The White Room

by Martyn Waites

  Monica nodded, kept her mouth closed to stifle a yawn.

  ‘What about your other son?’ she said.

  Ralph shook his head.

  ‘Still never see him. I know he works down the abattoir, got one of the new flats in Scotswood. I helped him with that. Well, Dan sorted it for him. He wouldn’t take any offers of help from me. I had to make it look like I had nothing to do with it.’ Ralph sighed, lost in his own thoughts. ‘Fancy. Your own son. And I don’t know what he’s doin’. Dan asked if I wanted to get someone to keep an eye on him. I said no. I was tempted, but I said no. He’s grown up; he can do what he likes. But I don’t even know what he’s doin’. Where he is half the time.’ Ralph sighed again. ‘Like I’ve lost two sons. And they’re not even dead …’

  Monica nodded, affecting understanding.

  ‘I’m amazed Joanne turned out as well as she did.’ Another sigh. ‘I’ve been a terrible father. Terrible. I was either working or meetin’ people, tryin’ to fix up deals. Work, though, always work. Or at meetin’s. Giving me time to the party. Labour, y’know.’ He gave a bitter laugh. ‘That was just work as well. If I’m honest. Socialism’s all well and good and that, and it’s a nice idea, but … it was where the deals were made. Relationships cemented. Everyone knew Dan Smith was going places. Everyone wanted some of that. Well, I got it. I was lucky.’ Another bitter laugh. ‘Lucky. Well, not really luck. I mean, Dan might like to think of himself as a visionary, a Trotskyist even, but he likes money as much as the next man. I got the contracts, all right. But I had to make sure he was taken care of too. Mind you, I saw meself all right. On the Elms. But then everyone does. Cuts corners, y’know, we all do, pockets the difference. Mind I didn’t tell Jack. He’s too honest. He’d have left. And he’s too valuable, too good at his job. I need him.’

  The same speech every time. Monica had been listening to it for over a year now. She knew where the gaps came, what her lines were, what prompts she needed to give. It was as much a part of the ritual as the sex. She was still acting out a part.

  She knew what was up next: guilt and indulgence.

  ‘I used to spoil them, you know’ He smiled distantly. He was lost to Monica now, adrift on his own.

  Monica nodded, no longer even pretending to listen, just a movement out of habit. She sipped her tea.

  ‘It was guilt, I suppose. I had to indulge them, especially the boys. Because I was always out. Like I said, work, meetings. So when I saw them I’d spoil them. Take them to the football, the pictures, anywhere. Let them have anything they wanted. Anything. Jean didn’t like it, but then, as I told her, it wasn’t her as was going out to work every day. Wasn’t her bringing the money in. First few times she would argue, but a quick slap soon shut her up.’ Ralph nodded to himself. ‘You have to, though, sometimes, don’t you? Keep them in line.’ His words were for himself. Monica sipped her tea. ‘It’s different hittin’ a woman than it is hittin’ a man. Different. But it worked, though. She didn’t argue again.’

  Monica drained her teacup, placed it on the floor. Ralph hadn’t touched his. It would be cold by now.

  ‘I even gave them jobs in the firm. Ones they didn’t have to work at. I knew it was wrong. Even at that time I knew it was wrong. But I had to do somethin’. They turned out bad. I know they did.’ Another sigh. ‘And look where it got them. Look where it got me.’ He shook his head. ‘One’s a vegetable and one’s … I don’t know what. And look at me. Look where I am.’

  Monica looked up. This was her cue to tell him that things weren’t so bad and that he was a good, successful man. Not a failure, as he saw himself. Once that was said and he believed it, she then had to tell him how much he was loved.

  She opened her mouth to speak, summoning up the feeling to say her usual lines with conviction.

  I deserve an Oscar for this, she thought.

  Ralph turned to her.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t say it. Don’t.’

  There was a strange fire in his eyes, a curious light.

  Monica looked at him. Her mouth closed on the words she would have said.

  ‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘I mean, really listen. This is important.’

  Monica looked at him, slightly startled at the script deviation.

  ‘You’ve got a little girl, haven’t you?’

  Monica’s heart skipped a beat. She nodded.

  ‘Does she know what you do for a living?’

  Monica made to stand up.

  ‘I don’t think this is—’

  Ralph grabbed her wrist, pulled her down again.

  ‘Please, just listen.’

  Monica sat down. She had lost control of the situation.

  ‘Do you love your daughter?’

  Ralph was looking at Monica, eyes intensely boring into her. She wanted a drink. Needed one.

  ‘She’s me daughter.’

  Monica’s voice was dry despite the tea.

  ‘But do you love her?’

  ‘I …’

  ‘Be honest.’

  No, Monica. Mae had just always been there. Since her father disappeared. There. Holding Monica back, being a burden, in the way. Not even going when she tried getting rid of her. No. She had hated Mae, told her so. Screamed it into her face.

  Love?

  ‘I … I don’t … know …’

  Ralph grabbed her hands. Held them within his own.

  ‘Love her. Let her know it. Don’t do what I did. It’s never too late to change. Never.’

  Monica’s heart was racing. Beneath her nylon dressing gown, her stiff, unyielding working clothes, her body was sheened with a cold, prickling sweat.

  ‘I … I think you’d better go now.’ She tried to pull her hands away but he had them firmly. ‘I’ve got someone … someone else. Coming.’

  Ralph sighed, shook his head. He slackened his grip. She pulled her hands quickly away.

  ‘Sorry.’

  He couldn’t meet her eyes. He stood up.

  ‘I’d better go. I’m sorry.’

  Monica nodded. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have …’

  ‘It’s all right.’

  Ralph nodded, made his way numbly to the door. He turned.

  ‘I didn’t mean …’

  ‘I know.’ Monica’s voice was calm, even. Held the veneer of control. ‘I said it’s all right.’

  ‘I’ll see you again, I hope.’ Ralph was mumbling, red-faced.

  ‘Soon.’ Monica tried to invest the word with steadying warmth.

  Ralph opened the door, left the room. She heard him go down the hall, open then close the front door. Gone.

  She breathed a huge sigh of relief. Sat back on the bed.

  Love. All that talk of love. Where did that come from?

  She gave a small laugh.

  ‘Love.’

  She laughed again. It rang metallic and hollow around the empty room.

  What was he on about? Poor addled man.

  Love.

  She looked around the room.

  White walls. Deep shadows where the light couldn’t reach. Crucifixes. Christ in agony: nailed, bloodied, cut. Dying. The sinners watching.

  Love.

  She went in to the kitchen to pour herself a drink. Gin. A large one. Very large.

  Mother’s ruin.

  She gulped it down.

  Her hands were shaking.

  Ben Marshall couldn’t believe his luck.

  He’d always thought luck was something you made for yourself, but here he was being proved wrong.

  The evidence: Ralph Bell and Monica Blacklock.

  Together.

  Talk about the proverbial. Two birds and one stone.

  This was brilliant.

  He had been trailing Ralph Bell for months. All part of the long-range plan. Ralph’s work, his play. Ben building his findings into a chain, looking for the weakest links.

  He’d just found another one.

  He had been thinking of Kenny
, something to do with Kenny. But this was even better.

  This could be the one.

  In all the time of trailing, it was the first time he had recognized Monica. She had been there, greeting him at the door. And he had recognized her. The wig and sometimes the dark glasses had thrown him off. Her body had changed its shape too: fat deposits shifting, settling in new, permanent places like undersea topography. Her face, when not made up, was gin-blotched, alcohol-inflated, but it was her.

  And still on the game. Specializing in pain and humiliation.

  And the kid. He’d seen the kid.

  Small, with dead eyes. Staring at her mother, hiding her emotions, masking her fear with a film of indifference. But Ben knew what lay behind it.

  Because that’s how Brian had been.

  That was where the family resemblance ended. She was Monica’s kid, not his. Brian Mooney was dead. Monica’s kid’s father was dead.

  Ben Marshall had nothing to do with it.

  Ralph Bell and Monica, though.

  Ben smiled. He had to think. He had to plan how to deal with this. How best to turn it to his own advantage.

  He turned the key in the ignition, put the Sprite into gear.

  Turned the radio on.

  ‘Devil in Disguise’. Elvis Presley.

  Number one.

  He drove away, smiling to himself.

  Monica tossed. Monica turned. She clenched and stretched. But it was no good. She couldn’t reach the kind of sleep she wanted. She wanted peacefulness. Stillness. Black dreamlessness. But its reach exceeded her grasp.

  She sighed, threw the bedclothes back from her body, stood up. She checked the bedside clock. Nearly twenty-past four. Hours before her usual rising time. She crossed to the window, pulled back the curtains. The street was dead. The world was dead. Everyone else was asleep. Monica was the only person awake.

  Monica’s heart felt like a locked, weighted coffin sinking to the bottom of a cold, cold lake. She hated being alone. And this was the worst time. Nights she could drink herself to bed, mornings she could lie about the new day’s possibilities. But at this time in the morning there were no lies she could tell herself. Only harsh, painful truths.

  Her reflection looked back at her from the glass. She was startled: she looked so old, so used up. Her face was drawn: dulled, grey eyes sitting above black sacks, ringed by an accretion of lines and creases that had nothing to do with laughter. Her hair, free of her wigs, hung dead and lank. Her body looked old, used, tired, as if it had become a repository for more than her punters’ semen and sadism: their twisted desires, their controlled rages, their disappointments, failures and self-hatred. Given incrementally, with each thrust, lash and humiliation. Her life written on her body. The men used her and left, temporarily soul-cleansed, sated. Until those twisted desires returned, those rages threatened to slip from control. Then they would return. And Monica would receive them. Again, in the white room with the dark shadows. The crucifixes showing Christ’s love and Christ’s agony, Christ’s love. Taking on the sins of the world, dying for them, being set free to live again. A few had asked why the religious icons were there, some taken offence. But Monica insisted they remain. A reminder.

  Monica sighed, turned away from the window. Faced back into the room.

  It was a mess: clothes, plates, bottles and glasses left lying around. No real pride, no real care. Not really home. Her sleeping bed – as opposed to her working one – indented only on one side. She usually slept alone.

  Bert considered himself her boyfriend. Monica regarded him as a sad, obsessed punter, dreaming up a fantasy involving her to replace the memory of his dead wife. And she was happy with that. He occasionally stayed with her but rarely wanted sex. When he did it was straightforward and over with quickly, which pleased Monica. She had other boyfriends, too, which Bert knew about but never mentioned. They didn’t usually last long. Her profession repelled those she would have liked, attracted those she didn’t. They fell roughly into two categories: those who were turned on by what she did, and those who felt it was their right to never have to work, just live off her money. She tried hard to convince herself she was happy with these men, reinforce that feeling with alcohol, but it never worked. They drifted away after a while, on to someone easier, cheaper or more desperate. Leaving Monica alone. Again.

  Monica didn’t have a pimp. Didn’t need one. She paid protection, like all the working girls in the area, and she had referrals. That did for her. She made a living.

  Ralph Bell’s words had cut into her. Verbal knives. Making her think.

  About Mae.

  Four thirty in the morning, honesty continued. It wasn’t the girl’s fault. Mae hadn’t asked to be born. It was all Brian’s fault. And he was so long gone and so far away; he may as well be dead. Perhaps he was dead.

  All his fault. But past the point of blame now. Time for action.

  Ralph Bell’s words again: Love her. Let her know it. Don’t do what I did. It’s never too late to change. Never.

  Monica looked around. Her room. Her bed. Her body.

  Her life.

  Not Mae’s.

  She turned, walked down the hall to Mae’s room. Her daughter’s room. Furnished almost as an afterthought: furniture and belongings sparse.

  Mae lay in bed, asleep. Eyes closed, breathing shallow. Clutching her toy rabbit. She looked contented, at peace.

  Never too late to change. Never.

  Monica had to get Mae away from this life. Give her a new one. A better one.

  That’s what she would do. That’s what she had to do.

  Decision made, she yawned. Tired. She went back to her own room, lay down on her bed, pulled the covers over her body.

  She knew what she had to do.

  With that thought in mind, she slept.

  It was past ten o’clock when she woke again.

  Monica opened her eyes, looked at the time. With a start she flung back the covers, got out of bed. Her sleep had been dark and deep, like floating down a restful river in an underground, pitch-black cave.

  Lovely.

  She took that as an omen. Things were going to be all right. Peace would come to her.

  Peace almost prematurely halted when she wrapped herself in her dressing gown and made her way into the kitchen. Mae had helped herself to cornflakes: a debris trail of cereal and milk stretched from the Formica work surface to the kitchen table.

  Monica felt the familiar anger rising within her. She pulled back her hand to strike Mae, opened her mouth to bellow at her. Mae, spoon on the way to her open mouth, gave a routine, ritualistic flinch.

  No, thought Monica. Not this time. Things are going to change. New day. New start.

  She put down her hand, closed her mouth. Mae, spooning in cornflakes and milk, eyed her mother warily.

  ’Eat that and hurry up,’ said Monica. ‘We’re going out.’

  The adoption agency was in first-floor offices above a row of shops on Clayton Street. It was one of the few private agencies operating in the North-East.

  Monica had put on her best clothes, her most restrained make-up, her most modest wig. She sat there in the drab, brown-walled office before the heavy functional desks and chairs, a cup of cooling tea perched on her lap. Two women looked at her from across their desks. On the wall behind them was a crucifix. Christ taking away the sins of the world. Monica knew: she and these women would see things differently.

  She had put aside her prejudice, tried to calm her fast-beating heart on walking into the agency. She knew she would have to be cunning. Lie if need be.

  The attitudes of the two women, brittle and superficially solicitous, had put her in mind of trips to the headmaster’s office at school. The feeling went further: the form she had filled in had only highlighted her lack of formal education. Her handwriting was bad, letters ill-formed, sentences poorly constructed. The two women were looking it over. She felt she was going to be given marks out of ten, told she had failed the test, aske
d to leave.

  The two women finished looking at the form, gave a barely perceptible nod to each other, put it down, looked at Monica.

  ‘So,’ the first woman, the one with the round cheeks that gave her a smug, self-satisfied air, said, referring to the form, ‘Miss Blacklock.’ She made a hiss out of ‘miss’. ‘Why do you want to give up your daughter to adoption?’

  Monica opened her mouth, but sound was a long time in coming.

  ‘I … I just … I can’t cope. Any more. I think she needs …’ Monica lowered her head, mumbled.

  ‘Pardon, Miss Blacklock?’ The second woman, the slope-shouldered, flat-chested one, spoke. ‘We can’t hear you.’

  Monica knew her face was flushed.

  ‘I said I think she needs something better.’

  The two women looked at each other, exchanged small nods of concurrence, as if the words were expected.

  ‘And you live in …?’ Smug Cheeks again.

  Monica cleared her throat. ‘Scotswood,’ she said.

  The two nodded again at each other.

  Flat Chest scrutinized the form.

  ‘You haven’t put down what you do for a living, Miss Blacklock,’ she said.

  Monica opened her mouth. Nothing emerged but a stuttering sound.

  The two women looked at her again, expectantly.

  She hadn’t planned for this. Such a simple thing, and she hadn’t thought of it. She had expected to just walk in, leave Mae and walk out again with their gratitude ringing in her ears. Then she would be left to get on with things. With life.

  She didn’t know what to say for the best. They were already being judgemental about her. Would the truth make them more so? Look further down their noses at her? Would a lie if found out make them return Mae to her? She decided to take a chance.

  She cleared her throat.

  ‘I’ve got a job,’ she said.

  The two women looked at her, silently encouraging her to keep talking.

  ‘It’s …’ Monica swallowed hard. ‘I have to be careful. I’m signin’ on. You might shop us to the social.’