Inchworm

by Ann Kelley

  ‘Do you like my pottery figures, Gussie?’

  ‘What are they, Herr Weinberger?’

  ‘They are Victorian. Decorated by children, mostly. They were made as souvenirs of popular figures – people in the news – generals, celebrities and royalty.’

  ‘Like posters of pop musicians?’

  ‘Yes, Gussie, similar. People collected figures of people they admired. This one is Jenny Lind, a very famous singer in her day.’

  ‘Are they German?’

  ‘No, no, English. Staffordshire pottery. I love English things, not German, and I love Scottish things – their single malt whiskies, at least.’ He laughs at his own little joke. ‘Try this ten year old cask-made Laphroiag, my dear.’

  He pours a drink for Mum and I have apple juice. Mum murmurs her appreciation. He asks about my treatment and Mum tells him, but I don’t want to talk about my illness or my operation, it’s boring.

  ‘What did you do before you were old, Herr Weinberger?’ I ask. He laughs.

  ‘Gussie, that’s not polite.’ Mum sighs loudly. ‘I’m sorry, Herr Weinberger.’

  ‘No, no, don’t worry, she has an enquiring mind, das ist zehr gut. I was a jeweller in Hatton Garden.’

  ‘A jeweller? Did you make brooches and necklaces?’

  ‘Yes, and I worked with diamonds. I designed and made diamond rings, brooches, necklaces and that sort of thing. I worked with precious stones, silver, gold and platinum until my eyes became too weary.’

  When we leave, he says we must return. I think he’s lonely. I wonder if he talks to his Staffordshire figures. He looks surprisingly well dressed and scrubbed today.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  COMPREHENSION—POWER OF THE MIND TO UNDERSTAND

  THE THING ABOUT being in hospital was – people looked after me. I was the centre of attention, the star. Everyone was striving to keep me alive, or that’s what it felt like. I was special; I was important. And why were they all trying to save me? Why did I survive? Am I here for a reason? Are we all alive simply to reproduce for the survival of the species? I suspect we are but I would like to do something useful or wonderful with my new life. I’m like the Tin Man in The Wizard of Oz, who had no heart until Dorothy helped him to get one. Mr Sami is my Dorothy. But what could I do? Perhaps become a doctor or a nurse? Or encourage people to become organ donors? Or a writer? A poet? I think I might be a poet. Yes, a poet. For now anyway.

  Missing Them

  I miss the meow and prrup

  The jumping up onto my lap,

  The floating fur, the chirrup and purr

  The cold pink nose, the curling tail

  The gift of mouse, shrew and vole.

  I miss the chase the pounce the kill.

  Mum has been acting oddly. When she’s not organising my drugs, preparing meals, or spending ages in the bathroom, she’s watching the telly, turning up the volume and then dozing off, head thrown back, mouth open, snoring loudly, like an old woman. She’s fifty-three so I suppose she is fairly old. If only she could see herself. I make a photo of her – I could use it as blackmail. When she’s awake she shouts at the telly or talks to herself, wherever she is, bathroom, kitchen, sitting room, and I assume she’s talking to me, but she isn’t. I worry about her. Is she losing her marbles?

  ‘Come on Mutti, I’m taking you out.’

  ‘I don’t want to go out. I was awake all night. I want to listen to Woman’s Hour.’

  ‘What about my walk?’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Well, I have to exercise.’

  ‘Well, go on then, exercise.’

  ‘I can’t go on my own. What about the perverts?’

  ‘What perverts? Have we ever met any perverts?’

  ‘Well, no…’

  ‘Oh, go on Guss, you’ll be all right. Give it a try.’

  I have never been out on my own in London, I realise; in Cornwall, yes, but here? No. I always went to school by car with Mum or bus with friends.

  I suppose the worst that can happen is that some poor sick man will expose himself to me. Ohmygod, I hope that doesn’t happen. I’ve survived a heart and lung transplant; I can surely survive a walk on the Heath.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ I say in my best Arnold Schwarzenegger Terminator voice.

  The Heath is icy and bleak, joggers are scarlet with cold even though it’s meant to be spring. The dog-walkers hurry along, yanking the leads when their pugs and poodles stop to sniff each other’s bums. Isn’t it odd that humans have pets? Some humans. It’s not like the pets are doing a job – like sheep dogs or gun dogs; they don’t clean our skins like small fish do for whales and sharks, or eat parasites from cattle like cowbirds. We keep them because we enjoy their company. We groom them, not the other way round. It’s very strange that we like having animals around – especially dogs, as most of the dogs I’ve met smell pretty awful if they aren’t bathed regularly. Not like my cats, who smell of leaves and earth. And their breath is gross too – dogs, I mean. One of my grandma’s friends used to have an old spaniel. I couldn’t sit on her carpet because it smelled so bad. Like… like… well, like smelly old dog.

  In Darwin, Australia, some people buy baby crocodiles as pets for Christmas presents. Brett told me that. More macho than Rottweilers or Staffordshire pit bull terriers apparently. Crocodiles, not Brett, though he is pretty macho.

  The willows are green with new growth but no other trees have signs of life, apart from skulking crows, who hunch their black shoulders like coffin bearers and peer down on me as if they are measuring me. Swans drift, heads tucked under wings.

  I must at least have a little adventure, now I’m on my own. But there’s no prince on a white stallion, no unicorns or dragons, no perverts even.

  ‘Herr Weinberger! Guten Abend.’

  ‘Guten Tag, Liebchen. It is Augusta, nicht war?’

  He pronounces my name ‘owgoosta’, which sounds very strange.

  ‘Ya, aber ich müss nacht Hause gehen.’ I only say this to impress him. It means but I have to go home now.

  ‘Oh, what a shame, can’t you walk with me for a while?’

  ‘Well, okay, just for a little while.’

  I stare at his stick and the thick lenses of his specs.

  ‘Are you completely blind, Herr Weinberger?’

  ‘I don’t see very well. But I see you have a camera – a Leica, nicht war?’

  ‘Yes. Daddy lent it to me.’

  ‘I too have one of these. Zehr gut this camera. It is made in Germany.’

  ‘I thought you didn’t like German things, Herr Weinberger.’

  ‘That is right. Yes, yes, usually, but the German camera, it is zehr gut.’

  ‘My great-grandfather was a famous photographer. His name was Amos Hartley Stevens. Maybe you’ve heard of him?

  ‘Nein, nein, I do not know this name. But famous? Ach, Liebchen. Then you maybe will be famous also. It will be in your blood, so?’

  ‘Maybe. I really must go home now, though, before I get chilled.’

  ‘Off you go, my dear, don’t you worry about me.’

  He coughs and sniffs. Maybe because his sight isn’t good his sense of smell is more developed. That happens sometimes. One sense becomes stronger when others are weak.

  I wonder how old he is and if he was an enemy soldier in the Second World War. And now we are friends – or friendly. If generals and colonels, admirals and politicians fought each other when they declared war, instead of getting young soldiers to fight their wars for them, maybe the world would be a better place, though it would be more crowded.

  Maybe Nature has made humans warlike and bloodthirsty as a built-in way of keeping down the world’s population.

  He hasn’t the right shape for a soldier – he’s small and thin. He wears a holey tweed coat, a tatty fur hat and scarf and smells of mothballs and lemony cologne. His socks are tucked into his boots.

  He coughs.

  ‘Yes, I better get back. Bye.’

 
‘Auf Wiedersehen, Liebchen.’

  I walk through frosty leaves that crackle and crunch under my Doc Martens. There is a boy sitting on a rug in the doorway of a closed deli. He looks about fifteen, red-eyed, skinny and spotty, wrapped in a woollen blanket. I go into the café next door, buy a take-away hot chocolate and a melted cheese and tomato baguette. It takes practically all of my pocket money.

  ‘Here.’

  He looks astonished and turns red.

  I take out the last pound coin from my pocket and give it to him.

  ‘What’s this?’ Bridget’s gold star lies twinkling in his grubby hand.

  ‘Oh, that’s mine – a friend gave it to me for luck.’ I take it from him and walk quickly away.

  ‘Thanks,’ he calls.

  I turn and wave. Mum would be proud of me. She doesn’t usually give money to homeless people but she tries to help them in practical ways. Perhaps I should have given him something else – my cap or scarf? But the cap is an official England cricket cap, and I know Alistair would be upset if I gave it away. Also, Mum says you lose most of your heat through the top of your head, and I need the scarf to keep my chest warm.

  Perhaps I’ll take him one of Mum’s scarves. She’s got lots. She has a thing about shoes, scarves and bags. And dresses, and jackets and coats, jumpers, jeans and skirts. I can’t see the attraction, but she says I will, soon.

  I feel guilty now. I should have left him the gold star. He needs more luck than me. He looked disappointed when I took it back.

  I wish I had asked Alistair to bring me my computer, but I suppose it would be a bit much to ask. Also, I need someone to teach me how to use it.

  We’re at the swimming pool for Mum’s first aqua-fit class. She says she is becoming a fat slug, feels bloody awful, her back hurts and she needs to boost her energy levels. I would have liked to join in but I am not allowed to use swimming pools for reasons beyond my comprehension. More germs I suppose.

  Elsa, South African, big but no fat on her, though she is not slim, is the teacher. ‘Shame’ – she says as Mum explains about my operation and why I cannot get into the water. Mum wants to look like her. She says her buttocks used to look like that, before she had me.

  There are ten women. The air is tropically warm, like it was in Kenya. It’s a small swimming pool but the same depth water throughout. They talk and laugh above loud taped music, all old stuff. They all know the words, and sing along to Tom Jones, The Beach Boys, Elvis Presley, the Beatles.

  I take a few photos of them cavorting in the water singing ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds’. Cavorting – I like that word. The Leica makes a very soft whisper when I open the shutter, not like my Nikkormat, which clicks.

  They should be wearing flowery swim-caps, then they would look like a hydrangea bush. But they do look as if they are enjoying themselves. I imagine Mum diving into the middle of the chorus of swimmers like Esther Williams in Million Dollar Mermaid. I do love classic movies, especially musicals. Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. And The Thin Man – that funny dog.

  Mum goes in the jacuzzi afterwards. She likes the blasts of water on her back. When she gets out of the water she says she can feel how heavy she is, the force of gravity. (I always think that when Mum is seriously cross with me, I feel the force of her gravity.)

  Afterwards, I have a hot chocolate, which isn’t that hot, but I like the sprinkles of chocolate on the top. Mum has a decaf black coffee and a large piece of carrot cake at the café. Having felt briefly smug, she says, she now feels guilty. The other ladies are gathered round and chatting. One is with her daughter, who looks about seventy, so goodness knows how old she is. She smiles at me and asks why I didn’t join in the class.

  ‘I’m recovering from a heart and lung transplant,’ I say.

  ‘My goodness, are you really? I didn’t know they did such things.’

  ‘Yes, she isn’t allowed in swimming pools in case of infection.’

  ‘What a shame! Perhaps when you are better?’

  ‘No, I can never ever go into a swimming pool ever again.’

  ‘How sad!’

  ‘I think you can after a year, Gussie,’ says Mum.

  ‘Oh, that’s good news.’

  However, it doesn’t sound nearly so dramatic.

  The old lady’s name is Alice and she is eighty-nine. She has done loads of things in her life – like designing hats for a fashion house, and she was in the Women’s Air Force in the war.

  I didn’t like to ask which war.

  She says she enjoys the aqua-fit classes even though she can’t do many of the exercises and gets very bored at home, and I suggest she writes down her life story for her family. I wish my grandparents had done that. I tell her she better do it quickly before she dies or becomes unable to see or use her hands or something. I get hustled off home by Mum before I’ve finished telling Alice how to spend the rest of her life.

  ‘Gussie, you really mustn’t be so fierce with people.’

  A parcel and card (photo of baby seal) from Brett:

  Hi Guss,

  Howyadooin? Hope you are feeling better. I’ve finished Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. It’s beauty. ‘Life? Don’t talk to me about life.’ Marvin the robot’s line, not mine. I recommend it. It’s full of crazy ideas and happenings. I won’t spoil it for you.

  See ya,

  Brett x

  He’s sent me the book. Daddy used to be mad on it too. He was always quoting stuff from it. Like, ‘DON’T PANIC.’

  I do like getting letters. Hearing someone’s voice on the telephone is good but you can’t take it out and look at it again like you can a letter.

  I write back straight away and tell him about Mr Robin, the ducks and other birds on the Heath and say I am still birding when I can. I don’t mention the streptawhatever. I don’t want to be abnormal, I want to be treated as if I am the same as everyone else.

  I have a pile of nature books to read. I get a feeling of security and anticipation having a pile of unread books next to my bed. I also like to reread favourites – like the Just William books and Swallows and Amazons.

  Mum is invited for a drink at Herr Weinberger’s flat. I don’t go; I’m too busy reading.

  When she comes downstairs I see she has been crying.

  ‘What’s the matter Mum? Aren’t you happy now I’ve had my transplant?’

  She hugs me to her, being careful of my scar.

  ‘Oh, darling, of course I’m happy, very happy, over the moon.’ She has a red nose. ‘Willy and I were talking about evil.’ She sniffs loudly.

  ‘Evil?’

  ‘Yes. Herr Weinberger’s Jewish, you know. He’s the only survivor in his family. He escaped from Germany before the war. His parents and brothers, aunts and uncles were all killed by the Nazis.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘Do you remember when we were in Kenya, finding coral together on the beach?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Tiny red fragments with a hole in. We made necklaces from them.’

  ‘I remember a red necklace. It was scratchy.’

  ‘A huge empty beach and a white man in swimming trunks suddenly walked between us, separating us. It was as if we didn’t exist. He had a scar from his head right down through one blind eye and down to his chin. He only had one arm. The other one ended in a stump above the elbow.’

  ‘No, I don’t remember him.’

  ‘He looked like someone who had seen and done terrible things. He looked evil.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Grabbed you and took you back to the house. I never saw him again.’

  ‘Maybe you imagined him?’

  ‘No, he existed.’ She is crying again and I am holding her around her waist.

  CHAPTER NINE

  LIFELINE—A ROPE FOR SAFEGUARDING OR SAVING LIFE; A VITAL LINE OF COMMUNICATION

  WHAT I DO remember of Africa, the first winter there, is all the cripples in Mombasa. A man with no legs trundling himself along in
the heavy traffic on a sort of square of wood with wheels, like a primitive skateboard. People with no eyes or no arms, begging in the streets. Sweaty, half-naked men striding along with mattresses or huge bunches of bananas balanced on their heads. Bikes overloaded with people and heavy loads. Children smiling and waving. The smell of the meat market. Humidity and heat. Air-conditioning in the cinema and bank. The stink of a dead elephant on a bush track. Poachers had hacked out the tusks and the wrinkled skin had shrivelled onto its sad ribs. The vultures ignored us and just kept on tearing at the flesh. I can still smell it. And I remember vervet monkeys leaping from a sausage tree, hugging their babies to their chests. Huge butterflies flapping through the palms. Giant tortoises at the funny guest house along the beach, which was like a black and white Elizabethan cottage. Prints of Cornwall on the walls. The scent of pepper and charcoal burning, sweet potatoes. Air like cotton wool.

  I learned to swim in Africa: first with armbands in a pool, then by snorkelling over the reef and in the shallows of the lagoon. You wouldn’t believe the fish I saw. They were like imaginary fish, not real, all colours and patterns. Puffer fish blown up like balloons were washed in dead on the beach. There were giant clams, lion fish, sea snakes, moray eels, orange and white striped clownfish hiding in the waving tentacles of sea anemones, that are poisonous to other fish but not to clownfish. We never saw a shark; there are lots there, but they stay outside the reef. So they said. Mum used to sit on the verandah teaching herself to type on her portable typewriter. I remember a black man called Zackariah, who cooked and cleaned for us.

  It’s warm enough today to sit outside again. The patio’s a suntrap. Mum finds the sun screen – I have to have it on even in winter if the sun shines, and I put on my cricket hat. The deckchairs come out, but we still can’t use the spider nursery. They’ve hatched, tiny cream babies, remaining inside the webby nest with their mother. Does she feed them at this stage, I wonder? Only one baby has braved the world outside the silken nest. It looks bigger than the others. The survivor. I don’t think mother spider approves of exposing her babies to the bright light of day, so I close the deckchair again. When will they disperse? I had no idea spiders were such caring mothers, or that their eggs took so long to hatch, or that the spiderlings (I love that word) stay in the nest so long. Maybe they are sick babies, or premature, and need extra time in the nursery. Spiderlings often fly away on silk threads to avoid being eaten by their siblings.