The Writing on the Wall and Other Stories

by Penny Edwards

  He sighed, which was about where he and Karl had left it, at a point where there was an unspoken understanding that neither was going to change the other’s point of view, but there was a tension, nevertheless, and Peter suspected both of them would be quite upset for another few hours.

  It was when Karl had started talking about the flat that Peter found himself getting angrier as it felt this was outside of Karl’s domain. There was such a history there that Karl couldn’t possibly understand because he didn’t have the information.

  “You don’t understand, Karl. I can’t give up the flat. Anyway, I don’t want to. That’s the end of the matter and I shouldn’t even feel I have to explain myself to you.”

  “But it would help pay for—”

  “What exactly? A room in a strange home, surrounded by people she doesn’t know?”

  “Peter, she doesn’t know—”

  “Don’t you dare say it. You must know, Karl, I couldn’t do that. She’s been my life. And what would people think? Local teacher can’t even look after his wife. Anyway, the money from the flat, Elsa and I always said, oh, it’s a long and complicated story. And actually, it’s none of your business. But Elsa wouldn’t want it used for her. I know that. It would, I don’t know, it would humiliate her. She wouldn’t want anyone else to suffer.”

  *

  It was 1956 when his mother had died. She’d managed to survive only eleven years of peace and though cancer had caught her, Peter always thought she’d died of a broken heart, never really accepting life without his father, whose unwillingness to accept Hitler’s regime had left them both with shortened lives, and as she wrapped widowhood around her like she might a comfy blanket, a dreariness seemed to occupy the air around her for nothing more optimistic could get through. Herr Muller was a perfect example, who often seemed to give his mother an odd grocery more than was strictly permitted, and, as a boy, Peter had felt fiercely protective of his father’s memory when he thought Herr Muller talked to his mother more than he did the other women in his shop, but when the war ended and he wanted to start moving away from his mother slightly, Herr Muller’s attentions could have proved helpful in this, but he grew to accept that Herr Muller wasn’t going to make a mark on a woman whose anger at the war for having taken her husband was never going to allow him to offer any affection.

  So it was strange when, just over ten years ago, Herr Muller, an old man with no children but with quite a few nieces and nephews, had quite unexpectedly, without any prior knowledge of Peter’s, left his grocery shop to the son of someone he must have had far deeper feelings for than Peter could ever have imagined. He didn’t hear from the nieces and nephews, there were no grumblings, so perhaps Herr Muller had other assets no one knew about, and the shop was very rundown, but the solicitor had told Peter his client expressly wished Peter to have it because, he said, Peter would know what to do with it.

  He’d been astonished when he’d first heard of what Herr Muller had done. There was only gratitude from both his mother and Peter towards Herr Muller, but by visiting the shop regularly for all his adult life perhaps he’d kept his mother’s memory alive and that, for the shopkeeper, had been enough.

  Peter, though, was uncomfortable with this additional wealth. It didn’t sit well with him to own anything more than somewhere for both of them to live. Nor did they want to keep it as a shop, for though it had been excellent and well used in its day, it had begun to be something that had the past written all over it, and customers were few and far between. He mulled over it for weeks, but it was Elsa who finally came up with an idea.

  She had, for many years, been something of a benevolent aunt, he supposed, to a young woman, Sofie, who had a son, Jorg. Jorg had cerebral palsy and Elsa had got to know them at a local community centre where she frequently went to see if there was anything she could do to help with this or that. It was her way of cleansing a past she didn’t want anything to do with and disguising the fact she had no children to look after or, later on, think about and had time on her hands she hadn’t expected. Elsa and Sofie became firm friends, with Elsa spending hours at Sofie’s flat, helping feed the teenage Jorg or changing his nappy. He remembered seeing Jorg’s room once when he went over to collect Elsa. On his bed were five toys: two teddy bears, one panda, a multi-coloured patchwork clown and a zebra Sofie called Jorg’s best friend because they could never go anywhere without him. It was a large bed for one person, with pine boards on all sides to stop Jorg falling out and pillows built high, like fluffy, white clouds. His changing mattress was at an almost perfect right-angle to his bed, making it possible for Sofie and Elsa to see outside and start nearly every conversation, according to Elsa, with comments about the state of Sofie’s pot plants in her tiny, cemented yard she and Jorg called their garden.

  “Peter, I have an idea,” Elsa had said in that excited way she did sometimes, talking twice as quickly as usual, her face reddened with the joy of such a discovery.

  He’d just walked through the door after a particularly arduous day at school when one of his more difficult classes had become disruptive while trying to grapple with idiosyncratic English spelling, for which he had a certain amount of sympathy but couldn’t show that to this group as all might have been lost.

  Elsa knew none of this, so continued. “Sofie’s finding it difficult to pay her rent since that damned landlord hoicked up the price so much. She didn’t want to talk about it, but I could see she was down, so asked her what the matter was and eventually got it out of her. So, it got me thinking, the flat.”

  “You mean we ask Sofie if she wants to live there. There’s so much work that needs to be done. We need to ask Karl…”

  “No, no, no. That was my first thought, but then Sofie was talking about how heartbreaking it would be to leave their flat because they loved it so much, especially Jorg, who just loves the dog next door.” She stopped for a second or two. “Benno, that’s it. That’s the dog’s name. If they want to stay there, why don’t we tell Sofie we could pay her rent for her?”

  Peter followed Elsa into the lounge, still wondering about English spelling, and put his briefcase and a bag full of unmarked essays on the table.

  Elsa looked very pleased with herself.

  “Don’t you see?” she said, now getting just a tiny bit impatient with him for not understanding what she was trying to say.

  “We could let out the flat and give the money we get to Sofie. Oh, I know she won’t want to take it; you could explain to her that you don’t want to make money from it, but nor do you want to sell it. You said yourself you’d find it hard to let it go because of Herr Muller. The solicitor told you that Herr Muller knew you’d find a good use for it. Well, this is it. We just need to persuade Sofie to let us do this.”

  “That’s not going to be easy. She’s proud. You’ve always noticed that about her. She won’t want charity.”

  “Then we don’t make it sound like charity. We tell her it’s doing us a favour. Even if she just takes part of the money, then we can give the rest to charity. Please, Peter. I want to do this.”

  He knew she did. It came out of different things: a past she was ashamed of and a need to treat someone as her child. Sofie was like her daughter and her proposal just seemed to Elsa like the most natural thing in the world.

  He told her he was fine with the plan, he didn’t want Herr Muller’s money, but she had to persuade Sofie. He wasn’t getting involved with that side of things. Elsa squealed with delight and both of them knew her powers of persuasion. Somehow, she’d find a way.

  Peter smiled to himself. Elsa certainly did find a way. Sofie agreed they could pay the increase that she was finding so difficult to meet and that she would treat it as a loan and pay them back when she was able. Elsa reluctantly had had to agree to this, which Peter had said to her was something of a victory as he’d been very unsure about whether Sofie would ac
cept anything. Elsa, though, was not daunted and used other money from the flat to buy things Sofie needed and wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  They talked about the rest of the money and where it should go. Elsa wanted it to go to a charity for refugees and Peter agreed this was a good choice as it fitted in, he thought, with Herr Muller’s awareness of the difficulties of others and his desire to try to make things better.

  He looked at Elsa again. She was still at one with her photo. The revelation that the photo was still in their house was a shock to Peter because he’d always imagined the severance from her father was as complete for Elsa as it was for him. It had been a dull Sunday afternoon, one of those times when everything slows down a little, allowing thoughts to turn into the enemy who fights contentment and introduces every question mark possible, when he saw her with the damned thing. It was during the first stage of her illness and when he saw her looking at it with affection, he knew then that the Elsa he’d married had gone forever.

  He tried to prise the photo from her gently, but she shouted at him. “No, no, no,” she kept screaming and she held on to it with strength he couldn’t remember her ever having, and all the time looking at him as if he was trying to cause her unimaginable pain. He stayed with her while this continued for about an hour, saying nothing now because nothing would work but just watching her incessant pacing; then she finally sat down, completely exhausted, her mission complete. She still had the photo in her possession.

  He, too, was exhausted and maybe it was because of this and because he had no energy left even for contradictory thoughts that he picked up the phone and rang Sofie’s number.

  25

  Helen showed Audrey Peter’s letter. This was a new and rather odd experience. She had spent the day crying intermittently, something she was quite unused to doing, and now she was sharing a personal letter with someone she didn’t know all that well.

  “Poor man,” said the person sitting next to her, who she was beginning to see as a friend she could trust with herself, someone with no expectations from this visit other than to help.

  She stroked the chocolate wrapper Peter had enclosed with his letter, which must have been nearly sixty years old, though its pristine condition didn’t give this away, and then passed it to Audrey.

  “Quite a treasured possession,” she said. “It reminds me of a serviette I’ve got from my first meal out with Kenneth. It’s in the top drawer of my dressing table. He has no idea it’s there. He’d think I was daft.”

  She thought of all the things she’d kept of her children’s – tiny shoes; scarves; bibs even – and how just touching or smelling them could turn her into the person she was then, those old joys and fears experienced anew.

  “He’s very lonely,” continued Audrey. “I can see that having a proper conversation with you was something of a novelty, not only because of the English, but he obviously doesn’t get to have many chances for a chat. It’s enough to drive you barmy. Can you imagine it?”

  Had Audrey asked her that question a couple of weeks ago, she would have had to say she couldn’t imagine what it was like to live without sensible conversation while incessant demands were being made, but after seeing for herself and for such a short while, she could say it was as if a person’s freedom had been completely taken away from them and that time to breathe was something lost.

  “Then maybe you should go back and thank him for his letter,” Audrey prompted. “I’ll go with you.”

  Helen didn’t respond.

  “You need to get your things,” her friend reminded her.

  “God, Audrey, I’ve made such a mistake coming here.”

  “Don’t be silly. For one thing, you’ve come all this way on your own. That’s no mean achievement.”

  “I was just looking for Stephen. I thought, I don’t know, I suppose I thought he’d…” She hesitated because she thought she was going to get upset. “I thought he’d be here. It’s ridiculous.”

  “No, it’s not.” Audrey found herself struggling.

  There were things in life that just didn’t make sense, but what Helen was doing was no more stupid than when she put on Jean’s scarf and lifted it to her nose so she could smell her sister on the garment. Sometimes, she could even make herself believe that Jean knew what she was doing. “Audrey, for God’s sake, get on with your life,” is what she would’ve said, but it didn’t stop her wearing it.

  “Maybe you did find him. You’ve certainly found out a lot about what he was doing here.” To herself she thought that Helen had probably come here to cry and what had happened in the flat had certainly helped it along. It was funny, she thought, how some people needed distance, and for Helen, she seemed to need permission as well. “You know, I think we should go to Peter’s,” Audrey encouraged Helen.

  Helen nodded. She knew Audrey was right, but she really didn’t feel strong enough. She started to cry, then let out a big sigh in sheer exasperation at her inability to stop what felt like a disease that kept creeping up inside her.

  Audrey reached for a hanky and passed it to her.

  “I’m so sorry,” Helen barely managed and she blew her nose.

  “Don’t be daft. Why do you think I’m here?” Audrey gently put her hand on Helen’s wrist. “Look, why don’t we go and collect your things, bring them back here, then go and get something to eat. You can just put a note under Peter’s door. Sort the finances out later. He’ll understand.”

  *

  “What are you doing?” She could hear Stephen’s voice in her head. He was angry. His briefcase had fallen off a chair and all his papers lay scattered on the floor. She was just trying to scoop them up.

  26

  “Is Karl coming today?” Elsa asked.

  Peter smiled. “Not today, no,” he replied.

  “Did you get me a cup of coffee?”

  “Yes, you drank it.”

  Elsa stared, confused, at the empty mug on the table in front of her.

  “Can I have a biscuit?”

  “You’ve already had two.”

  “Can I have a biscuit?”

  Peter reached for the biscuit tin and offered it to Elsa.

  “Is Karl coming today?”

  “No.”

  “Can I have a cup of coffee?”

  “You’ve already…” Peter picked up the mug and walked towards the kitchen.

  The day the doctor told them Elsa had dementia was hot and sunny and such days since had often been scarred by that memory. Elsa held his hand so tightly he was worried he might have to release himself from her. Bulging tears collected in her eyes. He asked the doctor if she was sure. She said she was. Later, he thought it was a silly question. She wouldn’t have said it if she wasn’t sure, but he couldn’t quite believe it and didn’t want to have to digest it. Elsa had always had such a bright, enquiring mind. He must have asked other questions that probably equally had no sense, but he couldn’t remember what they were and anyway, he had no idea what she answered.

  On the way home, he tried to reassure his wife, speaking earnestly and at a fast pace. Science was moving; there was medication; they’d get through this together; but really, he felt he was talking to himself. Elsa could only nod occasionally, her grasp of his arm like that of a frightened child. Conversation was sparse when they got home and they ended up watching a film on TV, she still holding him tightly, he too frightened to let her go. Halfway through the film she asked him never to leave her because she couldn’t cope with this on her own. She was sane then and he told her that she shouldn’t think such a thing. He would always be with her.

  He put the second cup of coffee on the placemat in front of Elsa. She looked at it blankly.

  “Did I tell you my grandfather was in Ypres in the First World War?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know him?
”

  “No, no, I didn’t.”

  “He learnt some French there, you know.”

  *

  Her grandfather was in Ypres. He learnt some French there. He was in the First World War. He was in Ypres. He learnt French there. Her grandfather. He didn’t know him. He’d never, ever, ever met him. Never. He had, however, met an English soldier, Freddy, in another war, the enemy, only he wasn’t the enemy, he was a friend, someone with a different language, but a person nevertheless, who’d lifted him from the devastation of the war and from his mother’s depression, and had allowed him to stop thinking, for one moment, about a father he didn’t have anymore, the one who’d gone to the park with him and played football, who’d laughed and joked with him and ruffled the top of his head when they were walking home but hadn’t been able to carry on doing all those things because one day he’d dared to talk honestly to someone he shouldn’t have done about the despicable regime they were all having to live under. Two men had come to the house to speak to his father, they’d forced him into their car and Peter had never seen his father again. Freddy, though, had shown him that life was still possible. Amongst all the rubble and all the dirt, they’d managed to somehow find a little bit of conversation, which had encouraged Peter to learn more English, to study the old enemy’s language, even when some had looked angrily at him. “What do you want to learn that for?” And so he’d ended up teaching it. He loved this; he loved sharing his knowledge, teaching the culture of another country, even if it was an old adversary. It was great when he watched an increasing enthusiasm amongst some of his pupils.

  “Did you get me a cup of coffee?”

  “Yes, it’s there, in front of you.”

  “Is Karl coming today?”

  “No.”

  “Can I have a cup of coffee?”