by Alice Jolly
It’s five thirty and time to go home. Jemmy has clicked the red button but she doesn’t get up. Instead she sits on at her desk, staring at her photographs of Laurie. The day seems to have lasted for weeks. Before Laurie died she hadn’t understood that grief is physically exhausting. She wishes that, just occasionally, she could wake up in the morning and be someone other than a woman whose baby has died. But there is no respite.
She should go home but she can’t do it. She thinks this nearly every evening but where else is there to go? She’s considered moving somewhere else, just for a while. But where would she go? She thinks again of Jay, wishes that he was in Brighton, wishes that she could call him. (Jay, I know that the mug and the T-shirt are silly and over the top – but I just want Laurie to have a place. And I want his name to be known, to be said. And I thought that this might be the way to do it but it hasn’t worked. And if Bill found out he’d be furious. He’d think it macabre and disrespectful and perhaps it is.)
She remembers Jay’s hands – white and thin but surprisingly strong and certain. And they had talked about how when someone touches you then that’s the only way in which you can be sure you do exist. Certainly Jay’s hands had brought her back to life. She thinks of that evening – so hot it was like being shut inside an oven – when he came back to that room where she used to live. Sitting on a floor cushion, his long legs bent up awkwardly in front of him, talking some meaning-of-life rubbish. That’s what she thought, until she knew better. Only that one evening.
Of course, most people knew Jay by sight because he was odd and noticeable. His shock of red hair, his long mournful face, his uneven teeth and those weird clothes. All the other boys of his age wore baggy jeans, and sweatshirts with hoods and trainers. But he wore tapered trousers that looked like they belonged to some grandpa, and braces, which performed no function as his trousers still hung down too low. And his lips were a girlish red, somehow too exposed, and he wore long striped scarves and jackets which had once been formal but now had holes in them. His clumpy boots seemed too heavy on the end of his thin legs.
His camera was always around his neck but it wasn’t a modern, silver, digital camera. Instead it was a big old-fashioned camera with a leather case. He would stand around the college with it, endlessly lining up a shot that he never seemed to take. And he didn’t take photographs of people, only of things. Curious things. Like puddles, or doorframes or the branches of trees. Jemmy’s friends had called him the Camera Boy. The general view was that he might be a bit simple. Most people didn’t believe the stuff about drugs because his face had the clearness and depth of undisturbed water.
As well as taking photographs, the Camera Boy was involved in every college campaign. Famine in Africa, destruction of the environment, traffic calming outside the college, collecting money for orphans – he was always there shaking a tin, putting up a banner, asking people to sign a petition. When Jemmy saw him around the place, she noticed that he stared at her. She didn’t find that unusual. The younger boys at college often blushed red when she passed, or stumbled into her, asking if she had the time, and then failing to listen when she told them. The Camera Boy didn’t do that but he did watch her. She didn’t like him – felt the venom towards him that the marginally excluded feel towards the thoroughly excluded. And his eyes on her always made her feel uncomfortable. It was as though he could see right through her thick black cardigan, as though his eyes peeled off the fingerless gloves that she always wore. Somehow she had the feeling that he knew.
From somewhere close by, a phone is ringing continually. Tiffany is nowhere to be seen and another desk is empty as well. Usually the phone rings four times and then switches into silence and joins the queuing system but something has gone wrong because this phone rings on and on. Jemmy looks at her watch. Her shift has finished but she reaches over, clicks buttons, takes the call.
Hello, Jemmy speaking, may I help you?
The voice is slow and gentle – the voice of an old man. His name is Mr George Waldron. He makes several enquiries about a policy. When was it first started? What is its value? What will he need to do to make a claim? Jemmy has to give him the information several times. She looks at her watch. She shouldn’t have taken this call. Bill will be wondering what’s happened to her.
You see, she died. My wife. Two weeks ago. At the doctor’s surgery they said it was only flu and it’d be gone in a day or two. She took out this policy years ago, wondering what I’d do if anything happened to her. Silly, I said. But she was set on it and maybe she was right. In any event, I need to be sure to get the money because she would want that.
Jemmy feels a rush of tears gather in her eyes. Oh. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.
Thank you, dear. That’s kind of you.
Jemmy looks at the details on the screen.
Joyce – her name was Joyce, wasn’t it?
Yes, love, that’s right.
Joyce is a lovely name, Jemmy says. If someone is called Joyce then you just know they must be really nice.
Thank you, dear. I always thought it a lovely name.
I’m very sorry she died. It must be very hard for you.
Jemmy says this because it was a promise she made to Laurie. Everyone left her alone when he died but she’ll never do the same to anyone else.
Thank you, my dear. I do appreciate that. Quite a shock at my age.
Yes, it must be. A terrible shock.
Jemmy looks at his address on the screen. 8 Wilmlow Gardens, Harringbourne, Sevenoaks. She knows that place – not the exact place but those towns south of London, which are only really housing estates, spreading faceless for miles and miles across the featureless earth. She grew up a few miles from there. Endless detached red-brick houses – and always autumn. Damp leaves, threads of mist floating through the air and the curtains drawn early. People smothered by the fear that something might happen. Her parents – the cramped house, the closed windows, the carpet-slipper shuffle, the television endlessly spewing fake laughter, lace everywhere and the smell of tinned food. All that bottled desperation. Each evening they congratulated themselves on their narrow escape from life. Don’t let anyone speak too loud, or ask for too much. The endless waiting for some Awful Thing to happen, the day drawing ever closer.
And no one seemed to see that the Awful Thing had already happened, was happening every day. But Jemmy saw it and left there determined that whatever the Awful Thing was, she would go out and face it. But then so much had happened, too much. She’d finished her college course, got married. Her parents didn’t like that – not because they objected to Bill but because of the Bollywood, Indian kitsch wedding, the fact that Jemmy wore a sari. They’d spent their whole lives trying to leave India behind and couldn’t understand that Jemmy might want to rediscover it. And then she got pregnant, lost Laurie – and now? Other people might go home to their mother. She won’t ever go back to hers. What had happened would be her fault, she had wanted too much.
Mr Waldron is talking about Joyce and her cross-stitch. She was very good at it – very. Went on courses, taught at the local college, filled the house with all sorts of pretty things.
Jemmy knows she needs to be careful. All the calls at Swift Life are taped and the aim is not to spend more than four minutes on any call. General chat should be responded to in a friendly manner, but then the caller should be firmly drawn back to the reason for their call. That’s what they tell you in the training. Perhaps Mr Waldron senses her worry because he says, Oh I am sorry, my dear, I’m taking too much of your time.
No, no, Jemmy says. It’s quite all right. I’ve got time. I’ve got plenty of time. Please tell me about Joyce. I’d like to hear about Joyce.
Jemmy can imagine the manicured front garden, the floral curtains, the British Racing Green garage door, which Mr Waldron has recently repainted himself, using masking tape to make sure it doesn’t smudge. The streets of her childhood. And inside the walking stick on the back of the chair, and the seaside souve
nir ashtrays and the Royal Worcester figurines. The days must be silent for Mr George Waldron – and long. She would like to go around and have a cup of tea with him, chat about Joyce. Hear the stories of the various figurines, the occasional trips to the sea, the time they went on a coach to that place in Austria by the lake – the name escapes him. Jemmy will never go back to that world but she’s surprised to find comfort in hearing a voice from there.
Sorry, dear. I’ve gone on too long, he says. Yes, too long. How kind of you to talk, it does me good.
That’s all right, Jemmy says. You can call any time. I’d like to hear. I’d always be pleased to hear about Joyce.
18
NOW
Lara – Brighton, February 2003
Lara types an email with one hand while speaking on the phone to a client. In her head she makes lists. Get in touch with the suppliers about the paint, chase up the builders for a price on moving that door. Beside her Kylie, with her flamingo legs, ballet pump shoes, pale pink nails, hovers, waiting for Lara to check a letter. Lara finishes her call and puts the phone down but it rings again immediately. She waves Kylie away, takes the call while still typing the email to the builder. Why has the new gas cooker still not been connected? Yes, sorry. Yes, I realise we had promised. Yes, I’ll make sure that it’s done by the end of the day.
An email from Press and Communications Alan pings onto the screen. Lara shuts her eyes, clenches her teeth. She knows that the peace protesters are all in the Andalus Hotel in Baghdad and she’s rung there every day. People she speaks to are friendly, helpful, tell her that Jay is doing fine but she’s still never managed to speak to him. Alan hasn’t been in touch for nearly a week but now finally – news.
So when will it be possible to make these adjustments? the voice on the phone says. Lara leans forward, stares more closely at the computer, feeling that she might be able to absorb the contents of Alan’s email without actually opening it. Please, please, God. Make this message say that it’s all over, that the buses are coming home.
Hello? Are you still there? I’m just trying to ask.
Sorry. I’ll have to ring you back. Lara puts the phone down, stares at her hand on the receiver. Then she looks back at the screen, clicks on the message. Information has been cut and pasted. The arrival of the buses in Iraq has been welcomed by the Iraqi people. Since that time the human shields have been in negotiation with Iraqi officials about how they can best try to prevent war. These conversations have been difficult.
Lara already knows this from her conversations with the Andalus Hotel and from emails that have been forwarded by other relatives. As you know, the aim was to protect Iraqi hospitals, schools, civilian facilities. This will not be allowed. Human shields are being asked to protect key infrastructure such as water-treatment centres, bridges, telecommunication towers, power plants, factories and oil installations. So discussions have taken place.
Lara’s eyes move down to where the pasted message ends. In a different typeface at the bottom a message records that Jay is with a group of twelve other peace protesters who will be stationed at the Baghdad South Electrical Plant. A letter is being written to the Joint Chiefs of Staff with a request that they recognise the fact that targeting these sites would be in violation of Article 54, Protocol Additional to the Geneva Convention.
Lara feels a silent wail rise in her throat. Already other emails from outraged relatives are pinging up. This was not the plan, it’s time now for the protesters to come home, they’re nothing but political pawns. She tries to shut one of these emails down but her hands fumble and she opens another instead – something about site meeting dates. Yes, she does need to confirm that she can make the first of those dates. Her phone is ringing, the sound of it battering inside her head. She pushes her chair back from her desk, stands up, walks a few steps towards the kitchen, then turns back. She looks around at the other people working. Should she announce this information to them? What would be the point? They don’t know Jay. They do know he’s in Iraq but nothing much has been said – or at least nothing much has been said to her face. She picks up the ringing phone, puts it straight down, goes to the machine to get a coffee but can only stand, staring, unable to remember how this ritual is performed.
She’d always known that this moment would come but still the shock is like an assault. This was not the plan. The human shields only ever intended to protect civilian infrastructure. Why has Jay allowed himself to be positioned in front of a power plant when surely facilities of that kind will be the first to be hit? She can barely stand because of the knots that have gathered in her chest. She tries to ring Alan but the number is engaged. Then she tries to rings the peace protesters in Brighton but that number is busy as well. This was not the plan.
Lara notices a message on her mobile and clicks to listen. Mollie’s voice crackles into her ear. Yes, of course. Lara should have known. Rufus has left. He bloody well would, wouldn’t he? The critics always say that his timing is excellent. Lara thinks of him as one of those small children who, whenever there are visitors, falls down the stairs. Of course, he’ll be back within a week or two. An artistic crisis – that’ll be the story. An artistic crisis involving too much drink and younger women. Lara sits staring at the phone. Mollie, a child of war, so incredibly tough about everything except Rufus. How can Lara ring up and say – I’m so sorry, what a disaster, you must be devastated? It’s no secret that she’s been longing for Rufus to leave since she was ten. And why does anyone care what Rufus is doing? A play, reviews, a bad back, a petty domestic row. Lara no longer occupies a world in which such things are worthy of any consideration.
Craig is striding towards her. He’s wearing a plum-coloured tie, which isn’t a good idea considering the pinkness of his face. I need to have a word with you.
She follows him to his office. She’s worked for Craig for eighteen years and slept with him on and off. He’s married with three children but Lara doesn’t mind. The plate-glass windows of his office look out over Berkeley Square. The branches of the trees rustle and umbrellas bob beneath them. Benches line up beside curving gravel paths. A sculpture of two hares, on their hind legs, dancing, stands on a slab of concrete. The building opposite is like a vast ocean liner, soon to set sail. For a moment an image of Jay flashes into her mind. Yes, this is what is happening in my life, she tells herself, but she can’t take the measure of the information she’s received.
Lara, I’m concerned about this situation with Lonsdale. I’ve had James Wright on the telephone three times this morning and I’m not surprised he’s frustrated.
Lara is lost in the maze of his voice. Briefly she remembers how she first came to work for him. The Employment Agency with the pink candy-striped armchairs and Ms Carver with her red-rimmed glasses, and black suit with Channel-swimmer shoulder pads. At the time she hadn’t understood that she was Ms Carver’s present to Craig, or that Craig only tolerated her initial incompetence because he intended to get her into bed. But overall she’s never ceased to feel gratitude to Ms Carver, the author of her liberation, her escape.
Lara tries now to concentrate on Craig’s voice but her head is foggy and sounds come to her as though from another country, over a crackling phone line. She wonders if she might be going down with flu. For some reason the scene in front of her – Craig, his desk, the branches of tree waving in the square – none of it looks right. It isn’t that the scene appears blurred, and neither does it appear exaggerated. It’s simply that nothing seems to fit together properly any more. There used to be some hidden logic behind Craig, and his phone, and his chair, and his potted palm, but now that logic has gone. So there’s no reason for all of these things to be in the same room. The desk could be substituted for an elephant or a petrol pump and it wouldn’t make any difference.
Lara, are you listening?
Yes, that potted plant could be an elephant, Lara thinks. And Craig could be anyone – an astronaut, a snake charmer, a traffic warden. Lara becomes aware that C
raig is shouting but even his shouting doesn’t make sense. What in God’s name is he doing? Does he have any idea how ridiculous he is? How irrelevant?
I’m sorry, Lara says. But you see, my son.
Your son?
Yes, my son. Jay. You remember.
The astronaut is shaking his head, his face closed. And then suddenly Lara understands. Although she’s worked for this astronaut for eighteen years, and she’s explained the situation about Jay several times, he’s nevertheless totally forgotten that Jay is in Iraq. Forgotten, in fact, that Jay exists at all.
I can’t have people working for me who aren’t committed.
Lara shuts her eyes, cutting out the astronauts and the elephant and whatever else is in the room. She’d never expected anything from Craig. Although perhaps if you put a man’s penis in your mouth on a regular basis then inevitably you do hope for something. Just a few words of kindness. But – she admits to herself – it isn’t that he’s made a decision to ignore her difficulties, he simply hasn’t seen that she has any. Hasn’t seen, in fact, that she exists. When she opens her eyes, she looks up at the astronaut and understands that he requires the answer to some question.
I’m sorry, she says. I’m going to have to take a couple of weeks off.
The astronaut begins another series of puppet-like movements. He says things about complaints, about a fax that needs to go out by the end of the day. It just isn’t possible, he says. Do you understand me? You can’t just take time off work for no reason at all.
I won’t be here for the next two weeks – at least, Lara says. She feels the finality of this, hears doors slamming all around her. But what does it matter? Given that the office has turned into some kind of zoo, what exactly is there to leave? The pieces of the jigsaw are not going to go back together again.
