Between the Regions of Kindness

by Alice Jolly

  As Jemmy cuts the caller off, she’s aware of movement behind her. She turns around to see Rona coming across the office carrying a Maxi-Cosi. As she looks up, she feels people’s eyes swivel towards her like searching flashlights. For a moment she is illuminated – exposed, startled – then the lights turn and drift away. Everyone crowds around Rona and the Maxi-Cosi. Rona kisses Tiffany and starts to open a present wrapped in white paper scattered with pink and blue hearts. She pulls out a tiny babygrow made of pale blue towelling with a train stitched on it. Monica is undoing the straps of the car seat ready to lift the baby out. Jemmy feels her throat tighten and a buzz of panic starts in her head.

  She edges away through the desks in the mortgage section and heads for the kitchen. Once there she makes herself a cup of coffee although she doesn’t want one. She’s fighting with tears, tipping her head back to stop them falling, trying to keep herself calm. She catches sight of her face in a mirror. It seems so strange that she looks just the same. How can that be when she feels as though she’s been shot full of holes? A gust of drain-smelling air, rising up from the sink, pushes her stomach up into her ribcage. Why are there so many smells everywhere? Each of them distinct and vicious. Two other women whose names she can’t remember come into the kitchen.

  Cute, isn’t he? Seems the placid type – even then, shocking hard work.

  Jemmy stares at the noticeboard. Scraps of paper advertise flats to let, a washing machine free to anyone who will take it away, acupuncture, a bingo evening, finding inner peace. A notice signed by Mrs Jarvis reminds everyone that biscuits are a privilege and will be withdrawn if the kitchen isn’t kept tidy. If only someone would say his name. When she arrived this morning Mrs Jarvis did come over and say a brisk good morning but she didn’t say, I’m sorry. Or, It must be hard for you. Instead she said, The section is under pressure at the moment so it’s particularly important for everyone to meet their targets. Not even Bill says his name. Laurence. Laurie. Instead he says, Fancy going out for a drink tonight? Because he’s got no idea what else to say. In theory, grief is meant to bring people closer together but that has turned out to be a myth.

  Jemmy isn’t sure whether she will be able to do this again tomorrow. Bill had wanted her to stay at home for longer but they needed the money and she didn’t know what to do with herself at home. She’d been surprised to find herself all on her own. She’d had friends at college but most of them had left Brighton now and she forgot to keep in touch with people after she met Bill. People didn’t understand her getting married – What, married? Now? But you’re only twenty-two. They couldn’t understand the pregnancy either and now – well, now – she’s adrift, attached to nothing at all, floating, so far away from the shore that no communication is possible. Other people want to talk about clubs and rap and hair mousse and mobile phones that can take photographs. And that guy who used to be on the media course who is just l-u-u-sh. Jemmy wants to talk about death.

  As she walks back to her desk, head down, she hears Rona’s baby utter a tiny, twisted cry. She dives at her phone and picks up a call. Good afternoon, Jemmy speaking, how can I help you? Her shoulders are hunched, her face pressed close to the screen. Sorry, sorry, can you say that again? Sorry, a slight problem with the computer. Oh yes, sorry, you did say the Premium Policy, didn’t you? Yes, just give me a minute, I’m looking at the wrong screen. Sorry, can you give me the policy number again?

  The hands on the clock finally click to twelve thirty. Jemmy snatches her coat and bag and hurries towards the lift. But Tiffany is there and Monica and Rona with the baby. She was sure Rona had gone home – but no. Jemmy walks towards them with her face burning. Every light fitting, every pot plant, every computer screen, every picture of a smiling baby pinned on a board – everything is watching her. She curls up inside herself but keeps walking. (The truth is, Jay, that they’ve always thought I’m odd. A weird Indian kid with a stud in her nose and too much hair. Most of them are ten or twenty years older than me and they’ll be doing this job, or something similar, for the rest of their lives. Whereas I only took the job to get a bit of money so that I could set up my own textile business. You remember I was going to do that? And I will still do it, sometime, although it won’t be the same now.)

  Now the gaggle of women at the lift are chastened. They do know what happened but they just don’t know what to say. (Jay, if only you were here you’d understand. I just want someone to say Laurie’s name. That’s all that I want. Please, please someone say his name.) Other people are crowding towards the lift but Tiffany, Monica and Rona hang back and say goodbye to her guiltily. Good to have you back again, they nod and smile. They say that now but they didn’t say it this morning.

  You go on down, Jemmy says. Go on. And they all step into the lift. But some of the men from Mortgages have come up behind Jemmy and they don’t understand why she isn’t moving.

  Come on, love, there’s room for one more.

  No, Jemmy says, I’ll wait. You go.

  But the men are determined to be polite. Come on love, squeeze in. Room for a little one here. They jostle and laugh. An opportunity to get to know each other better.

  No, Jemmy says. No. But she’s hustled into the lift. Tiffany has her head turned away and is recounting the story of a friend’s labour. Nightmare, absolute nightmare. Had to stitch her up from the nape of her neck right round to her chin. Jemmy finds herself pressed against that bulging stomach. Tiffany turns her head, notices Jemmy, looks away again. The lift fills with a tight and itchy silence. Jemmy is conscious of the baby inside that bump, just an inch away. A live baby, all curled up there, ready to be born, ready to cry out with that piercing, mournful, newborn cry. The lift stops at the third floor. More people push in. Jemmy is close to the Maxi-Cosi now. She can see the white cotton blanket, the tiny sleeping face.

  The lift has dropped straight down its shaft. The baby looks so like Laurie. Exactly the same. (Jay, if only you could have seen him. You would understand. I know you would. But what was it that happened then? That one night and then I was well but I’ve never known how or why.) The lift clanks and hisses down towards the centre of the earth. Jemmy feels sweat sticking her T-shirt to her back and she struggles to draw breath.

  The baby starts a grisly, spluttering cry which soon rises to a note of shrill anguish. Jemmy ducks her head, grits her teeth, presses her eyes shut. (Exactly the same, Jay, exactly the same. Because Laurie looked like every other newborn baby – smaller but absolutely complete. All of him tiny and perfect – fingers, toes, lips, eyelids, his ribs spread like a fan, his head as round and smooth as a billiard ball. And he was all curled up and sleeping, just as Rona’s baby is. And it wasn’t possible to understand – it wasn’t possible at all – to understand why – because he looked exactly the same.)

  4

  NOW

  Mollie – Brighton, January 2003

  A bitter cold morning but bright enough. La-la-la-la, Mollie sings as she goes upstairs to get dressed. Should she wear the pink court shoes or the wedge-heel boots? Best to leave Lara alone for a while, let her calm down. It is upsetting, of course, but Jay is twenty and he’s got to lead his own life. At least he cares, at least he’s taking responsibility – which is a good deal more than can be said for most people of his age.

  Mollie and Rufus live in a flat at the top of the Guest House, nearly eighty stairs up, but Mollie’s always liked the views from up here, the jumble of roofs and aerials, the crooked chimneys and somewhere beyond – the sea. Not that it’s possible to catch a glimpse of it but you can feel it. Definitely. In her bedroom, Mollie takes a bottle of whisky from the windowsill, pours some into a tooth mug, and drinks it down. Good for the creaking joints, these cold mornings.

  Mollie would never say so to Lara but she’d enjoyed going to see the buses off. Vintage buses they were, Routemaster ’67s, owned by such a cheery man and good-looking too – the kind Mollie might have fancied for herself if she’d been the age for all that. And even thou
gh the weather was pitifully cold, still it was like a carnival with singing, a band, lots of people from the papers and all those dirty-looking young people with their dreadlocks, studs, tattoos and guitars. Bunting and anti-war banners everywhere and a bubbling feeling of hope. A lovely old man was reading the poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins and wept as he got onto the bus. More like people setting off for a day trip to the seaside rather than a war. Stupid, really, but you couldn’t help but feel quite tearful at the courage of it all.

  Mollie puts on her black velvet dress with the white collar and cuffs and pulls the pink court shoes out from under the bed. Hey-ho, the wind and the rain. Standing stork-like on one leg, she pushes her foot into fishnet tights. This is one of the things she’s learnt in life. In difficult times – and times do always seem to be difficult – make sure to dress up absolutely your smartest. In ten minutes she’s off to London, going to see one of Rufus’s rehearsals and then drive him home. Poor soul, he’s stayed with Baggers up in town the last two nights, can’t get the train back because his back is stabbing pains every time he moves even an inch. Mollie pours more whisky into the tooth mug and swigs it down.

  She’s worried about Rufus. He’s given up drink and that’s never a good sign. Ah well, it’s unlikely to last, never has before. Just let’s hope that bloody car starts. If it doesn’t then she’ll have to take Rufus’s Daimler. Had it for more than forty years now, ever since they first met. Worth a fortune now. Mollie’s scared senseless to drive it in the rushing and hooting London traffic because he’ll kill her if it gets scratched. When she gets back she must get on with sorting out the flat in Roma Street. The tenants there have left and she needs to get it cleaned up before she can let it again. Always the same, always too much to do.

  La-la-la-la. Mollie wraps a feather boa around her neck and heads back down the endless stairs, passing Mr Lambert on the third floor, and next door to him, Wilf and the shuffling Chinese whose name Mollie has never really grasped. On the next floor down, there’s Stan and Stan and Stan, the Polish builders who are away in Croydon this week. And Ahmed, from Iraq, who washes up in a hotel when he’s not campaigning against the war. Mollie met him in the park, sitting on a bench and she had to give him a room because where he was living, in Brunt’s Court, they called him a fucking Paki and posted dog muck through his letter box. Mollie tries her best to take care of him although it’s difficult given he’s so very quiet and so painfully polite. His room, as she passes the door, smells of cheap aftershave and something else. Loss? Despair? Do such things smell?

  As Mollie descends the stairs to the basement kitchen – take care in those toe-pinching shoes – she takes a few deep breaths. Remember that lightning rods play an important role in storms, she says to herself. But Lara’s anger has subsided and she’s sitting at the kitchen table writing things in a notebook. A beautiful coat, she’s wearing, Mollie thinks. Slate-grey sheepskin. Must have cost hundreds of pounds, that. Hopefully she’ll tire of it soon, Mollie thinks, then maybe she’ll pass it on to me, although I’ll have to chop the bottom off.

  I need to speak to the Foreign Office, Lara says. And I need to find a way to contact Jay.

  Yes, dear, but I don’t think there is any way.

  Don’t be ridiculous. There must be – but I’ve got to go to Barcelona again today. When I’m back, I’ll go up to London and talk to the people who organised this stupid escapade and I’ll ring the Foreign Office or a lawyer.

  Mollie can’t help but feel a pang of pity for those whom Lara intends to contact. And no good will come of it. Like father, like daughter. Both of them antagonise, arouse suspicion. The worst motives will always be attributed to them, no one will ever give them the benefit of the doubt. Ah well.

  And you, Lara says. What you need to do is to go around to the Community Centre and speak to – whatever his name is – the one who lives upstairs.

  Well, I would do, dear, but I’ve got to go to London.

  Mum.

  To help your father. This new play’s got a very short rehearsal period.

  Mum. For God’s sake.

  Yes, I know, dear.

  Reaching for the teapot, Mollie knocks a saucer onto the floor. It goes down with a bang but doesn’t smash and she reaches to pick it up. Of course, all of the vile things Lara says about her father are absolutely true but Rufus is a man with a creative vision and you’ve got to have some respect for that.

  Mum, are you listening to me? This isn’t about Dad and a play. It’s about real life. It’s about your grandson and the fact that…

  No, love. No. Just calm down and let me get you some tea. The buses and all that, it’s just a publicity stunt. There isn’t going to be a war – of course there isn’t. That Tony Blair isn’t such a fool – but he’s got to pretend because of Bush. And anyway, they’ll never let those buses into Iraq. Listen, love, I’m sorry. I just wish I had a bit more time. Why don’t you come around for supper tonight and then we can have a good chat and sort things out?

  Lara is pacing the kitchen again now. She’s taken off her gloves and Mollie can see the livid red of her knuckles and fingers where her skin has peeled. Mollie blames it on the job. Rush, rush, rush. Mobile phones, computers, websites, secretaries, proposals, clients, flights to catch. Lara looks exhausted all the time. And she doesn’t look after herself properly, she could look so much better than she does. Although it’s always been hard on her, Mollie thinks, that she inherited Rufus’s looks rather than mine.

  Who is Oliver Stanmore? Is he the vicar?

  No, not the vicar but – well, now you come to ask, I don’t exactly know. Would he be the churchwarden? Or some sort of caretaker for the Community Centre?

  No. What I’m saying is…

  But he would certainly be a good person to talk to. He would pray for Jay, I’m sure, and you know prayer can achieve great things. Apparently Mr Stanmore has cured people with terminal cancer.

  No. I’m saying – do you think he persuaded Jay to go to Iraq?

  No, dear. No. I don’t think anyone did.

  La-la-la-la, Mollie sings to herself. She finishes making tea for Mr Lambert – piles causing agony, or so he claims, skiving old hypochondriac – and pours a cup for Lara, taking care not to listen to what she’s saying. Blaming Spike and Wilf and the other peace protesters when they’re good sorts really. Mollie goes around to the Community Centre – it’s at the back of the church, not a hundred yards from the house – most days, takes them some cakes and sandwiches. And after Jay got involved in the campaign, she was there even more, making banners, writing letters to MPs, making a giant papier-mâché model of George Bush which was meant to be burnt in front of the Houses of Parliament but the flour paste didn’t dry so he wouldn’t light. Ah well. You’ve got to do your bit.

  Mind you, it’s all different nowadays with the technology they’ve got. Very unreliable, those computers, it seems. All those young people in that office talking to her about the evils of mankind, as though she hasn’t lived long enough to know plenty about that. Suez, Vietnam, Afghanistan – she marched for them all, not that it made a blind bit of difference, although she doesn’t say that to them, of course. Warmongering men – you can’t stop them. Not enough competitive sport and not enough women doing their marital duty. Sex on every billboard and breasts on the television every time you switch on. But not many people having a good old-fashioned screw, when you get down to it.

  Just popping up to take this tray for Mr Lambert, Mollie says, and heads for the stairs. La-la-la-la. Usually Mollie would have a chat with Mr Lambert but this morning she keeps things brisk and heads back downstairs. God knows why she’s dragging trays upstairs to the likes of him, grumpy old queer that he is, and hasn’t paid the rent in months. But he did help her to put the ceiling in the second-floor bathroom back up. Quite a double act, they were, with the bucket and the plaster, swinging around on the ladder, high up near the ceiling. Then painting it all over, lumpy as it was, and toasted teacake and a glass of
whisky to finish. So she might as well get him breakfast as a bit of a thank you. She used to get breakfast for twenty or more every day but she can’t do it any more. And there isn’t the business. Newer smarter places opening up all the time and everyone expecting en suite and a television in the room.

  When Mollie arrives back in the kitchen Lara’s anger has turned to despair. I just don’t understand how he can do this to me. I can’t believe he would do something so stupid. I mean, why would he do this?

  Mollie lays Rufus’s shirt out on the board and puts the iron on, says nothing. Over the years she’s had plenty of practice at dealing with Lara. Just ride the levels, as the surfers say, and try not to take too much notice. And Mollie can do that most of the time – but not when Lara starts criticising Jay.

  You know Jay is very intelligent. You can be sure he would have thought it all through, she says.

  Mum, don’t be ridiculous. Of course Jay hasn’t thought this through. He never thinks anything through. He’s irresponsible and unbalanced. That doctor said he could be bipolar, or even schizophrenic. He’s meant to be on medication. A boy in his condition can’t go to Iraq.

  Mollie fizzes steam from the iron and noses the point of it between the shirt buttons. How dare Lara say that? Jay isn’t mentally ill. He’s just different, that’s all. Doctors want to label it manic depression, or schizophrenia, but maybe it’s just goodness. It’s so hard, so very hard. The hatred, the opposition, the manipulation that people meet with when they’re just trying to do the right thing.

  All this is just attention-seeking, Lara says.

  Mollie takes a deep breath, presses the iron down hard. Best to keep the peace with Lara, that’s what she’s worked out over the years. After all, Mollie already has Rufus to deal with and it’s never wise to fight on more than one front at the same time. But attention-seeking?