‘Say something!’ My voice is raised and cracked. ‘Your generation … everyone … for years now. Babbling. Always babbling, but saying nothing. Mobile phones. The internet. The communication revolution. It’s a cruel joke. No one remembers the purpose of human interaction. The current commerce of words is an insane spending spree and do you know why? Because they are no longer valued. We coin and spend, spend and coin, and among the billions of daily bartered words, the endless babble, the text messages, the gossip in the newspapers masquerading as news, the verbal diarrhoea of television …’ The pulse in my head quickens and jackhammers. ‘We say nothing and think we say everything …’
It is possible I will just talk, let the whole mad sea flood from me. And a small, buried consciousness within recognises the irony. This is rant, not communication. I am guilty of the very thing I rail against. But Carly’s face stops me. There is a film of tears coating her eyes. They brim, but don’t overflow. Her face is set and she doesn’t avoid my gaze.
‘I don’t want to talk about my feelings, Mrs C. Not right now.’
I know this is fair. This is reasonable. This is her right. But my words have an unstoppable momentum. I wonder if I am losing my mind.
‘But you expect me to talk about mine, Carly. We have spent hours together, you and I. I have told you things I have never told another person. I have stripped myself bare. Made myself vulnerable to someone a sixth of my age. I trusted you. I thought we had touched each other across a chasm of years. And yet you won’t trust me.’
She raises her hands and opens her mouth, but I trample through her attempted interruption.
‘Do you think there is any risk in reciprocating, just a little, the confidences I have entrusted to you? Is it that you don’t trust me?’ She shakes her head as if flinging off annoyance, but I carry on. ‘Who am I going to tell, Carly? I am a forgotten person. I will never leave this place. I will be dead soon. Can you not even trust a dead person?’
I have crossed a threshold of good taste and I despise my self-pity even as it makes its appearance. There are tears in my eyes now, but I can’t tell from which emotion they spring. I feel them break their banks and flood my face.
‘I didn’t ask for confidences,’ Carly says. Her voice is strong. She wipes her eyes with the back of an impatient hand and shifts her weight to the other leg. ‘I came here for research. For my assignment. You said you’d help. I didn’t ask for your story.’
‘No. You didn’t. That was my gift to you. And if you don’t value it, then don’t come back again.’
There is silence. I am shocked because I didn’t know I was going to say that until the words appeared. Now I cannot take them back. Carly stands still for a moment. The dying sun is dipping beneath the trees. Through broad French windows, it paints her red. She hoists her bag upon her shoulder and turns towards the door. This time I want to call her back, but words have dried. She places her hand on the door handle.
‘Bye, Mrs C,’ she says without turning.
Then she is gone. The door clicks shut.
I sob. I do not understand what I have done or the reasons for it. In all the world there are only two or three people who know I exist, or who would be upset if I ceased to be. And one of them – Jane – is paid for it. How could I offend a child who has spent her precious time – and for the young, all time is precious despite it being in unlimited supply – in listening to the ramblings of an old woman?
My story must be told. And now I have crushed the only medium through which it could be told.
My mind. My mind.
Is it crumbling?
And then, with a power that stops my breath, the answer comes to me.
I am scared.
I am scared to death. Of death. But, most of all, of loneliness.
CHAPTER 9
LUCY AND I SIT in our usual chairs.
Dinner has been and gone and the lounge is empty. The other residents are in the television room. When I first arrived here, the lounge was dominated by a huge television, but I changed all that. There was nowhere, other than your own room, to enjoy peace, or quiet conversation. It took considerable effort to have the television relocated. Places like this are resistant to change.
But I am stubborn.
Lucy is like me. She doesn’t value noise for its own sake.
So we sit. Sometimes she reads. Sometimes we talk. Tonight I need to talk.
‘Are you afraid, Lucy?’ I say.
‘Of what?’
‘Dying.’
‘Oh, that.’
There is silence for a minute or two. I let it brew. She will answer when she has thought things through.
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘Of course. Aren’t we all?’
‘Oh, you know. You hear stories of old people who welcome it. Embrace it like a lover. It is these, apparently, who “died as one that had been studied in his death; to throw away the dearest thing he owed, as ’twere a careless trifle.” ’
Lucy sighs. She reaches across the gap between us and pats me on the arm. ‘You know, Leah, just sometimes it would be nice if we both spoke English.’
‘It is English, you ignoramus. By the greatest writer the world has ever known.’
‘Catherine Cookson said that?’
I laugh. Lucy does that to me sometimes. It is a great gift, to burst bubbles of pomposity with the blade of humour. I admire it. We sit, wrapped in silence, for a few minutes.
‘So are you scared of dying, Leah?’ she says.
‘I am terrified,’ I reply. ‘And I don’t know why. My body is falling apart and my mind is following suit. I am in pain and it can only get worse. But why should I be scared? There is nothing I can do to ward off death, and anyway, in many ways it will be a blessed release. Yet I know that when the end comes I will struggle for just one more breath. Just one more. I will fight for it to the last of my strength. Isn’t that sad? Isn’t that pathetic?’
Lucy gets to her feet and struggles to move her chair until she is directly opposite me. I haven’t the energy to help her. She sits and now her face is silhouetted against the French window, her hair a dizzying white aura. She takes my hands in hers.
‘No. I think it’s just the way it is for all of us. It’s hardwired.’
‘It’s what?’
Lucy smiles. It is a ghostly thread within the darkness of her face.
‘It’s a term my daughter favours.’
‘“Hardwired”? That’s ghastly. It makes me sound like a toaster.’
‘Your petticoat is showing, Leah. Vocabulary is changing, as the world changes.’
‘I wouldn’t take much pride in vocabulary that is an affront to good taste. Not all change is good.’
The ghost smile flickers again.
‘And what about your God, Leah?’ she says. ‘Doesn’t He make a difference to your feelings about mortality? I would think He should. I mean, what’s the point of having a God if it isn’t for times such as these?’
I squeeze her hands. She is the closest I have ever had to a friend. Since Adam. The thought is almost too sad to bear. It is a eulogy on my life.
‘Oh, God and I have a curious relationship,’ I say. ‘Sometimes I don’t believe in Him and sometimes He doesn’t believe in me. It’s something we are working through.’
Lucy laughs. ‘It’s okay to be scared, Leah. It’s okay.’
‘It will have to be.’
Shadows paint the room. There is a lamp against the darkness, positioned behind Lucy; it bleeds pale light over institutionalised furniture. Somewhere, a clock ticks. Somewhere, a clock is always ticking.
‘So do you not believe in God, Lucy?’
She takes her time replying.
‘I wouldn’t go that far. I think maybe I do. Or perhaps it’s as simple as hoping He exists. I was never a great fan of religion, Leah. All that earnestness and ritual. It always seemed like it was trying too hard. Do you know what I mean?’
I do, but I don’t say anything. She rubs at her ey
es.
‘But now,’ she continues. ‘Now … I don’t know. It would be such a waste, wouldn’t it? If this was all there is. What would be the point? But, then again, that could simply be wishful thinking, now that time is running out. Maybe life is an exercise in futility. All of it is waste. Truth is, Leah, I don’t know. I guess the only certainty is we’ll find out.’
She laughs, then continues.
‘I used to have conversations like this when I was young. Just after the war, sitting in smoky bars. The meaning of life, the possibility of an existence beyond this one. I suppose, given what we had just lived through, it was understandable. But, God, we were all so earnest, like we were the only ones who’d ever thought such things throughout the course of human history. Such trite things. Predictable and unoriginal. And now, at the end, I come back to the banal. “I don’t know. I hope so. Maybe. But maybe not. Toss a coin.” I envy you, Leah. I envy your faith, your certainty.’
It isn’t that. It isn’t that at all. How do I explain? I have lived with God all my years. He was the milk from my mother’s breast. Faith and certainty? It was the air I breathed. The root of my being. But dig long enough, mine to the heart of certainty, and there is always a core of doubt, nestling like a stone in the fruit of faith. I have spent years resisting the urge to examine my belief too closely. Because I am scared of what I’ll find.
I wonder why I don’t tell Lucy my story. Now I have offended Carly, there is a good chance it will remain forever buried. I don’t think she will return. Why should she? What profit is there for her? I am old and I am rude. All I have to offer is a story she never wanted. I have nothing she needs. I have nothing she wants.
And then I understand. It is simple.
I cannot tell Lucy because I need my story to live a little while longer. When I die I want it to have an existence beyond me. Lucy cannot offer it time. Carly can. It is her mind that will host it. It will bury itself there and each breath she takes will give it sustenance. Even if the recording fades, if it lies somewhere unregarded, or is broken, Adam and I will live on in memory.
Carly was to be my book.
And I have ripped it to pieces.
History repeats itself.
I am tired and need sleep, a small death at the end of each day’s life. Lucy summons Jane, who is on night shift this week. She helps me to my room and prepares me for bed. I used to be ashamed of this help. Now I am too tired even for that.
Carly will not come back.
‘Now you sleep well, my dear,’ says Jane. She tucks me in. ‘Dream of that man of yours. That Adam.’
I do.
CHAPTER 10
THE DREAM IS AS sharp as memory.
It is memory.
I pick up Pagan and carry him to the back of the shed. His weight makes the muscles in my arms bunch and cramp, but I do not drop him. The world is made of water. Sometimes, lightning casts everything in silver. The farm is monochrome. My dream is monochrome. Except for the splashes of red that badge my dress and stain my fingers.
I find a shovel from the barn. I dig. Eventually, I tuck my dog down and blanket him with mud. Then I kneel at his sodden grave. Adam wipes my hair from my eyes. He doesn’t say anything. I try to pray, but have no words. They stop in my throat. After a while, Adam leaves.
I do not know how much time passes. I am empty and cannot feel the rain on my skin. Lightning flashes, but I do not really notice. Thunder makes the ground pulse, but I do not really notice. My head is bowed. Time passes.
When Adam puts his hand on my face I turn my eyes to his. He is not wet. His hair shines, even in the darkness, as do his eyes. They flash silver in the storm.
‘Come see, Leah,’ he says.
‘What?’ I say.
‘Come see.’
He takes me by the hand and raises me to my feet. He twines his fingers inside mine, leads me from the grave. I follow.
Inside the barn, the air is solid. It smells of rain and death. Adam leads me through the darkness. We stop just beyond the hulks of old farm machinery, rusted mementoes of a dying era. Though the dark is hard against the eyes, I see pale patches on the floor.
They are lined in rows, ghostly rectangles. I kneel on the floor and bend towards them. Pages. Curled and damp. Hundreds of them, some in soggy clumps. Others fluttering limply at their edges, stirred by the storm.
‘I collected them,’ says Adam. He kneels beside me. ‘I don’t know if I got them all. Probably not. The wind was vicious. Still is. You wouldn’t believe how far some of them had flown. I found one or two at the edges of the orchard. Soaking wet. I …’ I touch him on the arm, though I don’t look up from the drift of paper before me. He stops talking. My mind is in a strange place. It wrestles with the image of a dog, a blinding flash of light and the smell of burning death. Yet it also considers the pages laid before me, the jumble of story, wet and curled. There is a beginning here. It snakes with the promise of vitality from an ending. Life comes from death. One story ends and another begins. It is too much to reflect on and I am too young. I touch a sheet. The tip of my finger tingles.
There is another small explosion of light on the edge of my vision.
Adam has found my secret store of candles. They were tucked beneath sacking, a few stubs of cold wax, a half-empty box of matches and a chipped saucer. The flame writhes against the draughts, battles against the night. It steadies and when it does, the darkness has been pushed back a few meagre centimetres. It is enough.
Print marches across white space. Words resolve themselves. ‘I know I found the opening page,’ says Adam. ‘It’s here somewhere.’ He searches through the mottled pages, gently lifts a sheet to avoid damaging it, puts it carefully back on the barn floor, picks his way through a carpet of story, wary where he places his feet. He mutters in disappointment, continues his search. I reach out and take a page – any page – from the pile before me. The candle’s flame swirls and the print dances from light to shadow. When it rests, I read.
The evening arrived; the boys took their places. The master, in his cook’s uniform, stationed himself at the copper; his pauper assistants ranged themselves behind him; the gruel was served out; and a long grace was said over the short commons. The gruel disappeared; the boys whispered each other, and winked at Oliver; while his next neighbours nudged him. Child as he was, he was desperate with hunger, and reckless with misery. He rose from the table; and advancing to the master, basin and spoon in hand, said: somewhat alarmed at his own temerity:
‘Please, sir, I want some more.’
The master was a fat, healthy man; but he turned very pale. He gazed in stupefied astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then clung for support to the copper. The assistants were paralysed with wonder; the boys with fear.
‘What!’ said the master at length, in a faint voice.
‘Please, sir,’ replied Oliver, ‘I want some more.’
The master aimed a blow at Oliver’s head with the ladle; pinioned him in his arms; and shrieked aloud for the beadle.
The board were sitting in solemn conclave, when Mr. Bumble rushed into the room in great excitement, and addressing the gentleman in the high chair, said,
‘Mr. Limbkins, I beg your pardon, sir! Oliver Twist has asked for more!’
There was a general start. Horror was depicted on every countenance.
‘For more!’ said Mr. Limbkins. ‘Compose yourself, Bumble, and answer me distinctly. Do I understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?’
‘He did, sir,’ replied Bumble.
‘That boy will be hung,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat. ‘I know that boy will be hung.’
Nobody controverted the prophetic gentleman’s opinion. An animated discussion took place. Oliver was ordered into instant confinement; and a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of the gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who would take Oliver Twist off the hands of the parish. In other words, five
pounds and Oliver Twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling.
‘I never was more convinced of anything in my life,’ said the gentleman in the white waistcoat, as he knocked at the gate and read the bill next morning:
‘I never was more convinced of anything in my life, than I am that that boy will come to be hung.’
I lower the page.
The boy was reckless with misery. He was reckless with misery before asking for more. I want to know why. I want to know the history. And the prophecy. The boy will be hung. It is an arrow to the future, sharp and pointed in its urgency. I must know Oliver. I must walk at his side.
‘Got it!’ says Adam. He steps into my circle of light, a page in his hand. He presses it on me, an offering, a gift. His face is lit, not just by the wash of candlelight, but also by his smile. He glows from within.
I take the page and study it. It is damp. Water stains are forming. It looks diseased and old. But the words survive. I place it carefully away from the others. I do not even have to speak. Adam knows. I stand and we move among the piles, searching for order.
It takes many hours and all my remaining candle stubs, but we succeed. At some stage the storm passes. At some point the night passes. When the book is complete, dawn is struggling through the walls of the barn. Birds sing in the new beginning.
Pages 221 to 234 are missing. I never find them. Though I read the book many times over the years, in many different editions, I resisted the urge to fill that gap. Always I would skip those fourteen pages.
I am too tired to start reading and I am old enough to know the miracle of story is now fixed. It is asleep and waiting for my eyes to kiss it to life, like all those stories from my childhood. I am asleep as well, curled on the floor in Adam’s arms. He strokes my face and I feel the warmth of his body as a blanket.
My last thought is a strange one.
I don’t think of Pagan. I don’t think of mother, alone in her gloomy bedroom, watched over by a grim God. I don’t even think of Oliver and his reckless misery.
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