by Louise Beech
‘We respect an individual’s choice,’ said Claudia.
I was tired. Looking at my raw hands, I remembered how it felt after a Crisis Care night shift, one where call after call came, waves from an angry sea onto our flimsy pier. I remembered a long conversation with a thirty-year-old woman who had four children and only months to live. Then straightaway having to put my emotions to one side because the phone rang again and the other volunteer was on a call. There was only me. Only me, and I was tired.
‘Whatever you’ve learnt,’ said Claudia, gently, ‘is your foundation. But this is a temporary helpline, so while you need to treat callers with respect, we’ve no time to set an official agenda.’
Norman coughed and said, ‘More drinks and a break, people?’
Kath wrapped wool around her needles and put them away. Lindsey stretched, her knee clicking. Claudia suggested we resume in ten with some practice scenarios and went outside for a cigarette. With her puffs of smoke passing the window every few seconds, and Norman in the kitchen clattering between drawers and cupboards, we fell quiet. The clock measured our uneasy silence. Lindsey stared at the magazines as though willing one to open so she could pretend to read it. I counted the carpet flecks.
‘Were you flooded?’ Kath asked me.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘You?’
‘No. But I’ve been lonely since Hector died. My daughter lives miles away and my son’s abroad.’
‘Were you?’ I asked Lindsey.
‘Yes.’ She sat up. ‘We’re staying in a caravan outside our house. It’s driving me mad sharing a bed with my sister. She snores like a horse. I’d leave but can’t afford to; I’m studying.’
‘What subject?’ I asked.
‘I’m doing a BSc in Psychology and Counselling.’
‘Is that why you volunteer?’
Norman dropped something heavy in the kitchen.
‘Yeah,’ said Lindsey. ‘It’ll look good on my CV. What do you do?’
‘I just work in a care home; night shifts mainly.’ I hated that I always added the word just. I just care for the elderly. I just don’t find something better.
‘Why do you volunteer?’ asked Lindsey.
I used to think I did it to help humanity, but the human race is impersonal, vast, faceless. It doesn’t call a helpline. I used to think I did it to make a difference. But people rang back time after time, no less depressed, no better at coping. So perhaps it was because I was addicted to the extreme stories, the tragedy, the truth. And apart from anything, meeting Will at Crisis Care had been an incentive to turn up. We’d flirt and eye one another between calls. Exchange quips when it grew dark outside and the phone calls became more intense.
Lindsey was staring at me.
‘Gotta get my kicks somewhere,’ I said.
‘The worst part of the floods was afterwards,’ said Lindsey.
I pictured my ruined shoes hanging in the cupboard.
‘The mess,’ said Lindsey. ‘I slept at a friend’s the night it happened. My mother called me the next day and said, “Don’t come home.” She wanted to clean up before I saw it. She was crying. “It’s like the house has been raped,” she said.’
Norman walked in with four more drinks, and Claudia entered just after, cigarette odour following her like a free-radical ghost.
‘Scenarios,’ she said. ‘Norman will take on the role of a caller, you’ll be listeners, and I’ll assess.’
Norman proved a versatile actor. He was a suicidal teen with an abusive brother, a self-harming single parent and a man who couldn’t sleep when it rained. Kath was adamant she should be allowed to knit while taking calls. Claudia suggested that clicking needles might be distracting to the caller; Kath argued that at Crisis Care she had improvised a needle silencer from a condom. I’d forever see her as Condom Kath.
It began snowing outside. Like new sheets on an old mattress, it hid weeds and mud and path. It was four o’clock and almost dark. I realised I was hungry. A text from Fern asked if I wanted a takeaway for tea.
‘Great work,’ said Claudia, as we concluded. ‘Any questions?’
‘You’re not open twenty-four hours, so how do we get off the phones?’ I said. I could tell she’d hoped no one would ask anything and was irritated. ‘With no one to hand over to, what if you’re in the middle of a difficult call?’
‘With as much sensitivity as possible, wind it up.’ Claudia made a circular motion with her hand.
‘Also you don’t have to answer the phone in the fifteen minutes leading up to the end of your shift,’ said Norman.
‘But if a caller’s taken loads of paracetamol and doesn’t want an ambulance, how can we wind it up?’ I’d read the rota, seen how scattered and few the shifts were.
‘We’ve not had any suicide attempts,’ said Norman. ‘Most people want to talk about the floods’
It didn’t comfort me. Give them time, I thought. Give them time.
‘I’m afraid,’ said Norman, ‘that if you’re talking to someone who’s made the decision to die and it clashes with you leaving you’ll have to stay.’
‘That’s why I bring knitting,’ said Condom Kath.
‘I’m sure we all have homes to go to,’ said Claudia. ‘Here are the contact details for the volunteer who’ll be your buddy.’
I took a sheet from Claudia. I was to begin the following Wednesday; my buddy was Christopher. Above my next four shifts was his address and mobile number, presumably in case I needed him before then.
‘That’s it,’ said Claudia. ‘Next time you come, you’re on the phones. How do you feel?’
‘Ready, I think,’ said Lindsey.
‘I need to buy more wool,’ said Condom Kath.
I looked at the telephones, sensed a thousand callers waiting. It felt like I was backstage, watching the curtain rise before stepping into the spotlight’s glare. I might have learned my lines, I might have done it 175 times before, but I was as sick as if I were being pushed in front of an audience for the first time.
I wanted to get it done.
To answer now.
But it was time to leave.
6
The first phone call
As I walked to the bus stop, the last call I’d taken at Crisis Care came to me. Will had been off sick; I’d felt relieved because our relationship had deteriorated by that point. I’d wanted to end Crisis Care on a high, perhaps make someone realise that life is wonderful and people do care. Rick was a regular caller who relayed a catalogue of miseries each time: a drunk, manic-depressive, ex-heroin-addict human.
‘Are you still here?’ he’d asked that last day.
Not for long, I’d thought.
‘Why the fuck do you bother?’ he’d demanded.
I’d spouted the usual response; it wasn’t about me it was about him, about his feelings. He asked me again at the end of the call: ‘Why the fuck do you bother?’ I had no answer. I didn’t know why I was drawn to these crisis places.
Maybe at Flood Crisis I would finally find out.
The bus was late; probably because of more roadworks following the floods. I shivered, stamped my feet and thanked God I wasn’t working tonight and could stay in. I frowned: had I made sure my new shifts didn’t clash with my care home hours? I went through my bag but couldn’t find the sheet Claudia had given me only half an hour before. I swore; I knew exactly where I’d left it: on top of Barbara Cartland.
I looked back towards the street where Flood Crisis was. Would anyone still be there? I abandoned the bus stop and hurried back. How different it looked now, dark against the starry sky, the climbing ivy now an inky spillage down the wall. The lights were out. I was too late.
No I wasn’t: I had the door code now.
But should I go in?
I climbed the steps, found the number on my phone and entered the digits into the metal square on the wall. The door opened with a soft creak. In the blackness, the smell was overpowering: damp tea towels, old carpets, shut-in air. I felt al
ong the wall, knowing the lounge door was on my right. Once inside I flicked the light switch.
The strangest feeling washed over me with the sudden brightness; I felt for a moment that this was exactly where I was supposed to be. That my forgotten sheet had been more than an accident. I picked it up from the table and scanned the information. Then I looked around at the empty chairs, recalling our memory game earlier. Claudia’s obvious shock at my memory-gap of a whole year made me now sit heavily in the velvet chair.
Why nine? What on earth had happened when I was nine?
Two of the telephones began ringing.
I dropped the sheet in surprise. Weren’t they supposed to be switched off? I stood up, heart hammering wildly. They continued ringing, just out of sync enough so that one followed the other like an echo. I put a clenched fist to my mouth, as though to stem any words. What should I do? Ignore them, said my head. Answer them, said my instinct. This could be my chance to get that terrifying first call over with, and no one here to listen in.
It all came back to me: my time as a volunteer.
I went to one of the booths and picked up the phone.
‘Do I have to give my name, dear?’ he said.
I didn’t respond for a few seconds because it took me a while to understand what he’d said. I wondered if he was drunk. No, that didn’t seem to be it; the slur of his words was too consistent. It sounded like his tongue was too heavy for his mouth.
‘You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,’ I said. The words came naturally to me.
‘I know I’m difficult to understand.’ He spoke slowly. ‘I had a stroke so I’ll try to speak as clearly as I can.’
‘Take all the time you need.’
I sat in the chair, looked at the empty notepad in front of me. I could not record this call. I wasn’t supposed to be here. Panic rose in my chest; should I tell Norman that I’d picked up the phone or never mention it? But I couldn’t think about that now. This had to be about the caller.
‘I’ve forgotten where I left my glasses,’ said the slow-speaking man.
I smiled. At least I might be able to help him remember.
‘When did you last have them?’
He ignored the question. ‘I write things down for people, you know,’ he said. ‘Luckily it’s my left arm that’s paralysed – I’m right-handed, you see. Of course you wouldn’t be able to see my words if I wrote them, so that’s silly.’
I said, ‘I understand you fine.’
‘I know you’re a flood place but I wasn’t flooded. My friends were, though. I miss them.’ It took him perhaps half a minute to say these two sentences. ‘I’m Sid.’ I knew he’d made it up. Our own names slip out easily, but he’d paused in a different way to the effort between his previous words, as though to think between ‘I’m’ and ‘Sid’.
I opened my mouth, said, ‘I’m Cath—’ And then I remembered I wasn’t – not here. ‘I’m Katrina,’ I said.
‘That’s nice. It’s good to hear a voice. I get lonely.’
‘That must be difficult,’ I said.
‘I live on my own. Some days I don’t see a soul. My flat’s on the second floor. But my friends were on the ground floor, so they’ve had to move away. There’s just me and Arthur Dunn up here; but he can’t hear too well, so we’re ill suited – his hearing aid makes me even more difficult to understand. What a Laurel and Hardy we are. Do you mind if I just put the phone down a second to make some tea?’
I heard him pour water and stir a spoon around a cup.
‘Takes me ages to make tea,’ he said. ‘“Cripple” is what they call folks with useless legs, but I don’t know what the word should be when one arm is useless.’
‘Does no one come round and help?’ I asked.
‘Everyone’s wrapped up in the floods. I don’t mind. At least I’ve got my roof. Dora from flat three is sharing a caravan with friends. Am I painting a pathetic picture of myself, grumbling here when others are worse off?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re just talking.’
Clumsily, he described how people in the supermarket laughed when he talked, and told me how, the day before, the cashier had asked if he was drunk. She said if he wanted alcohol, she’d fetch the manager. ‘I only wanted a dozen eggs,’ said Sid.
The image made my throat ache. He was perhaps the age my father would have been if he’d lived; I felt a pang of affection. Though we were warned at Crisis Care not to get attached to callers, I always had a soft spot for men that age.
‘My memory is terrible,’ Sid said carefully. ‘I call folks “thingy”. But you’re Katrina, right?’
‘Right,’ I said.
‘I’ve got to go and start cooking my tea. It’s late, so I’ll maybe warm some soup. Thank you for listening.’
And he was gone.
I sat for a while with the phone warm in my hand. If I replaced the handset it might ring again, but I couldn’t stay here all night.
Go home, popped into my head. Go home now before you get into this again. Go home before you need more than two shifts a week, before you count the hours until your next one. Go home before the nightmares begin. Go home before you wake and, just for a split second there’s the strange, bushy-haired man at the foot of your bed. Go home.
But this had been such a gentle start: no suicide or death or addiction. Just an old man who’d lost his glasses.
Yet, that night, for the first time in months – for the first time since I’d left Crisis Care – I dreamt of the room.
And saw the man.
7
Enduring trifle and peas
My mother shoved a hand inside the back end of a large chicken, pushing garlic-and-herb stuffing into its bowels, and only interrupting her efforts to stir the gravy with a wooden spoon and comment upon my attire as I entered the kitchen.
‘You shouldn’t wear red,’ she said. ‘It makes you look washed out and at least thirty-nine years old.’
Hanging my offending scarlet coat in the cupboard, I ignored the criticism and looked in the fridge for wine. A bottle lurked behind the peach smoothie and liver pate.
‘Don’t slam the door,’ she snapped, as I did.
I took a sturdy tumbler from the cupboard and poured an endure-Sunday-lunch-at-Mother’s-sized measure.
‘I’m late putting it in,’ she said.
‘Putting what in?’ I asked.
‘The stuffing. Dinner will be ready in half an hour, but the stuffing might be a bit undercooked. I can’t believe I forgot. I never have in all these years.’ She stopped stirring the gravy and pushed some white strands of hair behind her ear. Tiny pearl earrings dangled from her lobes, a reminder of her elegance amidst the steam. ‘Lady in Red’ played on the radio. I smoothed my eyebrows with my index finger; she’d notice they needed plucking before the day was done.
‘Not straightening your hair anymore?’ She had a knack for seeing without even looking at me.
I touched my chaotic locks. ‘Who’s here, then?’
‘Graham’s reading the paper in the lounge.’ She gave the lump of stuffing a firm pat. ‘Celine’s coming after the gym. Mark can’t, he’s showing some viewers the house.’
Graham was Mother’s second husband; Celine was his daughter. I loved him and tolerated her. He’d moved in when I was thirteen. Fortunately, Celine had lived with her own mother and her brother, Stephen, so I only endured her at family functions and Christmas, or when someone died. Mark was her husband.
I’d always known Mother wasn’t my biological mum. I asked her once why she’d never had children with my dad or Graham. ‘You were enough,’ she’d said, and not in a way that suggested I brought the joy of ten.
‘Don’t disappear, you can help me.’ She opened the oven door again and rotated roast potatoes with a fork, obsessive about an even browning. New potatoes simmered in a pan on top. Peas, carrots and broccoli cooked in a haze of vapour.
‘Why do I have to help?’ It never took long for me to assu
me my role of whining daughter, my mother providing the boundaries every parenting book says should be created, if only to be kicked against. I was a rigorous kicker.
‘I worked until five this morning,’ I said. ‘Only got four hours’ sleep. Bet Sharleen won’t help.’
‘Don’t start with the “Sharleen”; you know she’s Celine,’ Mother sighed. ‘You’ve only been here five minutes.’
‘I’ll burn everything. I’m crap at kitchen stuff.’
‘Go and see Graham then!’ she said.
I moved before she changed her mind, fast as a ten-year-old who’s been given the freedom to go and play for another twenty minutes. But I didn’t go to the lounge at the back of the house, overlooking the acre of garden; I went to the study.
Once inside I closed the door and leaned against its cool surface. The study was a graveyard, the sheet-covered furniture looking like tombstones. I moved through the dust particles that drifted through the air like ghosts, pulled a sheet free and unveiled a chair – my dad’s favourite. Its discoloured arms and scratched legs hinted at its years of use, at my many stolen moments curled up there. I sat down near it, by the lattice window, where I could see the naked lilac tree.
‘Hi Dad,’ I whispered.
A picture of us in a frame dull with age sat on the windowsill next to his golf trophies. The image was as familiar as my hand’s creases. Dad and I rested on a rock, frothy sea behind us, wind buffeting my yellow dress, our smiles identical. The picture was imprinted on my mind, but where we’d been before and what we’d done after was blank. Because she also loved him, my mother permitted this altar to my dad’s memory.
I had one too – to my biological mum; but I kept it inside me. She was Mum, a name no one could change. A mysterious angel I’d never known, since she’d died giving birth to me. Mother met Dad when I was already six months old. She took us both on: him through love, me perhaps through necessity. I was her only chance at any sort of child.
