by Liz Byrski
And they are; but they are also several thousand kilometres away, and the phone and the computer are poor substitutes for their reassuring physical presence.
‘Could I be making a fuss about nothing?’ she’d asked at one point when they’d tracked down the house in Cornwall, and both Alistair and Steve had frozen in their seats and stared at her in disbelief.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Alistair had said.
‘Of course not,’ Steve said. ‘It’s a horrible way to behave and however much you want to talk to him, Alistair is right, you should let him sweat for a while.’
Leo had called twice that evening and the second time left a message telling her he was home and asking why she wasn’t answering.
‘I need to hear from you, Polly,’ he’d said. ‘I’m worried. Why don’t you call?’
Polly had played the phone message several times, listening to it with disbelief, wondering how it was that he felt able to ignore her for several days and then expect an immediate response to his call. She had turned off Skype, but turned it on again the next day and within an hour it beeped with his call.
‘At last! I’ve been worried about you,’ he’d said, sounding more irritable than relieved. ‘Where were you, why didn’t you call or email?’
‘I guess you were as worried about me as I had been about you,’ she’d said, her tone curt.
‘But you knew where I was.’
‘And you knew where I was.’
‘But you couldn’t be or you would have answered.’
‘Not if I was behaving like you,’ she’d said. ‘You obviously thought that was okay.’
He was silent then. She thought he looked tired and unhealthy and clearly not refreshed by his Christmas break. They went back and forth a few more times and finally he apologised, grudgingly, but seemed unable or unwilling to throw any more light on why he had dropped out of contact for five days. Eventually Polly had given up. Judith must, she decided, be a difficult and demanding woman and Leo feels oppressed in her company. She wonders vaguely what this means for their future – the prospect of family upheaval and tension is not an inviting one. But in the last few days she has learned something: Spud is gone now, and she’ll be damned if she’ll let anyone step on her paw.
In the arrivals area the carousel shakes into life, the first bags appear, and as her own case emerges Polly pushes her way through the crowd and grabs at the handle, but slips and loses her grip.
‘Shit,’ she says as her bag moves on, and she pushes past a knot of people to follow it.
‘I’ve got it,’ someone shouts further up the line and a hand reaches out to grab the bag and pulls it off the carousel. As she pushes past a group of teenagers she spots Mac, pulling up the handle of her suitcase, then turning towards her.
‘Mac?’ she says. ‘Whatever are you doing here? What’s happened?’
*
London, Late December
Even in London Leo hates the holidays – Christmas, New Year, Easter, public holidays – when no one is at work. It makes him feel as though his world has stopped spinning, and everything is on hold waiting for people to return to their desks. Even if he’s not expecting anyone to call or email, even if there is nothing specific he needs, he just hates the shutdown, laidback feeling. And it’s worse these days because now it extends right through from Christmas to New Year, and often beyond that because so many people take extra time off so the whole holiday stupidity goes on for even longer. Even usually sensible people are still irritatingly festive, dashing off to the sales, going to parties or to weekend cottages in the country or, worse still, taking their grandchildren to pantomimes. Insufferable! And hard as Leo tries he can’t seem to concentrate on anything at the moment. Judith and Rosemary are both furious with him for buggering off for most of Boxing Day and then leaving to go back to London the following day. Polly is prickly with him because he didn’t call when she expected him to, but really what does she expect? He does have other things to cope with. He is suspended in this ridiculous seasonal stupidity and he actually has nothing to concentrate on.
When he got back from Cornwall he’d put up a new wall planner and when he went to enter things on it realised that his diary was almost empty. There are a couple of op ed pieces he’s agreed to, but he is not expected anywhere until May. Months away! There are invitations, but they are just to attend the things other people are doing. They are not about him.
There have, of course, been fallow periods before, but never has he faced such a barren landscape. Worse still, he feels unable to generate anything, to pursue anything new; no developing public debate has called to him, no long-term issue on which he’s been a commentator has taken an interesting turn to inspire him. He yawns at the sight of the stack of new books on his desk, balks at the prospect of filing away some of his papers, and whichever part of his brain usually generates ideas is clearly on strike. For the first time in his life he has nothing new to say, and no new way to say something old.
To help him get through this disturbing time he has filled a gap by organising one of his dinner parties for tonight. It was quite hard to track down anyone who wasn’t committed elsewhere. And a few people he’d called were going to events to which Leo thought he should have been invited. So he’s ended up with a retired colleague from his days in Manchester who has just married a woman half his age, and Kurt, whose recent retirement as convenor of the Euro Conference had so annoyed him, and who is now in London on holiday with his wife. And then there’s Marcia, a minor celebrity journalist, known for her crushing profiles of politicians, actors and anyone else foolish enough to agree to an interview. Marcia, who comes and goes, fits in easily to any group of people; drinks too much, has rather overdone the Botox, but is always good company. The weather is appalling so it’s obviously an osso bucco night, but as he jots things down on his shopping list, Leo feels it’s all a lot of trouble but there’s no turning back now.
He is almost out of his door on the way to Waitrose when he remembers Polly. Better give her a call now in case he forgets later. He goes to the computer and tries Skype, but there is no reply. No reply from her landline either. Finally, wondering grudgingly what the call is costing him, he calls her mobile.
‘I thought you’d be home by now,’ he says when she answers. ‘You said you would.’
‘I’m at the hospital,’ Polly says. ‘I had to come here straight from the airport.’
‘You’re not sick, are you?’ Leo asks, glancing at his watch and hoping he doesn’t have to do sympathy; he’s not in the mood for it with osso bucco on his mind.
‘I’m fine,’ she says, ‘but Stella’s had a stroke and I’m waiting to see the doctor. Joyce and Mac are here with me.’
Leo smothers a yawn. ‘Oh dear, that’s a shame. Well don’t wear yourself out, she’ll probably be okay.’ There is silence at the other end of the line. Obviously he’s said the wrong thing. ‘Sorry,’ he says, ‘I’m not very good at this. I mean, I do hope she gets better soon. I know you must be upset.’
‘Very,’ she says, ‘especially as I wasn’t here when it happened.’
‘Well you can’t be with her all the time,’ Leo says. ‘That’s what you were saying before, that’s why you’re going to make other arrangements and . . .’
‘Leo,’ she cuts in, ‘this is really not what I want to hear from you right now. I’ll call you later.’ And there is a click on the line and she has hung up.
Leo looks at the phone in surprise, shrugs, puts it back on the kitchen bench, adds another couple of items to his list, puts on his Australian coat, and runs down the three flights of stairs into the street.
*
Fremantle, Late December
‘It really was awful,’ Joyce says later as she and Polly sit at the big table on the verandah, waiting for Mac to come back with fish and chips. ‘Jennifer went flying off the top step just
as I came out,’ and Stella was standing there looking really bolshie, shouting about calling the police. Anyway, I helped Jennifer up. She was pretty shaken but not hurt, and she went off home and I went inside and there were papers everywhere, all over the spare room bed, along the passage, on the kitchen table and scattered across the floor, along with those wretched shoe boxes.’
‘So how was Stella then?’ Polly asks.
‘Well, sort of okay. She was standing there in the middle of it making tea, and she was quite calm, but a bit defensive, like a child who knows she’s done something bad but isn’t sure what it was. And she said, “Look at all these papers, Joyce, where did they come from?” So we had a cup of tea and I just bundled up the papers. If they were ever in any sort of order they aren’t now, so I just stuffed them in the boxes and put everything in the spare room and shut the door. And then I showed her the container with the fish and told her that Jennifer had left it for her, and she said, “Really? How kind, I must have missed her.” And then she said she was tired and she thought she’d have a rest.’
‘So how did it actually . . .?’ Polly’s voice trails off.
‘The stroke? Well she got up from the table and her face looked a bit odd, sort of startled, and she lurched over as though someone had pushed her. I leapt up but couldn’t get to her before she fell. And by then she looked terrible, sort of grey and twisted, her eyes looked just terrified, and she was dribbling from the side of her mouth.’
‘I’m so sorry you had to cope with this, Joyce. It should have been me.’
‘No, no, it could have been any of us,’ she says, ‘and at any time. We all know the clock’s been ticking, but none of us really wanted to do anything about it.’
‘But it was my responsibility . . .’
‘We all thought it was fine to wait until after Christmas, even the doctor,’ Joyce continues. ‘I know legally it has to be you, but Stella’s been our dearest friend for years too, we’re in this with you, Polly, me and Mac, with you all the way.’
Mac arrives with the fish and chips and as they dig in he pours himself a glass of wine and reaches out to top up their glasses. Joyce shakes her head, knowing she’s already had enough. She’s tired, exhausted, any more wine and she’ll be crying.
‘Well,’ Mac says, tucking into his food, ‘Stella is safe now, and what happens from here on is to some extent out of your hands.’
‘I know,’ Polly says. ‘Perhaps it may make it easier for her to accept things this way.’ She pauses. ‘Do you think I should try to look after her at home for a while at least?’
‘Absolutely not!’ Mac cuts in. ‘Stella’s always made it clear that’s not what she wants. She was adamant about it.’
‘Mac’s right,’ Joyce says. ‘I remember we were having dinner here one night last summer – when you were in Scotland, I think. We were talking about getting old, what we wanted, what we dreaded, and Stella said the worst thing for her would be for someone close to her to have to deal with all the intimate and embarrassing things. I can promise you, Polly, she would not want you to take on her day-to-day care, and she’d want you to have a life of your own, I know she would.’ She can see that Polly too is exhausted and close to tears. ‘We’ve been so lucky here, for so long,’ she sighs. ‘Here in Emerald Street, it was like our own little corner of the world. Always a safe, friendly place to come home to.’
‘It still is,’ Mac says, reaching out for more chips. ‘Remember how you felt when Dennis and Helen moved? You hated it, you said things would never be the same, and of course it was a big change but you’ve found what you want to do, the course, the classes, all those amazing women.’
Joyce nods. ‘I know, but just the same this feels huge, almost as though this is how it’ll be from now on, losing people.’
Mac shakes his head. ‘You can’t think like that, Joyce. Gemma’s coming home, we have a new grandchild to look forward to. Nothing, no one, can replace Helen, or Stella, but that’s how life is, it’s fluid. I miss Helen and I’ll miss Stella even more, but she’ll still be part of our lives. And we might be getting new neighbours soon.’
Joyce nods. ‘I can’t wait for Gemma . . .’ she takes a deep breath, watching as Polly picks at the few chips left on her plate. ‘Anyway, how were Alistair and Steve?’ she asks, in an effort to lighten the mood. ‘Did you have a good Christmas?’
Polly smiles. ‘I did, really lovely, thanks. Alistair’s doing amazingly well. Some days he even manages to walk around a bit.’
‘And Leo?’ Mac asks.
‘Ah, Leo,’ Polly says, ‘he’s something of an enigma. Wonderful one day, pain in the arse the next.’
Mac laughs. ‘Aren’t we all like that? Men, I mean.’
‘Maybe, but Leo . . .’ Polly pauses, then shrugs. ‘Well let’s just say that Leo seems to be a law unto himself.’
Chapter Thirty
Late February
‘I like this place,’ Stella says as Polly wheels her down the passage. ‘I think I’ve been here before.’
Polly stops the wheelchair outside a door, opens it. ‘You live here now, Stella,’ she says. ‘Look, all your things are here.’
Stella looks around, confused for a moment, and sees that Polly is right: her dressing gown is hanging on the door, the patchwork quilt that Annie made for her more than thirty years ago is on the bed. Here is her own armchair, and on the wall is the signed, framed photograph of her with Jason and Kylie on the set of Neighbours.
‘How did that get there?’ Stella asks, leaning forward to take a closer look.
‘Mac framed it and hung it for you last week,’ Polly says, ‘and the theatre programs, he did those too.’
Stella looks across to where she’s pointing and sure enough there is South Pacific, The Importance of Being Earnest, Separate Tables, Oklahoma, and her favourite – Ibsen’s A Doll’s House. ‘I remember that,’ she says, pointing to the poster, ‘I got wonderful reviews.’ She goes to stand up but Polly puts a hand on her arm and stops her.
‘Wait please, Stella,’ she says. ‘I have to move the footrest,’ and she bends down, folds it back and offers Stella her hand.
Stella takes it, slides herself forward in the chair, gets to her feet and takes a few steps, steadying herself with a hand on the back of the armchair. ‘I got a bit confused while we were out. I thought I still lived there and I was worried how I’d manage.’ She looks at Polly, who seems uncomfortable and sad, and she shuffles slowly across to where Polly is standing near the door, and slips a hand into the crook of her arm.
‘I’ll look after it all for you, Stella,’ she says. ‘Today we just went back to the house to collect some more of your things.’
‘I can barely remember my own name these days,’ Stella says, laughing, hoping Polly will laugh with her. ‘My head is like . . . like . . . one of those things . . .’ The word eludes her and she shakes her head to clear it. ‘The thing with holes for vegetables . . .’
‘A colander,’ Polly says.
‘Yes, a colander, things drain out through the holes.’
‘I know. But it doesn’t matter, this is your place, everyone here knows you now. They bring you tea in bed in the mornings here, so you don’t have to get up and make it yourself.’
Stella nods; a sense of familiarity is returning: the bedspread, her programs, tea in bed. ‘Yes, I do like it here. Do you know, there’s a woman here older than me and she plays the piano beautifully, and I sing for the old people – they remember me, you see. We sing songs from South Pacific and the King and I. It’s lovely here. I do like the music.’
Polly squeezes her hand again and Stella sees that although she’s smiling her eyes look as though she might cry. ‘Probably that man’s fault,’ she says, airing this random thought. ‘Don’t let him upset you, Polly, he’s not worth it. You were happy before he turned up. Now, I wrote you a letter, where can I have
put it . . . the house . . .’
‘You gave it to me this morning,’ Polly says, and she pulls an envelope out of her pocket.
Stella looks at it for a moment, trying to remember. ‘Not that one,’ she says, ‘that’s for . . . that’s for, um . . .’
‘For Jack, the solicitor,’ Polly says.
‘Yes, Jack. But there’s another letter.’
There’s a tap on the door and a woman in a dark blue uniform pops her head around it. She is wearing a badge with ‘Dorothy’ printed on it. ‘Ah, you’re back, Stella,’ she says. ‘Did you have a nice morning?’
‘I had a wonderful time,’ Stella says. ‘We packed some things, and then we had . . . we had . . . something . . . in the big place on the corner . . .’
‘We had lunch at the Arts Centre,’ Polly tells Dorothy, ‘in the courtyard.’
‘Yes, the courtyard, lovely. I had a toasted sandwich.’
‘Good,’ says Dorothy, looking from Stella back to Polly. ‘And everything went off all right?’
‘Very well,’ Polly says. ‘Better than expected really . . .’ she hesitates. ‘So I might be on my way now?’ she says, looking at Dorothy, who nods in agreement.
‘Where are we going now?’ Stella asks.
Polly clears her throat. ‘Just me, Stella. I’m going home now, and you . . .’ she stops suddenly and Stella thinks she looks quite drained and rather lost.
‘You’re already home,’ Dorothy cuts in.
‘Oh good,’ Stella says, relieved that she doesn’t have to go out again. ‘I’m rather tired and I’m going to sit down and have a cup of tea.’
‘You do that,’ Dorothy says. ‘I’ll open the window a bit, it’s such a lovely afternoon, not too hot. And then I’ll fetch your tea.’
Stella thinks she sounds quite brisk, rather like Nancy. ‘Brisk,’ she says aloud. ‘You’re brisk Nancy . . .’ she hesitates wondering what’s wrong.
