by Rachel Joyce
‘What does Harold Fry say?’ yelled Finty. ‘What does he say?’ She had a letter asking if she had suffered any accidents recently; she might be entitled to thousands of pounds in compensation. Then she cried out, ‘No, no, don’t read the postcard yet! Let’s get the brown milkshakes first. Let’s make it all special, like Christmas on the TV adverts. Come on, Babs. Stick your eye back in.’
‘Oh, I love Christmas,’ said Barbara.
Sister Lucy put down the copy of Watership Down and fetched the trolley of nutritional drinks. She also brought whipped cream, straws and foil cocktail umbrellas. The Pearly King began to open a parcel. Mr Henderson folded away his newspaper.
‘Would you allow me to help, sister?’ said the Pearly King, all gracious. He placed his parcel on the trolley and took it to the back of the room, steering with his good arm. When Sister Catherine offered help, he replied that he was managing fine, and here he gave a delicious wink that caused Finty to erupt with laughter. ‘What a one,’ she kept ha-haing. ‘Yeah, you’re a right one, you are. I bet you’ve fixed some drinks in your time.’
The Pearly King grinned and said that yes, he had. ‘Once I found myself tied to a tree,’ he said.
‘I’ve heard worse,’ said Mr Henderson.
‘But the tree was in Rotterdam. And the last I knew, I’d been in a pub in the East End of London.’
The Pearly King handed out the drinks, one by one. And even though he was shaking a little with the effort of walking, most of the liquid stayed inside the glasses and only a little hit our laps and the carpet. He kept apologizing and offering to fetch a cloth and Sister Catherine only laughed and said, ‘God bless you.’
‘Can you manage, Miss Hennessy?’ said Mr Henderson, offering me a tissue.
I nodded to show I could.
We were about to lift our glasses when Barbara spoke. ‘You know what? I’m going to cry. It’s not because I’m sad. It’s because you’re such nice people. It’s sort of all welling up in my feet.’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Finty. ‘I’ve met a load of shits in my life. You’re all right, you lot. Even you, Henny.’ She lifted her glass towards Mr Henderson. He looked as if he might smile, then he seemed to realize what he was doing and reorganized his face into a frown.
‘To Harold Fry,’ growled the Pearly King.
‘God bless him,’ said Sister Catherine.
Barbara lifted her glass. ‘In the end, it makes no difference who you are. It’s friends that count.’
We repeated your name and we drank. At first the liquid was thick and warm and sat in my mouth like paste. I had to work very hard to knock it back towards my throat. I never knew until recently that the simple act of swallowing could be so complicated. Then something inside the liquid, something that didn’t taste of cardboard but was sweet and fiery instead, prickled my gums and sent my tastebuds zipping. It was like being a whole person again.
I remembered Christmas in my sea garden. I used to thread string around broken shells and hang them on the bare branches of the trees. Every year people came to look. Once I spent the day with a bag lady sipping sloe gin from plastic beakers and watching as the wind came in from the sea and sent the shell ornaments flashing and dancing above our heads. Her face was lit up. ‘I have never seen a place like this,’ she whispered. I thought she might go and say another thing and spoil it, but she didn’t. I fetched blankets and she sat beside me and we kept watching.
‘Wowzers.’ Finty slammed down her glass on the dayroom table. She swiped her mouth with the back of her hand. ‘I haven’t had a drink like that since the day I got arrested.’
Mr Henderson choked into his straw.
‘Arrested for what?’ That was one of the volunteers.
‘Let’s just say it involved a man from Gloucester and a fire extinguisher.’
‘Good grief,’ groaned Mr Henderson, catching my eye.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Sister Lucy, looking both delighted and baffled. ‘Are you saying that the nutritional drinks are nice today?’
‘They are somewhat better than usual,’ said the Pearly King, only he had to whisper because two new patients had dropped their glasses and were fast asleep. Consequently the Pearly King sounded less like a tractor and more like an electric toothbrush.
We all turned our attention to your postcard. It rested where Sister Catherine had left it, propped against a bottle of hygienic mouthwash and some gauze swabs. ‘I almost can’t bear to hear Harold Fry’s news,’ said Finty, screwing up her eyes and hiding briefly behind her hands. ‘Go on, read it out, someone. Quick. Where is the fella now? Is he still walking?’
Sister Lucy picked up the postcard. She scanned it briefly. There was more tense silence.
‘Listen to all the places he has passed!’ she said at last.
‘Hurry, hurry,’ said Finty, ‘or I’ll piss myself, I’m so nervous.’
‘He has passed Cheltenham,’ said Sister Lucy.
‘Cheltenham?’ said the Pearly King. ‘I was there once. I went to the races. I went in my Rolls-Royce and came back on a bus.’ He laughed for a long time. ‘Yes, that was a good day.’
Sister Lucy continued to read. ‘He has passed Broadway.’
‘Broadway?’ said Barbara. ‘I was there once. I went with my neighbour. We had a cream tea. She bought coasters for her conservatory.’
Sister Lucy said, ‘He has passed Stratford-on-Avon.’
It was Mr Henderson’s turn. ‘Stratford? I was there once. I saw King Lear with Mary. We fed the swans in the interval.’
‘And, wait for it,’ said Sister Lucy. ‘Now he has reached Baginton.’
Sister Lucy paused for an interruption, but there wasn’t one.
She read on. ‘He says he met a nice young man called Mick who took his photograph and bought him a lemonade. Also, salt and vinegar crisps. He says—’ Here she broke off again and peered. ‘He has decided to travel without money. From now on he is going to sleep outside and rely on the kindness of strangers.’
There was no time to reply. A noise came. A long and high-pitched sob, like the whistle on a kettle. We all turned as Sister Philomena gathered Barbara in her arms. Gripped as she was to the healthy body of the nun, Barbara was no more than a bundle of little sticks inside a dressing gown. ‘What is upsetting you?’ said Sister Philomena. ‘Is it Harold Fry? But he will be OK. He is making his journey.’
When the words came they were very small.
‘I wish I could have another Christmas,’ said Barbara. She shook with tears in the nun’s embrace.
We heard, but none of us spoke. We only watched her in the way a child watches another child in trouble, or a motorist slows to observe a motor accident, trying to understand without wanting to exchange places.
‘You will, Babs,’ called Finty. ‘You will.’
Behind Barbara, the mid-May sunshine poured through the dayroom windows like a twisting river of light.
The poet
DAVID BEGAN his second year at Cambridge. And then, out of the blue, there came a letter. It arrived at my flat on a Saturday. As letters go, it was brief. David still liked the course, he said, though the reading was sometimes boring. He said he’d had a crazy time in Europe!!!!! (I’ve never trusted an exclamation mark, especially a whole batch of them.) He added that he missed the Royal and gave me a return address. There was a PS. Could I spare any cash? There was a further PS. He was sorry.
I wrote back that same afternoon. I thought he had a nerve asking for money again but I forgave him, partly because I was touched that he still remembered me and partly because of the remark about the Royal. I sent him a card and a five-pound note, both in the same envelope.
The letters continued. Not regular but every few weeks, and every time he requested money. Sometimes I ignored them. The more insistent messages I replied to. I will admit, Harold, that I felt used. I knew that if I told you, you’d be mortified. In early December, David wrote to ask if he could visit for a weekend. He nee
ded to see me, he said; things were getting heavy!!!!!!! He referred to me as his friend.
Without wanting to cause alarm, I asked if you or Maureen had heard anything, and you may or may not remember, but you gave me your usual reply about David being too busy to get in touch. In his letter, David had given me the coach times and asked if I’d pay for his fare, so I sent the money by return post. (Twenty pounds this time.) I cleaned my flat. I prepared him a bed on the sofa. Once he was in Kingsbridge, it was my intention to suggest that he should pay you and Maureen a visit. On Friday afternoon I left work early. I was careful you didn’t see me go.
David didn’t show up. I waited three hours at the bus station with my book, and he never came. He didn’t write again either. Stupid woman, I thought. Of course he was never going to visit. He just wanted the money. He’d probably drunk his grant already. But at least I was spared lying to you.
Mid-December, you were back with the empties. I wondered if David would have the nerve to turn up at my flat, but he didn’t. The first time I spotted him in Kingsbridge, I couldn’t believe it was him.
The annual St Nicholas Fayre was in full swing down on the quay. I’d asked if you would be going, but you’d said the Christmas market wasn’t Maureen’s thing. It was a cold night without rain, and the lights from the stalls threw moving patterns on the black of the estuary. There was the spicy smell of mulled wine, I remember, as well as frying onions for hot dogs and burgers. For the younger children there were a few fairground attractions, and people were shouting and whooping over the noise of the engines. At the far end a large crowd had assembled to watch a local band on a temporary stage. I watched them awhile with my plastic cup of mulled wine warming my fingers – the band members were young, maybe David’s age – and people in the audience were beginning to dance. I spotted Napier’s secretary, Sheila, with her husband and a few of the reps. The warm wine kicked my throat and lifted me. In a way it was like being at the Royal again – a part of things, and not. It was a shame, I remember thinking, it was a shame you’d stopped at home. I moved on because another crowd was forming and I could hear laughter. I wanted to laugh too.
At the back of the crowd it was difficult for me to see, and the band music was so loud it was hard to hear. I edged forward a little, and that was when I had to stop and check that I was really seeing what I thought I was seeing.
David stood in a central pool of bright light with a hand-held microphone. He had lost some weight. His features seemed more pointed, or rather separated; it occurred to me that he had probably used make-up. He’d grown his hair and tied it into a ponytail. He wore a dark baggy suit with wide lapels, teamed up with his old boots and also my mittens. When I picture the scene now, the gloves provide the only real colour. It’s like seeing a surprise burst of red in a black-and-white photograph. It’s almost shocking.
I was still annoyed with David for wasting my time and taking my money, but mostly I was angry with myself, for being used. I kept hidden in the crowd. I didn’t want him to see me. David was reciting poetry. Despite the cold, he had an ease, a charm, a radiance, that made people draw close and want to listen. I could see that. He smoked while he performed, and he had a bottle at his feet; once in a while he stooped to lift it and take a swig. When someone shouted out, ‘Pass the bottle round, David!’ he laughed and said, ‘Buy your own, sir.’ It seemed that quite a few people knew him.
David held some pages, but most of the time he didn’t refer to them. He performed in a deep and energetic voice that carried. From what I could gather, the poems were satirical pieces. Each time he finished one, the audience applauded rapturously. They clearly liked him and he knew that. At his feet he’d placed his fedora; a woman came forward and threw a few coins into it. I heard him say he would be publishing his work soon, in a pamphlet, and a few people nodded to show they would be interested.
‘So this next one,’ David said, ‘is called “The Love Song of a Maid Who’s Never Had It”.’ People in the crowd laughed, and while they did he paused for another swig. ‘It’s sort of got a chorus and you can all, you know, join in.’ He slipped a silk scarf out of his jacket pocket and tied it in a knot under his chin. I assumed it was one of Maureen’s. Someone shouted, ‘Poof!’ David grinned and said, ‘Yeah, right.’ I moved closer.
In a high-pitched voice like a pantomime dame’s David began to recite words I knew. Words I had kept in my handbag until I lost them. My poems.
(‘I look at the world and I see only you’, that sort of thing. I can hardly bear to repeat them.)
Here came the chorus – this was nothing to do with me, but it had the crowd roaring – ‘My love is pure. I am your maid. Oh me, oh my, will I ever get laid?’
The crowd repeated the line in a raucous shout, and my face burned with the shame of it.
David went on to recite four more poems. I stayed only because what I heard hurt and confused me so much, I was unable to move. All of his poems were parodies of mine. All of them had the crowd jeering. By the end of the fifth poem, I couldn’t take any more. I turned and pushed my way free.
After that I began to run. Past the stalls, the children’s rides. I had my hand to my face so that no one would see. Once I was at the other side of the quay, I had to stop and sit on a bench. I pictured, across the oily black water, the crowd laughing, and I felt stripped of clothes. I couldn’t help myself, I cried out loud in pain. Supposing you’d seen the poems? Worse. Supposing your wife had read them? I wanted to be in my flat, but I hadn’t the energy even to get up. The crowd began to wolf-whistle and applaud. I guessed David’s recital was over. I sat for a long time, watching people make their way home along the quay. Parents were carrying their children. A young woman shrieked when several men, I recognized them as reps, held her over the water as if to chuck her in. A horse dressed as a reindeer was walked to its box. The pubs began to fill. The Fayre was coming to an end.
‘Hey, you.’ A slim but firm long hand tugged at my shoulder and pulled me round. I got his smell, and I had to steady myself. ‘Were you there?’
I got up to go, but David came after me and stood in my path. I saw the black kohl lines around his eyes, the crimson stain on his lips. He’d coated his face in white pancake.
‘Do your parents know about this?’ I asked coldly.
He laughed and said, Probably not. He didn’t mention the letters or the money I’d sent or the visit he’d failed to make. He glanced over his shoulder at the Fayre. ‘It was good. People liked me. Got any cash?’
My jaw dropped, and he laughed again. ‘I’m joking.’ He showed me the hat. It was full of coins; there were notes in there too. ‘Do you want a drink? I’ll buy you one.’
‘No.’
‘Suit yourself.’ David shrugged and moved away. I watched him stroll up the street towards the off-licence.
That Monday, when I got in your car, I could barely look at you. You asked if I was feeling peaky. Peaky? I snapped. What sort of a word was that? You smiled a little awkwardly and concentrated on the road ahead.
‘Doing anything nice for Christmas?’ you said. I didn’t reply.
We must have driven awhile in silence because I remember you pulling over in a lay-by. ‘Wait there,’ you said, and you got out to fetch a bag from the boot.
Once you were established back in the driving seat you told me to watch.
You lifted a red bauble out of the bag and tied it carefully over the rear-view mirror. It spun a little as you moved your hands. You pulled down the sun visor on my side and hung it with another bauble, a gold one this time. Then you hung a blue bauble from the indicator, and the last, a silver one, you tied to the jacket hook behind my seat.
‘Merry Christmas, Queenie,’ you said.
‘I don’t understand, David.’
It’s Boxing Day, and he has decided to pay me a surprise visit. He is standing at the communal door to the flats, offering a half-full bottle of Southern Comfort and a twig of holly. He’s shivering with the wet and the
cold – he is wearing only a jacket and jeans and it’s pouring out there – but there is no way that young man is coming inside my home.
‘Peace offering?’ he says. He holds out the bottle.
His shirt is so wet the collar sticks like paper to his skin. I am about to shut the door and maybe he senses that, I don’t know, because he lifts his face so that I can see. He’s been crying.
Beyond him rain hits the street, the pavement, the estuary. Everything is drenched and grey, everything is water. Watching David, his eyes red, his mouth bunched with sorrow, his body too tall for those wet clothes, I relent. ‘Come in, then.’
He leaves a wet trail all through the hall, into my flat and across my carpet, straight to the chair, where he sits with his ankles twisted one around the other, his arms pulled tight around his body. His knee is jigging up and down, up and down.
‘David, I’m angry with you,’ I say.
‘Yeah, I know.’ He shakes his wet hair, and rain droplets jump out over his clothes. ‘And I am sorry, Q. I’m really sorry.’
I make David tea. I fetch towels and a blanket. I keep busy so that I won’t have to sit and talk to him. It’s different, though, now that he’s inside my flat. He seems smaller. He drains the green teacup and refills it with Southern Comfort.
I sit on a cushion on the floor. OK, I tell him: Explain.
He talks all afternoon. He tells me about the course, the college, his life in Cambridge. He admits he’s been struggling with the work. He had a girlfriend, but she left him. Now he finds it’s easier to fit in with people if he’s drunk; it makes him more fun, less inhibited. But the work is suffering, of course. The parents don’t know this, but his tutors are on to him.
Reciting his poetry is a way of showing people who he is, he says, without upsetting them or putting them off. He does it at the student union and on the street. It’s like busking for intellectuals. He enjoys the attention it brings, as well as the cash.
