by Sarah Bourne
Mei-Ling shook her head. ‘I hope you’re right. I don’t think my parents will ever accept that Jenny and I are together.’
‘There’s another thing people are too good at, if you ask me – concentrating on the things they don’t like rather than all the other things. Too much hate in the world these days.’ Iris sighed.
Once again they lapsed into silence.
Iris watched all the police who had arrived in the field. Most of them were standing around doing nothing. There were no people to direct, no crowd to contain. Just a train full of commuters, all behaving calmly and quietly, following a set of rules not written anywhere but which everyone abided by. She wondered if the same number of police would attend if she killed herself. She’d thought about it often enough after Reg died and day after day she felt like a vice was squeezing her lungs so each breath was a gasp, and every memory was a punishment. No, there would have been no police. She would have died in her bed having taken the pills she stockpiled. Only the thought of a neighbour finding her had stopped her. And then, after months of feeling like she was living underwater, she’d noticed the lady in the corner shop smiling at her as she gave Iris her change, and Iris had smiled back. The next day she’d noticed that her breath was a little easier. And a while after that, Charlie had come into her life.
Charlie! She rummaged in her handbag. ‘I can’t seem to find my address book,’ she said.
‘Do you need it right now?’ asked Mei-Ling.
‘I should let the neighbours know what’s happening. And check on Charlie.’
Mei-Ling nodded. ‘Are you sure it’s in your handbag? Maybe you put it in your overnight case.’ She pointed to the bag at her feet.
‘Oh, yes. Silly me.’ Iris fished it out of the case. It was old and much used, the leather covers barely holding the pages between them anymore. As she flicked through it she noticed how many of the names she’d crossed out over the years and felt sad. All those friends dying and leaving her to carry on alone.
She got her mobile out. She still didn’t like these newfangled things, but she had to admit they had their uses.
‘You know you can store phone numbers, don’t you?’ said Mei-Ling.
‘Yes, dear, but I prefer doing it this way. Otherwise, if I lose my phone, I’ve lost my friends.’ She carefully punched in each number, holding the phone as if it was an alien object. She cupped her hand round the mouthpiece as she spoke.
‘Doreen? Is that you? It’s Iris here.’
Her eyes roamed around the carriage as she listened to what Doreen had to say.
‘No, I know. Awful. I just–’
Doreen was speaking so loudly Iris was sure everyone around her could hear what the other woman was saying, the urgent, forceful tone of her voice. She caught Mei-Ling’s eye and shrugged, as if to say, she always goes on like this.
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Doreen. I was just telephoning to tell you I’m on my way home.’
She listened for a moment. ‘Yes, I know I said I wouldn’t be back until Thursday but my plans changed. How’s Charlie?’
After another pause, ‘Yes, I know, but he frets, I know he does. Thank you, dear.’
She pressed the red circle and sighed as she let the phone fall into her lap.
Mei-Ling smiled. ‘Your friend likes to talk, doesn’t she?’
Iris laughed. ‘Oh, yes. She’s old and lives on her own. Any opportunity and she’s off, telling whoever’s listening about how she was evacuated to Somerset in the war and the latest bargain at Aldi, all mixed together, but she’s been a good friend over the years.’
She turned towards the window again but instead of watching what was going on in the field, she found herself thinking again about her son. Did he really think she’d turn her back on him if he told her he was gay? If he did, he really didn’t know her at all and that saddened her. She’d tried to teach her children to be open-minded and tolerant. Obviously she’d failed. She’d often wondered if she should be the one to raise the issue, but it was his life, his choice to tell her or not. She had dropped hints, made positive comments about gay men. She’d even been on a Gay Pride march some years ago with her friend Betty and sent him a photo of them under a rainbow banner, but he hadn’t taken the bait. It had driven a wedge between them, this lack of honesty. Not that she wanted to live in his pocket, nor have him in hers, but it felt like he’d shut the door to a large part of his life in her face and it hurt. And if the death this morning had proved anything, it was that life was too short to wait around for other people to do things. She sat straighter, pulled her shoulders back and made a decision. She would tell him she knew. She wouldn’t wait any longer for him to come out of the wardrobe or wherever he thought he was hiding.
That settled, she felt like talking again.
‘Do you live in Milton Keynes, Mailing?’ She wondered if she’d got the name right. It was so unfamiliar. Why didn’t she just call herself May? That was a sturdy English name. She hoped she hadn’t got it all confused.
‘Not completely – since the IVF and everything, Jenny and I are trialling living together. I’m still trying to get used to the commuting and not having all the excitement of Camden Town on my doorstep. It’s a big step, moving out of London.’
‘That’s nice, though, isn’t it, moving in with your friend. How long have you known her?’ asked Iris.
‘We went to school together. We’ve known each other forever, and now we’re going to be parents!’ Mei-Ling smiled.
‘I hope it all works out for you both.’
‘Thanks. I don’t think I’ve ever told a stranger so much about myself,’ said Mei-Ling, frowning.
‘I’m not a stranger. Some people you meet you just get on with, and others, doesn’t matter how long you know them, you can’t get along.’ And some, Iris thought to herself, you think you know and get along with and one day they turn on you. Like her friend, June, years ago. She still wondered about her sometimes.
She rummaged in her pocket and brought out a tube of mints. ‘Want one?’ She offered the packet to Mei-Ling. They sucked on their sweets for a while in companionable silence. Iris gazed around at the other people in the carriage, the man with a newspaper on his lap, a worried look on his face, the woman next to him who was tapping messages into her phone as if her life depended on it. Maybe it did. You never knew, did you? But soon her mind was back with her daughter. What had happened, or more to the point, when had it all gone so wrong?
Laura had been such a loving little girl, and loved too. Her blonde curls and big blue eyes had seen to that. She always had a smile on her face and a kind word on her lips. She never even gave Iris anything to worry about through her teens, the way some girls did. Betty’s daughter got pregnant at fifteen and refused to give the baby up for adoption. Betty and her husband took him on when Justine got tired of being a mother and wanted to go out with her friends again. No, Laura was a fine teenager and got a good job at Boots when she left school. It was when she turned thirty she started getting all moody. Iris couldn’t understand it. One minute she’d be all happy and helpful and the next she’d fly off the handle or storm out in tears. It wasn’t as if she wanted for anything; she had a good husband, a nice house, she was managing a chemist shop in Milton Keynes where she’d moved when she got married. They had a holiday abroad every year, and were planning to have children. And then these silly moods.
What hurt the most was that they used to be close but Laura stopped talking to her about anything that mattered, wouldn’t tell her what was going on. Iris wondered if she was depressed and suggested seeing her doctor. That was a bad argument. Laura fair flew at her, saying that if she was depressed it was because of her and her prying. Iris clutched her stomach remembering the pain she’d felt at those words. She popped another mint in her mouth and sucked hard.
Over the years they’d found their way back to each other again. Laura had been a pillar of strength when Reg died. She’d loved her dad and felt his loss deeply, but
she was there for Iris. That’s the term they used these days, thought Iris. She was there for me. I wasn’t there for her or Barry. I tried to be but I couldn’t do it. She shifted in her seat. Was that the moment when the balance in the family altered – when they had to help her because she couldn’t help them?
‘My children see me as a useless old woman,’ she said, and Mei-Ling looked appropriately shocked.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said.
Iris felt on the edge of tears. Nobody respected her now that Reg was gone; and her recent visit to her daughter had confirmed that Laura didn’t think she was wise. In fact, she seemed to think she was on the verge of dementia. Or perhaps only hoped she was. For a moment Iris almost wished her memory was going so she could forget the last few days.
‘Oh, for a forgettery,’ she murmured too softly for anyone else to hear.
At Euston, Mei-Ling helped Iris gather her belongings and step down from the train.
‘I’m so pleased to have met you, Iris.’
‘Me too,’ said Iris. ‘And now you run along to your meeting. I hope you’re not too late.’
She wanted to say more, to assure her that her parents would love her no matter what, but she didn’t know that, and her idea of parents loving their children unconditionally had been shaken over the last few days. She wasn’t sure she even liked Laura anymore, let alone loved her. She put a hand to her cheek, wincing at the tenderness of the bruise, and sighed. Watching Mei-Ling trot off, she lifted her bag, fished for her ticket in her coat pocket, and headed for the barrier. A crush of people tried to get through, rushing now the train had finally arrived, all going in their different directions – to work, or shopping, to visit a loved one, or to go home, like her.
No, she decided not to go home immediately; she wasn’t in town very often these days, and Charlie would be all right for a little longer. She’d go to one of her favourite places, one she and Reg had found quite by accident years ago when they’d started cycling, the children having grown up and left, leaving a gap in their time as well as their home. So at weekends they cycled into the city, or took a train into the countryside and pedalled along the lanes until they found a pub. That was all before they discovered Reg’s heart probably wasn’t up to riding bikes, or, indeed, keeping him alive. She bit her lip, remembering her husband’s first heart attack. The fear. Their lives had changed after that. Iris threw the salt out, and cooked low-fat meals, and encouraged Reg to do a little careful exercise each day. Yet still he died. Five years, it had been. Five long years.
From Euston it required a train and a bus to get there, but she’d do it; she could take it slowly, and have a cup of tea in the lovely café once she arrived.
She lifted her chin and smiled. She was going on an adventure. She was an independent woman taking herself off for a day out. When had she last done that? Too often her hip hurt when she walked long distances, and her doctor had told her that when older people like her were stressed they were more prone to accidents. She’d taken his advice to heart; these days if she felt in the least emotional, she stayed indoors. She couldn’t risk falling in the street again at her age. Her friend Betty had fallen coming out of Lidl and broken her hip and never left the hospital. An infection set in and she was gone. Iris sighed. She missed Betty. But today, even though she was feeling a bit wobbly – not physically, but emotionally – after what Laura had done, she would throw caution to the wind and treat herself to an outing. It would make her feel better to be out and about.
The Chelsea Physic Garden always delighted her. Small enough and flat enough to walk round easily, it hid away behind houses and a high wall so it felt like visiting a secret place. The medicinal trees and shrubs from all over the world had been collected over the centuries.
After Reg died, she’d had a brass plaque inscribed and paid a donation to have it screwed to their favourite bench on the patio outside the café.
Reg Worthington, My Medicine. 1934-2011
It was better to remember him here than in the awful cemetery overlooking the motorway. He’d have wanted her to keep coming to the garden, to sit on their bench and enjoy a cup of tea and a bit of sun. And there were always other people who were willing to stop and chat about the plants and what they might be used for. It was so much more interesting than the cemetery or her local park with its patchy grass and uneven paths that might cause an old lady to fall.
Iris took her tea over to the bench and gazed around contentedly. This place soothed her. She and Reg had returned time and time again to wander along the paths, share a pot of Earl Grey, dream of visiting the places the plants had come from: Australia, the West Indies, China. So many places they’d never been. One day Reg had found a label on a small bush stating its origin as Devon, England. ‘We’ll go there, shall we, and see where this little specimen came from?’
Iris had laughed so hard she almost fell sideways off the seat. ‘Exotic Devon,’ she managed to gasp out eventually, and Reg took her hand and said, very seriously, ‘It may not be exotic, but if it’s capable of producing a little beauty like this, it’s good enough for the likes of you and me.’
Iris stopped laughing. She had to agree with him. They were ordinary people with ordinary needs; there was no point in going to the other end of the world when they had all they needed much closer at hand.
She sighed and got to her feet with the intention of going to find the little bush from Devon and pay her respects, but she felt dizzy and had to sit down again and wait till it passed.
‘Are you okay?’
Iris turned to a woman standing to her left with a floppy straw hat and soil-streaked gardening gloves in one hand. Mei-Ling had asked if she was all right too. Did she suddenly look older or less capable because of what had happened at Laura’s?
She pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin, looked at the gardener and smiled. ‘I’m fine, thank you, dear. Just got up too quickly.’
The woman nodded and went back to her work.
Iris sat a while longer, gathering her thoughts. She didn’t want people thinking she was a feeble old woman who needed their help. She didn’t want to be a feeble old woman who needed their help. She could think of nothing worse than being dependent on others, which was perhaps why she’d been so dismayed when Laura had made her suggestion and so shocked at the reason why.
She shook her head to rid herself of thoughts of her daughter; she didn’t want to spoil her time in the gardens. Two men had taken a table close to her bench and were talking quietly, heads almost touching. Iris couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they started laughing, and one lay his hand over his friend’s in a moment so intimate Iris had to look away again. They reminded her of Barry and his friend, Luke.
Her phone rang, and she fished in her bag to look at the screen. A picture of Laura’s face stared at her from behind blue-framed glasses. Iris gasped and dropped the phone back into her bag. She wasn’t ready to talk to her daughter. She stood again, more slowly this time, steadied herself for a moment against the back of the bench, her hand resting on the brass plaque, then made her way to the exit. The Devon shrub would have to wait for another day.
Out on the street again, she walked slowly to the bus stop. She considered going to see her son at work since she was in town, but decided against it. He didn’t like her visiting unannounced, especially at the office. She sighed. Once upon a time Barry had loved being with her. They’d gone to the cinema together, and for walks. He’d lived at home until he was twenty-seven, saving to buy his own house, the one he was still in. He didn’t like change. Her friends had all told her she and Reg should make him leave, but she liked having him there. The house felt empty when he left. And that was when Reg was still alive. Now it felt like a morgue. Friends had suggested she sell the house and move to Margate, or Whitstable maybe. She and Reg had talked about it before he died. But she knew she’d never leave now. She knew all the neighbours, even the young ones who were moving in as the old ones die
d off or went into homes. It wasn’t the same anymore, but it was home.
She was suddenly exhausted and decided to take a taxi home and not have to wait for the bus. Her ankles were swollen and her shoes rubbed. She hated her body letting her down.
‘Don’t you start feeling sorry for yourself, Iris, old girl,’ she said to herself. ‘Give in to self-pity and you’re on the slippery slide.’
‘Sorry?’ The woman next to her at the bus stop looked concerned.
Iris didn’t realise she’d been talking out loud. She apologised, and shut her mouth firmly. She didn’t want anyone thinking she was a lunatic, talking away to herself. Mary had been taken to some sort of institution and never come home again. That was two or maybe three years ago. Iris had seen her son a few months after Mary had disappeared, and he’d told her his mum had Alzheimer’s. Terrible thing to happen to someone. Mary was younger than her. Iris had been terrified for weeks that she was forgetting things and would be put away too.
Half an hour later she let herself in her front door. Relief at being home overcame her, and her eyes felt watery.
‘Charlie!’ she called as soon as she was inside. ‘Charlie, I’m home.’
She found him asleep on the sofa, snoring. Sitting next to him, she put a hand on his back gently so as not to cause alarm, and shook him awake.
‘Charlie, I’m home. How have you been?’
He looked at her with mournful eyes, then looked away.
‘Don’t be like that, Charlie. I’ve had an awful time. I know you don’t like it when I leave you, but please don’t punish me for it. I’m sure Doreen’s been taking you out and feeding you well. Anyway, I’m back now, and I won’t leave you again.’
