by Dawn French
How, then, did Winnie make such a catastrophic choice?
Easily. That’s how.
The self-doubt builds and builds over all the years until it melts into one great bubbling cauldron full of hot misgivings and poisonous self-hatred, enough to fuel her gratitude for the attentions of such a handsome confident young man as Bradley Daniels. She couldn’t believe that from such popular lofty heights, he bestowed an interest upon her. He was valuable. Beautiful and prized among his crew. A leader. Powerful. That power was the magnet for her. She wanted an important, strong Jamaican man. That’s who she thought he was. And she might have been right, for about four years of his Yardie early twenties, that’s what he was.
Well, in their flats anyway.
Well, on the particular floor of their flats.
He was respected there, and during his short blingy reign, he paid the dangerously inferior-feeling Winnie occasional attention. She said she wouldn’t sleep with him unless they were married and so then she didn’t see him for six months. When he blessed her with a returning interest, she was so thankful, she settled for the promise to marry as her guarantee of his commitments. Of course he promised that. In her single bed, in her bedroom with posters of a topless Prince on the wall, and with a hot Winnie wide-eyed and ready, he would’ve promised anything.
The moment he knew she was to be his ‘baby mudda’ he began his cruel regime of completely ignoring her. In fact, he went out of his way, sometimes, to display his other, newer younger conquests to her. ’Til they also fell pregnant, of course. At which point they also would be discarded.
And on and on.
Winnie decided that the shunning of herself and her beautiful new son, Luke, was not to be tolerated, so she left Birningham and came to this smaller town to start again, bringing her mother with her. She hadn’t broken the cycle of damaging irresponsible indifference with Luke’s father, but she sure as hell was going to raise a boy that would respect women. All women. And she needs to get home to him now, to make sure he doesn’t have any holes in his loving.
Before she leaves though, she stops for a moment to hold Silvia’s hand.
‘I’m very sorry for your sufferation, Sista Silvia, you mus be truly vex at all this. But, darlin, if you can hear me now, lissun up. Disya situhation is difficult, but not h’impossible. Nuttin in life is h’impossible but you haffi want it to change, yes? Life is only wutless if you deem it so. Is your life wutless? You cyan’t tink dat. I am wonderin, what is it you would want to hear someone say or do, dat would mek you wan’ come out? Mi no know, darlin, but plenty effort goin into finding out. So you haffi do fi you part too, Silvia. You haffi try, OK? Right, mi gaan. See you tomorrow. Good eveling, sleepy head.’
She closes the door quietly behind her.
Nine
Ed
Saturday 10am
It’s a new morning, five days since Silvia fell off her balcony. She hasn’t opened her eyes since that moment and, although no one is openly saying it, Ed is acutely aware that generally, hope seems to be diminishing.
He and Jo are standing outside Suite 5. Ed always finds Jo hard going. She is certifiably insane in his opinion, an unhinged person with acres of confidence, which is a worrying combination. Ed has witnessed many of Jo’s burnouts. Whether they are hopeless work ideas or doomed relationships, Jo is a comet – fast, brightly coloured – and fizzles out very quickly. She has a short temper and a short fuse but she is packed tight with energy and enthusiasm, for whatever glittery thing has taken her eye at any given moment.
For a while the most important distractions were Ed and Silvia’s kids when they were little. Jo temporarily had a surge of regret about not having any kids of her own, so she swamped Jamie and Cassie with her suffocating interest, over-kissing them, buying them musical instruments and taking them to too many after-school activities they didn’t want to take part in. What seven year old really wants to do a course entitled ‘Junior Buddhism for the Here and Now’? She took them to concerts and plays and museums and galleries and events and blah and blah. Lovely crazy Aunty Jo very soon became quick-hide-in-the-cupboard-to-get-away-from-her Aunty Jo.
It was a shame really, she went at it too fast, too heavy, too hard. Like everything. Why is desperation so singularly unattractive? It’s a human design fault really, because at the precise moment we desire something above all else, we are simultaneously singularly unappealing, exactly because of that desire. Kids are the first to sniff out a disingenuous person, and Jo’s unfortunate attempts were a massive turn-off for them. It was sad to witness the almost brutal shunning of her by them. They didn’t bother with niceties, they simply told her they were now fed up with it all. Thanks, but they’d see her ‘laters’. Much laters. Like, not at all. Jo was forlorn and felt she had blown her last chance at family.
Silvia took her out for too many blue cocktails, and told her to shut up and buck up. She’d got it a bit wrong, that’s all. Kids are basic and straight up. They could only be the kids they were, not the kids she wished they’d be. She couldn’t buy her popularity with them. Maddeningly, she would probably have been much more welcome if she’d just observed from the sidelines, but she attempted full-on friendship. Fatal.
Ed wishes that’s what Jo would do now, observe from a distance. Silvia’s silent begging for release from Jo’s ministrations is audible to him, but he knows better than to come between two fiery sisters. He carries actual scars from making that mistake before. He once caught a splinter from a broken plate in his cheek. It missed his eye by a whisker, and even though Silvia is now unstirring, he still doesn’t want to risk it.
Unfortunately, he has to let Jo be the most important person in the Silvia constellation. She must be allowed to shine brightly. She would be even more of a loose cannon if she felt quashed in any way. Strangely, he has witnessed her finding a purpose in this tragic situation. She may be misguided in her methods, but there is no doubt that Jo is up on the balls of her feet, quick and ready to respond. He hasn’t seen her keen like this for years, her bipolar lows robbing her of energy all too often. There is much to be said in favour of the quieter, sadder Jo, but no, it’s best that she is taking part.
Ed knows that Jo’s enthusiasm clearly isn’t entirely altruistic concern for her sister. These two are connected in a profound and perplexing way, linked by their common history, not often a happy one. Their dad cracked up after their mum died. He didn’t know what he was doing, tanked up on whisky against the pain of grief half the time. He retreated to his default position of army major and his two young daughters somehow, in his soaked mind, became a couple of green recruits who had to be taught life’s lessons the hard way. It was a sorry shame.
But still now, the sisters push against each other, constantly vying for position. All siblings are rivalrous to varying degrees, Ed knows, but why are these two so combative? You would think that when two young girls lose their mother at an early age, they would pull together to look after one another rather than regularly tearing each other apart. Yet they can’t be separate for too long either, without one needing to know all about the other. Where are they? Who are they with? What are they doing?
Ed has always figured he’s just not supposed to fully understand the intricate workings of such an unstable sisterhood, but if he understood anything at all, it was a tiny bit of Silvia. A tiny bit. He doesn’t get Jo at all.
Yet Jo is the one he is left with.
The doctor has just gone. She was mercifully straightforward, no tilting of the head or pitiful couching of the facts. Jo has asked Ed to be with her – she knows she can’t deal with this kind of conversation alone. She still regards him as Silvia’s husband and therefore – besides herself – the next of kin. Silvia’s kids were also requested to be at this meeting but neither have appeared. Jamie is still in Helmand showing no signs of returning and Cassie can’t face her mother, at all, even under these dire circumstances. Ed has dutifully agreed to relay any information back to them, but he and Jo
know that between the two of them they should assume ultimate responsibility.
They look through the small window in the door and watch Silvia. Lying there. She just … doesn’t move.
Jo says, ‘It’s only her opinion, isn’t it?’
Ed says, ‘Well, yes, but she is the doctor, Jo, so her opinion does matter.’
Jo says, ‘I haven’t even begun my big techniques yet. I really think I can wake her up Ed, if only they’d let me be in there longer.’
Ed says, ‘Then no one else would have any time with her, Jo.’
Jo says, ‘No.’
‘And that wouldn’t be right, would it …? Jo?’
Jo sighs, ‘S’pose not, but I really think I’m getting somewhere, and no one else is.’
‘You don’t know that.’
‘Catherine O’Brien isn’t getting anywhere. She shouldn’t even be allowed in.’
‘We have to think about what Silvia would want, Jo.’
‘She’s an evil hell-bitch. From hell.’
‘OK. But still … think of Silv.’
There is a silence.
Then Jo says, ‘When that doctor said that we need to decide what we want them to do if she had a heart attack, or whether they should “treat aggressively, should infection occur”. What do you think she meant?’
‘You know what she meant, Jo.’
‘A “do not resuscitate order”? What? Just … let Sissy … go?’
‘Yes. But that hasn’t happened.’
‘Oh Ed, I don’t know if I can take on the responsibility of that decision.’
‘Well, I will then.’
‘No, I will,’ snapped Jo.
‘OK. I’m going in now. Otherwise, I won’t have any time with her.’
Jo touches Ed’s arm lightly, then turns and walks away from the door. She needs to think, and to prepare for this afternoon’s sortie on Silvia’s senses.
Ed moves into Suite 5 with more assurance this time. He hangs up his coat and sits next to Silvia’s bed. He doesn’t have long, and he has a purpose.
‘Hi Silv. Ed again. Oh, actually, damn, I forgot. I’ve brought you these …’
He goes to the pocket of his coat and pulls out a handful of curled parched brown beech leaves, a few small twigs, and some empty spiky-shelled nuts. He lays them in a neat pile on the bed, just below her pillow so that she might inhale some fresh nature.
‘Probably not supposed to bring it in, but this is part of Foy Wood, Silv. There it is. That’s what unfroze me. No question. Now, let’s see if it will work for you. Of course, nothing’s going to work if you don’t want it to, you should know that I understand that. It’s just something about how … living it all is … it makes you want to be living at the same time, sharing the same O. Well, that’s how I feel. OK. Silv, I’m going to take your hand in mine, alright? Try not to mind too much, love, I don’t intend anything inappropriate!’
He alters his position by her bed so that with his right hand he can take her left, almost as if they are walking side by side. He is lanced by a ferocious sudden shard of memory as he entwines her long fingers in his. His hands are rougher and dirtier these days because he uses them to work outside more than he ever did. These are hands that now know how to chop and saw and hammer and rake and drag and pull. They are battered by rain, sun and wind, and this winter’s chills have chapped his fingers ’til they have bled and rutted in some places, but he doesn’t care.
Her hands feel the same as they always were, satin-smooth and graceful. They aren’t small, Silvia is not a petite woman, but they are classically elegant and he always loved to hold them. He is savouring this moment. He doesn’t desire Silvia any more, that particular longing has finally abated, mercifully, but it doesn’t prevent him from finding pleasure in this rare instance. There is an added sensuality in it, because his hands are rougher, hers feel smoother in comparison.
He looks down at the two hands. Adam and Eve. Yin and Yang. Black and white. They melt together the way mercury would on corrugated iron. The oppositeness makes it a bit erotic and heightens the aesthetic kick. It’s a small but unforgettable vignette of how to be male and female. Together. He can’t get over how marbled and sculptured her long fingers appear clasped in his.
‘Your hands, Silv, they’re lovely still. Very … Junoesque. No, I won’t shut up, it’s liberating to be able to say it out loud, and you can’t stop me. The way your fingers lay against each other and the perfect ovalness of your utterly unbitten nails is … bloody thrilling. I always liked them, but the difference now Silv, is that I’ve learned to look up close. To notice. Imagine that! So, with that in mind Silvia Shute, pin yer lug ’oles back, take my hand and come with me to Foy Wood. I hope you can remember it a bit, to help you get there.
‘It’s at the far end of a huge pasture meadow so you see it from some distance. The field is on the flat whereas the wood is on a ridged incline, so it looks like a great army of huge old trees advancing towards you, a bit alarming. What’s unusual, and you don’t really notice at first, is that the huge warlike tribe is almost exclusively beech. Fagus sylvatica. It’s very rare to see that. There’s usually a few oak or sycamore or ash in there somewhere. The Romans usually planted them all together, to nourish and protect each other, but Silv, I have had some pollen dating conducted on my oldest ladies and it’s possible they first came to life in the Iron Age, isn’t that bloody amazing? So, this mammoth stand of beeches looms up from the distance, and dares you to approach them. As you get closer, the magnificence of them can start to overwhelm you.
‘There’s something about trees that’s too much bigger and older than all of us. We’ve all felt it one time or another. We have an instinctive reluctance to feeling so small and insignificant, so pathetically young. We all want to count, don’t we?’
Ed is loving this rare freedom to elegize and is on a roll.
‘We need to be making our mark and whilst near these old veterans, it’s easy to feel pointless. But we mustn’t feel that, because it’s all about spans and lifetimes, and our relevance to that. A tree may live for hundreds of years but what if the tree, for instance, compared its lifespan to that of a stone? Compared to the thousands and millions of years it takes for a stone to erode and change and move, a tree’s lifetime is a flash. It’s important to just remember that we certainly belong in it somewhere, that’s all, and if we constantly belittle ourselves in comparison with the trees, we’re missing the point. I spend each day amongst them gradually learning to be happy to live in the same air, at the same time. Parallel lives. That’s my satisfaction.
‘OK. So there it is, Foy Wood, a hangar of beeches, beckoning you in. You are probably a little bit wary, you can see the wood is dense, you think it will be dark in there, and not easy to move about. But just now, seconds before spring, the branches are virtually bare. Some of the younger, shorter trees will be hanging on for dear life to a few last leaves, but mostly the wood will be a crowd of clean, denuded grey trunks and branches, the late winter skeletons. At least there will be light in there. In summer, the huge graceful giants show off their voluminous hairdos, and the thick dense canopy of leaves high up prevents most of the sunlight from reaching the forest floor, so there’s very little chance for wild flowers to grow in the shade.
‘BUT, SILVIA, now, today, at the onset of spring, walk towards the towering grey battalion and as you get slowly closer, you will be aware of a hazy low-lying mist gathered around the roots and bottoms of the trunks of these grand dames. The mist is a colour. It’s bright bluey-purple. Can you see what it is, Silv? Bluebells. A proper dense forest carpet of them. Thousands and thousands. More than you could ever count.
‘As you enter the wood, everything changes. The light dims, the mossy smells intensify and the ground alters beneath your feet. You pass through the portal, out of open air and into the umbrage. As soon as you enter, you stop still to drink it in. The smell of the bluebells; do they have a scent? Or are you, in actuality, smelling the colou
r? There’s a faint aroma of honey, is that them? Bluehoney. How fantastic. Old crêpey winter leaves are around your feet in crinkly heaps, with broken twigs and husks of the mast the beeches produced back in the autumn. The deer and squirrels and mice have eaten the nutritious meat of the nuts, but the little containers remain, brittle and spent. All these tree droppings gather on the forest floor and make a shushing noise underfoot as you wade through.
‘Look at the trunks of the beautiful big beeches, Silv. The bark is smooth and thin and a delicate pale silvery grey. The boles are tall and elegant. Like you. And like you, they are so … completely … female. They command you to look up and along their sleek lines: “Look at my pendulous boughs, notice my distinctive lineaments, I demand that you respect my impressive stature. Look up, up just as you would to admire the highest heights in a hushed cathedral. See my beauty. Worship me, I am a shade giver, and shade bearer, I am moody and shape-shifting and from my soft timber you can make bentwood chairs and high heels and toys and parquet floors. My bark is well toned and mossy lichen defines my outline from root to top like a furry glove. The bright green lichen is dry to the touch, but soft. Velvety downy hair covering my entire lanky spire of flesh. Irresistible to touch. You want to stroke it and you want to embrace me. Me and all the other queens here, and all our nurse and maiden trees. You especially want to meet our old and scarred grandmother beeches with their phenomenal genetic intelligence, where sometimes their trunks contain tissue from four hundred years or so. All her experiences are engrained in there, her wood is an ever-accumulating memory bank. You want to know her.”
‘It’s true Silvia, when you are amongst these timber Amazons, you start to be curious about how they behave and what they can teach you. You hear them. These trees have … sustained me through such difficult stuff. And by staying still, and listening, I have changed. So can you, love, I hope. We can visit this wood many times Silv, and we can understand some of its lessons but for now, let’s lie down, among the bluebells, and just look up. The bright bright blue bluebells, all around you, soft beneath you, supporting your whole tired body, just sink into them – and keep looking up. Just float Silv, let yourself float … let the trees take the pain and do the worrying. It’s lovely, isn’t it?’
