Sweets From Morocco

by Jo Verity

  He pushed himself up in the chair. ‘It’ll cost you a lot more than a penny.’

  Lewis arrived home to a phone message. A Terry Vaughan – he didn’t recognise the name – said that he needed to speak to him on a matter of urgency. Lewis’s first thought was Tessa but, when he listened to the message again, he realised that the contact number was Frank Swinburne’s.

  Vaughan told him that his uncle had died the previous day. ‘It was quick, thank God. A massive stroke.’

  Lewis made an effort to hide his relief. ‘Poor Uncle Frank.’ He paused. ‘I don’t think we’ve met, Mr Vaughan.’ The man must be his uncle’s partner but it was an awkward thing to ask.

  ‘No. But he often talked about you. You and Tessa. He gave me your phone number, in case anything…’ his voice trailed off.

  ‘D’you need me to come down and help with…?’ It was Lewis’s turn to falter.

  ‘Frank made his wishes quite clear. Wrote it all down and left it with his solicitor. Even chose the music. The funeral’s next Wednesday. Twelve noon at the crematorium chapel. I haven’t managed to find a number for your sister.’

  ‘I’ll make sure Tessa knows, Mr Vaughan. And thanks so much for taking this on. It’s very good of you. Let me know if we owe you—’

  ‘We were together for twenty years, Mr Swinburne,’ he said. ‘I loved him.’

  That night, Lewis dreamed about Cranwell Lodge. It was on fire, flames licking up through the roof, sparks twirling into the summer sky. He was standing at the back door, calling through the shattered pane into the smoke-filled scullery. Tessa. Gordon. He could neither feel heat nor smell smoke but something had fixed his feet to the ground and he couldn’t move, couldn’t save them.

  Uncle Frank was dead. It was so long since Tessa had seen him that, before contemplating his death, she needed to remind herself that he’d still been alive. He was a couple of years older than her father – which would put him in his mid-eighties. What people referred to as ‘a good innings’. But that was if the deceased died in bed not at a bus stop, wiped out by a spinning car.

  In his letter, Lewis offered to give her a lift, implying that he expected her to attend. She despised the whole hypocritical ritual. Mourners who, in reality, wanted to jump for joy because they weren’t the corpse in that coffin. A vicar, who’d never met the deceased, spouting condescending crap – We’re here to celebrate a life – although it might be amusing to hear what the Reverend made of Uncle Frank’s lifestyle. Then, after Frank Swinburne was incinerated, the gawping and whispering would begin. That’s Tessa Swinburne over there. You know. The one who killed the poor old man.

  She pushed the coins into the slot. ‘Thanks for the offer, Lewis, but I shan’t be coming. They don’t allow us time off for funerals. Not an uncle’s funeral, anyway. Too easy to concoct a dozen dead uncles.’

  She heard the disappointment in his voice followed by false cheeriness as he invented bits of news to keep her on the line. She watched the seconds counting down. 10 – 9 – 8 – ‘Sorry, I’m out of change. Love you.’ – 3 – 2 – 1 – gone.

  The trrring ... trrring of his returned call followed her as she hurried away.

  In the beginning it had been an adventure; a series of challenges. Finding a job and somewhere to live. Spinning out her money from week to week. Picking through dented tins and overripe fruit. Trawling through rails in charity shops. She’d fooled herself that, if things became intolerable, she could use her experiences to write a novel, exposing the condition of the working class in the dying days of the Twentieth Century. Gritty. Authentic. Redeeming. That was in the beginning, when it was an adventure and when she assumed that sacrifice would add weight to her side of the scales of justice.

  Her first job was at a newsagent’s. The shop had an easy-going atmosphere and the proprietor, once he’d shown her the ropes, left her to get on with it. She didn’t mind the early start or working on Sunday mornings but her ankle sometimes gave her trouble. It hadn’t been right since the accident and, despite her efforts to exercise it every day while she was in prison, after she’d been standing on it for several hours, it started to ache. There were, however, benefits to working in the shop. It was easy to slip a pack of cigarettes or a bar of Fruit and Nut into her pocket as she was putting her coat on to go home. But she hadn’t anticipated how chummy the customers would be, and expect her to be in return. They called her ‘Tessy’ and teased her about her ‘posh’ voice. Some men made what Gran would have termed ‘advances’. One ‘regular’ ruined everything by inviting her to spend the evening with him at the Con Club – whatever that was – then became abusive when she refused. The proprietor, seemingly more reluctant to lose a customer than an employee, thought she should have accepted. The atmosphere turned sour and she moved on.

  There was always work for those who would accept low wages in return for long hours. Newsagent’s, dental surgery, coffee bar, bread shop. And now Boots. Tessa had acquired a whole range of useful skills. She’d learned to operate a till; to stack a tray with dirty crockery and balance it as she weaved between crowded tables; to arrange cream cakes efficiently in a box. She’d discovered that postcards in shop windows offered the most affordable accommodation. She became expert in detecting the smell of rising damp and learned the right questions to ask about pre-payment meters and shared hallways. She could make a tea bag stretch to three cups, a tin of baked beans to two meals and discovered that fish paste didn’t taste as bad as it smelled.

  One morning, kneeling in the aisle, stacking boxes of hair colourant on the shelf, she started crying. She wasn’t in pain; no one had shouted at her; nothing had happened to make her feel sad. At first it was a whimper, barely audible and vaguely pleasurable. She blew her nose on a tissue. ‘Get a grip, woman.’ But she couldn’t and the whimpering escalated to sobbing. Her nose streamed with strands of clear snot, salty on her lips. The odd thing was that, although she could taste the salt and feel the racking sobs, she was remote from her body, watching her pathetic self from a few feet away.

  The store manager hustled her to the office then sent her home in a taxi, telling her to see her doctor.

  Insomnia and mood swings had plagued her for months. One minute she felt fine, the next she couldn’t find the energy to raise a cup to her lips or the will to put her shoes on. Now she could add hysteria to her list of symptoms. She thought it might be something to do with the menopause. But the doctor, flicking through the sheaf of notes in the buff slip case, didn’t show much interest in what she was telling him.

  He gave her a cursory examination – eyes, blood pressure, reflexes. ‘I’m going to put you on Prozac,’ he said, as if he were offering her a treat.

  ‘Happy pills?’

  ‘If you want to think of them like that. Oh, and no alcohol. That’s important.’

  It didn’t sound like a recipe for happiness.

  ‘The medication is usually pretty effective but it only addresses the symptoms. I’d like you to talk to someone. Sort out why you’re feeling ... the way you are. Get to the root of the matter.’ From his sing-song delivery, she knew that he’d said it a hundred times and no longer believed it.

  ‘You think I’m depressed?’

  ‘Do you think you’re depressed?’

  She shrugged. There was a time when she would have relished a little cut and thrust with this bumptious prick. But she was too tired.

  The doctor signed her off for two weeks, telling her to come back if she needed longer.

  She’d not spent this much time on her own since leaving London, neither had she had more than two consecutive days off work. She’d lost the knack of doing nothing. The empty hours were booby-trapped with anxiety and she felt vulnerable as she woke to each unstructured day. She made a timetable, splitting the day into morning, afternoon and evening sessions and deciding what to do with each manageable chunk of time. She went to the library. She walked around the park then treated herself to a coffee from the kiosk. She changed her bedd
ing and took it to the launderette. She listened to the radio. She prepared proper meals – as proper as two gas rings and a grill would allow. Her most ambitious project was to visit the City Art Gallery which Dan had once told her housed a fine collection of Pre-Raphaelite paintings. But, as she stood at the bus stop, a vision of large echoey rooms filled with well-dressed, well-informed people flashed through her mind. Her heart galloped and she couldn’t catch her breath. She ended up going to the library instead.

  After two weeks she returned to work, telling the girls there that she’d had a nasty bout of the ’flu that was currently doing the rounds.

  Chapter 40

  If she didn’t write soon Lewis would turn up. She couldn’t risk that. Not until she was completely well again. She’d already discarded several muddled attempts, knowing that he would detect that she wasn’t quite herself. The thing was, when she got home from work, by the time she’d had a bowl of soup or a cheese sandwich, all she was fit for was bed.

  In the end she sent a postcard – an aerial view of ‘Spaghetti Junction’ – saying ‘Everything OK. Tessa x’.

  His reply came back by return.

  Dear Tessa

  Thanks for the postcard which came today. It was a relief to get word (3 words actually) from you. I must admit I was starting to worry.

  Can I try, yet again, to persuade you to come up to Yorkshire? Stay a few days. Longer if you can spare the time. You’d be interested to see what we’ve done with the house. The garden is looking good and the pond is a triumph. Come in the summer holidays when I’m home and we might have some decent weather. I know that sounds an age away but I imagine you have to sort out your leave well in advance. I won’t pester but, in return, promise me you’ll think about it.

  Lewis xxx

  Please come. I miss you.

  She missed him, too, with the chronic pain of bereavement. But people coped with separation. Della – one of the women she worked with – was constantly tearful. Her daughter had married an electrician and they’d moved to Sydney five years ago. Della’s grandson was three now and she’d only seen him once. ‘Just got to grin and bear it,’ she said. ‘You wouldn’t want to spoil their chances, would you?’

  Spoil. Chances. Did every person in the world have the potential to ruin the lives of those they most loved?

  By the time her hospital appointment came through, she’d given up thinking it would happen. She was tempted to tear up the letter. She’d grown accustomed to keeping herself to herself so did she want a stranger – this ‘Dr S Davies’ person – ferreting around in her head? Therapy, or whatever they called it in those days, hadn’t done her mother much good. But, on the plus side, it would only cost the bus fare to the hospital. Maybe she’d go once – see what it was like. They would give her time off work for a hospital appointment but it was probably best not to mention the nature of her problem.

  No more than thirty, intelligent and confident, Doctor Sophie Davies reminded Tessa of herself at that age. Or how she might have been.

  She asked a string of questions. ‘Can you tell me exactly what happened just before you started crying?’ ‘How did you feel the day before?’ ‘What was your first thought on waking up this morning?’ ‘What makes you smile?’

  Tessa had expected something more penetrating but at least the young woman was interested in her and treated her with respect.

  Every Tuesday morning she spent forty-five minutes with Sophie Davies. It meant reorganising her shifts but Tuesday was a quiet day in the shop and, as long as she was available for weekend work, there was no problem.

  Together she and the doctor excavated the past, two archaeologists scraping away the years, revealing her history – or some of it. Lewis. Her parents. Gordon. Dr Davies was gently tenacious. The car accident. Prison. Sometimes when she felt particularly raw, she’d make a joke or try to divert the conversation but Sophie Davies sieved every throwaway remark as if it might contain a shard of vital information. Uncle Frank. Cranwell Lodge. Jay Costello.

  Tessa had never before been invited to develop her thoughts like this, or required to convey her feelings so accurately, and it took a while for her to get the hang of it. After a tentative start, she began to believe that she could reveal anything in that austere consulting room and not be judged. She and Sophie Davies weren’t friends but colleagues, working towards the same goal, and Tessa came away from each session worn out but hopeful.

  Tuesday mornings became the high spot of her week. She planned in advance what she wanted to talk about. Ted Knowles and the girl at the bus stop. Why she hadn’t married Dan. One day, when she was ready, she would ask if she might have inherited this ‘illness’ from her mother. One day she might even tell her about the doll – Lewis would surely understand if it helped to make her well. But she would never, could never, tell anyone about Rundle. No one would forgive her for that.

  Almost five months into her treatment, she received a letter telling her, without explanation, that Doctor Davies was no longer working at the hospital and that, in future, she would be seen by Doctor Alistair McBride.

  Why hadn’t Sophie Davies said something when she saw her last week? How dare she plunder all Tessa’s secrets then disappear without explanation or apology? What a bitch. Yet another false ‘friend’. So, no. She wouldn’t be ‘seen by Doctor Alistair McBride’ or any other bastard psychiatrist.

  The headaches grew worse.

  ‘Perhaps you need new glasses,’ Della suggested.

  The optician a few doors down, was advertising free eye tests and Tessa made an appointment. Yes. Both her reading and distance spectacles were way off. It was a relief to know that the headaches were nothing sinister but a shock to discover what she would have to pay for the most basic spectacles.

  Not long after that, the landlord increased her rent and once more she had to dig into her shrinking savings.

  She found somewhere cheaper to live. A bedsit in a terraced house. It was small but it was handy having everything in one room. And the heating bill was bound to be lower. There wasn’t much storage space, though. A blessing that she had so few possessions.

  Not long after moving, she succumbed to a virus. Everyone referred to it as a ‘forty-eight hour bug’ but hers continued for days. The little appetite she had, failed to return and she couldn’t get warm. When the alarm went off for work, she pulled the covers over her head and sank back into half-sleep.

  ‘Personnel’ sent a threatening letter, demanding a doctor’s note or her immediate return to work. She forced herself back but it was all a bit of a struggle.

  After a month, having been given the statutory warnings – Unpunctual. Unreliable. Offhand with customers. Unacceptable standards of personal hygiene. – she lost her job.

  There were still a few hundred pounds of her father’s money in the bank and she’d just received a modest royalty cheque from Ward & Cox. It didn’t amount to much but if she went carefully it would give her several weeks’ breathing space. She’d seen an advert in the free newspaper for a cleaning job at the local school. If she could get that, and a couple of others like it, she should just about be all right until something better turned up.

  But to be truthful, she wasn’t sure she had the energy or the know-how to be a cleaner.

  She really should let Lewis have her new address. There must be a stamp somewhere in her purse. God, she was tired. Why couldn’t she sleep? So, so tired. What was the best thing to do? Perhaps she should talk to Lewis. She’d done her best not to bother him but…

  She went to the phone box on the main road and dialled Lewis’s number. Kirsty answered. It was odd hearing her voice after so long. It hadn’t changed a bit.

  ‘Kirsty? Can I speak to Lewis?’

  ‘Tessa? Is that Tessa?’

  ‘Is Lewis there?’

  ‘He’s not, I’m afraid. He’s lending a hand with the Lower Sixth field trip. He’s gone to—’

  ‘When will he be back?’

  ‘He’s a
way all week.’

  ‘I need to speak to Lewis.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’

  ‘No. It’s just that ... no, there’s nothing you can do.’

  There was nothing Kirsty could do. There was nothing that Tessa would allow her do.

  ‘But that was three days ago. Why didn’t you contact me?’ Lewis shouted.

  Kirsty spoke quietly. ‘Tessa did sound slightly distracted but she didn’t say it was urgent. I asked if there was anything I could do but she said there wasn’t. Anyway, you were busy in Dorset, doing your job. I’m sure she’ll be in touch if it’s important.’

  He hated her cool logic. ‘I don’t have time for this now. I’m going to Birmingham.’

  ‘Tonight? Isn’t that rather melodramatic? Of course, that’s precisely what she wants.’ Kirsty reached out and touched his shoulder. ‘Be sensible. It’s gone eight. You’ve been on the go all day. Go first thing in the morning.’

  ‘I’ve made my mind up. I’m going now.’

  He stopped at the first service station to fill up with fuel and buy a black coffee then drove on. He was too old for this. His back twinged and a headache lodged at the base of his skull. He’d been up since dawn, dismantling tents, chivvying kids, taking his turn at the wheel of the minibus. Now he was driving half way back to Dorset. The traffic was light but even so he couldn’t afford to lose concentration for one second. He lowered the window a few inches, trusting that the cold air would keep him awake.

  He took a second break and phoned Kirsty. ‘You were right. I should have waited until the morning.’

  ‘You probably wouldn’t have slept. I should have come with you and shared the driving.’

  He couldn’t tell her that he was glad to be on his own.

  He made good time down the motorway then lost an hour in the confusion of Birmingham’s suburban streets. At last he found it – a four-storey block, its brickwork piebald with graffiti, a scum of litter on the lank grass in front of it. Although it was near midnight, the curry-scented night was restless with traffic noise and the weee…waaa…weee…waaa of an alarm. He double-checked that he’d locked the car.