by Jemma Wayne
Vera knocked gently on the door before she left at five. When Lynn didn’t answer, she knocked again, then retreated downstairs.
Lynn sat up. When she was sure she had heard the front door close, she slipped on the overall she’d hastily stuffed under the bed that morning and walked slowly to the window on the landing. Vera was already halfway down the street, occupied by her mobile phone. Light. Flippant. Unmoved by the fury her presence had sparked. Lynn felt red creeping back up on her. She made her way downstairs, stopping in the kitchen for a glass of water and noticing that Vera had left a small dish of pasta on the counter under cling film. Lynn left the dish where it was and returned to her painting. She pushed the canvas she had been working on to one side and started another. She used reds again, but this time it was a portrait.
*****************
It could have been a bigger disaster. Lynn could have asked her to leave, or told her outright that she hated her, or worse, told Luke. Of course if Vera had been thinking of Lynn and not herself, she may have pre-empted the insensitivity of the sabbatical issue. Someone like Luke would have realised.
At dinner, Luke reassures her. He tells her that his mother is scared, and used to being capable, and says she must simply keep on trying. He does not say that he is scared, and used to being able to fix things, and that he doesn’t know what else to try; but Vera sees the fear behind his eyes, and carries his request for perseverance heavily. “Perhaps, perhaps let her see that everyone is frail in some way,” he suggests. “That we’re all frail, and Jesus knows this. I don’t know, maybe knock over the teapot?”
“Already done that,” Vera grimaces. But she knows of course all about frailty, vulnerability, weak spots. Worryingly, Lynn has begun to hit hers.
She walks home instead of getting a bus, forcing her legs to move steadily. Her mind feels hazy, her body too slow, her being trapped in a strange confusion of stopping, pausing, and running, running, running. Children, said Lynn. Children, children, children. Luke walks sluggishly in the other direction. They are both killing time. Killing the thoughts that surface when one has time. It is almost winter but the plants are not yet dead, the leaves not all fallen, as though petrified into a state of in-between-ness. Vera stays up late watching episodes of sitcoms she has already seen. She drinks coffee and Red Bull. Eventually, canned laughter lulls her to sleep.
The following morning, her head is groggy. Nevertheless she is up early. She has decided to read the bible. She decided this at 3.57am, but forced herself to lay with closed eyes until six. Twice she drifted off, but her dreams then were short, contained, not devastating. She picks a verse she has laboured through before, embraces the sensation of accomplishment that comes with understanding it, allows ancient thoughts to drown out her own, and arrives at Lynn’s armed with determination. At the well-kept door however, Lynn tells her that really she isn’t needed and would do better to go home. Lynn is pristine today, her hair in place, her cheeks perfectly rouged, her fingers un-coloured. On the doorstep, Vera’s feet feel cumbersome. She moves her weight from one to another, aware suddenly of the messages going from brain to muscle to make them lift. She twitches her finger and is aware of thinking that she should twitch her finger. Pushing her shoulder forward, she is conscious of the test she is setting herself and no, she is not able to push forward her shoulder without following this thought process too. There is no mirror, but seconds are ticking by. Lynn taps her foot against the arch of the door like a metronome.
A breath, oh for a breath.
Vera exhales a conscious breath. Politely, she replies that she’d like to stay.
As though having anticipated this, Lynn nods and steps aside, but again Vera is disallowed from making the tea or fetching a blanket, or preparing lunch, and in the end she simply follows Lynn from room to room like a stray dog, offering strands of conversation that with a roll of the eyes are flapped away.
It is an absurd dance and they both know it. Lynn is without real occupation. She is busying herself, lifting books and opening them to random pages, feigning design. Vera’s pursuit is even more ridiculous. The dance however continues. The rooms are cold. They are filled with a lifetime’s clutter but a chilliness has settled upon the chaos like a film of dust. Vera wonders if Lynn sees it too, if with her movements she is trying to wipe it away, if under the trinkets and plant pots and photo frames, she is looking for some lingering warmth. For Life’s heat. She returns frequently to the fireplace.
Eventually, Lynn sits. She holds her side as she does so, although she attempts to hide this. Then she closes her eyes pretending sleep. Again, Vera tries at conversation, but Lynn winces with every one of Vera’s efforts, so in the end Vera decides to say nothing.
She leaves half an hour earlier than planned. Lynn raises her eyebrows towards the clock but Vera feels herself folding more quickly now. She has to get out. There has been silence for too long. Her mind is racing too fast, her mantra losing ground to the other noises inside her head.
Summoned noises. Summoned from the depths. Not from the depths. Vera shakes her head. Yes, from the depths, but so unexpectedly by Lynn, by her stillness today, and by her words of the day before. Words like ‘children’, cutting through Vera’s thoughts. Vera watches her own arm as she raises it in slow motion to shift her bag higher up her shoulder. Her fingers curl around the strap like a reef fluttering in the undulation of shallow water. Folding. Unfolding. Folding. They let go, they release, they move gauchely back through the air. Vera needs occupation. Or distraction. Or both. Dear God make me better, make me worthy, make me clean. Dear God make me better, make me worthy, make me clean.
Clipping quickly down the street, she scrolls through her phone. Charlie’s number is conveniently always near the top of her list of contacts. Luke’s is further down. Vera returns her phone to her bag and thumbs the worn seam of her wallet. She knows she must open it, take out the piece of paper, unfold it in order to unfold herself. But what if it undoes her altogether? What if it undoes them? Her and Luke? Her hope, her happiness, her sanity, her redemption. Her bag is heavy. She is carrying the new bible Luke gave her and it takes up most of the room. Vera sits outside the tube station and fishes beneath the bible for her pack of cigarettes. She lights one, thinks of Luke and stubs it out against the crumbling wall. The tube station is busy. People are jostling. Vera lights another. This time she inhales deeply, a dirty, smoky, cloudy breath. Her fingers feel better for being occupied, though her spare hand lingers over her wallet. She will smoke another cigarette before she boards the tube. She is not yet sure which way she will go.
*****************
Lynn had not planned for John to be their buffer. After three days of tension and silence the friction had seemed insurmountable and even Lynn, who had created it, wondered how long any being could last amidst such tautness of air. The days dragged, weighed down like gravestones. If she had been alone, Lynn could at least have been painting, or watching TV, or staring into space lost in her thoughts, but with Vera there she felt an impetus to feign occupation. And to make elaborate meals that really she was too tired to cook, not hungry enough to enjoy, and later felt the impact of, having stood for so long.
On the Wednesday, perhaps having noticed this, Vera turned up with pre-prepared food from a deli, and Lynn rather fancied a half of the egg and onion bagel, or some of the lemon-topped salad, and the ease of it all. For a moment she even found herself thinking that it was good Luke would have somebody so bent on providing sustenance. But she could not bring herself to accept Vera’s offerings. Galling Vera was her only amusement.
Then John turned up unannounced that Thursday and regaled both of them with stories of blunders from his rehearsals, and did an impression of the power-mad director, and made them both laugh. At the same time. About the same thing. He insisted on a glass of champagne with their three o’clock tea, and by the time he left at four, something had dissipated. Lynn found that she could tolerate Vera without scowling. And to her credit,
Vera had not given up on conversation. Her attempts were awkward and unskilled, but she was persistent. Really, Lynn should have put her at her ease, the way she used to with the new wives she met at Philip’s law functions: include her, welcome her, let her in. The women always told her, later, how intimidated they’d felt by her – Philip Hunter’s smart, beautiful wife – and how grateful they’d been for her friendship. They’d loved her for that. Lynn should let Vera love her similarly. But she could not bring herself to help the girl who already had everything. She let Vera scrabble.
“They’re very different aren’t they? Luke and John?” Vera tried, picking crumbs from the carpet near the chair John had sat in.
“I suppose they are.”
“You must be very proud of them both.”
“Of course, I am.”
“And that the family is so close, is a testament to you.”
Lynn nodded, thinking in fact how rare it was for the three of them to congregate together, how she had never once been to John’s flat, how there was so much about him she had pretended not to notice. Were they close? Should she have noticed? When he was a teenager -
“I don’t see my parents often,” Vera offered into the long pause, and Lynn snapped back into focus. She was noticing these lapses of hers more and more often. It was growing harder to stay engaged in conversation, in the present. Ridiculous for a woman not yet 60.
“Why not? You don’t get on?” she said briskly.
“Well, we disagree these days.”
“All parents disagree with their children’s choices.”
Vera flinched, and Lynn noticed the sting of her remark. “My mother for example, despised my choice of churches,” she added.
Now Vera smiled and sat in the chair she had finished brushing for crumbs. “My father doesn’t believe in God at all. If I told him I was going to church now he’d think I’d lost my senses, or stopped questioning things, you know?”
“Not everything should be questioned,” mused Lynn, not convincing herself, but watching with not total irritation as Vera brushed wisps of blond hair from her naïve, freckled skin.
“No. But well, that’s not the only thing that’s come between us.”
“Most things are fixable with time. If you have time,” said Lynn pointedly.
“Yes,” mumbled Vera apologetically.
“Which you do.”
“Yes.” Vera looked down at the crumbs in her hand. “It’s just - well, there’re things I’ve done, before, terrible things that if my parents knew about, if anyone knew about… But of course they’ve been done, so… ”
Lynn rolled her eyes and tapped her nails impatiently against her teacup. Just as she had begun to imagine she could bear the girl, here it was, Vera’s recital: an account of adventure and passion and cleverness and adversity, and things that shouldn’t have been done, in her youth, in her recklessness, but nevertheless had been and made her who she was, and made Luke love her, and were times she would tuck away and store and feed off.
“I’m sure it’s very exciting my dear, but really everybody’s done similar, haven’t they?” interrupted Lynn, a little brusquely now.
“Well, no, I don’t think so. I think of it every day… ”
“Goodness such dramatics,” laughed Lynn, unable to stand it, the very sight of Vera sitting there prickling her again. “You didn’t murder anybody did you?”
Vera looked up at Lynn nervously.
“Well?”
She said nothing.
“Well?”
“I… I was pregnant once.”
Now Lynn said nothing.
And Vera said nothing. Nothing more.
Lynn was shocked by the revelation, and no doubt Vera saw this. Saw the surprise, the amazement, as though Lynn knew nothing of life, of living.
“Mrs Hunter… ” Vera said finally, slowly, beginning again to pick at imaginary crumbs.
Silence.
“Mrs Hunter… ”
At last Lynn looked up. “Well, abortions are ten a penny these days aren’t they,” she said.
*****************
What was she doing? What had she done? Panic sweeps up Vera’s throat and loiters in the back of her mouth.
It is only the second time she has told anyone she was pregnant. The first time of course was to Charlie. She has not told Luke. She swallows hard. A nauseating liquid continues to trickle into her mouth.
She supposes she must tell him now, now that his mother knows. Vera cannot believe she revealed so much to Lynn of all people. Was it the champagne? No. Of course not, she doesn’t get drunk on such small doses. But it is true that her mind is hazy, has been hazy all week, full of it all, full of loss and buried pasts, and perhaps she had felt in that moment between them a small opportunity for trust, for newness, for building a relationship upon. And for those redeeming cosy conversations she had imagined, as though the living room were a confessional and Lynn might prescribe a few Hail Mary’s and clean Vera’s soul. To be clean. To be clean. She knows that it can never be that easy. Stupid. Stupid. But Lynn’s response was surprisingly kind, flippant almost, with her usual dismissiveness making an abortion seem the commonest of things.
If only it had been an abortion.
Not only, but better than the truth.
Of course abortion was still murder, in a way. Or not, but at least that’s how she had felt then. Not back at school when they debated it in Health Education and liberally agreed that every girl should have choice, choice over her life… choice over Life? But when it was her choice to make, her body, her baby inside her. Still there were people who would accept it, understand it, condone and justify and even commend it. A task Vera just could not quite accomplish. Then. Now. And that was why it had all got worse. And crashed down around her, into pauses, and sleepless nights, and flashed in front of her - sanitised rooms and needles and nurses, refusing to be sanitised themselves.
Beginning with needles she herself had wielded.
Charlie had supplied the cocaine, bought from their favourite dealer. By her third year she as well as he a connoisseur. And the high had been amazing. All of the best feelings of energy and sexuality; none of the hallucinations she had suffered once in the corner of a nightclub and still scared her, though not enough to stop. They had been in Charlie’s room getting ready for a party. They were talking at the speed of light about it, disparaging the poor, dense friend who was providing alcohol for everyone and whose birthday it was. She had thrown something at him. A wet tissue? And he had chucked something back. Ultimately they’d ended up on top of each other. Charlie’s bed felt softer than marshmallow. His stubbled cheeks rubbed against her like an exhilarating exfoliation. His skin smelled so manly, so delicious that she wanted to taste it. She remembered biting him. He had slapped her, roughly across her cheek. And then torn at her skirt. They’d both wanted to feel each other so hadn’t bothered with a condom.
By the time her period didn’t arrive, the high had long gone. She and Charlie had been arguing on and off for weeks. Making up and waking up in passionate embraces, then unravelling again when things grew too serious and one of them did something stupid to prove their commitment to flippancy. It was their third year, and such signals were needed. They were like swans during that time. Not in the poetic sense of heart-shaped, life-long figures floating in unison on still waters, but in the sense that after their philandering and solo trips down the lake, they seemed unable but to return to each other.
But Vera was alone in the loo. She had waited for several days before buying a pregnancy test. They were expensive, she told herself, and she was broke. The cashier in Boots stared at her accusingly as she counted out coins. Then she sat on the loo in the sociology block waiting for a blue line, or a lack of it. Though she already knew which it would be.
It was an odd place to confirm that there was a baby. That there was an independent life inside her. That, like the different social classes and statistics and peoples being discussed i
n the lecture theatre, she was as human as everyone else. As powerful. As vulnerable. As absolutely scared.
“It’ll be okay V,” promised Charlie.
He had taken her to the clinic and she lay on the bed staring blankly away from him. She’d left a voicemail on his phone the night before, late, two whole weeks after she’d found out herself, telling him that she was pregnant, and that it was his. And he had arrived at her room early the next morning unshaven and scruffy from a night spent in another girl’s bed. He had not flinched when she told him she wanted to have an abortion. Charlie, usually so vociferous, suddenly wholly compliant. Had she wanted him to flinch? To say something? His silence threw her, but he didn’t criticise, or oppose, or ask her why her hand barely left her belly. He simply booked the appointment. And drove her there. And shared her bewildered glances when the nurses were as brusque as if she was there to whiten her teeth.
“These help the lining detach before the surgery. You’ll get some cramping. Take them two hours before we start,” said one nurse, handing Vera some pills and taking her blood pressure for the second time while smiling sympathetically at Charlie.
