Needlemouse

by Jane O'Connor

  ‘Well, open it then,’ Millie said.

  ‘I don’t have a key, Millie, I thought you did.’

  She shook her head in irritation and pushed the doorbell for the flat. We waited several minutes until a light eventually came on in the shared hall. Millie peered through the peephole and whispered, ‘She’s coming,’ in a way that reminded me of when we had been up to mischief as children. Much unlocking and unbolting ensued before the door opened and there stood Mother, resplendent in her pink dressing gown and slippers, with a gracious smile on her face.

  ‘Oh, hello girls, how nice to see you. Do come in.’

  ‘Mum, are you all right?’ I placed my hand on her arm and she looked at it in bemusement.

  ‘Yes, fine, Sylvia. Thank you. And yourself?’

  ‘You rang me earlier about the man next door, you were upset and frightened. Do you remember?’

  ‘No, not me.’ Mother chuckled. ‘What a silly story.’ She glanced at Millie and tutted as she looked her up and down, taking in her unkempt hair and messy nightclothes. ‘Goodness me, what a mess.’ Millie pressed her lips tightly together and managed not to respond. We got her settled in bed again and I took Hamish for a quick walk round the block while Millie checked the flat was safe. There was nothing else to do.

  ‘I’ll ring her GP in the morning,’ Millie said, as we walked back to the car. ‘She’s going doolally. Just what I bloody well need.’ It struck me as an unforgivably selfish thing to say, but I suppose there is a part of me that feels the same. ‘We’ll have to do something about that dog as well,’ Millie continued. ‘She can’t look after him properly in that flat.’

  The journey back was another silent affair, until we turned into Jonas’s road.

  ‘Why are you staying here anyway?’ Millie’s curiosity had got the better of her. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve shacked up with the crusty old sod.’

  I shook my head with a look of mock horror on my face and we both laughed despite ourselves. ‘No, not that.’ I told her what had happened and she said she was sorry and that Jonas sounded like a nice man. The tension between us seemed to have dissipated a little and I put my hand on hers.

  ‘I really am so sorry, Millie. I miss you.’

  She stiffened and sniffed. ‘Not as much as you miss Kamal, though, hey Sylvia?’

  ‘I don’t miss Kamal. What do you mean?’

  ‘I saw the card you gave him, Sylvia. “Sorry … I miss you, love Sylvia.” It’s pathetic. I mean, really pathetic. You can’t let it go even now.’

  My mind raced as I tried to make sense of what she was saying.

  ‘That card was for you, Millie. The one with the puppy on it. I put it in the bin outside your shop the day I came to see you and you had gone out to lunch. Kamal must have got it out the bin after I left.’ My voice rose in disbelief. ‘Good God! Why would I send him a card like that? Please, believe me, Millie.’

  She stared straight ahead at the shadowy road, her eyes following a fox that had darted out of the bushes opposite.

  ‘Millie.’ I tried one more time but she was once again immovable so I let myself out the car and walked up the front path. I turned round as I unlocked the door and saw her staring sadly after me, but seeing me turn she looked quickly back to the road and pulled away.

  Thursday 9 June

  Crystal and I have been managing the sanctuary between us for the last couple of weeks, with Katie popping in when she can to help. I have been sleeping on the sofa in Jonas’s living room and using the downstairs shower. I have never been upstairs in his house and it would seem presumptuous, somehow, to go up there without his permission. Igor sleeps up there, though, on Jonas’s bed, according to Katie, where he has always slept. I can understand that. No one likes to sleep alone. He clatters down the stairs early in the morning when nature calls and I let him out and sit on the bench drinking my tea, listening to the birds singing and watching the garden come to life.

  Crystal has her exams, but comes by in the evenings and helps me feed the hogs. I spend the days tending to the garden, walking Igor, and dealing with any new arrivals at the sanctuary. I try not to think actively about Prof, or Millie, but they swirl around in the space just behind my conscious mind, forever trying to break back through, jostling to take the central position. Weeding helps, so does looking after the animals. Repetitive, necessary, nurturing work that engages my hands and some level of concentration. At night, though, when there is nothing to distract me and Igor is asleep upstairs, they stride onto my psychic stage and demand my attention.

  One of them steps forward first – usually Millie. I think it’s because I am so much more used to communicating with her in a free and open manner, and because she is generally wearing brightly coloured clothes that contrast with Prof’s subdued suits. He stands behind in the shadows, hand on chin, listening carefully as she rages at me and tells me how, of all the people in her life who she thought might hurt her, I was the last one she would ever have suspected. She shakes her head, asking ‘Why?’ over and over again, her bottom lip trembling, as if she were five years old and I had stolen and broken her favourite dolly. Then her eyes flash and she begins to hurl insults at me. I am a slut, a cow, an evil, jealous, pathetic, old hag. I ruined her life because I couldn’t bear to see her happy. Her whole marriage has been a sham because of me. She doesn’t know the man she married and it is because of me. Then she cries, huge shuddering sobs that gradually subside into silent tears and we stare at each other as if we are strangers in a strange land, a land where love and loyalty and sisterhood don’t mean anything and nothing is true or real or solid any more.

  Then it is my turn to speak. I tell it from the very beginning. I explain to her over and over again how I didn’t mean it to happen. How it was just that one time on the sofa in my sitting room with the curtains closed against the afternoon sun and the television he had just carried upstairs for me on the floor beside us in its cardboard packaging. I tell her that that was the last time I had sex, so strong was my self-disgust. Eighteen years ago. I tell her how I’ve gone over it so many times in my head and I still don’t really know how it happened.

  We didn’t speak, not one word. We stood looking at the space where the TV was going to go and he suddenly stepped forward and closed the curtains. She hates to hear the next bit, but I tell her how he looked at me with this inquisitive hunger and I let him kiss me. And then I tell her how it all happened really quickly, and then he was gone, out the door and down the stairs and back to their shiny new life together.

  I remind her that they had not long moved in together and that they had so many plans for their lives, that there was an aura of magic and potential and pure love emanating from them that made everyone around them feel happy too – and sometimes she smiles here, because she is remembering that feeling, the taste of it, the thrill of it. I try to explain that it was as if I got swept up in their joy and somehow thought I was part of it.

  The next part is hard to say, but I press on, because I want her to understand. I tell her that it was as if having sex with Kamal was a way of me placing my stamp of approval completely on her choice of man. She generally scoffs here, in an angry fashion, and I tell her that I know that sounds ridiculous now, but it’s the only way I can explain it to myself and it is truly how I felt.

  I emphasise to Millie that I never wanted to take him away from her, I just wanted to not be left out. I explain how it was like the instinct to warm your hands in front of a cosy log fire, that I was drawn to the comfort of it. Then I realise I haven’t given her the whole truth and I have to be completely honest because there is no other way for us to move forward.

  And the truth is that he was beautiful then as well, there is no denying it.

  She sometimes gives another small smile at this point, allowing her own memories of the young Kamal to envelop her. I add details and describe his smooth brown torso, soft black hair, sensitive, intelligent face. And he was young, only twenty-five – seven years younger tha
n Millie, ten years younger than me. I remind her that I used to tease her about her toy boy, but I knew she secretly loved it.

  I tell her that we didn’t speak. I remember that. Not one word. I tell her how I lay there on the sofa afterwards, ‘undone’ as the Victorian ladies would say, wondering if it had actually happened at all.

  When the shock had worn off, the self-revulsion and shame rolled in to take its place. And then the fear. An animalistic fear that seemed to crawl out of the floor and seep out of the walls and sofa, surrounding me, entering me, becoming a permanent part of my very being. The fear that I was going to lose her, lose her love and lose my place of safety in the world.

  I tell her how I got up and opened the curtains to a cold grey sky and sat watching the pigeons landing and taking off from the roof opposite for hours, wanting more than anything for it not to have happened. Then I tell her that, seven weeks later, I found out I was pregnant and that I did what I had to do because I loved her so much.

  At this point, there is silence for a moment or two and then Millie backs away, rather theatrically, into the gloom with her hands covering her face. The space is empty for a few beats and then Prof moves forward and looks at me expectantly. It always takes me by surprise, because it seems like he is from another story, another part of my life completely, but I am beginning to realise that it is all connected, that he is a continuation of the first story and I can only explain myself to him in light of all that happened before.

  As I watch him watching me, I feel the familiar longing for his touch, his attention, his love – everything I never had from him – and I wonder again how I can feel such loss when, in retrospect, what we actually had was so little. I try to take a mental step back from him and see him for who he really is: a middle-aged, divorced, unfaithful, averagely successful academic with a charming manner and a selfish heart. How can I not have seen that? How could I have made such a fool of myself? I feel hot with shame as I force myself to confess that I thought I was in love with him and all the ways in which I tried to demonstrate that love. And he looks at me in a slightly bored way and I notice him discreetly checking his watch several times as I pour out my heart.

  I have tried to imagine him reacting differently to my confession, throwing his arms around me and kissing me passionately or wiping a tear from his eye as he realises that true love has found him at last, but even in my fantasy world such a response seems ludicrous now. When I have finally finished and he is required to speak, he fiddles nervously with his tie and smiles in what he probably thinks is a concerned way, but which comes across as wholly patronising and dismissive.

  ‘OK, I see,’ he says briskly, searching for words to bring the whole uncomfortable interchange to a close. ‘Well, it’s probably for the best you have … erm … moved on, Sylvia. Good luck with the future.’ He puts out his hand to shake mine, thinks better of it, and changes it into a quick wave as he disappears off my mental stage as if he is being pursued by invisible hounds.

  ‘This is the truth,’ I tell myself as I sit in the darkness wrapped in Jonas’s patchwork quilt, feeling the different textures of the squares that his wife sewed together with such care. ‘This is the truth of the man.’

  After Prof has left, a long time after, sometimes Neil appears, wandering onto the stage wearing his leathers and motorcycle helmet. ‘Take that off,’ I tell him. ‘Let me see you and then we can talk.’

  To my relief, not once has Kamal appeared for a psychic showdown. I have nothing to say to him and nothing left to explain.

  Friday 10 June

  The first thing I did this morning, before I had even had a cup of tea, was grab the pad of writing paper and Parker pen from Jonas’s bureau and write Millie a letter. I allowed our imaginary conversations to take form on the paper and told her everything that I could remember and every reason why. Once it was down, I didn’t dare read it through in case I changed my mind. I put it in an envelope, found a stamp in my purse, pulled my coat on over my pyjamas and ran over the road to post it in the pillar box opposite. I felt slightly giddy as I glided back to the house and let myself in, thankful that no one in the road had seen me in my nightclothes and anorak. I briefly considered penning a similar apology and explanation missive to Prof, but the idea clanged and stalled as soon as I pulled out the writing pad and I realised it would be a mistake. I wasn’t sure what to apologise for, and couldn’t think how to explain my behaviour in a way that he would understand.

  The early mist cleared as I showered and dressed, and as I pulled on Jonas’s battered gardening gloves and threw open the back door, the sun appeared from between two clouds and transformed the garden into glorious Technicolor. Igor rushed out for his usual exploration of any new scents and trails that had been left on the lawn overnight, then followed me into the garage in the hope I might drop some hedgehog food on the floor that he could hoover up.

  Disturbing hedgehogs first thing in the morning is akin to walking uninvited into a stranger’s house when they are engaged in a secret and underhand activity. They stay still and watch you with beady little black eyes, their prickles rising up and down with their breath, or they shuffle into their bedding and hide, with just their snouts poking out for air.

  ‘Morning, hogs,’ I greeted them cheerfully and, their cover blown, they gradually began emerging from their bedding and coming forward in their cages, propelled by the expectation of filling their bellies.

  I did the usual checks and gave the necessary medications to those that needed it before cleaning out each cage and then giving them fresh food and water. Absorbed in my task, I didn’t realise I had company until I turned to the door to empty out the last water bowl. Standing just outside the garage entrance was Neil and, next to him, holding his hand, was a beautiful dark-haired little boy of about three.

  ‘I hope you don’t mind. I told him about the hedgehogs and he wanted to come and see.’

  Igor ran up to them and nuzzled Neil’s hand as I gathered myself and got over the shock of his unexpected visit.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d see you again,’ I faltered. ‘I didn’t think you wanted to, after last time. I thought you were cross at having to stay here and—’

  ‘I was happy I could help. I didn’t want to be in the way. How is Jonas?’

  ‘Not good at all.’

  We stood looking at each other in commiseration, me not wanting to expand with the little one there.

  ‘And who is this?’ I said brightly, smiling at Neil’s son who was gazing around at the hedgehogs as though he was in a magical wonderland.

  ‘This is Rikuto. Say hello, Riki,’

  ‘Hello.’ He waved at me and then hid behind Neil’s leg.

  ‘Would you like to see the hedgehogs?’ I asked him, and Neil translated unnecessarily as Riki was already nodding and pointing at the cages.

  ‘You know, in Tokyo they have hedgehog cafés where you can drink coffee and look at hedgehogs in pens. If you manage to make one uncurl and show its face, you get your coffee for free,’ Neil mused, peering into one of the cages at a tightly curled hog.

  ‘How extraordinary! The poor little things. I think I’d rather pay for my coffee,’ I replied, thinking how much Jonas would love that nugget to add to his eclectic hedgehog fact file.

  ‘Needlemouse,’ Neil suddenly said, staring at one of Jonas’s posters.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ He had lost me entirely.

  ‘The word for hedgehog in Japanese, harinezumi, it translates literally as “needlemouse”.’

  ‘“Needlemouse”,’ I repeated, turning the words over in my mouth. ‘How perfect!’

  He smiled, pleased at my response and repeated it to Riki in a sing-song voice, making him clap his hands together in delight.

  We spent the whole day together in the end. Neil helped me pick sprouting broccoli and leeks from the vegetable plot and Riki played with Jack and Jill and planted sunflower seeds in flowerpots. We had a picnic lunch on the lawn, which Neil had given its first mow
of the year, struggling comically with Jonas’s ancient push-along. The smell of cut grass combined with the scent of the early sweet peas growing up the fence in the most sublime manner as the warmth of the sun brought the garden to life. As we sat eating our food, fielding off Igor’s attempts to help himself to the sandwiches and watching Riki dig for worms in the herbaceous border, I remembered what it was to be still inside.

  When Katie rang an hour later I knew what she was going to say and I was ready for it, but I was still grateful that Neil was there to sit with me as the news sank in.

  Sunday 12 June

  Katie and Carrie came to the house today and went upstairs to choose an outfit for their father to be buried in. I sat downstairs petting Igor, who was blissfully unaware that everything had changed, and wondered what was going to happen next. I felt strangely ambivalent about my own circumstances. I didn’t care whether they wanted me to stay or go. I was only worried about who was going to look after the animals and the garden.

  ‘What shall we do, then?’ Katie asked as she finally came downstairs with a dark suit folded over her arm. Carrie followed behind her holding a white shirt and polished black shoes – their formality a stark contrast against the rainbow-coloured tie-dye dress she was wearing. I stared at the clothes in amazement, wondering where they had found them as I had never seen Jonas wearing anything other than baggy cords and a tatty cardigan.

  ‘It’s his wedding suit,’ Katie said, seeing my expression. ‘He lost quite a lot of weight in hospital and I’m sure it will fit him again now.’ Carrie let out a sob and sat down heavily on the other end of the sofa, the shoes and shirt dropping to the floor.