By the time the large clock above the door—with roman numerals decorating its face as opposed to numbers—showed five o’clock, I’d have already finished my reshelving, collected my handbag from its peg in the seedy staff room, and be heading out, having nodded a sociable good-night to my boss. But the woman never said a dicky bird in reply, nor did she raise her head up from the checkout desk to look me in the eyes. Resentment, I assumed, at the fact that the local council had placed me in her library as though I were some kind of dodgy gift, and she’d therefore not been given the opportunity to do a conventional interview. Besides me there was only Miss Williamson, who had officially retired five years earlier but who had agreed to help out from time to time, for she was both familiar with the place and had little else to do. However, my sour-faced boss need not have worried herself, for I’d already decided that I wasn’t staying. I’d made up my mind on the very first day that this depressing branch library wasn’t going to be in my future, and on the Friday afternoon I handed in my cards.
I pour the whisky into a cup, but I know that it’s not going to agree with me. However, I need something to help me sleep. When I wake up, it’s bright in the room, and once again I’ve no idea where I am or how I got here. I remember losing Tommy, and the hospital, and then Bridlington, and Christmas Eve at the Mecca, and then trying to see Ben, and Denise getting rid of me, and the useless branch library, and catching the train to London. I remember the room at the top of the house, and the American man in his pinny who’d run away from fighting in the war. I dash into the bathroom, and I’m sick all over the place. I’m feeling too ill to do anything but a little wiping off with some toilet paper and then a quick flush. I drag myself back to the settee and lie down and close my eyes, but my head’s still pounding, so I sit up and try and steady my nerves. I suspect that it’s warm outside, for the daylight bleeding around the corners of the curtains is getting in my eyes. I don’t have a bathing costume, but I reckon if I take off my shoes and strip down to my bra and pants, then I’ll still be respectable. I stand up and hide the bottle of whisky back in the cupboard, and I open the last can of beer and drink it quickly and leave the empty tin on the kitchen counter.
Don’t you have any shame? When I open my eyes, I can see the man from next door staring at me, but I’m not interfering with him. I’m sitting on the small step by the French door minding my own business, and I ask him why he’s looking at me. Now he’s really got his mad up, and he’s shouting and calling me indecent, and why don’t I take a hint and clear off like the other slags? That’s what the man at the Mecca Ballroom called me on Christmas Eve when I wouldn’t let him take me home. You’re just a sorry old slag, he said, and I threw a glass of beer at him, and he said, You’ve bloody gone and done it now. I laughed at him, and then the manager came and asked me to leave. But I’m not going to give this man the satisfaction, so I just stare at him as though he’s talking a foreign language, and when he’s finished ranting, I tell him, all nice and quiet, Don’t talk to me. I can see it on his face that he’s still angry, but he gives me a dirty look, then turns and leaves, and I hear him slam his back door as he goes inside. I’m enjoying the sunshine, and I have a right to be here because my friend said I could stay as long as I wanted and he gave me a key.
I look at myself in the small bathroom mirror and set about putting on some makeup. I place the cup of whisky on the edge of the sink and make a mental note to be careful that I don’t knock it off and onto the floor. My mother gave me my first lesson in how to apply makeup when my father was away on a school trip to the Lake District. However, she warned me that I must never let him see me with mascara or lipstick on, for he’d take a wet flannel to me. It still makes me livid that in his letter he didn’t even tell me where she was buried, which would have been the caring thing to do, so at least I could go there and say a proper goodbye. In the morning I’ll make my way to Hyde Park, and at least I’ll look presentable, so long as I don’t smudge this mascara when I finally drop off to sleep. Tomorrow I’ll find an empty bench to sit on, and then I’ll devise a plan of action that will take me through the summer until it’s time to go back to university. I can admit it to myself now: waiting around in this flat for my actor friend to help me out has been a waste of time. I’ve made a mistake, but when I wake up, I’m going to clear off out of here and start to put things right.
In the morning the front doorbell wakes me up, but I decide not to get up and see who it is, for I have an ominous feeling. However, the person won’t stop pushing the bell, and then I hear loud knocking on the door to my flat, and I wonder if there’s a fire or something because the walloping won’t stop. When I open up, I see a policeman in front of me with his hat under his arm like it’s a rugby ball, and out of the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of the old lady as she tries to disappear up the stairs before I can see her. The policeman tells me that I have to come with him to the station, for they want to talk to me about something. I tell the man that I have to get dressed, so he says he’ll come inside and wait for me while I do so. And then I see him lift his hand to his face as though he’d suddenly smelt something rank. I’ll wait out here, he says, but leave the door open a little. So he’s standing outside of the flat, and it doesn’t take me long to put on my slacks and jumper and smooth out my hair, but before I even have time to brush my teeth, he’s at it again, banging on the door and telling me to hurry up as he doesn’t have all day. I’m hoping that the officer has a car outside to take us to the station, for I really don’t want to walk down the street with a policeman so everyone can stare at me.
I seem to have been waiting forever in this big wood-panelled room with people sitting, then standing up, then sitting back down again. Everybody’s taking turns to speak, but even though their mouths are moving, I can’t hear any sound, and it’s almost as though I’m underwater. Three wise monkeys are sitting behind a bench, and they keep nodding and looking over at me, then listening to whoever is talking, and suddenly my ears pop and I can now hear the policeman who was knocking on my door talking about how I wouldn’t come out straightaway, and how I put up a bit of a struggle and tried to lock myself in the bathroom. I want to laugh because it seems funny that he should be making all of this up and fooling them, but I can see by the way they are looking at me that this is serious and his lies are making me look bad.
The man from next door has on his smart jacket, and he starts to talk now, and he says that I dance about naked in the garden, which is also a lie. I’m thinking to myself that this man must be sad and lonely to have to make up stories like this about a woman who hasn’t done him any wrong, but I know that I’m not supposed to say anything, so I just stay quiet and listen to one lie after another and I try and work out for myself just what is happening. Then things get really out of control. The old lady stands up and says that she tried to be courteous to me, but apparently I don’t have any decorum. One of the magistrates speaks to her directly now, and he asks the woman if I’ve ever harmed her in any way, and she shakes her head. He asks her if she has seen me wandering about naked, and again the old lady shakes her head, but she seems confused. Then she repeats herself, this time very slowly, and insists that I don’t have any decorum, as if this was some kind of crime.
I feel the hand of a policewoman squeezing my elbow, and she tells me to get up in a sweet voice like she’s my friend or something, and one of the magistrates asks me if I understand the gravity of the situation, and so I nod and say yes, but I’m not sure what all the fuss is about. I haven’t mistreated anybody or damaged any property, so why can’t they just mind their own business? The same magistrate starts to ask me about my actor friend, calling him Mr. Francis, and he wants to know how we know each other, and so I tell him that we met in a pub by the community centre, and I leave it at that. Has he ever troubled you? What business is it of his? But I tell him no, and he asks me if any other men have touched me since I’ve been in the flat, but before I have a chance to tell him what for, he
wants to know where I get money, and if any men have ever given me any money, and I say no, then no again, then no in a louder voice, and now the sound has gone again, and I can’t hear what they are saying, but I’m talking and my arms are flying about in front of my face and I’m still talking, and I’m trying to get my arms to stay still, but I can see from how these people are looking at me that I’m not making any sense.
The policewoman is in the back seat of the car with me, while an older woman in a blue jacket and white frilly blouse is twisted around in the front passenger seat so she’s facing me. She keeps asking about my family, and if I have anybody that I would like her to get in touch with, but all I want to know is where is this car taking us. Again she starts up tormenting me with the family talk, almost begging me to tell her if the man who owns the house is my boyfriend or just somebody I see from time to time, and she asks me this as though whatever I say will be alright by her and won’t cause any problems for anybody, but I can tell by just looking at her that this ignorant woman has never read a book in her life, and so I don’t say anything and I close my eyes.
After I stopped turning up at the library by the shopping centre, there was nothing to keep me in the city anymore. I was banned from both my son’s school and the house he was living in, and the social worker had told me that I had to give him some space. So I thought, I’ll give him some space and I’ll move to London for a few months and let everything settle down. But before I took off for London, I had to sort something out. As I walked down the cul-de-sac, I saw him bent double over his car, mercilessly polishing the bonnet with a yellow duster, and behind him the sprinkler was taking care of the front lawn with its absurd, robotic rhythm. I came right up next to him, and when he looked up, I could see it in his eyes that he wasn’t sure. I’d weathered a bit since he’d last seen me, and I’d also chopped my hair really short. Jesus, I’d been through a lot, so what did he expect? He seemed lost for words, but I had no intention of standing there playing silly buggers with him, so I just asked him straight out to give me something of my mother’s, a brooch or a necklace, as I was going to London and I wanted to take a part of her with me. Monica, he said. Please, Monica. But I cut him off and told him that it was wrong of him to do what he’d done and not tell me that she was ill, or even let me know where she’d been laid to rest, but he didn’t say anything; he just held on to his cloth with both hands and stared. And then he told me to wait where I was, and he disappeared inside the house. When he came out, he handed me her slender gold watch and three five-pound notes and told me that this was all he had in the house, but it was to help set myself up in London. I looked at him but said nothing, for he was a small man now. I hope, he said, then he stopped. I thought, God, he’s not going to bawl, is he? I hope that you find what you’re looking for in London, he said, and I hope that you know you’ve always got a home here, but then he dried up. He just kept staring at me until I couldn’t take it anymore, and so I turned and walked away. And this woman in her ridiculous frilly white blouse wants to know about family?
I sit at the back of a room with a group of women, and we’re all watching the BBC news on a colour television set that’s stuck high up on the wall. The place is like a prison, but it’s not a prison. It’s also cold, even though it’s summer outside, and the room is lit with ugly fluorescent tube lighting. When I got here, they took away my clothes and then told me to take a shower. When I finished, they gave me this nightdress to wear. It makes me look undignified, and I have a feeling that this is the idea, but at least it’s clean. I asked for a belt as the thing is hanging off me like a tent, but they let me know that no belts are allowed. I then had to open my mouth and stick out my tongue, and they gave me a tablet that started me going all fuzzy, then tired, and then the coloured nurse said that I would soon be asleep, but I’m still sitting here watching television although I’m not sure what the man on the news is going on about.
The nurse has a deep cleavage, and she should cover herself up more. She asks me whatever did I eat to make myself so sick, but before I can reply, she pushes my head down into the plastic bucket and tells me to let it go—you’ve got to get it all out—but I haven’t eaten anything all day, so there’s nothing to come out. I’m trying to tell her that it’s the bloody tablet that’s made me sick, but I know she doesn’t believe me. She gives up and slowly gets to her feet. I watch her wipe her hands on the backside of her uniform, and then we look at each other for a moment before she starts to talk. They put you in this isolation room because you’re a top risk, Monica, but it’s up to you. If you want to do something irresponsible, then go right ahead, but you’ll have nobody to blame but yourself. I don’t say anything, and we continue to eyeball each other. Look, she says, if you want to put something on your stomach, just press the bell, love. I hate to see you like this. Really, you need to pull yourself together.
Apparently the library trolley comes around every morning. The volunteer woman stands by the door while I look at the books that are piled on top of it without any order of any kind. Everything’s just random, and then I notice that the woman has put a hand on her hip. Don’t you like reading then? She’s smiling now, like she’s got one over on me, but it’s easy to tell that behind that wide forehead of hers nothing has been imprinted. You know, it helps to pass the time if you read a bit. There’s one there on royal gardens, you might like that, for there’s lots of pictures in it. It’s quite popular actually. I look at Miss Librarian and wonder what her problem is. How dare they call this thing a library trolley? Book trolley would be better, for all it contains are scattered books that people have left behind, and I don’t get the sense that this woman gives a damn whether you ever return them or not. I pick up the glossy book on royal gardens and realize that it would have helped if my actor friend had brought me a book or two to the flat. Now that would have made the time pass a little easier.
At the end of the day the coloured nurse knocks on the door, and she opens it without waiting for me to say anything. She tells me that it’s six o’clock and time for me to go to the dining room and meet some of the others now that I’ve had a rest. But one look at the place, and it’s clear that I can’t stay, as it’s full of people sitting at tables in neat rows like some kind of eating factory, and I ask the nurse if I can please go back to my room because I’m not feeling too good. She says I’m free to go back by myself anytime I like, and so I tell her thank you. But she doesn’t stop there. She looks hard at me and then nods as though a thought has just struck her. You can also go outside to the courtyard and then come back in and eat a bit later. You don’t have to run off to your room if it’s a ciggie that you want. I want to laugh, but I keep a straight face and I tell her that it’s alright, it’s just that I’m not feeling too well.
Jesus, I shouldn’t have said that, for now I’ve got the doctor standing over me. I’m sitting on the edge of my narrow bed, looking up at him while he shines a bright light into my face. He has a beard and moustache, and I wonder why he wears them because they make him look older than he is. He has to be about my age, but he looks about fifty-odd, and his teeth are yellowing, which isn’t right for a doctor. I can give you only one pill at a time, and I’m afraid I can’t leave the bottle. You’re not very good with pills, are you? He looks at some papers in my file and asks me what went on at the house in Shepherd’s Bush, and then he quizzes me and wants to know about any male visitors. I shake my head, and he mutters something to himself and asks me if downstairs is itching, but the coloured nurse seems annoyed and whispers in his ear, and he stops his questions. I remember when the detective came to my hospital bedside and told me that they’d found him. It was maybe a week after he’d gone. That’s when I took the pills. I’d swiped a bottle when nobody was looking, and I tipped them all out on the bed. It said there were twenty-four, but it turned out there were only twenty-three in the bottle, and I wondered how many times I’d been done like this. I took them, one at a time, but it didn’t work, and they soon b
rought me back around. Anyhow, I suppose all of this is in my file.
I wake up in what feels like the middle of the night, but the door is locked from the outside, and the room is pitch black. They didn’t tell me that they lock us in at night, but I’m not surprised. I fumble my way back into bed and pull the scratchy blanket up to my chin and reckon that I’m probably in this so-called hospital because I won’t tell them what they want to hear. When I was a girl at school, I was always the one asking questions. Then, when the two boys came along, I was the one always answering questions. Now I don’t ask questions, or answer them, which is probably why everybody’s fed up with me. There’s no mirror in this room, which I’m sure is deliberate. In fact, there’s nothing in this room except me and the bed. I can’t remember much else about the room, or even what I’m wearing, so I’ll just have to wait until the light begins to stream in at about five o’clock, I think, but I’m not sure how long I’ll have to wait.
The coloured nurse has brought me a big bowl of cereal and a plastic spoon, and she’s set them out nicely on a tray. She asks me how I slept, and I say, very good, although the right answer would be, not much, but I don’t want to be rude. She tells me that the doctor has said there’s really no reason for me to be here and that things have obviously just overwhelmed me, haven’t they? I agree and tell her that I’m going to university in October, and she gives me a crooked smile. That’s marvellous, darling, but you’ve still got to eat. She tells me that it’s another nice day, and I tell her that if I wasn’t in here, I’d be in Hyde Park. Well, she says, I’m sure we’d all prefer to be in Hyde Park on a day like this, but I think you’ve got to try to trust people a little, and not be so defensive. Not everyone’s out to get you, love. If you open up a bit, then we can assess you properly, and the sooner we do that, the sooner we can think about you leaving.
The Lost Child Page 22
