by Sara Alexi
A collection of single shoes is arranged neatly on a board resting on top of the radiator, and he turns one of these over in his hands. The lace is still good and it has an inner sole that could be taken out and used again. Also, one day, he might find the other one, and it is his size. So perhaps he won’t throw that one out. Not yet, anyway. He picks up another one. Blackie Boo found this one and chewed it, and sometimes he lets her take it on walks. She always brings it home. No, he cannot get rid of that either. The shoe collection is difficult. He will start with something easier.
The two old pillows on the hearth – they could go. One is sweat-stained from the really hot summer two years ago, and he cannot remember why the other is there. It looks alright, apart from a small tear where the fluff is pushing out. He could keep it for when the one he is using gets old. The stained one could go, although it is always good to have an extra of something. Best to keep them both just for the moment.
On the sofa, under the boards and varnished wood of the dismantled bunk bed, is a pile of magazines. He doesn’t need those. He could put them in a bag and show Saabira how he has started without her. She will smile and be pleased. The pile is heavy; there must be hundreds and hundreds. The top one looks so smooth and glossy, as if it has never been read. The angry man at number three was throwing them out one morning when Cyril was on his way to work, and there were too many to carry but he thought that they might still be there on his way home, and he could take them then. Just as he was thinking this, the man came out of the house and dumped even more magazines on top of those by the bin, their covers equally new and shiny.
He can remember this man moving in, not even six months before. He had a woman with him that looked like she could be his daughter, but someone in Greater Lotherton bakery said he was a pottery teacher at a nearby school and the young woman was his wife.
‘You throwing those out?’ Cyril mumbled, taking a step backward, looking down at his feet.
‘Yes, I bloody well am,’ the man snapped, and Cyril put his hand back in his pocket and took a step back, ready to walk on. ‘No, go on,’ the man continued, ‘you want them, you can have them.’
Cyril stepped forward again.
‘Sorry mate. It’s just that the wife left me and it’s me who’s having to clear up after her. It’s one thing her buggering off to Greece to make a new life, but it’s quite another leaving me to clear all her stuff out. That’s not right.’
Cyril didn’t know what to say to that so he said nothing; putting his hands back in his pockets, he walked on, and went back after work to get the magazines when the man’s door was firmly shut.
Sometime after that, he saw the man come out of a house in Greater Lotherton, down the hill, by the train station. Another time he saw him walking on the moors with a man and they were holding hands, but when they saw him they moved apart.
He puts the pile of magazines on a three-legged stool. It’s a seat that the farmer who farmed the land behind Old Mill House had thrown away; he said the old ways of milking had gone, or something. Useless in this modern age, the farmer said. But to Cyril it is a piece of history, then. Better not throw that away.
The cover of the top magazine shows a picture of a mug with a donkey painted on it, and the animal’s tail comes out of the side of the mug to form the handle. He would like one of those. There must be a plastic bag that he can put the magazines in. But as he searches it occurs to him that when the room is tidy he will be able to get to the fire. Then he could roll and twist the pages of the magazines into slow-burning firelighters, the way Archie used to. He takes them off the stool and balances them on the mantelpiece, but as he turns away they slide off and skid over one another, filling what little space there is on the floor.
Blowing air out through narrowed lips, he surveys the mess and wonders if he has the energy right now to pick them all up. They are very colourful, like the clothes in his mother’s suitcase. He bends to pick one up. The colours begin to swirl into the paisley patterns of her blouses, and he rocks forward onto his knees. Before he knows what he is doing he is curled up on the colours, pulling some of them over him. Coco joins him and the heat against his body makes him feel sleepy. He will deal with the tidying tomorrow. It will be easier with Saabira’s help.
Chapter 20
The next day Saabira is later than he expected. He has been up since the sun stole over the horizon, the chill of the night still in the air. Coco was joined by Zaza and Sabi and with three dogs nestled around him on the mess of colourful magazines he woke sweating despite the early morning cool.
He has gathered the magazines and taken the dogs for their first walk of the day before she arrives.
‘I think we need some tea,’ she says almost as soon as they are inside and she has had a brief look around. The sink is full of empty baked bean and dog food cans, forks and spoons thrown in on top, mugs with furry mould inside and burnt pans that look like they have been there so long they have adhered to the sink. The drainer, to one side of the sink, seems to be where Cyril keeps rope and string. One coiled piece of rope is thicker in places, where it is covered in what looks to Saabira like buffalo dung. Below the drainer is a cupboard with no door, only the hinges remaining, which is full of crockery. Much of it appears broken. There is bound to be a teapot somewhere – there is everything else – but there might not be a suitable item from which to drink.
‘So, you find two chairs and I will bring tea,’ she says and Cyril immediately breaks his stare and looks around himself, presumably for seats.
At home Aaman is soothing Jay, whose face is all red as if she has been crying.
‘Everything alright?’ he asks, eyes wide, that familiar look of concern on his face, which makes him look like he is worried he has done something wrong.
‘Fine,’ she answers, putting on the kettle.
‘Was it me that upset him yesterday?’
Saabira pauses with a spoonful of tea over the teapot to look at him as she says, ‘No, my love, it was not you.’
‘What, then? What has so upset him?’
‘I am going to drink some tea with him, and maybe he will tell me.’
By the time she gets back, the teapot in one hand, two mugs in the other, Cyril is sitting down, and the empty seat next to him looks odd amongst all the clutter. The stool he has found for her is three-legged and so does not rock on the uneven floor. She pulls it away from the table a little. It is like satin to the touch, so worn and smooth is its surface – with age and use, probably. She puts the teapot on the table and pours tea into the two mugs. She has put milk in the bottom of his, but hers is black. The milk in the shops here does not taste like buffalo milk and she cannot get used to the difference.
‘I brought you sugar. Look, little packets! Aaman is given them at work with his tea but he does not take sugar.’ At first, Aaman brought them home every day as he did not want to make a fuss about how he took his tea, but now he has got to know his colleagues it is he who sometimes makes the tea. But whoever makes it they all know now that he does not take sugar and the little packets no longer make it back to their kitchen. She still finds the sugar in packets funny and, as a consequence, she smiles as she offers them to Cyril. He must think they are funny too, as he smiles in return.
‘So, you were telling me about Archie?’ She sits down on the three-legged stool.
The lights behind his eyes flash and spin; he blinks hard, he wants to stay here, with her.
‘Archie.’ He says the word to stop the present receding. It seems to work. ‘He’s dead.’
‘That is sad.’
‘They all die.’
‘All?’ Her tone is soft. ‘Who else died, Cyril?’
‘My brother, the puppy, my mum, Matron Jan, the mouse, Archie, Archie’s dog, the rabbit.’
‘Oh my goodness! That is a long list of sadness.’
The way she says this makes him look up from the floor instantly, but she doesn’t meet his eye; she looks away down into her te
a.
‘Heartbreak is a funny thing, Cyril. It makes us do things we would not normally do.’ As she says this she looks up again and this time they hold eye contact. But then he feels too exposed and this time it is he who looks away, towards Blackie Boo who has come to sit at his feet. But the way she said that heartache makes people do funny things sounds like she was talking about herself, and Cyril finds he wants to know more. What has she done out of sadness? It is hard to imagine her in any state of sorrow. It’s hard to imagine her anything but… He searches for a word that suits her. Peaceful, that is the word. He doesn’t want to disturb that peace.
‘I didn’t do anything,’ he assures her.
‘I did.’ She says it with such simplicity and openness he is not sure what to say in return. But somehow these two words make it feel safe to be with her. She has things inside her, memories, sadnesses, that disturb her just like he has. She is not perfect. He would like to ask her what it is she has done but he is not sure if he is allowed.
‘Who died first?’ she asks, which catches him off guard as he was thinking about her.
‘My brother,’ he says and drinks some tea to wet his dry mouth.
‘I am very sorry to hear that. Aaman had a brother who died. It made him sad for a long time. How old was your brother when he died?’
‘My twin.’ The word sounds so alien. He never says this word, not even quietly to himself. His mum didn’t like him saying it, not even about other identical siblings.
He feels nothing for this brother. But as soon as he considers this, he realises it is not true. His feelings are strong; he feels anger at this brother, this twin that he has never known. This brother took all his mum’s energy and happiness and love. All of it, every last bit. There was none left for him. She only wanted his brother. She would lounge on her bed, drinking and drinking because she missed his twin, pushing Cyril away. She wouldn’t even touch him because she said he reminded her of the child she did not have. But he doesn’t want Saabira to know that his brother was better than Cyril, that he was the lovable one and that Cyril is nothing in comparison. He doesn’t want Saabira seeing him as his mum saw him, so he simply says, ‘He died when I was born.’
‘Oh my goodness.’ The words come out of her in a strange voice, high-pitched, breaking halfway through into a sob. He watches her swallow hard as if something is stuck in her throat and tears well over the dark rims of her eyes. All the structure in her face is lost and she leans over to put her cup on the floor and remains with her face on her knees, her arms wrapped over her head.
He stares.
What is he supposed to do?
Chapter 21
He waits for a while, trying not to make any noise, but aware of his own breathing, and aware that his feet make tiny scuffing sounds on the floor. After what feels like a long time he says her name as tenderly as he can.
Maybe he should go and get her husband. Or maybe he should lift her so she is sitting straight. She is curled up like a butterfly when it has just come out of its chrysalis. You are not supposed to move them. You are supposed to let them unfold their wings by themselves. Geoff at Highroyds told him that in the greenhouse. Geoff knew a lot about plants, and animals, and he was sure to have been right about the butterflies.
So Cyril waits and finishes his tea as quietly as he can. But she is still curled up over her knees, the end of her scarf trailing on the floor as her upper body shudders. He cannot help it. He reaches out to touch the fine crimson material of her tunic where it is stretched across the nodules of her spine.
With his touch she sighs and uncurls. His arm is still outstretched. Trying to lift it off as she moves, he slides his hand up her back and onto her shoulder as she sits up straight.
‘Thank you,’ she says, but he is not sure what she is thanking him for. He takes his hand away. ‘I lost a baby.’ As she dabs at her eyes with the corner of her scarf, she looks like a child. He is not sure if he is meant to say something now. He never knew what to do when his mum was sad about his brother. The day before his fifth birthday, the fifth anniversary of his brother’s death, she went on and on about her sadness, his brother not being there, her loss, and he gave up trying to say anything. The next day, on his actual birthday, she did not come out of her bedroom. That was when she had a painted toe sticking through a hole in her tights, her face all swollen.
‘Losing a baby can make you sad for a long time,’ Saabira says. ‘Even when you have another one there is still a void, and that place where you love them from never dies.’
‘Five years?’ he asks.
‘Five years, six, ten… As long as it takes.’ She seems to be recovering, her voice growing lighter.
‘My mum died five years later, on my birthday. On my twin’s birthday, but he didn’t have a birthday because he was dead.’ Saying this out loud brings a strange feeling in his chest, a bit like when he watches a hawk hover over the rabbit warrens.
‘Your mother?’ is all she says but it feels exactly right.
‘She didn’t come out of her bedroom. I waited all day. I sat with my back to her door to be closer to her but she didn’t come out.’ He expects the darkness to come and the present to recede but it doesn’t. Instead, he is aware he is sitting next to Saabira, and he can recall every detail without actually being there.
He woke up so excited on his fifth birthday. Two days before, his mum had promised an iced bun and maybe, just maybe, they would take a bus to the zoo, and see the hippos. Yesterday she had been sad but today was his birthday. He got dressed and then he waited on his bed, his knees under his chin. He waited for ages and ages but she did not come out. The door stayed shut and he didn’t go in. He dared not go in – the last time he did, she had been play-wrestling with a man with no hair on his head, or something like that, and she had shouted and shouted at him and made him promise he would never go in her room ever again.
As the day turned into the afternoon the hope that they would make it to the zoo faded, but there was still the promise of the iced bun. By late afternoon the temperature had dropped but he dared not turn on the electric bars that were set into the wall. She had told him many times not to touch them, so he didn’t. Instead, he took the sheets from his bed and pulled them to the door, wrapped them around himself and leaned against the wood. He thought if she was sad again him being close might help. He wasn’t sure how but he hoped it was true.
But then, for no reason, he began to be scared and lonely.
‘I knocked on her door but she didn’t answer.’ He can remember how much his stomach hurt but at the time he was not sure if it was hunger or the fear of what he might find if he opened her door. ‘So I opened the door. Not to disobey her,’ he added quickly. ‘I just thought she had forgotten about me.’ He looked briefly at Saabira to make sure she understood that he had not been disobeying her.
Saabira nodded her understanding whilst dabbing at her tears.
‘As I opened the door I knew something was wrong. It smelt different. It smelt like Mum, but in a bad way.’
He opened the door slowly so as not to disturb her but before it was even wide enough for his head to go through he knew all her sadness had overpowered her.
‘There were lots of empty pill bottles by her bed and a piece of unfolded paper with nothing on it, just some white powder in the creases.’ He is still in the present, still with Saabira. It is still horrible to recall, but not as bad and revisiting.
‘Her eyelids were all swollen, her cheeks big, her face fat and her lips red but without lipstick. She didn’t open her eyes.’
‘And this was your fifth birthday?’
‘She had promised me an iced bun with a candle. I told her that she had to get up because it was my birthday, but she didn’t move.’
‘Mum’, he said, leaning over, speaking right into her ear. ‘It’s okay that you didn’t get me an iced bun.’ But then he started to cry. He tried to make the tears stop. She didn’t like him crying but the tears just kept comin
g, silently, flowing down his cheeks, dripping off his chin onto her bedspread.
The fear came up into his throat and blocked his airways until he spluttered and shouted, ‘Mum!’ at the very top of his voice and he put his hand on her arm and shook her hard. ‘Mum,’ he repeated, but more quietly this time, sinking onto the bed next to her. He put his hand on her bloated cheek, which was still warm.
‘She was lying on the bed, with her legs sort of curled up a bit, her top arm in front of her, hanging off the edge of the bed. She was holding my ruler. The space between her arm and her knees and her chest was just big enough.’
He watched her for several minutes, and then he crawled under her arm and snuggled up to her, his back against her still-warm body, the back of his legs against her knees so she was spooning him like she had done, long ago when they lived in a place that was just one room, one single bed. Pulling her arm over himself, he imagined that it was her choice to cuddle like that. He imagined her arm had life and that her holding him tight was her choice and not him pulling on her sleeve. But as day became night she became first stiff and then cold, and in the morning he crawled from under her arm and stood by the bed and looked at the corpse that was no longer his mum. Still in her hand was his ruler. The one she had given him one day for no reason. It had the Thunderbirds printed on it and the end was snapped off so it had lost the first quarter of the first inch. As he took it from fingers that were no longer hers he saw it had lipstick imprints all over it. He wiped it on the bedspread and then padded out of her bedroom, out of the flat and along to the only other place in the world that he knew and could go into, the fish and chip shop on the corner. He knew the pub on the opposite corner too, but he wasn’t allowed to go in there.
