by Amy Witting
‘Not very cheery, of course. But at least we knew a bit more. So Frank was off again this time to that hospital. They weren’t very helpful either. At first they didn’t want to know.’
‘It was a classy private hospital. They didn’t like having me there.’
‘How did you get there?’
‘It’s a long story. Go on.’
‘There wasn’t any date on the letter and they weren’t going through the Admissions Register unless he could give them a date. He waved your letter at them and asked to see this Mrs Delaney who had packed your things. Then they got moving. They got her on the phone and she talked to Frank. She said she had your things at her house and was minding them for you, and told him that she’d had a letter from you. Which,’ said Olive with emphasis, ‘is a lot more than we had had. But she said you were making good progress.’
‘I only wrote once, to thank her. She was so good to me.’
‘Yes. Well. It was a bit of daylight, for poor Frank. The first bit of good news he had had. By that time…well, I was about to go on leave, so we decided to wait until I could come up myself, and here I am.’
‘I’m sorry I gave you so much trouble.’
That was an understatement. She was conscious that she had done a grievous wrong. Committed a grievous sin, though she could not name it. Examination of conscience must wait. ‘Tell Frank…tell him I miss him. Who’s checking his invoices for him now?’
She was wistful. Checking the invoices for Frank had been her favourite task. She saw Frank lifting a monstrosity out of its packing while she translated from the abbreviated German: ‘Bowl, footed, green, frosted, fluted, gold rim.’
‘And a very nice present for your favourite ma-in-law.’
She, considering the object, amending, ‘Wedding present for the bride who’s marrying the man you love.’
They had laughed together over the worst excesses of Lingard glassware. She had not imagined that this shared laughter was creating a durable bond.
‘Oh, that’s young Jenny. She took your place. She can’t handle German, of course. She just checks the numbers.’
‘Who does handle the German?’
‘Oh! Oh!’ Olive hid her face in her hands for a moment. ‘That is old Mr Oskar. If you call it handling the German! He’s a friend of old Mr Stephen. They got him in to help. After all, he is German. Nobody was expecting any trouble. They didn’t realise that his English wasn’t up to it, and they can’t get rid of him. Since he’s a friend of their father, he just orders them about. And he won’t type, of course.’
Isobel nodded. It was understood that no man was ever asked to shackle himself to a typewriter.
‘So Sandra has to take dictation and it’s driving her mad. He’s so slow. What you would do in a morning takes him a day and a half, and once when Sandra asked him if he couldn’t hurry it up a bit—after all, she has her own job to do—he went round and told Mr Walter that he wanted Sandra dismissed for impertinence. They won’t need to worry about sacking Sandra if this goes on. She’s looking around for another job now.’ Olive shook her head. ‘When I think what you used to do, and for a junior’s wage. Frank even had to bully you to go ask for a rise.’
Isobel reflected that she had been trapped in Mr Richard’s fiction, having accepted his assessment of her skills.
‘Mr Richard is not popular, my dear. He has not been seen around the office since the day you walked out.’
‘Well, I suppose that’s something gained.’
‘That old man can’t even read the invoices. If a label comes off and Frank wants a description there’s all the trouble in the world.’
‘It’s difficult at first, because they abbreviate the words. But the thing is there in front of you, so you can learn fast enough if you want to.’
‘Jenny is trying to learn. She’s picking out the colours. She’s a good little thing.’ Olive burned suddenly with a clear flame. ‘Do you know, they came looking for your dictionary! Your little paperback dictionary. They thought you might have left it behind.’
Isobel too was indignant. That dictionary, packed away now in the dead dinosaur, was a love object, the careless gift of a bookseller on her first day at work. It had conferred a blessing and she cherished it accordingly.
‘Sandra said, “If you are looking for the German dictionary, Mr Walter, it was Isobel’s personal property and I am glad to say that she took it away with her.” Once, nobody would have cheeked Mr Walter. He has come down a peg or two. He went quite red and walked out without saying anything. I tell you, Mr Walter rues the day.’
‘I did not die in vain,’ said Isobel.
‘Don’t talk like that!’
‘Only to Lingard Brothers. Truly, I’m doing very well. Oh, Olive, it’s wonderful of you all. And I am so sorry. Poor Frank. All that trouble and misery, and all through my thoughtlessness. I’ll never forget it.’
‘Mmm.’
Olive’s tone said, See to it that you don’t.
The reproach was unnecessary. Isobel would never in her life forget that wretched odyssey and her responsibility for it.
‘Are you going away for your holidays?’
Isobel wondered if she had caused more human expense by delaying the holiday excursion.
‘I’m getting married on Saturday. Terry has put his mother into a home at last.’
‘Oh, Olive!’ Isobel grasped her hands in delight. ‘You’ve kept the best news to the last!’
‘Yes. I’m sorry it isn’t happy all round. His mother is very bitter against him. But he couldn’t give her proper care and when I offered to give up work to look after her, she went wild and said she wouldn’t have another woman in her house. So unreasonable. I was relieved, really, when she said no. Then the doctor talked straight to her and said if she wasn’t prepared to cooperate, he would simply have to get her committed and she’d have no choice. She was a danger to herself, as things stood. So Terry has got her into a very nice place, though she won’t see him. That is, he goes to see her and she won’t speak to him. It upsets him, but he had no choice, and we can’t help being glad about getting married. We just hope she’ll come round and accept the situation.’
‘Not much loss if she doesn’t.’
‘That’s what people always say, isn’t it, when they’re not in the situation. But she’s his mother and he remembers her when she was different. I’m not sure that she was very different, myself, but he likes to think so. It’s a bit of a cloud, but we’re getting married at last, and it’s fun fixing the house. It’s a big place. And that’s something I wanted to talk about with you. We’ll have a spare room, and if you have nowhere to go when you leave here, we can let you have it while you are looking about. Terry’s happy with the idea. You won’t have any excuse.’
‘You’re very kind.’
‘Well, don’t forget it. Don’t ever do that to us again.’
Isobel nodded acceptance.
‘Did Lingards give you a present?’
Olive grinned.
‘Six sherry glasses out of stock.’
‘Lucky they weren’t liqueur glasses.’
‘But Frank and the girls gave me a lovely silver sandwich tray, and they’re coming to the wedding. It’s going to be very quiet, of course.’
‘I wish I could be there.’
‘Yes. We all wish that.’
‘What time of day? I’ll be thinking of you.’
‘Three o’clock in the afternoon.’
‘Oh, good. That’s rest period. I’ll be able to concentrate.’
‘They warned me about rest period. I’ll have to be off. There’s a bus back to town, too. About this money? Do you want it in cash, or shall I write you a cheque? I didn’t know what would be best.’
‘A cheque, thanks. How marvellous of Frank. There’s a sort of bank–post office at the store and Boris will bank it for me. Boris is a friend, on D grade. They’re the walking wounded. Very useful.’
Olive had begun to empty the
carrier bag.
‘This is from Frank and the girls. We didn’t know what to bring you. Sandra was for talc and scent and stuff to cheer you up, but we thought food would be better.’
She unpacked cracker biscuits, a circular box containing a wheel of foil-wrapped wedges of cheese, a bag of oranges, a block of chocolate (‘Special from Frank’), and a jar of jam over which Olive smiled.
‘That’s from Jenny. It’s a jar of her mother’s marmalade. I know it seems a bit odd, but she hears so much about you from Frank…’
‘It’s lovely of her.’
‘We remembered what you used to eat for lunch. I hope it’s all right.’
‘Couldn’t be better. I’m dribbling. I’m going to make a pig of myself.’
‘And don’t forget, you have to write. I’ll give you my new address.’ Olive took a notebook from her handbag and wrote.
‘And your new name? Or is it bad luck to anticipate?’
Olive shook her head.
‘Winterton. Mrs Terry Winterton.’
In her voice and in her face there was so much joy and gentleness that she was for the moment transfigured.
There it was again, that unknown, unexplored territory.
The hooter sounded. Isobel kissed Olive on the cheek, they clasped hands and she departed.
Isobel spent the rest hour in painful reflection.
The sympathy she had left behind her at Lingards caused an astonishment which reached deeper than the mind. She had taken for granted always that when she closed a door behind her, she disappeared entirely from the minds of those behind it. That this was not so was disconcerting; it created a responsibility she did not wish to bear.
I can’t. I can’t. I don’t know how.
There was no escaping it. She could never deny responsibility for Frank’s ordeal or cease to suffer from the thought of it.
This was what the Church called a sin of omission, but what sin? If there was a sin, you could be sure the Church had a word for it.
She was not indifferent to other people. She had cared about Olive and her problems with Terry’s mother. She cared for Frank. But could not write a letter, never expected that anyone would care for her. So Frank had trudged, worried, persisted.
As a sin, it partook of the nature of suicide. Dismissal of others.
Why, she thought, finding relief in amusement, I’m doing what I used to do when I was a kid, trying to name my sin. That was for my deathbed repentance, to save me from the fires of Hell. This one is for here and now and the aim is…amendment.
I have to live as if…I have to assume that I have some importance to other people. I have to live accordingly. I have to step out into space.
I can’t do it. I don’t know how.
I begin to sympathise with Val. What illiteracy is really like. I have my own illiteracy. I get impatient, think, ‘Why doesn’t she ever try?’ Then, why don’t I?
I say, ‘I can’t do it!’ Can’t do what?
See myself as a person acceptable in the eyes of others. I might have to live up to their expectations, can’t guarantee satisfaction. Easier and safer to be nothing.
And so Frank trudges and worries.
It won’t do.
The responsibility is there. I can ignore it, but I can’t abolish it.
And Robbie. Not for the first time, I reject a man because I can’t accept myself.
I have to write a poem about that. Could I send him a poem? Explain? I’ll write it even if I don’t dare to send it. The first thing I’ll write when I start again.
If I had looked into your eyes instead
of my beleaguered mind where monsters…
Oh, what a dodge, diving into poetry. Coping with everyday is what we’re after.
the inward gaze made monsters of
the cherished shadows
Now, cut that out.
Stepping into space, is what I call it. That’s what the fear is.
But the fear is irrational, because the ground is there. This is like agoraphobia or any other phobia. I have to accept that the ground is there.
Dear old Frank. He won’t have taken that journey for nothing, if it is just to persuade me that the ground is there.
What am I afraid of? Making a fool of myself, earning a snub or two?
Toughen up, will you?
There’s a margin for error. I did behave badly and Olive let me know it, but she came and brought gifts.
Her animal joy in the prospect of appetising food was in the circumstances a strong support. It helped her to endure a considerable degree of moral suffering.
She wished she could write all this down. She needed a new mantra.
No man is an island. John Donne had it right. Not even Isobel Callaghan.
And that is the kind of talk you abstain from, or Frank will have trudged in vain.
*
These painful and laborious reflections had occupied the whole of rest hour. The liberating hooter took her by surprise.
She was faced now with the problem of Val, who continued to lie silent and motionless as if she had not heard it.
‘Val!’
No response.
‘Val. Look, I’m sorry I didn’t introduce you to Olive. I was so astonished to see her that I didn’t think of it.’
‘I’m sure I’d be the last to interfere where I’m not wanted.’
Except, of course, in the matter of Doctor Wang’s visits. But how could one ever convince Val that she was not wanted?
‘It would have been all right if I had introduced you to her and I didn’t think of it at the time. I’m sorry.’
Oh, Lord. Here I am straight back into difficulty. What’s wanted here? What do I owe?
Damn it, it was a private conversation.
Val expressed her own grievance unprompted.
‘Why don’t you ever tell anyone anything? I didn’t even know that you worked in an office. You never say anything about yourself. You are really a very strange person, Isobel.’
Was this owed, then? Was this what she must do?
She could hear Frank saying, ‘Tell the nosy old bag to mind her own business.’
One didn’t have to offer everything.
Meanwhile there was money for the bank account and, more important, the food. Her pleasure in that prospect gave her the strength to open the disappointing envelope and face Fenwick’s rejection slip.
What accompanied the rejected manuscript was not a rejection slip but quite a long letter.
Dear Miss Callaghan,
This is an interesting and original story. I am returning it because I feel strongly that you should rework it as a novel. There is really too much incident for a short story, and relationships you hint at—as with Paul and Sophie—seem to rouse the reader’s curiosity without satisfying it.
If you are prepared to rework it as a novel I should be happy to read it, and if it comes up to the standard of your short stories, recommend it to a publisher.
Do think this over. I am sure it would make a good novel.
Sincerely,
Tom Fenwick
PS There isn’t any law against describing scenery, you know.
Isobel forgot her shortcomings. She lay holding the bundle, letter, manuscript and envelope against her chest, like a small girl cuddling a doll.
Then she roused herself to look at the date on the letter. Nearly three months ago. Was it too late? Had he taken offence? Had he changed his mind?
Down with paranoia!
She found pen and paper and wrote,
C Ward
Mornington Sanatorium
2nd September
Dear Mr Fenwick,
Thank you for your letter, which has just now come into my hands. I am grateful for your advice and your confidence in my writing. I am not at present in a position to write a novel, but I shall think about your advice and hope in the future to be able to follow it.
I am well placed at the moment to study scenery, especially mountains.
Sincerely,
Isobel Callaghan
She folded the letter into the envelope, addressed it and stamped it, and laid it on her cabinet. The first D grade visitor who dropped in would put it in the box for her.
Val was watching. She was however still so daunted by the ferocious snub Olive had dealt her that she did not venture to ask a question.
Overflowing with love for all, Isobel would have liked to make a peace offering of information. ‘An editor who published two of my stories wants me to write a novel.’ No, it wouldn’t do.
She said instead, ‘Would you like a biscuit and cheese?’
Val accepted the offering.
She did show the letter to Doctor Wang next day when he called in to return her copy of Donne.
He shared her excitement to a gratifying extent.
‘It could be managed, you know. When you make D grade. We could find you a place to work.’
‘Yes,’ said Isobel. ‘When I make D grade.’
There was no question in her voice. She would not condescend to question him on the matter when he came to visit.
Val said, ‘Doctor Wang!’
‘Yes?’
He was all polite attention.
‘I get this funny jerking feeling in my legs at night. It makes it difficult to get to sleep.’
‘Indeed. That must be most uncomfortable.’
‘Speaking of Donne,’ he said to Isobel, ‘there seems to be the same intimacy with his God as you spoke of with Hopkins. I do think this strange.’
Did he know how cruel he was being? For that matter, did Val know it? Isobel remembered her resolution, to avoid the arrogance of thinking and feeling for others. Otherwise she might never make D grade.
