War Crimes for the Home

by Liz Jensen

  Advance, Britannia! says Winnie. Long live the cause of freedom! God save the King!

  The girl from Gadderton was crying in the night. Crying her little eyes out, and stringing her beads. I thought of going to comfort her but then I thought better of it. It’d only encourage her.

  We’re decorating the tree with some of the old folk have got diseases. At least the tree’s not a real one, we won’t be sweeping up needles day and night. But Conchita la Paz is still off for a dustpan and brush because I dropped a glass ball that smashed, and the bits is everywhere. Ed’s helping too, he’s very jolly today, he is. He’s wound tinsel round his Zimmer for that festive look.

  —Are you a Jap? he asks Conchita la Paz, and she laughs and shakes her head. —Cos I hate them bastards.

  —Where d’you stay then, a hotel? I ask the Jehovah’s Witness woman, who’s round here every day now, clearly nothing better to do.

  —With Hank and Karen, she goes. —They’ve very kindly been putting me up. And Melanie, too, when she comes.

  —Who’s Melanie?

  —My daughter.

  —The slutty one?

  She stops, holding a little gold reindeer that’s meant to be hung. There’s a bit of wall she looks at sometimes, over by the fish-tank.

  —I have your old room, she goes, after a while. Then looks for somewhere to hang the reindeer.

  —Bitch!

  —Pardon?

  —That’s my bloody room, that is, it’d still be mine if they hadn’t stuck me in here.

  She’s found a branch for the reindeer and now she’s inspecting some plastic holly, disapproving of it because it don’t have no class.

  —Dr Kaplan’s coming this afternoon, she goes.

  —I’ve got nothing to hide, I tell her. —My past is an open book.

  She’s looking at her bit of wall again. Hasn’t even got a pattern on it but she don’t care.

  I feel Doris’s eyes on me but she don’t say nothing so I don’t say nothing back.

  What no one ever tells you is that you’ll always be alone, trapped inside yourself for ever. It’s like a house you were born in, and some of the furniture belonged to your mum and dad but you can chuck that out if you want to, or if you can. But you’ve got to bloody well live in this house, that’s the thing. Even if it’s a hole and you prefer the look of other people’s. Nobody tells you how it’s going to be, living inside yourself. How grey things’ll look from your window, if that’s the mood you’re in. But when you close the curtains it’s worse.

  —I brought you that baby oil you asked for, she goes, after a bit of silence. —You sure you wouldn’t prefer moisturiser?

  —No, baby oil’s better for what Ed and I have got in mind, isn’t it, Ed? I call across as she hands it to me. That’s when she nearly grabs it back but I’ve got it.

  —She’s a right goer, your old mum, goes Ed, leaning on his tinselly Zimmer. —Your room or mine, Gloria? Glorious Gloria, I call her.

  —But you can’t –

  —There’s certain things you have to grab while you can, missis, and this is one of them, I tell her. —Hey, Ed, stop fiddling with yourself, you old monkey. Now if you’ll excuse us, I go. —You can carry on with this tree, or there’s plenty of magazines you can look at, I bet you like those posh country-home ones.

  She’s starting to look ill. Hasn’t got no poise, that one.

  DR KAPLAN COMES TO PLAY

  —Shepherd’s pie for lunch, announces Mrs Manyon. Followed by kiwi flan. Countdown to Christmas, she goes, winking at the foreign girls.

  I’m reading Hello! magazine but it’s out of date. It shows Rubber-Lips smiling after rehab but by the time it was in the shops, he’d taken another overdose. I saw on the news. He’s in intensive care.

  —He doesn’t look so good from where I’m sitting, says Doris. —All those regrets he’s got about stuff he didn’t say to people. You don’t want to be in that position, Glor. You don’t want to die with things left unsaid. Take it from me.

  —His poor old mum, I say, not liking this theme of hers. —You put all that effort into a boy, struggle to bring him up, feed him syrup of figs, work your backside off, make all those sacrifices –

  —Who are you talking to there, Gloria, goes Mrs Manyon.

  —Doris.

  —Doris? she goes, then pats my arm all soft. —Poor Gloria, you miss her, don’t you?

  —Not really.

  —That’s what you say, says Mrs M. —But I know better.

  —She always did, goes Doris, and then in comes the dinner-trolley, and uh-oh, the Jill woman’s back, in a posh cardie. And I’m just eyeing a plateful of flan, scrumptious with custard, and she’s got a man with her from Watchtower Headquarters, and the slutty daughter with the nose-stud.

  —How much d’you pay for a cardie like that then? Fifty quid? A hundred?

  —This is Dr Kaplan, she goes. —It’s cashmere.

  —How much?

  —Hello, Mrs Taylor, mind if I call you Gloria? goes the man.

  —Help yourself, I don’t stand on ceremony.

  —Hello, Gran, says the slutty girl.

  —But you can call me Mrs Taylor. Bloody cheek.

  Scruffy-looking, this Dr Kaplan. Looks more like a tramp than a specialist, with his scruffiness.

  —Are you a Jew? I go.

  —A pleasure to meet you, Gloria, he goes, holding out a hand that’s got no bones in it. I make a kind of noise, not quite hello because I can’t be buggered, my teeth are giving me gyp and I had a bad night with the little girl accusing me of this and that, it’s all in her head, and the second angel fish has died, grieving for the first one maybe or ate some bad flakes.

  —Them Jews, they’re always on about the war, I tell him. But they weren’t the only ones suffered. Every chance they get and they’re raking over that Holocaust of theirs, they won’t blinking well let go of it. It’s unhealthy. They should look to the future a bit more. Get some fresh air into their systems. It’s not healthy, living in the past.

  —An interesting theory, says Dr Kaplan.

  What a polite boy.

  There’s a bit of silence, and then the Jill Farraday woman says —We’ll leave you together for a little chat then, and she goes off in her cashmere, and the teenage girl shoots me a dirty scornful look and follows, shuffling on her shoes which is practically stilts.

  —Not like Jill to miss out on anything, I tell the doctor.

  He just smiles. He’s young but he looks older than he is which is I don’t know what age. Like an old man shrunk down, balding head, little rimless glasses to make him think he looks clever. Interesting I should mention the Jews, because he’s got a theory about the function of memory, he’s saying. A theory that we are our memories.

  —That memory is what we are, because we have no identity without memory. Our consciousness is a collection of things we have remembered. You know, history, general knowledge, practical expertise, our own life story and emotional past . . . When you think about it, personality without memory is like –

  —Fish without chips, I go, to shut him up. (What’s he doing all the talking for, I thought it was my shout.) —Chips without ketchup. Ketchup without . . . fish.

  He smiles.

  —Oh, it can be worse. It can be like nothing. It can be like a void. Some people suffer from something called fugue. It’s a clinical pathological loss of memory.

  —If you came here to put the frighteners on me, it ain’t working.

  —Why would you think I came here to – put the frighteners on you?

  —How far d’you come then?

  —From London.

  —Train or car?

  —By train.

  —Two hours is it still? I used to do that trip. They got a buffet car or do they come round with a trolley? Sandwiches and a cup of tea?

  —Tell me, Gloria, are you happy here?

  —Happy? What sort of question’s that?

  —Chicago, says Dr Kaplan, chan
ging the subject.

  —The windy city, I go.

  —And what else?

  —Dunno. Saw it on a documentary once. Just an American city, isn’t it, a typical American city.

  —Do you remember what state it’s in?

  —Not a bad state. Not bad at all. Why are you asking?

  He sighs.

  —I just wonder how much you remember of it. You spent time there, as I understand it.

  —Never been there in my life.

  —That’s not what you told your son.

  —What is this, the bloody Spanish Inquisition?

  —Do you tend to forget things, Gloria?

  —Course I do, I’m old, aren’t I. It’s my right.

  —Your choice too, he goes.

  —Are you a Jew?

  —What I was trying to say to you, Gloria, is that our memories are part of being human. Memory is part of our humanity. Who is Gloria Taylor without her memories? Who am I without mine, or without the history of my own family?

  —Come again?

  —Memory can be a blessing, but it can also be a curse. Some people feel so cursed that they persuade themselves to suppress whatever memory is haunting them. (Blah blah blah, he likes the sound of his own voice don’t he.) —What’s interesting to me is the way people can sometimes remember events they thought they’d forgotten. Something will just pop up, out of the blue.

  —Iris. Girl called Iris got blown up in the factory. She popped up. Out of the blue.

  —Yes. You see? And you’ve probably noticed that your short-term memory gets worse while your long-term memory improves. You reminisce. Now tell me, Gloria, you must have thought about America from time to time. Where did you live, when you were in Chicago?

  I know it’s a trap, a doctor’s trap, but I don’t know what kind, just know he’s on the lookout and leading me into it and I’d better watch it, I reckon, so instead of Chicago I tell him about a recipe that I got from a magazine.

  —It’s called Mallow Mash. It’s American, it’s potato with marshmallow in and you do it in the microwave. Modern American cooking, it said. Not that they cook much except pot roast or Thanksgiving turkey which was what Ron was forever on about in November.

  But his Jewish eyes glaze over. Try something else then.

  —How d’you know when a girl from Barnsley’s had an orgasm? Eh? She drops her chips.

  But he don’t laugh.

  —Gloria, I have to say I think you are avoiding my question.

  —I said she drops her chips! It’s a joke!

  —I asked a question.

  —Which is what, I go, cos I’ve forgotten, I’m a sieve.

  The sheer truth. But Doris don’t like it one bit. She has wafted her way in and so has the little Gadderton girl to give me a hard time, and she has poked me in the ribs and I make a yelp from the pain.

  —Lay off!

  —A twinge of something, Gloria? goes Dr K.

  —She poked me, I go.

  —Who?

  —Spit it out, says Doris. —I have warned you and warned you about telling porkies.

  —Doris who is dead.

  —I see, he goes, clearly does not. A little silence and then he says —Where you lived in Chicago – I mean, Gloria, am I actually right in thinking that you have at least been to Chicago? It’s something I’d like to unpack.

  Unpack?

  —A sieve, mate. Sorry.

  I tell him this over and over, a sieve, a sieve. And Doris and the little girl join me helpless and angry but we are all sieves, I tell them, can’t you see, sieves is how we end up and I am at the ending-up end of life.

  He sighs.

  —Would you say that your past has left you in peace, Gloria?

  —Pretty much.

  —And that you have – made your peace with it?

  —Are you telling me I’m going to die? Cos if you are, you’ve come a long way to announce me what isn’t news, mate. Dr Kaplan, this is an old people’s home. When you leave here, it ain’t on rollerskates.

  —What I’m trying to find out, Gloria, he goes, is this one thing. The episodes in your life that you’ve forgotten. Did you forget them because you’re becoming, er – forgetful? Or did you forget them . . . before that?

  —Can’t remember, can I?

  Doris and the little girl is still watching from the corner but he’s not aware of course, being medical. So on and on it goes, round in circles, poor Dr Kaplan, poor me, till he looks at his watch, time’s up.

  When Dr Kaplan’s spoken with the Jill woman, she gives this big sigh and shoots me a glare, don’t say nothing. So I borrow a Zimmer because this session has right knackered me, and I clank off, leaving the two of them together, murmuring their Jehovah’s Witness prayers.

  Ed’s room is number 44. I park the Zimmer outside, open the door quiet in case he’s off in the land of Nod. And sure enough there’s this little hump shape in the bed, which is him. It’s like he’s been waiting for me, cos he’s there asleep with his little portable TV on, and when I lift back the cover which is a nice bedspread, lilac and purple with little flowers, girly you’d say for a man, I see he’s just got his jim-jam top on but no bottoms, the dirty old monkey, and before I’ve got time to think I’m unscrewing the baby oil that we keep on his bedside table, and taking off bits of my own clobber and shoving him along a bit to snuggle down with and he wakes up and says —Well, if it isn’t Gloria, and I say —Well, if it isn’t Ed, and nothing much happens though we have another go, but we’re sweethearts now, aren’t we.

  —No one can force me to remember stuff, can they? I go, rubbing his bald old tummy after we’ve given up trying.

  And he says —No, Gloria, your mind’s the one thing you’ve got left that’s your own, and you keep it that way. Don’t you let them say otherwise and don’t you let them take it away from you neither.

  And he takes one of my tits in his hand and starts sucking at it like an old babby that needs milk to go to sleep.

  The little Gadderton Lake girl is bleeding on to my bed again in the night, bleeding out of her nasty little fanny on to my nice coverlet.

  —Get off, I’m telling her. —Get your bleeding fanny off my bedspread.

  Dr Nosy Parker comes again the next day or whatever day it is. On and on, it goes. Questions about the war, what I did and all, and when I get to the Great Zedorro he gets excited.

  —The great who?

  —Zedorro.

  —A hypnotist, you say?

  I tell him about the show he did that Ron and I went to, which had such an effect on us. I tell him about the bowl of oranges on my tummy, and about meeting him later in Bristol with the Slut Fairy, and him and her being kind to me, but I can’t remember how.

  —What happened to him? Did you stay in touch?

  —I don’t know.

  —And Ron? he says, getting out a letter.

  My heart thuds. Is he trying to kill me?

  It’s an old letter because it’s yellow, and there’s an American stamp, and the postmark is Chicago. He don’t do nothing with it, just shows me he’s got it. I haven’t seen it in years, but I know it by heart, and all of a sudden everything’s a jumble and I’m in tears, and my thoughts are running all over the place like a spell’s been broken and a jinx let out.

  —Are you trying to kill me?

  —Of course not. I’m sorry, he goes. —Forgive me. I–

  —You’re not a doctor, I go, heart still banging. —You’re a bloody fraud, let’s see your credentials then.

  He smiles at that, a sorry-missis kind of a smile, and hands me his card which I can’t read without my glasses as he well knows.

  —We could try and find out what happened to Zedorro, he says. —Though of course he may well be dead. You say he was quite a bit older than you? If you were in your twenties, was he, say, in his thirties? Forties?

  The thought that he might be dead makes me feel relieved, don’t ask me why.

  —Was Zedorro his real n
ame? Or was it just what he used . . . on stage?

  —I never knew his real name. Or if I did I’ve forgotten. He was just called Bill.

  —Bill, he says, writing it down and thinking about it.

  —And the Slut Fairy, she was called Grace.

  He looks up sharply.

  —Are you sure? The couple were called Bill and Grace?

  —Course I’m bloody sure. Who murdered Zedorro anyway? I go. (Don’t know if I want to hear or not.)

  He leans forward, eyes all eager behind the glasses.

  —What makes you think he was murdered?

  —Sixth sense. Had it coming to him, I’d say.

  —Has he been on your mind lately?

  Now this really gets to me, it does. This takes the blinking biscuit.

  —Me? I’ve got bugger all in my mind! My mind is a blinking black hole, or trying to be! Then what happens the minute you get a bit of peace, there’s all these ruddy people trying to stir things up! Leave me alone!

  —Who, Gloria?

  —All of you! Piss off! Barging in and filling up my nice empty space, poking your noses into my private beeswax, stirring up all that –

  Blimey, there’s something violent going on, because he’s looking alarmed as hell. It’s gone all of a sudden noisy in here, a real rumpus with some old bird shouting her head off. Might be me. And the Jill woman’s come back and the teenager’s hobbling in on her silly stilts and Mrs Manyon’s fussing with a hankie on Dr Kaplan’s hand that was clutched in my hand till they prised it off. And the hankie was white but is going red in blotches.

  —Are you all right Doctor? Let me just mop up this bit here –

  And it’s then I see how it’s his hand that’s bleeding, where I’ve dug my nails in and scratched. He’s a parasite, a bloodsucker, just like Zedorro. Let him pay for what he wants. Let him pay for what he is stealing. Pay for my flesh and blood with his own, he can.

  —Don’t worry, it’s nothing, he says, dabbing with the hankie at the scratches.

  —First time she’s done that, says Mrs M.

  —Not quite, I believe, goes the Jill, all flushed up. —Her daughter-in-law said she attacked the baby once.

  Face all grim and stiff with hate, if she hates me so much why does she blinking well come, get rid of her.