The Woman Next Door

by Liz Byrski

  He gazes out across the sparkling river to the sunlit slopes and roofs of Bodinnick. Gorgeous, he thinks, if only the circumstances were different. Glancing right he sees a huge cruise ship making its way into the mouth of the river towards the harbour, scattering small boats in its approach. His heart sinks. Tourists! They’ll be swarming all over the town in the next couple of hours, looking for tat to buy, filling the pavement cafés and the pubs.

  ‘Gee, that’s a whopper,’ Rosemary says, putting a mug of coffee in front of him and sitting down alongside him clutching her own. We seem to be getting more and more of them.’

  Leo nods. ‘Fowey’s too small, they shouldn’t be allowed.’

  ‘I doubt you’d think that if you were a local trader,’ she says, drily.

  ‘What time are you leaving?’ Leo asks.

  ‘Soon as I’ve finished my coffee,’ she says, glancing at her watch. ‘I’m catching the ten-thirty to Paddington. I’ve left all the instructions on the worktop in the kitchen. Just make sure you read them and follow them and you’ll be fine.’

  He nods grudgingly. ‘And how long is it again?’

  ‘Five days, I’ll be back on Friday afternoon.’

  He sighs. ‘Oh well, it’ll be a nice break for you.’

  Rosemary turns sharply in her chair. ‘I’m going to a funeral Leo, not on holiday.’

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry, I forgot . . . but five days for a funeral?’ As soon as he’s said it he knows he’s in trouble.

  Rosemary slams her mug onto the table sending coffee splashing in all directions.

  ‘For fuck’s sake! This is the first time when I’ve had to go away that you have actually deigned to look after Judith in . . . well . . . it seems like in living memory. Yes, five whole days – a day each to get there and back, a day at a funeral and a couple of extra days to catch up with friends in London.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Leo says, sighing inwardly, ‘sorry, yes of course.’

  ‘Meanwhile you are always on the move, racing off hither and thither, free tickets, posh accommodation, poncing around the EU.’

  ‘Not so much these days,’ he adds weakly. Rosemary always strikes at his vulnerabilities with the vicious accuracy of a dentist’s drill. There are few points that activate his sense of guilt but Rosemary knows them as well as he does himself and she never fails to turn her rapier-like scorn upon them.

  ‘Well you’re getting old and stale,’ she says now. ‘People have heard it all before, Leo. If you want to maintain your privileged professional persona you’ll have to buck your ideas up. Do something new, innovative and . . .’ she pauses, apparently searching for another word, ‘. . . and cool.’

  Leo opens his mouth and shuts it again. Cool? Does Rosemary even know what cool is? But she is so painfully right that he can think of nothing to say.

  ‘And when I come back,’ she continues, ‘don’t think you can board the train back to London the same day. We need to talk about the future. Judith’s future, mine too, long term, and your part in it.’

  Leo’s brain is starting to hurt.

  ‘And speaking of that, you mentioned you’re off to Paris before long. Now why don’t you take Judith with you? It’s her sixtieth birthday and it would be wonderful for her. It’s so long since she’s been anywhere with anyone but me.’

  Leo tries to swallow the lump that has risen in his throat, and bursts out coughing as a result. ‘That’s ridiculous,’ he splutters eventually. ‘I’ll be working. What would she do all day, evenings when I have to go to dinners? It’s not a holiday, you know.’ How easy it is for him to lie.

  ‘Doesn’t matter, just take her with you. She’s smart, highly intelligent and well-informed. Judith can fit in anywhere. Everyone who meets her thinks she’s wonderful and as intellectually switched on as she ever was. You’re the only person who can’t cope with disability, who feels it sets her apart, and frankly it often seems that you think it makes her somehow less of a person.’

  Leo feels the world closing in on him. He sits up straighter in his chair in order to feel more authoritative. ‘It’s not that at all,’ he says, wondering if it actually is. ‘But I can’t take her away at the moment, absolutely not, it’s just not . . . well . . . appropriate.’ And then, still weakened by Rosemary’s powers of guilt activation, he makes a terrible misstep. ‘Later in the year, perhaps, I’ll take her somewhere later in the year, Paris, or somewhere else, Italy perhaps . . .’

  And already Rosemary is on her feet. ‘Excellent!’ she says, clapping him on the shoulder. ‘I’ll just go and say goodbye and I’ll let her know there’s a lovely European trip in the offing . . . June, shall we say? She can think about where she’d like to go. She’s such a great planner, you and she can sort it all out while I’m away. And now you seem to have more time it means I’ll be able to get away a bit more too. So this week will be good practice for you. Mind you look after her properly. Read the instructions.’ And thumping him harder on the shoulder this time, she disappears and he hears her calling out to Judith: ‘Jude, I’m off now. Leo wants to take you to Europe, a lovely holiday to plan . . .’ and her voice fades away into the recesses of the house and is gone.

  ‘Fuck,’ Leo says aloud, ‘what is it with women? Why do they expect so much from me?’ The week stretches ahead of him like a dark tunnel. Judith, he knows, is about as undemanding as anyone in her situation could possibly be, but at the same time he resents having to look after her, resents having to be here for a whole week when he could be doing so many other interesting and important things. Except that at the moment there are no other important things that have to be done. The bleakness of it torments him, almost as much as a week of having to cook meals, help Judith with her clothes, with getting in and out of bed, and the shower, and . . . oh all those other tedious, embarrassing, distasteful things. All the things that his work has protected him from are threatening to take over his life, to reshape it in ways he dreads. But he still can’t seem to break out something new. He’s worried about it a lot, eaten an awful lot of chocolate, drunk far too many bottles of red, and binged for hours on dark Nordic crime series, historical dramas and science fiction.

  Leo sighs and finishes the dregs of his cooling coffee. The one good thing he’s done is to get things on track with Polly. He has won her back with his brilliant emails, just as he had captivated her at the start. Since she spat the dummy at Christmas they have settled back into the way they were. It’s easy enough to keep the messages moving, and they don’t argue on email. She’s also been under pressure looking after her friend and, thankfully, she’s now been moved into a retirement village or something. So Polly’s free, and she’s brought forward the trip to Paris: romance, food, wine, sex – if he can get his act together in that department. Perhaps now that the pressure of work has lessened he’ll get his mojo back. The prospect is cheering. Just get through this week, he tells himself, and life begins again.

  *

  Joyce stands alone in the middle of the studio looking around her. Three weeks ago when she, Polly and Mac had opened the door and walked in she had been daunted at the prospect of what had to be done. The place was packed with cardboard boxes, piles of old theatre curtains, unwanted pieces of furniture and even a couple of rows of old theatre seats.

  ‘Crikey,’ Mac had said, rubbing his chin. ‘Theatre seats – wherever did she get those?’

  ‘She bought them at a sale when some old cinema was being closed down,’ Polly had said. ‘The curtains too. As for the rest of it, I’ve no idea, except that I think there are some old costumes in there. But she’s not touched any of it for years. In fact I don’t think it’s ever actually been used for anything but storage. I mean, the artist . . . what was his name . . .?’

  ‘Gordon,’ Joyce had said. ‘Gordon Chase, she called him Gordie.’

  ‘Of course, Gordie, how did you remember that?’

  ‘I did a bit
of research on him at the time,’ Joyce said. ‘I was worried he might be dodgy, something about him sounded dodgy.’

  ‘Well he never turned up so you were right about that,’ Mac said. ‘Dodgy is exactly what he proved to be. Showed up instead in the newspaper getting married to a twenty-year-old.’

  ‘Mmm. Well I don’t think she had the heart to use it after that,’ Polly had said. ‘So it’s a long time ago and it’ll probably be a big job to clear it out.’

  ‘Not really,’ Mac said. ‘We just have to move the boxes into the garage, and the other stuff too – get those theatre seats out and we can go and get some lightweight chairs from Ikea and some trestle tables. I can get Ben to help me shift it all. And then Dennis and I can give it a coat of paint. It’s a really nice room.’

  And that’s exactly what Joyce thinks now – a really nice room, a beautiful room in fact, two big windows onto the garden, a door that opens onto the drive, great light, an air-conditioner that’s apparently never been used. And Mac, Dennis and Ben have transformed it, polished the concrete floor, separated and lined up the theatre seats on either side of two long trestle tables, and put in some new light fittings.

  Yesterday Polly had wheeled Stella in to see what they’d done and at first she’d seemed bewildered. ‘Gordie’s studio,’ she said, ‘. . . bastard.’

  Joyce and Polly had stood there holding their breath, wondering what would come next. Polly had, of course, explained what they wanted to do and Stella had agreed immediately, but they had all been anxious about how she’d feel when she saw it, or if she’d even remember that she’d agreed to it. She’d looked around, taking it all in, delighted to see the theatre seats in use but unable to remember where they’d come from.

  ‘A classroom,’ she’d said eventually, ‘it makes a lovely classroom, but you need books in a classroom, shelves with books. I think there are some shelves in the house . . . you should bring them in here with the books then people can borrow them and read them if they want.’

  And so Ben and Mac were at it again when she’d left, moving two bookcases and their contents from the house to the studio.

  It’s perfect, Joyce thinks now as she takes her final look around before everyone starts to arrive. There is no class this morning, but a morning tea to launch the conversion of the studio.

  ‘Happy with it?’ Mac asks, walking in through the open door.

  ‘Ecstatic!’ Joyce says. ‘I can’t tell you how wonderful this feels. Thank you so much, for putting up with us in the house for so long, and for doing all of this.’ He looks awkward, she thinks, ill at ease and she feels her will about to crumble. He did something stupid and she has dug in refusing to do her usual patching up job. But has it been worth it? Maybe now is the time for her to flick the switch and just let it go. ‘Really,’ she begins, ‘you’ve been so patient and never even complained so I . . .’

  ‘I complained to myself,’ he cuts in. ‘But I’m glad we could do it. I’m so proud of you, Joyce.’

  She moves to put her arms around him, and is surprised when he catches her hands in his and holds them tightly, moving back from her. ‘Look,’ he says, his face is flushed now and she can see the tension in his body. ‘I’ve been a total moron,’ he says. ‘The thing with Carol, well it wasn’t a thing but I behaved as though it was by not telling you. It was stupid. And for months now it’s been standing between us. I don’t know how to make it right, but I . . . it took me back to the past, helped me reflect on what matters now. I’m so very sorry and I don’t know what to do to make it better.’

  Joyce smiles. ‘You’ve done it,’ she says, ‘you’ve just done it. You’ve taken the first step, to talk about it, to try to put it right. Perhaps you don’t realise it but in the past it’s always been me. But this last year has changed me, this time I needed you to accept responsibility and try to fix it.’ She moves close to him puts her hands up to his face and kisses him. ‘It took an awful long time but you did it. I love you to bits, and I’m so grateful for everything that you’ve done.’

  He looks bewildered. ‘That was it? That was all you needed?’

  She nods. ‘That was all. Simple really.’

  Mac takes a deep breath. ‘So it’s okay?’

  ‘It’s okay, we’re back to being us again.’ She can see that he can’t quite believe it yet, but his expression is beginning to soften, the tension lifting.

  ‘I love you,’ he says. ‘I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you . . . ah,’ he nods towards the door, ‘we have company.’ And he squeezes her hand. ‘I missed being us.’

  ‘Me too,’ she says.

  Polly and Marla are elbowing their way through the door, laden with trays of tiny sandwiches, sausage rolls and cupcakes. On the other side of the street a big four-wheel drive draws up and Joyce is about to turn away to greet some more of the students when she sees Ewan Heathcote get out of it, walk around to the passenger side and open the door.

  She had been back in touch with him at the start of the year to let him know that the classes were going so well that she wouldn’t be taking the job at the school.

  ‘Well, if you ever change your mind . . .’ he’d said.

  Last week she had emailed, inviting him to the morning tea, and she’d got an automatic reply saying he was out of the office for two weeks.

  ‘I thought you must be on holiday,’ she calls out now, crossing the street to meet him.

  ‘I am,’ Ewan says, ‘but I couldn’t miss this. How are you, Joyce?’

  ‘Terrific,’ she says, ‘and absolutely delighted to see you. What’s all this?’

  There are several boxes on the front seat and Ewan leans in, lifts out a couple and hands them to her. ‘If you can manage those I’ll bring the rest,’ he says.

  ‘But what’s in them?’

  ‘Wait and see,’ Ewan says. ‘Is your husband around?’

  ‘Reporting for duty,’ Mac says, strolling over to them. ‘I’m Mac, nice to meet you. Need a hand?’

  They shake hands and Ewan leads Mac to the boot and opens it. ‘Think you can use this?’ he asks.

  Mac bursts out laughing. ‘Can we indeed!’

  ‘What?’ Joyce says. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Just what you put at the top of your wish list,’ he says. And together he and Ewan lift out a large, freestanding whiteboard.

  ‘Oh my god it is just what I wanted!’ she cries, almost dropping the boxes.

  ‘Well it’s seen better days,’ Ewan says, ‘but it’s not in bad nick. We’re refitting all the classrooms and these are redundant now.’

  Joyce can’t believe her luck, and as they make their way across the street and into the studio she’s bursting to open the boxes. Most of the students have arrived now, and are standing around talking while Marla and Polly make the tea and coffee and strip the cling film from the food. Joyce sets the boxes on the end of one of the tables, rips the tape off one of them and pulls back the cardboard flaps.

  ‘Textbooks! Oh Ewan, how wonderful, and they’re in such good condition.’

  ‘I picked the least battered ones,’ he says with a smile. ‘There are three levels which should be fine for your classes. And if I haven’t brought enough there are more, but they’re a bit tatty. You should come in sometime and see if there’s anything else you want. We’re replacing heaps of stuff at the moment.’

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she says. ‘I can’t tell you what this means to me, to us.’

  ‘We’re so proud of you, Joyce,’ Ewan says. ‘I’d like to send along a photographer to get some pictures of you and the students for our new brochure. We often have pictures of graduates who go on and get terrific jobs but we’ve never had anyone do anything like this. It’s a brilliant illustration of the value of language teaching in the community.’

  Marla strolls over to them and thrusts a plate in front of Ewan. ‘I’m Marla a
nd don’t know who you are,’ she says, ‘but you made a good thing with the books.’

  Ewan takes a sandwich. ‘I’m Ewan,’ he says. ‘And your English is very good, too good for a beginners class.’

  Marla laughs. ‘So you got me, I am . . .’ she hesitates. ‘A freed . . .’

  ‘A fraud?’ Ewan suggests.

  ‘Yes, fraud. But without me my daughter don’t come. And Joyce, she is good teacher, the wise woman. Since I come here I don’t sit in the house no more. I meet people, go shopping, I can have new life here now.’

  *

  Two days after the morning tea Polly calls in to see Stella and finds her doing something previously unimaginable: she is in an exercise group. Half a dozen women of Stella’s age and older are sitting in a circle, exercising their ankles in time to music, in front of Josie, the young physiotherapist. Polly stands in the doorway watching Stella as she follows Josie’s instructions. She is totally absorbed in the exercise, and when Josie changes to something different, getting them to toss a ball between each other in the circle, Stella enters into the exercise, laughing with the woman beside her, clapping her hands together as each person catches the ball and passes it on.

  Polly is transfixed; it doesn’t seem all that long ago that she and Stella had visited a former neighbour here.