She calls it lack of respect . . .’
‘Well, one of us has to find her.’
‘OK, OK, I’ll go.’ He made for the door.
Annie heard him crossing the landing and tapping gently, then suddenly he was screaming, ‘Anne! Anne!’ Annie sped across the landing and into Edna Pritchard’s bedroom.
The woman on the bed had arranged everything beautifully. She lay flat, her hands clasping a posy of flowers against her breast. The cream-coloured peignoir was of pure silk, her face was perfectly made up and she had even tied a chiffon scarf under her chin and around the top of her head so that she would not die open-mouthed. The pink of painted nails showed fiery red against the whitening flesh of her hands. Beside her, in a perfect copper-plate hand, lay a note.
To Whom it May Concern,
I wish to be interred in Heaton Cemetery with my parents. No undertaker is to interfere with my body which is to be buried exactly as you find it. Please remove the scarf once you have ensured that my mouth will remained closed.
The will is with my solicitor whose details are known to my husband. I have no reason to live. I therefore choose my own time, place and method of dying.
Edna Marguerite Pritchard
The two young people stared in frozen shock at the figure on the bed, then Annie leapt forward to feel the wrist, seeking a pulse. But the icy stiffness of the arm told its story and Annie dragged Simon out of the room. She felt a strong urge to run – somewhere, anywhere – to find help, but she dared not leave Simon who was leaning heavily on the banister, fighting for breath.
Then the front door opened and Annie leaned over the rail screaming, ‘Doctor! Come quickly!’
The man raced up the stairs. ‘What is it?’ he asked, his eyes riveted to Simon whose stomach now heaved. Simon turned, pointed to his mother’s room, then fled to the bathroom.
David entered his wife’s bedroom. There was no need for him to touch Edna; the signs of rigor were plain to his practised eye. He turned from the bed and felt Annie’s arms around his shaking body. But he saw nothing, heard nothing except his own voice. ‘My fault. I killed her . . . I killed her.’
‘Come away, Doctor – come away.’ He seemed not to hear, so she pulled him gently from the room.
‘Why couldn’t I just . . . what have I done? She didn’t need to know . . . I should have . . .’
Annie quickly worked out the geography of the house and led the doctor to his room. Like an obedient child, he allowed himself to be pushed on to the narrow bed.
‘Doctor? Dr Pritchard?’ She shook his shoulders.
‘What? Anne – where’s Simon?’
‘In the bathroom being sick.’
‘She’s dead.’
‘I know.’
‘I told her . . . things. I shouldn’t have done it . . .’
‘I’m going downstairs to put up a note cancelling the surgery. If anybody’s ill, they’ll have to go to hospital. Stay there – don’t you dare move.’
She ran down the stairs and found a notepad on which she printed a very shaky announcement. After fixing this to the front door, she sat for several minutes in the dining room, trying hard to hang on to what was left of her composure. But her eyes wandered unbidden over Mrs Pritchard’s precious things, china in glass-fronted cabinets, crystal decanters encased in a polished tantalus, the framed tapestry hanging proudly over the fireplace. Simon’s mum had stitched that with her own hand, a hand that would never lift another needle, pour a drink, dish out a dinner
.
So hard, Mrs Pritchard had seemed, so steely and indestructible. But everyone had a breaking point – even this soul of iron had been worn down, corroded past mending . . .
Reaching out to steady herself on the arm rest, Annie rose from the carver and placed herself in front of the tapestry. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Pritchard,’ she whispered. ‘Sorry we never tried to understand.’
But there were two still living, two who needed her now. So she turned from what was left of Edna and steeled herself to return to the upper floor. From the landing, she saw Simon sitting at the foot of his father’s bed.
‘It was my fault,’ Simon was saying.
So he had just now told his father! But what a terrible time to have to do it.
Annie could see that even in his state of double shock, David was fighting for control, fighting to shield his son. ‘No, Simon. Your mother found out that I’d been unfaithful – in fact, I told her. She might even have discovered that my mistress was a friend of hers. That’s why she killed herself.’
‘An affair’s normal, Dad. But yesterday, she found out . . .’
‘No! She would not kill herself because of your preferences! Believe me – she has threatened this for years, but I thought she was being over-dramatic. You must not blame yourself!’
Annie knocked on the open door. ‘Shall I get an ambulance or something?’
David nodded. ‘Please. Arrangements will have to be made.’
‘Mrs Pritchard left very precise instructions, Doctor . . .’
‘She would. Oh yes, she would.’
Annie stayed with David and Simon for the whole evening, leaving just once to tell Nancy what had happened. Mary and Nancy brought food which nobody ate, then Annie remained to answer any telephone calls. Edna’s body was removed and taken to the morgue. The cause of death would have to be established, so whatever the poor woman’s wishes might have been, that final message would be ignored.
At ten o’clock, Annie unlocked the medicine cabinet and took out four sleeping pills, forcing the men to swallow two each. When they finally drifted off into restless sleep, she took the phone off the hook and went home.
‘Eeh, Annie,’ cried Nancy. ‘Why?’
‘Because she couldn’t face life any more.’ Annie allowed her tears of shock to flow now. ‘Oh Mam, it was awful . . . awful . . .’
They gave her a hot toddy and put her to bed. Mary sat the whole night in Annie’s chair by the window, watching the lights going on and off in the doctor’s house. Each time Annie moaned in her sleep, Mary leapt up to stroke her head and soothe away the nightmare.
This child, this eighteen-year-old girl, had experienced more in her short life than most people did in a full three score and ten. Sighing, Mary resumed her seat and watched the dawn break over Bolton. Edna Pritchard would never see another dawn. Others had been left to face many such mornings.
Part Three
Anne
1960
I escaped from college in late June with a cartload of useless books, distinctions in some final exams and a marked dislike for certain educationalists. The system was changing and loud voices were proclaiming the benefits of ‘learning by discovery’ which, roughly interpreted, meant let the little beggars do as they like. I tried these methods once during a teaching practice in Stockport, found myself reading a story to three children while the other forty-six did interesting things like throwing paint, eating jigsaw puzzles and getting up to no good in the boys’ toilets. I therefore gained one of my distinctions by writing a thesis on this load of progressive rubbish and emerged with an undeniable suspicion that the three Rs still had a place in our schools.
I threw off the student garb which included shocking-pink stockings, bright tartan skirts and two college scarves sewn together to make one long enough to go round Manchester Town Hall. It was like getting rid of another uniform.
The courses had proved disappointing, though scripture fascinated me because I discovered that the Old Testament was so crammed with anomalies and improbabilities that it was either a pack of lies or a collection of interesting errors. Comparative religion sessions were another eye-opener; Islam was too weird and wonderful for me, while Buddhism proved unacceptable as I had no desire to return as a spider or, worse still, as another human seeking Nirvana. This, apparently, was on offer to those who did nothing at all apart from following some odd eight-point plan in their minds – I never did get to grips with it. So I left poor Buddha sitting under his tree and decided to be a Christian after all.
As the college was in Manchester, I was able to come home each weekend. I received the full grant of £25 a term, a total of £150 throughout the two years. This laughable amount forced me to take a Saturday job in Marks and Spencer on Deansgate where I thoroughly enjoyed selling stockings from ten till six, for which service I earned a guinea a day, a wage that compared favourably with the pittance I would eventually receive as a qualified teacher.
During what was left of my weekends, I spent time with Simon, who also came home each Friday and with his father who taught me to play a mean backgammon and a passable game of chess. Simon saddened me. He remained quiet and withdrawn; I knew that he would always blame himself for his mother’s suicide.
I had just two boyfriends during my time in college. The first, Mike Stewart, hailed from Bradford and I soon learned to imitate his fascinating accent. We were never close – merely part of a group – and we drifted apart when he met a stunning girl from the university who enticed him to her lair from whence he would emerge dazed and unshaven to take in the odd lecture.
My second encounter, with John Beresford, was slightly more intense. For a whole term we mooned over one another, passing love-notes and poems across lecture halls while the Philistines around us sniggered at our pure and beautiful romance. When John suggested that our relationship should become less than pure and more than beautiful, I lost him too because of my blunt refusal. John went off in a huff to comfort himself with a florist’s assistant from Wythenshawe. I retired to a corner and licked my shallow wounds which healed after a fortnight because I was invited to write the lyrics for our revue, an exciting honour given only to the favoured few.
And now it was over. For all my pains, I would soon be receiving the princely reward of £32 each calendar month, for which sum I must take charge of and educate a class of no less than forty-five infants.
My mother was very proud. ‘You’ll be able to save up.’
‘For what?’
‘For the future, for holidays and nice clothes.’
‘I’ll pay my keep like Mary does.’
‘We’ll see. I’m alright now, you mustn’t worry over money.’
She didn’t need my salary, probably didn’t really need me any longer. She loved me, I was still her favourite girl, but Mary was there now to keep her company and although I felt no jealousy, I sometimes had a sense of being surplus to requirements. This was all a part of my mother’s plan for me. She had given me the wings and now she wanted to see me fly.
Then, during the long break between college and my first term as a teacher, life suddenly went completely mad. Tom and Martin returned almost simultaneously to colour and disrupt my existence to the point of exhaustion. I was not surprised when Martin pursued me relentlessly – after all, we had had some kind of relationship in the past. But when Tom began to press his suit, I was amazed.
Tom was the kind of man who might sweep any girl off her feet – tall, bronzed, muscular and with a slight American accent that lent him a film-starrish air. But it was plain from the start that he had come home with the intention of taking me back with him.
‘You’d love it, Annie. Remember how you begged me all those years ago to take you with me? Well – now’s the time! You could have a real good look around, then if things worked out – who knows? We might even get married once you know me better.’
I sat in the passenger seat of the large hired car, squirming because I didn’t know what to say. Th
e Tom I knew from his letters was not the same as this powerful person who sat by my side.
‘What d’ you say, Annie?’
‘I . . . don’t know. I have to get through my probationary year . . .’
‘You can do that back home!’
‘This is home, Tom.’
‘Yeah. Well I guess I have two homes now. Think about it, Annie. I’ve saved all the photographs and letters over the years – I knew my Annie was growing up to be a real beauty. And when the guys hassled me about not being married – well, I’d tell them straight – “I’m going home and get my English rose”, I’d say.’
His arm crept along the back of the seat and he pulled me as near as the gear lever would allow. The kisses were sweet and tender at first, then, as his tongue began to probe, I pushed at his chest. I liked him, really I did. But there was something missing, something I knew about. Whatever this something was, I had met it before and let it pass me by. But I couldn’t remember where or when.
Martin was a different matter altogether. His confidence was unshakeable from the start, that very first day when he walked into our house and swept me off my feet, not caring who was watching.
‘Eeh, Martin!’ cried my mother. ‘Put that woman down this minute!’
Then I stood and watched as he kissed my mother and introduced himself to Mary. He was taller than I remembered and his voice was cultured and controlled.
He turned to me now. ‘Am I welcome, Annie Byrne?’
‘Of course you are.’
‘Then I shall be escorting your daughter this evening, Mrs Higson.’
‘Nay, don’t tell me, lad. She’s her own mistress now – not that she’s ever been any different, come to think . . .’
‘Will you come?’ he asked me.
‘Yes.’ Perhaps he was whatever I’d been missing. So I went and listened to him talking over dinner, spinning tales about his exciting life and how many pages of his passport were full. No, I wasn’t bored, I told myself firmly. I was tired, that was all.
Fighting him off was not easy. He was strong and determined to have his way. Not that there was room in his little two-seater sports car, but he had parked right out in the country and escape would not be easy.
A Whisper to the Living Page 32
