Between the Regions of Kindness

by Alice Jolly

  Rufus stands near the door, uncertainly. If Mollie won’t fight then he doesn’t know what to do. She looks him in the eye. Let him go. She can’t even be bothered to hate him any more. She always used to say that twenty per cent of her marriage was fantastic, and eighty per cent was hell, but that the twenty per cent compensated for the eighty. That ceased to be the case years ago. She’s bored by him. She’s spent enough time bending and twisting her life in order to make it fit the shape of his needs. He will never forgive her for the fact that he has damaged her.

  Right, I’m going then, Rufus says, giving it one last try.

  Mollie sits in silence, staring at him. She should tell him that the fact that Jay has gone to Iraq is his fault – because it is. Jay was sitting at the kitchen table, right where she’s sitting now, and he was upset about Lara and her stupid threats. And then Rufus comes home, in a roaring temper because the bailiffs are threatening to seize the Daimler, and takes it all out on Jay. She should say all this to him but there isn’t any point. When one thing goes wrong why do several other disasters always have to follow?

  Rufus picks up his bag and heads to the door. Don’t bother to call, he says. I’m not coming back. It’s finished. You understand?

  Rufus looks back at her, angry that she’s ignoring the script, unnerved by her silence. For a moment, he looks as though he might start shouting again but instead he just shakes his head. She hears him stamp up the stairs and bang out of the front door. The plate of bacon and egg is slowly going cold. Never mind, give it to Mr Lambert. Mollie moves her shoulder as far back as she can in order to feel the comforting twinge of pain that movement makes. She pours whisky into her empty coffee cup and gulps it down. Bugger him. She’s too old now to be left alone. Usually at least Jay is here most days. There are tax forms from five months ago and the window has jammed open in Wilf’s bedroom and so he’s sleeping on the landing. She hasn’t paid the builders’ bill from last time so she can’t ask him to come in again.

  Ah well. KBO. Keep Buggering On. That’s all you can do. That flat in Roma Street still isn’t let despite the fact that she had the boiler fixed and the sitting room repainted. She needs to go out and get some shopping, and there’s a chicken carcase to be boiled for stock, and a sick cat that ought to go to the vet. Life is only courage, nothing else. In two weeks it will be her birthday. No doubt Rufus will be back by then. Sometimes they go dancing at the Grand Hotel in Eastbourne. Which birthday is it? Her November birthday or her February birthday? Really she was born in February 1940 but her birth certificate says November 1940. Some administrative mistake she’s never managed to sort out. Rufus always insists that she should celebrate both of her birthdays.

  Ah well, time to pop around to the peace protest office, see how they’re doing this morning. She might see if they fancy some sandwiches for lunch. Mollie finds her coat and purse, a string bag for shopping, and hurries up the area steps. The air is crystal sharp and seagulls wheel. Brushstrokes of sunlight feather the façades of the houses opposite and glitter on last night’s rain. She sets off down the street but then stops.

  A man is standing on the opposite side of the street, watching her. He’s a youngish man, swarthy, with dark hair. Something tells her he isn’t English – Italian perhaps, or Spanish? He’s wearing a long overcoat, an army one, like the soldiers used to wear in the war. And he’s got a strange mark across the bottom of his face, a birthmark or a scar? He doesn’t stand straight, one shoulder is higher than the other. No, he isn’t the same. Of course not. But all the same.

  In Mollie’s mind, years slide away. He does look like him, the man who came to the house in Worcester. She remembers him exactly, although it was over fifty years ago. He was called Arthur. She looked for him, after he’d gone. She can’t walk on down the road with him still standing there, watching. Of course, it isn’t the same man, not after all these years. The shopping can wait until the afternoon. She stumbles back down the steps into the kitchen. Jay. I need you. The house is too quiet without Rufus. Time to deal with that chicken carcass. She turns the radio on and then the television. La-la-la-la. Carrots for the stock – celery and garlic and a teaspoonful of mixed herbs.

  16

  BEFORE

  Oliver – Falmouth, February 1961

  Grace the glass-blower. Grace his wife. How typically perverse of her to pick a profession which depended on breath when breath was the very thing she could not depend on. He remembers the first time he saw her. The pale blue line of her jaw and the swing of her strawberry-blonde hair. Her head turned away from him, she sits in the pew in front of him in the church of St Mark’s, Falmouth. He’s ten years old and she’s three years younger. His father stands in the pulpit. But I will punish you according to the fruits of your doings, saith the Lord: and I will kindle a fire in the forest thereof, and it shall devour all things round about it. The church windows are caked with ice, inside and out, and Oliver’s fingers are numb, despite wool gloves. After the service Grace will come back to the vicarage for lunch. Oliver plans what he will say to her, how he will behave. He has never needed to consider such things before.

  When they all arrive back at the vicarage, Oliver’s mother sends all the children out into the garden to play while she’s getting lunch. She tells Oliver that he’s in charge, that the children mustn’t make too much noise, mustn’t stand in the flower beds, mustn’t push or hit. Oliver keeps close to Grace as they all go out through the back door. The vicarage is on the outskirts of Falmouth, several miles back from the sea, but the faintest trace of salt still sharpens the air. The remains of a morning mist hovers low. It’s nearly midday but the light is dull and frost still thickens the mossy grass. The garden is surrounded by tall, crooked fences, made of black, half-rotten wood. The flower beds are flattened. To one side of the lawn a bank rises, topped by a row of straggling Scots pines whose intricate shadows shiver on the grass. From beyond the bank come the occasional muffled grumbles from passing cars. The children are stiff with coats, hats and scarves and their breath rises in white clouds around them. They stand in the garden, waving their hands around awkwardly. They know that they must play but are uncertain where to begin.

  Oliver is considered to be in charge because it’s his parents’ house and he’s one of the oldest. A boy called Andrew suggests playing tag but Ian Harris wants stuck in the mud. Ian’s sister Emily protests, because they’ll be in trouble for getting their Sunday clothes dirty. Emily is right but Oliver can’t be bothered to argue with Ian. He already accepts that this will end badly, that he will be blamed, that his parents will be disappointed in him for not supervising the younger children better. As a punishment, he will be required to sit in his father’s study and write the Ten Commandments out thirty times. This is what usually happens on a Sunday. Oliver doesn’t care. He has a relationship with God that his parents can never understand. He has been chosen.

  As the other children organise themselves for stuck in the mud, Oliver suggests to Grace that perhaps it would be better for her to sit on the bench and watch. She agrees to this and Oliver is pleased with himself for taking care of her, for saying the right thing. She sits on the garden bench, with her legs swinging and her hands folded in her lap. She wears a lilac-coloured beret and a matching scarf. Her coat is green and underneath it she wears a Fair Isle jumper and a kilt. Her hair, which sticks out from under her beret, is a pale tint of peach and her eyes are widely spaced and a cool shade of green. Her face is mysterious as the moon and full of questions.

  As Oliver runs he feels blood warming his veins. The children dodge away from reaching hands and dive, tumbling, between each other’s straddled legs. Oliver appears to participate in the game but, whenever possible, he runs close to Grace so that he can study her. He’s puzzled by how slight she is, almost transparent, and yet luminous as well. He’s never seen anyone else who looks anything like her. He doesn’t have a sister but, if he did, he would want her to look like Grace. Oliver feels sure that Grace has been
chosen by God as well.

  Ian Harris is soon bored by stuck in the mud and wants to climb trees instead. There are two or three in the garden which are possible. Oliver has always been forbidden to climb them but he does it when his parents aren’t watching. He tells Ian that he shouldn’t climb the trees but only so that later – when there is trouble – he will be able to point out that he did try to prevent the tree climbing. Emily also tries to stop him but he’s enjoying being the centre of attention and doesn’t listen. It may be that today Oliver will have to write out the Ten Commandments fifty times.

  They all stand at the bottom of the large oak and watch Ian start to climb. Grace gets up from the bench, and comes closer. Oliver positions himself behind her so that he can watch her without being seen. The beginning of the climb is not difficult because the oak has two low branches but after that it gets harder. Ian already seems dazzlingly high, in a different world. The mist in the air turns him into a black spider moving up through the tree. He shows off, swinging up through the branches. The children at the bottom of the tree stand with their heads tipped back. They shout encouragement and Ian shouts back. Their voices swell with a cut-glass echo in the icy air. Oliver watches the way that Grace’s hair curls so neatly over the back of her coat. He noticed that in church – the way her curls swung forward gently as her head bent over her hymn book.

  A shout and then screams. Oliver looks up to see Ian cartwheeling downwards. The black branches hiss and crack as his body scrapes through them. He seems to be falling for hours. Emily is pressing her hands against the sides of her head and screams again and again, the sound cracking the stillness of the garden. Oliver catches sight of Grace with her mouth open and her face crumpled. Ian lands, his body like a wet cloth thumping down. They all move forward but do not touch him. Oliver looks back and sees coatless grown-ups spilling through the back door onto the lawn. He can’t imagine how many lines he will have to write for allowing this to happen. He runs forward and looks at Ian’s twisted body lying on the sparse winter grass. His father is suddenly next to him calling out Ian’s name.

  Then Ian moves, coughs, and stands up. He has a large grin on his face and mud all over the shoulder of his coat. He draws in a deep breath, pulls at his wrist and laughs. Oliver’s father starts to shout about not climbing the trees, he quotes the Ten Commandments at them. Honour Thy Father and Thy Mother. God will be sure to punish such disobedience. But despite these words everyone relaxes, nods their heads in amazement. Someone slaps Emily on the back and laughs at her for screaming. A mood of exhilaration is in the air. Oliver’s father continues to quote the scriptures but his voice sounds strangely exuberant.

  And so it is that no one except Oliver notices that Grace is lying on the grass. Strangely she looks quite natural there, as though she has just laid down to take a rest. Oliver kneels down beside her but she doesn’t move. Her breath comes in short, whistling gasps. He stretches out a hand and touches her fingers as they lie inert in the grass. He says her name but she doesn’t seem to hear.

  And now the others have turned their attention from Ian to Grace. Oliver’s mother pulls him out of the way and kneels beside her. It seems as though Grace is just playing but the grown-ups shake her and she doesn’t get up. Grace, Grace. They call her name, sure that she will wake up any minute from her sudden sleep. Her breath still whistles but gently now. Mrs Harris comes running from the house and everyone stands aside because she’s a ward sister at the hospital. She leans down over Grace and pulls at her eyes.

  Call an ambulance, she says. Call one now. Oliver’s father runs to the house. Mr Harris brings blankets and they put them over Grace. Emily is crying noisily. Ian stands beside her in his mud-covered coat, the grin gone from his face.

  Oliver had seen the rolling white of Grace’s eye as Mrs Harris pulled it open and knows that Grace is going to die. Perhaps she was always going to die – on this, the first day he met her. That was why he looked at her so intently in church this morning. Because he knew. And that’s why Grace has that strange transparent look about her and those cool, unfocused eyes. She doesn’t seem to be breathing any more now and her lips and eyes are swollen. On her neck bumps have appeared like nettle rash. But she can’t be allowed to die when he hasn’t even said one word to her. She was going to be his best friend, his sister.

  Mrs Harris bends down over Grace and pulls her mouth open, then she pulls Grace’s head up and begins to breathe into her mouth. She stops after each breath, counts and then dives again. Oliver feels now that the whole world has become distilled into this back garden. And he sees the scene from high above. Mrs Harris – in her woollen Sunday dress – kneeling on the grass beside this tiny figure who is somehow no longer there. Emily crying and Ian with mud on his coat. Oliver’s father hurrying back from the house. Mrs Harris breathes into Grace again and again but nothing happens.

  We’ll have to wait for an ambulance, she says, but tears are flooding down her cheeks. Oliver’s father is shouting at the children, wanting to know what happened. But none of them know. She was suddenly just lying on the grass.

  Mrs Harris is standing back from Grace now. Oliver’s father says several times that he’s called an ambulance. The garden is quite silent and Oliver feels that, yes, this is how death will be. This silence and stillness and a circle of people with their faces clean of everything. Then his mother says that they must all pray, and she drops down on her knees in the frosty grass. The children follow her, folding their hands together, lowering their heads. Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name.

  But Oliver can’t let it happen so he runs forward to her. Mrs Harris tries to pull him back but he smashes his fists against her arm. Kneeling beside Grace, he pushes aside her green coat. God is love, not punishment, not sin, not writing lines. Oliver knows that God won’t let Grace die because she has been chosen. He looks down at his own hands and notices for the first time how alive they are. Give us this day, our daily bread. He won’t need to breathe into her body. All he’ll have to do is to put his life into her. God will help him to do this. Grace can’t be allowed to die when she hasn’t even lived. There should be so much more for her than just this Falmouth garden with its half-rotten wooden fence and flattened flower beds. He wants her to be down on the beach, in the sun, running out towards the water.

  In the name of the Father, and of the son, and of the Holy Spirit. He lays his hands down on her heart, gently. He knows that if she dies then he will die as well. He needs to pull them both through. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath. Something moves inside him, a force which comes up from his stomach into his throat. It may be a sob, a shudder, a shout. He feels other faces close to him. Amen, Amen, Amen. And then suddenly he opens his eyes and Grace’s green eyes are staring up at him as though she’s just been born. Then she coughs and turns on her side, and gasps and draws in a deep breath. When he looks up he sees faces all around him, mute and staring. He stands up uncertainly while Mrs Harris comes to kneel beside Grace. He shrugs his shoulders, moves away.

  When he looks up again, he finds every eye fixed on him. His mother is still kneeling and his father moves to join her, dropping to his knees. Oliver knows that although they are bowing down before the power and mystery of God, they’re also bowing down to him. There will be no line-writing this afternoon, or ever again. He has them in his power. And not just them – the trees, the rising bank, the crabbed branches of the Scots pines. Everything now radiates from his outstretched hands. He feels the power twitching through them, crackling like static, firing life into everything he touches. When he looks back at Grace she’s lying on her back with her scattered eyes turned towards him.

  17

  NOW

  Jemmy – Brighton, February 2003

  Hello, Jemmy speaking, how may I help you? As Jemmy listens to the caller, she watches Monica and Tiffany. Jemmy feels sure that, as soon as she takes her eyes off them, they turn to look at her – or at the photographs of Laurie, or the mug w
hich Jemmy has had made with his photograph on. Or perhaps at the T-shirt she’s wearing which has his name on it and that one date. Laurie, Laurie, Laurie. His name is everywhere now. But no one ever says his name, no one speaks to her, no one says anything at all.

  Jemmy puts down the phone and it rings again.

  Hello, Jemmy speaking, may I help you?

  What if England is attacked? Will my insurance cover me?

  Jemmy starts to explain. War is ruled out of insurance policies because it’s considered to be an act of God. No insurance policies can protect you against God.

  Then I need to take out another policy, the caller barks. What kind can I take?

  I’m not aware that Saddam Hussein is planning to invade Brighton.

  Listen.

  No, Jemmy says. You listen to me. I’ve got a friend who is actually in Iraq right now and no one even knows where he is and he hasn’t got any insurance at all. So why don’t you just grow up and consider yourself lucky?

  She puts the phone down, looks around, praying that Mrs Jarvis hasn’t heard. The phones have gone quiet. She licks at her dry lips, feels that sick and hungry feeling. She can’t possibly be pregnant again. She can’t be. Those dry fumblings couldn’t produce new life. Those failed encounters she has with Bill – and Laurie there as well, his tiny cold body lying between them in the bed. No, it isn’t possible that some other baby could possibly have the audacity to think that it might take Laurie’s place. She doesn’t want another baby, ever. She has Laurie and that’s enough.

  Jemmy imagines telling Bill she’s pregnant again. He might smile and if he does then she’ll kill him. Or he’ll want to go down to the pub and announce the news. And then it’ll be congratulations from everyone. A round of drinks, raise a toast for the new baby. How lovely, how wonderful. Problem over then. Jemmy won’t allow that. No one bought a round of drinks for Laurie, or raised a toast for him. And because Laurie never had any of that, then no other baby is going to have that either.