The Woman Next Door

by Liz Byrski

  Joyce stares at her daughter seeing, as always, the little girl inside the grown woman, struggling to understand how this child can possibly be having twins. She shakes her head in amazement, tears running down her face.

  ‘Are you okay, Mum?’

  She nods. ‘Twins,’ she says again. ‘I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.’

  It’s much later that night, when Gemma is installed in her newly refurbished old room, and her bags – partially unpacked – are spread across two other rooms, that Joyce climbs into bed and stretches out, letting herself unwind. It’s then the reality hits her: she is nearly sixty-eight, Mac is seventy-three, she has created a demanding job which is so much more than just a job and now, suddenly, everything is about to change. Babies, nappies, bottles, disturbed nights, teething, vomit. Two babies.

  ‘Mac,’ she whispers, rolling onto her side. ‘Mac, are you awake?’

  He shifts his position. ‘Just about.’

  ‘Two babies,’ Joyce says, keeping her voice low. ‘How are we going to manage? We’re too old for this, how will we cope?’

  ‘I honestly haven’t a clue, darl,’ he says. ‘But we’ve always managed every upheaval and challenge, and I guess we’ll manage this one too. Relax now, get some sleep, and we’ll talk about it in the morning,’ and he turns on his side, tugging on the duvet.

  ‘But what about the father? Is he coming to stay here too? I asked about him and she got that big grin on her face and just said she’d tell us tomorrow when Ben and Nessa are here.’

  Mac yawns and turns back towards her. ‘Don’t worry, Joyce, she’s fine, looks really healthy and happy to be home. We’ll know tomorrow, so until then let’s stay cool, like Stella used to say – very modern. Gems is here, that’s what matters. Now let’s try to get some sleep.’

  Joyce lies there motionless, listening to the soft sigh of his breath as he drifts, almost instantly, into sleep. He’s always been able to do this, even at the most worrying times, while she is wound up, her head spinning. She makes a conscious effort to let go of the tension, closes her eyes, takes several deep breaths. Mac emits a small snore. And Joyce longs for Helen, remembers her freaking out when Damian and Ellie married, convinced that twins were on the way because there was a history of them in both their families. Helen, the one person who would truly have understood this complex mix of joy and terror, this feeling of extraordinary love and excitement alongside the anxiety of the unknown, the feeling that something is happening that she doesn’t quite grasp, and the fear that she may be about to lose a part of her new, confident, independent self to the mother that she used to be.

  *

  ‘Where are we going?’ Stella asks. ‘I like it here, I don’t want to go out.’

  ‘Just to our place, Stella,’ Mac says.

  ‘I suppose that’s all right,’ she says, not entirely convinced. ‘But I don’t like going out.’ She watches as Mac gets into the driving seat. ‘Couldn’t we have tea here?’

  ‘Joyce and Nessa are making a special afternoon tea,’ Mac says. ‘Gemma came home yesterday – you remember Gemma, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I remember Gemma,’ Stella says, her anxiety about leaving making her irritable. ‘She’s in . . . she’s somewhere . . .’

  ‘She was in Switzerland, but she came home yesterday and we’re having a little party, and we thought that if it was a tea party you’d come too. Ben and Vanessa and the grandchildren are coming, and Dennis.’

  ‘Dennis stole my car. He came into my kitchen and picked up the keys and drove off in it and never brought it back.’

  ‘You sold it to him,’ Mac says. ‘And I put the money into your bank account.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Stella says, craning her neck to see her home disappearing as Mac heads off down the street. ‘I think he just drove it away.’

  Mac shakes his head but says nothing and they travel for a while in silence until suddenly there is a loud ringing noise. ‘Stop. Stop it,’ Stella says, clapping her hands over her ears, squeezing her eyes shut. ‘Stop it.’

  Mac is talking to someone. Stella opens her eyes and looks around for the other person.

  ‘It’s just my phone, Stella,’ Mac says. ‘Remember, you used to have one of these too?’

  ‘I did? Where is it? Did Dennis take it?’

  ‘No, no,’ Mac says. ‘It’s packed away somewhere; you don’t need it anymore. Just relax, we’re going home for tea.’

  Stella inhales sharply. They seem to be going very fast, houses and shops whizzing past at dizzying speed. She pushes herself further back into the seat, thrusting her legs out in front of her to brace herself. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘To see Joyce,’ Mac says. ‘It’s very close, look, here we are already, Emerald Street.’

  Mac turns into the street and drives slowly down to park outside a big old house. It looks familiar but Stella can’t quite work out why. She studies the front of the house, the roses in the garden, the verandah with the blue ceramic flower pots. ‘Joyce,’ she says, ‘this is Joyce’s house. And that’s my house.’

  ‘Spot on,’ Mac says, opening the door to help her out. ‘Would you like to walk in, Stella, or do you want your chair?’

  ‘Of course I’ll walk,’ she says.

  Mac takes her hand and slips it through the crook of his arm. ‘Good, it’s easier to make an entrance if you walk.’ And he guides her down the path.

  ‘Who lives in my house?’ Stella asks, stopping to look at the limestone cottage next door.

  ‘No one at the moment,’ Mac says, opening the front door. ‘But Polly lives in the one beside it. Remember?’

  ‘Of course I remember, I’m not stupid, you know. Is Polly here?’

  ‘No, but she’ll be back soon.’

  And Stella, still hanging on to Mac’s arm, makes her way down the familiar passage to the big light room at the back of the house.

  *

  ‘Could you make sure Stella gets some of these, they’re her favourite,’ Joyce says. And she hands Marla a plate of cucumber sandwiches, and watches as Marla crosses the room, shows it to Stella, puts some sandwiches onto a plate on the low table beside her. Marla has been with her a couple of times to the nursing home and Stella obviously took to her immediately, but has never asked who she is. Perhaps, Joyce thinks, Stella sees so many people coming and going in there that she takes strangers for granted. Joyce had wondered whether she would actually agree to leave the home this afternoon – some days she simply refuses to go out – but she’s here now, sitting beside Gemma, just as Joyce and Mac would find them, years ago, when Stella sat with the kids. They would come home to find Gemma curled up on the sofa next to Stella watching a movie on the television. It feels like a magical little peep into the past now, Gemma’s bulk pressed against Stella, and Stella’s arm around her shoulders. One of Marla’s granddaughters has one hand on Gemma’s knee and is pointing with the other to her huge belly.

  ‘It’s a baby,’ Stella says.

  ‘Two babies,’ Gemma adds. ‘Two new babies. Will you come to see them, help me look after them?’ And the child nods slowly, seriously, as though considering what she might be taking on.

  How much longer, Gem?, Joyce asks herself, how long ’til you tell us what we’re dying to know?

  In the shaft of sunlight pouring into the passage from the open front door Joyce sees the unmistakable silhouette of Dennis with his familiar rolling gait, heading towards her like an ageing cowboy, and behind him another taller, slimmer man. Joyce screws up her eyes against the sunlight but can’t make him out.

  ‘Batman has emerged from his cave,’ Dennis calls out to her. ‘Turned up last night. I didn’t think you’d mind him coming along.’

  Joyce walks around the worktop to welcome them. ‘What a lovely surprise,’ she says, hugging Nick. He has always been a favourite, perhaps for his
similarity, in looks at least, to his mother. ‘And what a lovely coincidence, you and Gemma home at the same time.’

  ‘Great, isn’t it?’ he says, grinning widely. ‘Perfect timing. It’s so lovely to see you, Auntie Joyce.’

  ‘Nick, you’re forty-something, don’t you think it’s time to drop the “auntie”?’

  Nick shakes his head. ‘You’ll always be Auntie Joyce to me,’ and he puts an arm around her shoulders.

  ‘So why are you back? Is it a holiday?’

  He shakes his head. ‘I’ve come to stay. Given up the job, got a research fellowship at the university.’

  ‘Turned up, just like that, out of the blue, last night,’ Dennis says proudly. ‘Can’t believe I’ll have one of my boys back here at last.’

  Nick crosses the room and bends to kiss Stella, laughs with her, and sits down beside Gemma.

  Mac has opened champagne and he and Ben hand out glasses. He taps on the worktop with a knife handle.

  ‘Okay, folks,’ he says. ‘I’ll keep this short and sweet. Thank you for coming to help us welcome Gemma home. So good to have you all here.’ He lifts his glass: ‘Dennis and Stella, Nick. Sadly not Polly but I’m sure she’s with us in spirit. Ben and Nessa of course, shame the grandchildren are both away at uni, but we’re thinking of them. And of course our newest friends: Marla with Coco and Alesa. So, please raise your glasses to Gemma, and our forthcoming grandchildren – I’m still trying to get to grips with the fact that there are going to be two of them. So here’s to you, darling girl, and your precious babies – welcome home.’

  Joyce sips her champagne and nudges Dennis. ‘Helen would have loved this.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she just,’ he says, and he clinks his glass against hers.

  As Joyce turns back again she sees that Gemma is struggling to get up and Nick jumps to his feet to help her. They are both laughing, sharing some joke probably, and then it happens: Nick says something to Gemma and raises his hand to brush a crumb from her cheek and fleetingly she grasps his hand and holds it. Recognition runs through Joyce like electricity, goose bumps rise on her skin and she knows what’s happening, she knows the secret, and as Gemma raises her glass and says she wants to respond to the toast, Joyce knows exactly what her daughter is going to say.

  *

  ‘I can’t believe I went all that time without knowing,’ Joyce says later that night as Mac climbs into bed.

  ‘You were admirably patient,’ Mac says. ‘We both were. But what a turn-up, eh? I would never have picked it. Batman! They’re a couple of dark horses.’

  ‘They’ve always been close, we should’ve guessed.’

  Mac laughs. ‘C’mon, we’d never have guessed that they were having a long distance relationship for more than two years between South Australia and Geneva. You’d need to be psychic to have picked that.’

  ‘I wonder why they didn’t tell us. Nick was here at Christmas, and he said he was going to Europe for New Year, even said he’d try to catch up with Gemma.’

  ‘They didn’t tell us because they knew that we, and Dennis, and of course Helen while she was still alive, would be constantly pestering them, asking what was happening, were they going to get married, were they going to come home. They wanted to do it their way in their own time.’

  ‘Did one of them tell you that?’

  ‘No, I may just be a bloke but I managed to work that out myself.’

  Joyce rolls over and props herself up on one elbow. ‘You know what? I love it that Nick went to Geneva to bring Gem home, and I love it that they surprised us. And we didn’t even spot him at the airport. It’s so romantic.’

  ‘I know, love,’ he says, turning out the light. ‘Me too.’

  He snaps the switch and plunges the room into darkness.

  ‘I wish Helen was here, I wish she could know about this,’ she says. ‘She would have loved it, Nick and Gemma together: the way Nick has looked after her. She’d have loved everything about it.’

  But Mac is already asleep.

  Chapter Thrity-seven

  Polly hesitates, frozen at the sight of Leo standing there in the doorway, relaxed, full of smiles. Her basic instincts seem paralysed. How can he stand there talking about the Cotswolds as though everything is normal? He talks on, not giving her time to respond, drawing her inside, and she moves forward with him into the foyer where the overhead skylight casts a shaft of sunshine that lights up his close-cropped hair like a silver halo. He is wearing a black, long-sleeved t-shirt and jeans and as he pulls her closer she inhales the familiar scent of his skin; her eyes are drawn to the hollow where his neck meets his shoulder, the place where she has, so trustingly, rested her head, feeling that at last she had reached an emotional safe haven. She swallows, bracing herself to pull away but paralysed by a fierce and sudden longing to sink into him, to be held, to pretend that nothing has happened, and that right here, right now, everything can be put right.

  He talks on, explaining his absence, brushing aside his failure to stay in touch, and then filling her in on details of his visit first to Brighton for the exhibition, and then to Manchester. His voice seems to be reaching her from a distance, as though she is in a dream, a bad dream but one from which she is unable to force herself to wake. Her jaw doesn’t seem to work, her tongue is dry and heavy. Has she said anything at all? He steers her towards the kitchen and somehow she is sitting opposite him across a bench top while he fills a kettle and fiddles with tea bags, talking, still talking, talking, talking.

  His confidence, his total failure to detect anything amiss, paralyses her further. Can’t he see the anger and hurt that she had seen etched on her own face in the mirror before she left her hotel room? She feels invisible, as though she is standing outside herself, watching all this play out but powerless to change it. Something in her does not want to speak. Some inner demon keeps silencing her, whispering to her that if she just forgets what she knows everything will be all right, they will be together, the two of them. The reality of that house in Cornwall and the two women in it will simply fade away, a figment of her imagination. She feels strangely unreal, light-headed, and gets to her feet swaying, steadying herself with a hand on the worktop.

  ‘I don’t feel too well.’ The words seem to come from a long way away.

  Leo talks on: ‘You do look a bit pale, perhaps you need to lie down,’ he says. And he walks ahead of her out of the elaborately fitted kitchen, and she follows him along a carpeted passage, steadying herself with her hand on the wall, and into a bedroom.

  ‘Here we are, you have a good rest. I’ll bring you some tea. Is there anything else you need?’

  She wants to say yes, to ask for more, to ask for lots of things so that he will look after her, make a fuss of her, sweeten the sourness that is curdling her stomach, stop the pounding in her head. She longs for him to touch her, hold her, show her some small act of tenderness. Instead she lies down, gazing up at the elegant art deco light fitting.

  ‘Have a rest. We can fetch your things from the hotel later,’ he says.

  She longs for him to come to her, kiss her, stroke her hair, feel her forehead for signs of fever, behave in any way like a lover. Closing her eyes she waits, aching for his touch. But all she hears is the sound of the door closing and his feet padding down the passage.

  *

  When she wakes it is like coming up from under water, struggling from murky depths towards light; but as she pushes towards consciousness she feels the sickening reality of why she is here. She stares at the glowing green figures of the digital clock by the bed, wondering how long she has been here. Then cautiously she sits upright, puts her feet onto the floor and waits, trying to remember anything significant that passed between them before she ended up in here, but it is all a blur. All she remembers is the familiar sound of Leo’s voice, explaining things, while all the time her secret knowledge lay, like a hand gren
ade, between them. She looks around the bedroom, which is comfortably furnished but bland. It lacks personal touches, family photographs, interesting ornaments; just his wallet on the dresser, a pair of cufflinks, a small partially unpacked suitcase open on the floor. On one bedside table there are a couple of books, on the other a pair of glasses with purple frames.

  She gets to her feet and crosses the room to look at her reflection in the mirror above the chest of drawers. Her face is drawn and grey; she looks as she feels, empty, drained of life, of love or passion, of energy or momentum. She runs her hands through her hair and stares a little longer. Then she opens the door to the passage, pausing briefly at the sound of voices, then walks towards them. Two voices, Leo’s and a woman’s, both of which break into sudden, noisy laughter. Leo is sitting in a large leather armchair and facing him, in a matching chair, is a heavily made-up woman in a mustard coloured suit, her dark hair, streaked with grey, pulled back in a tight, elegant bun.

  ‘Polly, you’re up,’ Leo says. ‘Feeling better? Come and join us. This is my friend Marcia.’

  Polly hesitates, thinking he will get up, come over to her, make some sort of affectionate gesture, but he simply indicates another chair.

  Marcia leans forward, extends a hand. ‘Lovely to meet you. You’re from Australia, aren’t you? I’ve been there once, Sydney, years ago.’

  And she and Leo continue their conversation about some change in the government ministry.

  Polly has that other-world feeling again, as though she is not part of real life, sitting here on the edge of their conversation, marginalised like a well-behaved child listening to the grown-ups. She wonders what Stella would do in such a situation. Stride across the room, perhaps, slap Leo’s face, order Marcia from the flat and then demand an explanation? But Polly knows that she is incapable of this. She is professionally confident, but in social situations that confidence deserts her. Here she sits in the prison of the polite convent girl who defers to others, doesn’t make a fuss, and certainly doesn’t air dirty linen in front of strangers. So many times in her life this powerlessness has immobilised her. Now her resentment grows as she watches Leo and Marcia exchanging political gossip, jokes and speculations about what will happen tomorrow in question time. Question time, she thinks, that’s what I want: my own question time.