by Julie Cohen
Honor thought of the sentence she had been reading: They have no conception of what happiness is, and they do not know that without love there is no happiness or unhappiness for us, for there would be no life. She opened the book and put her finger on it by feel, without looking. She pictured the sentence in her mind.
When she opened her eyes, the words danced.
After this first tremor she carried on reading for several months, regardless. With a book she knew well, it was less of a problem; the words at the edges around the margin stayed obediently still, ranks of reliable soldiers, and she could predict the meaning of the dancing middle, even if she couldn’t quite catch the words. But a new book was impossible to understand. Meaning became slippery, syntax distorted. Distracted by movement, she couldn’t follow a sentence she had started.
Honor knew what was causing it. Thirty-five years before, she had seen her father put down his newspaper and rub his forehead; she had noticed him, a man who’d always taken the greatest care with his appearance, missing spots when he shaved, tying his tie askance. She had suggested a change in the prescription of his glasses, and she and Stephen had walked with him to the optometrist – to help him choose new frames, she said. Really it was because she knew that her father wouldn’t pass on what he’d been told. Levinsons were not fond of doctors.
So she was there to hear her father’s description of what he saw: It’s all hazy in the middle, and sometimes it jumps.
She was also there to watch the optometrist administer tests, and to hear the diagnosis. Thirty-five years had not dulled her memory of the horror, for a man who had worked with his hands, who had recognized faces, lived in the same community, gone to the same shul for all of his life, who measured rope and chain and nails and screws by eye, who knew everyone by sight.
And now here Honor was, thirty-five years later, older than her father had been when he had begun to go blind. And her world was all hazy in the middle, and it jumped.
A computer screen was no better than a book, but she had Googled it anyway and though the text seemed to scroll itself, she found out everything she needed to know. Macular degeneration, a progressive destroying of the pigments of the retina, which manifested as a haziness in the centre of vision, followed by eventual blackness that destroyed everything directly in front of you.
Incurable, inevitable, inherited.
The words jumped because her peripheral vision was better than her direct vision, and she was moving her head to catch them. They weren’t shifting; she was. The centre of her sight was melting away, like a piece of paper held over a candle.
There was nothing she could do to slow it or to prevent it. So she chained up her bicycle and shelved her books and put away all the parts of herself that relied on seeing. Except for her years at Oxford, she had lived in her house since she was a child and she knew it by feel and touch, smell and hearing.
But then she’d mis-stepped. She’d fallen.
And now here she was in a house she did not know, and she had to hide the hole in her seeing.
Chapter Seventeen
Jo
SHE WOKE HEARING Stephen’s scream.
Eyes snapped open into darkness. Jo sat up, shaking. She wiped sweat from her forehead. The glowing clock said 03.14. She was here, in her house, in the king-sized bed alone, with her children sleeping around her, Stephen’s mother sleeping downstairs. The scream had only been in her mind.
She still heard it.
She pushed off the duvet and swung her feet out of bed. It was still only April; this was early. The anniversary wasn’t till June. Jo knew from experience that she had to get up, make herself a hot drink, find a book to read or a television programme to watch, or else she would keep thinking about it. About Stephen’s last moments, about what he had seen, how he had felt. The fear that must have ripped through him, his most secret feelings coming to life as he died.
His hands, scrabbling at nothing. His glasses falling off his face. The police hadn’t returned them to her; they must have been smashed. She had given the undertakers his spare ones, even though the casket was closed, even though he had no use for them.
What had Stephen seen?
Jo bowed her head into her hands. She knew she would not sleep again tonight, and she would have to put a bright face on everything tomorrow.
It was only April.
Jo knocked on Honor’s door. ‘Yes?’ she answered from inside, and Jo tentatively opened it. Honor was sitting in her armchair with a thick book in her lap. She seemed to do very little else.
‘Oscar and I have made some green fairy cakes. I’ve brought you one with a cup of tea.’
She brought the plate and cup over. Honor glanced at the fairy cake – green sponge with a green splodge of icing – nodded once and turned her attention back to her book. It was huge and heavy, with Russian writing on the cover. How could Honor make Jo feel small simply by holding a book?
‘Oscar’s very fond of green food colouring,’ Jo explained. ‘Which is ironic, really, because he refuses to eat any green vegetables except for avocado.’
Honor grunted. She turned a page.
‘Also,’ Jo ventured, ‘I wanted to talk with you about a calendar. I thought we could have one that we kept in the kitchen, and we could all write our appointments and things in it, so that we’ll be able to coordinate better.’
‘A calendar.’
‘Yes, you know. To write down things like Lydia’s exams and Oscar’s nursery, and the various bits and pieces I have to do, and then of course your appointments. It’ll help me, so I know when I’ll have to drive you to the hospital, and so on.’
‘I’ll take a taxi to the hospital.’
‘Well, there’s no need, if I can drive you. I’m very happy to, and that’s why you moved in here, after all.’
Honor looked at Jo, in that odd way she had, of actually looking over Jo’s shoulder instead of meeting her gaze. It was an extra slap in the face.
‘I thought it would be easiest, and central, if we put it up on the cupboard door near the fridge, for example,’ Jo added. Also, it would save awkward conversations like this. She held out the calendar, which she’d had underneath her arm. Iris had chosen it; it had photographs of kittens dressed in little outfits.
‘All right,’ said Honor. ‘If that’s what you want.’ She took the calendar and Jo retreated.
In the living room, Iris and Oscar had brought all of their cuddly animals downstairs. Both of the children had green faces and fingers, and there were suspicious smudges on the pelts of the toys.
‘Are you ready to go outside for the tea party?’ Jo asked them.
‘No!’ Iris agreed, squeezing Irving, her pink elephant who she slept with every night.
‘Underneath the tree, Mummy,’ ordered Oscar.
‘Underneath the tree sounds perfect. You bring Irving and Mr Diddy outside and choose the spot, and bring the others outside too, and as soon as I’ve hung out the sheets I’ll be right along with some more cake.’
She brought the laundry basket of bed linen outside, where she could watch the children arranging their animals in a wonky circle amidst the fallen blossom, whilst she hung the sheets on the line. Sunshine and children were the perfect antidote to a sleepless night. Oscar and Iris trotted back and forth from the house to the tree, fully absorbed in the task. She watched Oscar’s surefooted, sturdy tread, arms and legs pumping; Iris’s springy wobble, curls bobbing. When did they lose that childish way of walking and settle into a grown-up stride? She tried to think back to Lydia, and couldn’t remember. She remembered how Lydia used to walk – fast, recklessly, heading hell-for-leather for the nearest obstacle and only veering aside at the last minute. And she knew how Lydia walked now, with her long legs and her unconscious grace, as if any moment she would break into her effortless run.
But she couldn’t remember the transition from child to woman. She’d been too busy carrying on with life to take notice. It was sad. She must remember not to
miss it with Iris and Oscar.
Sheets hung, she brought out a fresh plate of cakes and a teapot full of squash and settled herself on the grass next to Irving.
‘Tea, Mummy,’ said Iris. She lifted the teapot and dribbled squash down her front.
‘I’ll do it,’ said Oscar, taking the teapot and carefully pouring a plastic cup full of squash. He handed it to his sister, who said, ‘No,’ and slopped more squash on herself, taking a drink.
‘Good pouring, Oscar. Will you pour some for me, too, and all the animals? And Iris, do you want to make sure everyone has a cake?’
Jo brushed a petal from her hair and watched her children busy and happy in the sunshine. She had memories like this of her own mother. In fact, if her mother were still here today, she’d be out on the grass too, drinking from a teacup full of squash. She wouldn’t let her pain stop her from spending time with her grandchildren. Like Jo, she knew that these moments didn’t last for ever.
Jo took a bite of green cake and held up the rest of the cake to Irving the elephant’s mouth so he could take a bite. She looked up just as Honor came out of the back door. Jo got up and hurried over to her, so she wouldn’t have to walk across the garden.
‘Here you are.’ Honor held up the kitten calendar.
‘That was quick.’ Jo took the calendar and glanced at it. Honor had written on it in her bold, spiky handwriting. ‘Oh. There’s something already in for today.’
‘It’s my appointment.’
‘Two o’clock?’ It was nearly one thirty; she’d been looking forward to half an hour or so of playing, and a relaxing afternoon of not having to haul the kids anywhere. Now she’d have to clean up the kids and herself, and get them all into the car in the next ten minutes if she was going to get there in time, especially with Honor’s current slow pace. And Iris usually started her nap at two; she’d been hoping to get Oscar down then, too, because he’d been running around all morning. She’d tentatively planned an hour with the kids asleep, to catch up on the laundry. Or maybe even a cup of tea and a book, if she got another load of bed linen hung out quickly. She could use the dryer, of course, but she was trying to save electricity. The bills.
‘Yes,’ Honor said. ‘It’s at two.’
‘But you never told me, Honor.’
‘I was going to take a taxi. As I said. I’ll ring one now.’
‘No, no no, of course not. Iris, Oscar, we have to get cleaned up and go for a trip in the car.’
‘No!’ said Iris, stamping her foot. Oscar’s face fell; tears were imminent. Honor had taken her own phone out of her pocket.
‘You can’t call a cab,’ Jo told her, ‘it’ll never get here in time. It’s not like London where you can grab a passing one; they take a little while to turn up.’
‘No,’ muttered Honor, ‘it’s nothing like London.’
‘I’ll drive you, it’s not a problem.’ Maybe Iris and Oscar would fall asleep in the car, and Jo could read her book in the car park while she waited for Honor to be finished.
But the sugar in the cakes and squash took its toll. Oscar and Iris sang ‘Old MacDonald’ at the top of their lungs all the way to the hospital, while Honor gazed stoically out of the window. Jo wanted to join in; she loved singing with the children, making all the animal noises, but Honor’s expression stopped her, and then she was angry at herself. Why shouldn’t she sing with her children?
There was no place to park near the entrance, so Jo had to drop Honor off. ‘I’ll find somewhere to park and take the children to a café or a playground,’ she said to Honor, through the rolled-down window. ‘Just text me when you’re finished and I’ll pick you up right here.’ Honor nodded and started off. ‘And get someone to give you a lift to Orthopaedics in a wheelchair!’ Jo called after her. ‘Or one of those golf-cart things!’
Honor appeared to take no notice. Jo sighed and drove around the car park looking for a space, whilst her children quack-quacked here and there behind her. She had to drive right to the top level in the end, squeezing her car in beside a large black Lexus.
‘Hide and seek in the park!’ Jo told the children, unbuckling them.
‘No!’ said Iris. ‘Want to sing.’
‘You can sing in the park, darling.’
Oscar scrambled out of the car at a run, straight towards the path of traffic. Jo only managed to snag him by the hood of his top. She held on to it and carried Iris on her hip, till they got to the bank of lifts, where Oscar immediately pressed all the buttons, so they stopped at every floor on the way down.
There was a park across a busy street from the hospital. Oscar pressed the button for the traffic lights, too, and Iris screamed and held out her hands because she wanted to press the button. ‘Quickly, then, sweetheart,’ said Jo, putting her down as the light went green. Iris stabbed the button with her chubby finger; by the time she’d finished the light was red again and the two children had to press the button over and over again until it was green.
The park was quiet aside from a few people on benches having their lunch. ‘I’m counting first!’ cried Oscar, and he squeezed his eyes shut. ‘One, two, three, four, six, nine, five …’
Iris squealed. Jo took her hand and they scampered over to a bush. ‘Hide behind it, Iris,’ whispered Jo, but Iris said ‘No’ and hid her face in her hands, obviously following the dictum that if she couldn’t see Oscar, he couldn’t see her. Jo crouched beside her.
‘Fourteen, fifteen, twenty! Ready or not, here I come!’ Oscar opened his eyes and yelled, ‘I found you! It’s too easy, Mummy!’
‘Why don’t you hide, and Iris and I will try to find you,’ Jo suggested.
‘Hide with Oscie!’
Oscar pouted. ‘I don’t want to hide with Iris. She’s rubbish.’
‘Hide with Oscie!’
There was a glob of greenish snot in each of Iris’s nostrils. Jo didn’t have a tissue, so she wiped Iris’s nose with her hand and wiped her fingers on the grass.
‘Please, Oscar, take your little sister this time. Then next time, you can hide and Iris and I will look for you. Stay in the park, though, OK?’
Reluctantly, he took her hand. Jo sank onto the grass, glad of the moment’s quiet. Half an hour ago, she’d been tired, but looking forward to a day with her children. What had happened?
Oh well, at least they’d have fun in the park, and maybe the naps could happen later. And the laundry…well, she’d get that done somehow. With any luck, she’d be worn out enough to sleep tonight.
‘Count!’ Oscar ordered her.
She closed her eyes. ‘One, two, three …’
They toddled off. Jo opened her eyes halfway and watched them as they headed for some bushes, then changed their mind and went towards some trees.
Her stomach rumbled. She hadn’t managed lunch; she’d had half a green fairy cake since breakfast at seven this morning, which had been one of Oscar’s Petit Filous and a satsuma. Her bag had raisins in it, and some crackers, but she’d forgotten it at home in the rush. Also her book. And the tissues for Iris’s nose.
So many things were necessary for children. How did people do it, before the days of plastic pots of snacks and disposable tissues and nappies? Was it easier, because you didn’t expect those things? In some societies, women carried children for years, didn’t they? And breastfed till the age of five? There were some advantages to that, she supposed, in that it saved you carrying the world’s largest nappy bag everywhere.
A wail from the clump of trees. Jo jumped up and sprinted for her children. The part of her mother’s brain that knew each of her children’s cries and instantly catalogued them into varying categories of pain, fear, dismay, temper, knew that this wasn’t life-threatening, but her body reacted instantly nevertheless. Because it could be, this time. Because disaster happened when you weren’t expecting it, when you were happy.
Oscar stood looking down at himself and crying. Brown gunk was smeared on the knees of his trousers and on his T-shirt. Jo thought he must
have found the only muddy puddle in the park and knelt in it, until she got close enough to smell it.
‘Oscie dog poo,’ Iris told her, solemnly, eyes wide.
Shit. Damn. Bollocks. And she had no bag, no wet-wipes, no spare clothing. She saw the dog mess he’d knelt in: it was fresh and enormous, like something deposited by a bear. It had two dents in it, exactly the shape of Oscar’s knees.
‘I didn’t see it, Mummy! I was trying to hide!’
‘It’s OK, Oscar, it was a mistake,’ she soothed. She rolled up his T-shirt on the bottom so she could get it off him without getting dog mess in his hair. Then she removed his shoes and checked their soles – thankfully, clean – and took off his trousers. Oscar kept on crying. His tears dripped on Jo’s head whilst she undressed him.
She took him onto her lap for a cuddle and to put his shoes back on him. ‘Here, sweetie, you can wear my cardigan to play in. See.’ She put it on him, and rolled up the sleeves; it came down nearly to his ankles.
‘Don’t want to play,’ said Oscar, sniffling. ‘Everything’s stinky.’
‘Did you get any on your hands?’
‘No,’ said Oscar, though Jo had a quick sniff and she thought he probably had. Of course he did; Oscar touched everything. It was a symptom of being bright and curious, she reminded herself. Not a lack of common sense.
‘Don’t put them in your mouth, all right? We’ll have to go back to the hospital and find somewhere to wash.’ She rolled the dirty clothes up so that the worst of the mess was inside, stood up, reached for Oscar’s hand, thought twice of it, and then gritted her teeth and took it. ‘Come on, Iris, we’re going.’
‘No!’ said Iris, but after the third time Jo asked her, she came along. Jo checked her over for dog poo, too, but mercifully, she’d stayed clear. To hold both their hands, she had to stuff Oscar’s clothes under her arm. The whiff of dog shit accompanied them through the park, across the street, and into hospital Reception.
‘Is there a toilet we can use?’ she asked the lady at the greeting desk. She wrinkled her nose and pointed down the corridor.
