by Rachel Malik
Rene looked down and saw her cup on the table, and made an effort to listen. There was a play on later, Elsie was saying, but it didn’t sound like their kind of thing. They could start the puzzle if she wasn’t too tired. Dear Elsie. Rene nodded and smiled but she was still distracted, her eyes were still too bright and her fingers tapped at the edge of the table; she wasn’t quite ready to come back. Eventually she went and got her big brown bag – always a heap – that was sprawled over the mat, took out a fresh packet of cigarettes and then found what she was really looking for, smooth and cold at the bottom of the bag. She paused before bringing it out.
‘Do you want some beer? They gave me a bottle.’
‘Who?’
‘The people at the pub where I got the pump.’
‘At the Boar? People?’
Elsie was confused. There weren’t ‘people’ at the Boar. There were Matt and Tillie Boulter; they ran the pub in Rosenys, which Rene and Elsie knew only by repute.
‘No, it was Upper Rosenys.’
Rene knew she was making a mess of things but she couldn’t stop now.
‘On the house, the landlady said. It was her friend who gave me the lift in her van. They were really friendly, chatty. Asked if I lived nearby.’
‘Upper Rosenys?’ Elsie said.
It was only a few miles away but it could have been across the border.
‘Elsie, you know there are an awful lot of women in Upper Rosenys. I haven’t seen so many since the war.’
Elsie said nothing; it might have been a warning, but Rene was headstrong, she wasn’t going to take any notice. She had gone too far to stop now.
‘Women in the pub, I mean; they were just there together. I wondered if it was some kind of meeting, or a party, but it wasn’t. I don’t think there was a single man.’
There hadn’t been a single man.
There was a pause. Rene could hear the window in the sitting room rattling.
‘Lucky him if he’s passing by.’
There was a silence.
Rene didn’t know quite what she’d seen but she didn’t want to be on her own with it.
‘Elsie?’
But she was looking down at her lap and didn’t answer.
So that was all Elsie was prepared to say, not even her own words, more like a comedy voice from the wireless.
The bottle of beer lay cold and explosive at the bottom of Rene’s bag.
‘Could you live together like that, in a place like that, with other women?’
Elsie stood up. ‘I’ll see to that window.’
But Rene didn’t want to change the air, not yet.
She had half wanted to stay for another drink – they had asked her, Kat and Jude, pressed her really.
‘And to think you live in Rosenys,’ Jude had said, when she said her goodbyes. ‘Fancy that. You’re nearly a local. You’ll have to come back, you know. And you must bring your friend with you next time.’
Kat had begged a cigarette as soon as they got back in the van and they had driven out of the village. It was a tiny place – one thick, as Kat had said – but just past the cottages was a long high wall.
‘The big house,’ Kat said.
‘The recluse?’ Rene still wasn’t quite sure what that meant.
‘She’s not really a recluse, it’s a bit of a joke. I mean she’d never come into the pub, but she’s perfectly friendly. We go and have lunch with her sometimes.’
‘She lives on her own?’
‘Oh yes, quite alone. I’d hate it, but I think she rather likes it. There used to be a group of them living there – I think they came here before the war. Very bohemian, if you know what I mean. No one quite knew who was who, or who was with who.’
Kat laughed and Rene smiled.
She was hopelessly lost now, fascinated, confused: the casual way Kat spoke her feelings so direct; the exotic world she conjured so carelessly.
‘We do some shopping for her but she gets most things delivered. She’s pretty well off. Oh, look, here’s the turning for … I do love driving in the dark.’
And they had turned down the hill towards the main road.
Before she got out of the car, Kat pressed her again to come back to the Fox and Hound, ‘and your friend. Both of you must come.’
She knew it was a real invitation but she wasn’t going to mention it to Elsie, not now. She wouldn’t mention Kat and Jude again. Elsie was probably right, it wasn’t really them.
Elsie was still standing there, watching her, curious, uncertain.
‘I think I’d like to make a start on that puzzle,’ Rene said.
Later in the evening they were nicely settled on the uncomfortable sofa and Rene was meticulously turning the puzzle pieces over, looking for sky, looking for corners, still a little bit shaky.
She and Kat had left the pub by the front and, as she went, Rene couldn’t stop herself casting a last look back at the busy tables – just a small place, but it looked so comfortable. ‘Don’t you miss the war sometimes?’ Kat had said. It was a curious thing to say, but Rene knew what she meant.
Ernest
* * *
10.
The Visitor
A week later, Belinda Cuff walked over to deliver a letter. It was a Sunday morning; she didn’t stop for tea – she was in a hurry, she said.
Elsie took the letter. It was addressed to Miss Hargreaves and Miss Boston, Wheal Rock Cottage, Rosenys, Cornwall. Elsie liked ‘Miss Hargreaves and Miss Boston’; they received very few letters like that. Then she saw the Manchester postmark. They usually got cards from Manchester – on Rene’s birthday and at Christmas. The Christmas card came addressed to Rene but ‘and Elsie’ was written inside the card, always below Rene. She passed the envelope to Rene without saying anything.
Rene saw the postmark first; about to tear the envelope, she paused for a moment to look more carefully at the handwriting – it was not the handwriting she was expecting, nor was it handwriting that she knew. She said nothing and dug her fingers into the envelope.
The letter came from a neighbour, Mrs Smith, Bertha’s neighbour, and she was writing because Bertha –
She’d been taken off by ambulance to Withington General late one night and had died just two days later. The pneumonia got her – that was what the doctor said.
The funeral was set for two weeks’ time – Ernest’s nephew was doing the arranging. Mrs Smith hoped the date was convenient for Rene, hoped she’d be able to come. Ernest had taken it very hard, Mrs Smith said.
Rene passed the letter to Elsie – she had never given her a letter from Manchester to read before.
Elsie started to read, almost as quickly stopped.
‘Bertha!’
Elsie went back to the letter, reading slowly and carefully, as was her way.
Bertha’s name hung in the air – a pencil shadow but fainter than before. Rene finished her cold tea and sat, shivery and light-headed, drumming her fingers on the kitchen table. It was certainly a shock. She lit a cigarette and looked around the little kitchen, still dark, despite the paint, yet homely with the tangle of jackets and scarves on the door and Jugger lying in his basket, watching her. Unwillingly, her mind started to fill with train tickets and dark clothes and whether she’d be able to borrow a hat from Margaret and then, as the first shock began to wear off, she wondered if she’d remembered to close the sitting-room door last night because the puzzle was on the floor and she didn’t want Jugger to spoil it before it was finished. She got up and went to check. It was a splendid puzzle too – ‘August Holiday, Windermere’ – and it was taking them an age: such an amount of blue water and sky and crafty reflections. As she returned to the kitchen, Jugger looked up hopefully and banged his tail and she reached down to stroke his long, silky ears; Elsie was still reading and Rene knew better than to interrupt.
* * *
Just a year ago, Rene had visited Judd Street. Bertha had asked her, it was a few months after Mikey left for his National
Service training. She remembered very little about the visit except the strangeness of being in Manchester after so many years, but she remembered saying goodbye very clearly, standing on the street beside Bertha’s blue door. Bertha had taken up her old place on the step – which didn’t gleam as brightly as it used to.
Bertha always knew how to save the best till last. ‘I worry about Ernest, Rene,’ Bertha had said. And Rene hadn’t understood. He looked all right to her: she had left him sitting serenely on his new chair, nursing a whisky, a blanket over his knees. Why should Bertha worry?
‘I worry about Ernest, Rene. Oh, he’s fine when I’m here, I give him the guidance, but I worry. I don’t always feel so well. What if I was taken poorly, Rene? What if I was taken?’
‘Bertha!’ Rene had been shocked.
‘I fret so,’ Bertha said. ‘Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and it’s all I can think about. The other night I got myself into such a state, my heart was quite banging.’
Rene didn’t know what to say, but Bertha reached forward and clasped her hand.
‘How would he manage if I wasn’t here? He couldn’t look after himself, he’s never been that kind of man.’
‘Bertha, you mustn’t upset yourself like this, it’ll make you ill. Properly ill. You mustn’t worry. You don’t have to worry.’
Rene needed to get away. She wasn’t late for the train but she had a sense of approaching danger.
‘But I do worry,’ Bertha said. ‘I can’t help it.’
Bertha always knew how to insist.
‘You shouldn’t worry,’ Rene said and then stopped.
Bertha said nothing. She knew how to stop too, she could do it better than Rene.
‘You know you shouldn’t,’ Rene said feebly.
‘I can’t hold you to that. That was a long time ago. Such a long time.’
Rene said nothing. Bertha squeezed her hand, shook her head, smiled.
‘You mustn’t worry,’ Rene said again. She felt chilled, her voice mechanical. ‘He’ll be looked after.’ It was all she could say; it was far too much.
‘Oh Rene, that was a life ago, the war was barely started. You were in such a state … I feared for you that day, I really did, I didn’t know what you might do. I should never have asked.’
‘You didn’t ask.’
For the first time, Bertha looked uncomfortable and Rene couldn’t stand it.
‘I promised,’ Rene said.
It wasn’t what she wanted to say. It didn’t sound right. But Bertha had something on her hook now and she wouldn’t let go.
‘It can’t have been what you were expecting. You thought it would be me who would need the looking after, when the time came. It’s what I thought – it’s what I still think some of the time. It’s usually the women who are left, isn’t it?’
‘Bertha, I don’t want to talk about it any more. I promised then and it still stands, whatever happens.’
She couldn’t bring herself to say the exact words.
But it seemed enough for Bertha, who squeezed her hand and nodded.
‘Hurry now, you’ll miss your train …’
‘Thank you.’ It was Rene speaking.
And that was the worst – thank you – as if she had signed something, something binding.
Rene had promised and now Bertha had been taken by the ambulance and the pneumonia. But first there was the funeral, there was no escape from that. Elsie didn’t like her going to Manchester – funeral or not, promise or not – a door had opened, strings were stirring, beginning to pull. It was only when Rene was waiting to go, in the dark skirt she had borrowed from Margaret with her hat in a box – oh, why had she waited? Rene looked so different and distant too, chin up, mouth set shut. It was only then that Elsie said very quiet, almost timid, ‘Rene, do you think about the children – often, I mean?’
Rene had been looking for something in her bag. Now she stopped and snapped it shut with a click.
‘All the time.’
Elsie didn’t know what to say.
‘I don’t mean there’s nothing else,’ Rene said quickly, ‘of course I don’t. I mean that whatever else I’m thinking, they’re there too.’
The taxi was waiting and Rene squeezed Elsie’s hand, a quick smile, sweet, but it only seemed to fill out the distance between them.
* * *
Even though Ernest told her that Mikey wasn’t coming to the funeral, Rene was frightened that he would. Ernest showed her the letter from Germany with a postal order for flowers – he couldn’t come because of ‘special manoeuvres’. Ernest seemed to like this phrase, but Rene wondered about compassionate leave. In the event there was no need to worry about Mikey, but Ernest’s nephew drew her aside at the pub after the service to tell her how worried he was about Uncle, didn’t think he was managing.
Couldn’t manage was the euphemism everybody used, but Rene wasn’t so sure about the couldn’t. He did look fragile – there was little sign of the broad, barrel-chested man Bertha had proudly introduced all those years ago. Nevertheless, he was alert enough. She realized how little she knew him; awkward in his manners, he was difficult to read, even though she was a good reader. Yet he knew her and greeted her familiarly as Rene. Good girl, Rene, good girl. And now she was here to tidy everything up, while Ernest sat in his chair, nursing his whisky, taking it hard.
Bertha would have been mortified to see the fallen state of her home. She had carried on cleaning till near the bitter end, but her failing eyesight (never acknowledged) and fading energy had done their worst. The red doorstep, Bertha’s pride and joy, was now dull and whiskery with spiders, the kitchen floor was filthy and the nets were yellow and set. Did ghosts ever come back to clean? Rene wondered. For the week after the funeral she was driven on by a rage of energy, cleaning, scouring pans and tiles, scrubbing steps, settling bills, sorting out jumble, her fingers drumming, tap, tap, tap, while Ernest sat on his chair in the sitting room, reading the paper and taking whatever was given him: tea, pie, toast, cake, another paper, another pint pot. The house remained gloomy for all the cleaning: the hall mirror showed her up all sepia and hollow-eyed. The furniture was shiny with elbow grease, but that didn’t put the dark off; any sunlight that had found its way through the double defence of shutter and net was quickly sapped. In the parlour, the piano lid made a shelf for Bertha’s many sewing boxes.
Rene had dreaded the sorting out because of what she might discover, but Bertha’s habits of collection were frugal and all she found of Mikey was a single photograph, taken in Germany – he was wearing his uniform – Dear Aunty B., he had written on the back, don’t I look smart … She found the photograph in a drawer in the bedroom and thrust it into her bag, her throat suddenly hot and swollen.
And all the while Ernest sat on his chair, nursing his pint pot, reading the paper. Good girl, Rene, good girl. And she had to call him ‘Uncle’. She didn’t want to call him that, now they were in such close proximity, now and for the foreseeable future. Uncle was coming to live with them at Wheal Rock. She didn’t like how that sounded at all, but she had promised. It wasn’t quite what she had promised, it wasn’t what she’d expected, but there was nothing else to do.
She kept only a few of his things. In the end it was just the clock, a fancy candle stand, and the portable shaving mirror – nearly new, his last birthday present from the ailing Bertha. These things could be squeezed into his room at Wheal Rock. She also decided to take his chair. It was a comfortable chair, recently re-covered – she didn’t know where they’d put it and Elsie wouldn’t approve but she kept it all the same. She sold the rest, though it was hardly worth it. ‘No one’s interested in this kind of stuff any more,’ the dealer said.
On the second to last day she telephoned Elsie, by arrangement, at Mrs Cuff’s shop.
It was only the second time Elsie had spoken on the telephone, and it sounded like she was reading a letter, a neat little paragraph about the garden and the new family of birds that w
ere nesting in the chimney; but presently she ran out of news.
‘How is … ?’ Elsie couldn’t say Ernest. And Rene, lonely at the end of the phone with only ‘Uncle’ for company, felt ever so far away.
‘He’s not the best. The change of scene will do him good.’
But after a little while, once they had talked about travelling plans, Elsie started to sound more like herself.
‘Jugger’s missing you, he’s in a real mope.’
‘It won’t be long now – I’ll be home in a couple of days.’ Saying that made Rene feel better.
‘I’ll tell him that, I’m sure it’ll cheer him up. Are you eating properly?’
And suddenly she really was the old Elsie.
‘Are you?’ Elsie was not giving up.
‘Oh Elsie.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes. Promise.’
‘You’re smiling.’
Elsie was getting the hang of the telephone now.
‘Isn’t that good?’
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘It’s only two more days.’
Only two more days.
Elsie knew that Rene had promised Bertha. As the years passed and Bertha got older – no one was sure exactly how old Bertha was – they both knew that one day, if Bertha was no longer able to live on her own, she would come to live with them. It had never occurred to Elsie to challenge Rene over this. Bertha had taken Mikey, she had let Rene leave. From this perspective, Elsie had much to thank Bertha for. She knew that Rene felt a deep debt, but she also knew that nothing could ever weigh the same as the children. Whatever Rene did for Bertha, things would never be even. You can’t compare apples and pears, butter and honey, people said – though Elsie didn’t see why not. But Bertha and the children, these you couldn’t compare, that she understood. It would have been like comparing Starlight with money. She still saw advertisements. FOR SALE BY PUBLIC AUCTION: ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY ACRES, AMPLE BUILDINGS, VACANT POSSESSION, TWELVE DAIRY COWS. No, some things could never be matched.
Over the years, Elsie had caught a little of Rene’s dread of Bertha, knew something about her sticky webs and her ruthless housecraft. If she thought about it, she hadn’t liked the idea of Bertha coming to live with them at all. But Elsie didn’t usually think very far ahead. Now it turned out that Bertha wasn’t coming. Ernest was. Rene had never said much to her about Ernest, he had remained a stranger, insubstantial. Imagining this vague presence at Wheal Rock didn’t seem to change much, not for her and Rene. In a way, she was happier that it was him, relieved too that he was a man; he would be easier, she was sure, than Bertha. She couldn’t have been more wrong.
