Soul Sisters

by Lesley Lokko

  Kemi laughed shakily. ‘Solam? No. This has nothing to do with him.’

  Jen saw then that the shine in her eyes wasn’t just happiness, it was tears beginning to form. She swallowed down hard on the lump in her own throat. They were soul sisters. She felt it now, again.

  29

  For the first few moments after waking, Julian Carrick almost forgot where he was. He lay in bed, aware only of the tremendous ache in his groin and a head that felt like lead. He reached down to adjust the waistband on his pyjamas and found that they were damp, sticky. He lifted the covers and nearly laughed out loud. He’d had a wet dream. He was fifty-two years old. He hadn’t had a wet dream since he was a teenager!

  He slid out of bed, careful not to wake his wife Rosemary, who was snoring softly as she always did, and walked on tiptoe to the bathroom. Once inside, he peeled off the damp pyjamas and thrust them to the bottom of the laundry basket. He switched on the light and looked at himself in the mirror. His face stared back at him, utterly wrung out, and it wasn’t just the mild hangover from the night before. He turned on the tap and splashed cold water over his face. Two aspirin would certainly get rid of the hangover but as for the other matter, the wet dream . . . well, there, for once, he had no answer, no clue. He was horrified, mortified. For the first time in twenty-six years of marriage, he found himself adrift. Oh, he’d had the odd moment . . . which man his age hadn’t? Once or twice, nothing he’d ever acted upon. An overly grateful patient, and a waitress on holiday in Greece. Both times it had crossed his mind, but he’d either been too preoccupied or too afraid of the consequences to do anything other than shake his head regretfully, passing up the opportunity, as he should. But this . . . this was different. He couldn’t even pinpoint the day or moment it had first hit him. She’d crept up on him slowly, almost imperceptibly, and then his awareness of her gathered steam until it was like being hit by a roller coaster and he could think of little else. Idiot. Idiot. Idiot! He stared at his face in the mirror. She was young enough to be his daughter, if he’d had one. Was that it? Some subliminal longing for the child he and Rosemary had failed to produce? Don’t be ridiculous. There was absolutely nothing parental about his feelings for Kemisa Mashabane. He was just thankful she wasn’t on his team. As the resident cardiac surgeon, he only came across her in theatre every once in a while. Thank God. She reduced him to the incompetence of a junior houseman in her presence and that wouldn’t do at all—

  ‘Julian? What on earth are you doing?’

  He whirled round. It was Rosemary. Sleepy-eyed, she’d come into the bathroom without him even noticing. She stood in the doorway, staring at his naked bottom half. He flushed.

  ‘I . . . I was just heading to the shower,’ he stammered, pulling his top off. ‘I couldn’t sleep, for some reason. Thought I’d . . . I’d go for a run.’

  ‘And you’re taking a shower before you run?’ Rosemary sounded amused. ‘That doesn’t make sense, darling.’

  ‘I . . . I know. I . . . I had a bit too much to drink last night,’ he said quickly. ‘Just thought a cold shower would clear the old head.’

  ‘Were you out with the team?’ She yawned, going over to the toilet. He ducked into the shower and closed the door. When they were first married, it was one of the things he’d loved most about her – a complete lack of self-consciousness about her own body and its functions. Now it embarrassed him. He turned on the shower tap and stood for a moment in its warm steady stream. Christ, what was happening to him?

  ‘Changed my mind,’ he said fifteen minutes later, walking into the kitchen. Rosemary was already at the kitchen table, buttering a slice of toast.

  ‘Oh? Feeling better?’

  He nodded. ‘Shower did the trick. What’ve you got on today?’ he asked, going to the fridge.

  She looked up. ‘You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?’

  He turned around. ‘What?’

  ‘The Pritchards are coming to dinner. You said you’d cook.’

  He stopped, fingers on the door handle. His heart sank. ‘Damn,’ he said, louder than he should. ‘I mean . . . yes, I forgot. Do we have to?’

  Rosemary looked at him in surprise. ‘I thought you liked having them over?’

  ‘I do. It’s just . . . I don’t know . . . it’s been a really busy month.’

  ‘I could cancel,’ she said, looking doubtful. ‘It’s a bit late, but I’m sure Kate’ll understand.’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine. I’ll just pop to Waitrose and get what I need.’

  ‘D’you want me to come?’

  ‘No.’ That too came out louder than he intended. ‘But thanks. I know what I’m cooking . . . I won’t be long.’ He had to get out of the house. He shut the fridge door.

  ‘Aren’t you having any breakfast?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’ll grab a coffee somewhere. See you soon.’ He left the kitchen before she could ask any more questions.

  He started the car engine and sat for a few moments, waiting for the interior to warm up. He was skating on very thin ice. He put his hands on the steering wheel and for a moment let his head rest on it, closing his eyes. A loud tap at the window made him jump out of his skin. It was Rosemary.

  ‘Whatever’s the matter with you?’ she asked as he rolled down the window. She was holding out his wallet. He’d left it on the kitchen table.

  He struggled to raise a weak smile. ‘Head’s worse than I thought. Thanks,’ he said, taking the wallet. ‘Must’ve emptied my pockets last night when I came in.’

  ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine. Just the old head.’ He tapped his forehead lightly. ‘It’ll have cleared by the time I get back. Thanks,’ he said again, and put the car in reverse.

  She stood by uncertainly as he manoeuvred his way out. He ought to have been more reassuring . . . given her a kiss, a pat on the hand. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t bring himself to touch her. Jesus Christ, he swore at himself under his breath, what the hell was wrong with him? Kemisa Mashabane hadn’t so much as looked at him but he couldn’t get her out of his head.

  30

  ‘Ma’am? Ma’am?’ Alice awoke with a start, her heart pounding. Someone was pressing on her arm. She opened her eyes and tried to focus. It was one of the maids, but she couldn’t remember which one. What was her name? All these girls. She just couldn’t keep up. Traipsing in and out of the house all these months and years. The damn girl wouldn’t stop shaking her.

  ‘What? What is it?’ Her tongue was heavy and thick.

  ‘Mrs Smith sent me up, ma’am. Your daughter’s here.’

  ‘My daughter?’ Alice gripped the side of her chair, levering herself upright. As usual, she’d fallen asleep in front of the television. ‘Which daughter?’

  The girl seemed puzzled. ‘It’s Jennifer, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, of course. Jennifer, did you say?’ The girl looked even more confused. ‘Will you send her up?’ Alice asked, glancing around. ‘No. Don’t send her up. Tell her I’ll come down.’

  ‘Are ye all right to come downstairs?’ the maid asked, clearly alarmed.

  Alice put up a hand to her hair. Why was the maid so worried? Did she look a mess? ‘Of course I’m all right,’ she snapped. ‘I’m not an invalid. Who did you say it was again?’

  ‘I . . . I’ll just go and get Mrs Smith, ma’am.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, don’t bother Mrs Smith!’

  But the girl was gone. Alice sighed and leaned back in her chair. Catriona was here. How long had it been since she’d seen her? she wondered. She tried to remember. A month? Six months? Maybe even longer? Nothing seemed to make sense these days, least of all the passing of time. She reached for the little plastic box of pills that was never far from her chair and picked up the half-empty cup of tea. It was cold, but no matter. She swallowed two Nembutals and then took a Valium, just for good measure. She hated being woken up like that in the middle of her afternoon nap. The news that Catriona had arrived had set her nerv
es on edge. ‘I’ll just close my eyes for a second,’ she murmured, making herself comfortable in the chair. ‘I’ll go down in a minute.’

  The maid looked rather flustered as she delivered the news that her mother would be downstairs directly.

  ‘Downstairs?’ Mrs Smith, the new housekeeper, gave a snort. She bustled around her, fetching teacups and saucers. ‘Aye, that’ll be the day. I cannae remember the last time she came downstairs.’

  Jen’s heart sank. Would she ever be able to return home like every other person she knew and expect to find anything approaching normal? She’d been dreading coming back for a whole host of reasons, chief of which was her mother’s deteriorating grip on reality. ‘Losin’ her marbles’ was how Mrs Smith put it. Kemi was kinder. ‘It sounds like early onset dementia. It’s not her fault. Don’t be too hard on her.’ It seemed to Jen as though her mother had always been in the process of ‘losing her marbles’, dementia or not. She couldn’t even recall a time before the pills and the headaches and the slow retreat to the rooms on the second floor. She sighed. At least her father wasn’t in yet. She wasn’t looking forward to that conversation.

  ‘Ye should look in on Mrs Logan while ye’re here. She was ever so fond of the two of ye, ye know,’ Mrs Smith said, setting down a heavy brown teapot. Jen looked at it in surprise. She remembered it from childhood. The only thing that appeared to change in the Morningside home was the staff – there were fewer of them now, just Mrs Smith and the new girl. Mrs Logan had retired nearly five years ago and the gardener only came in once a week.

  ‘I will. I’ll go round tomorrow after church.’

  ‘Och, that’ll make yer da happy, so it will. Goin’ tae church, I mean. I dinnae ken the last time he had someone tae go wi’. Yer ma’s no bothered wi’ church any more.’

  Jen took a sip of tea. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Same as ever. She’s nae bother as long as she has her pills and her telly. She takes a wee drop every now and then, granted, but she’s nae bother at all.’

  ‘I suppose I’d better go up,’ Jen said, looking at the clock above the Aga. It was nearly three. Her father would be home around five, Mrs Smith had said.

  ‘Aye. She’ll no be comin’ down now.’

  ‘Shall I take her anything?’ Jen asked, sliding off the kitchen stool. She finished her tea, and took the cup and saucer to the sink.

  ‘Dinnae bother. I’ll take her supper up in a wee while. Off ye go. Dinnae ye bother wi’ them cups, either. Lisa’ll do it.’

  Jen took the chance to escape. Mrs Smith’s accent was thick enough to cut with a knife. Half the time she had no idea what the woman was saying.

  She walked up the stairs, letting her fingers trail loosely along the gleaming bannister. It was like stepping back in time, she thought to herself, as she made her way slowly to Alice’s rooms on the second floor. The dark carpets and the sombre wallpaper were exactly the same. The same pictures of Scottish landscapes and the framed portrait of her grandmother as a young bride hung on the turn at the first landing. The door to her father’s study at the far end of the corridor was closed. As she passed it, a strange, morbid sense of déjà vu stole over her, something half remembered, half forgotten, deeply buried. She stopped. There was a curious, uncomfortable prickling at the nape of her neck, like a shiver of wind across the surface of a lake. The house was calm and quiet, yet a strange crystallization was taking place, heard in every tiny creak of the floorboards, in the sound of the rain outside, even in the muffled noise of Mrs Smith moving around downstairs. She drew in a deep breath. Something was hovering at the far reaches of her concentration. Her heart was racing and her palms felt sweaty and clammy. She drew in a breath, then another, breathing fast. And then, all of a sudden it vanished, as quickly as it had come. She put a hand on the bannister to steady herself. A dull pressure was beginning to build up at the base of her skull. She put a hand to her nose in disbelief. It was bleeding. She hadn’t had a nosebleed in years. In fact, the only place she ever had them was in this house. She pushed open the door to the toilet at the top of the landing and grabbed a handful of toilet paper to staunch the flow. There was no telling what the sight of blood might do to Alice.

  She found Alice sitting upright in a chair by the window, fast asleep. Her hair, always fair, was now snowy white. She looked like a woman in her seventies, not her late fifties.

  ‘Mum?’ Jen put out a hand, touching her lightly on the forearm.

  Alice woke with a start. For a second she stared at Jen, her eyes completely blank, as if she couldn’t recognize her. Jen felt her stomach contract. The vacant look in her eyes was more than she could bear. Recognition dawned slowly. Alice blinked. ‘Catriona? Is that you?’

  ‘Hi, Mum. Yes, it’s me. Jen.’

  ‘Oh yes, yes . . . Jen. Of course. Of course it’s you. When did you get back? Are you home now?’

  Jen swallowed. ‘I just came up for a couple of days, Mum. To say goodbye, really. I . . . I’m actually going away for a bit. To South Africa. Kemi’s taking up a place at a hospital out there and—’

  ‘Africa?’ Alice interrupted her suddenly. She began picking agitatedly at the sleeves of her cardigan. ‘Why on earth would you want to go there? I’d have thought it’d be the last place you’d want to go.’

  Jen looked down at her, puzzled. ‘Why? It’s perfectly safe, Mum. I’ll be with Kemi.’

  Alice gave a little derisive snort. ‘Oh, her. Well, she’ll only get what she deserves, I’m sure of it.’

  Jen was stunned, not just by the words, but by the sudden look of venomous spite on Alice’s face. It was a look she’d never seen before. And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished. Alice turned her face up to Jen’s. ‘Won’t you ask Mrs Smith to bring me up a cup of tea, darling?’ she said, her voice and face as sweet and innocent as a child’s. ‘And a biscuit. I’ve just realized . . . I’m starving. Isn’t that odd?’

  Jen said nothing. Yes, her mother was losing her grip, and her mind. Where on earth had that outburst come from? She was mixing Kemi up with someone else, surely?

  The conversation with her father was surprisingly easy. ‘Well, you’ll be with Kemi. I dare say she’ll make sure you get something out of it. How long will you be away?’

  Jen bit down on the urge to snap at him. ‘Three months,’ she said, as calmly as she could.

  ‘And I dare say you’ll be looking for another advance?’ The slight emphasis on the word ‘another’ wasn’t lost on Jen.

  ‘If that would be all right, Father,’ she said, just as calmly. No point in getting into an argument.

  He sighed. ‘I’ve little choice, have I? I don’t know why you always leave these silly requests to the very last minute. It was exactly the same as that last little caper you went on . . . where was it? America?’

  Jen looked beyond her father to the twilight horizon. It was eight o’clock in the evening. With a bit of luck, she’d be out of the house by nine, on her way to meet a couple of old schoolfriends on George Street. The following morning she’d be on the train back to London, having survived both parents and with the knowledge that, for the next few months at least, she’d be free. ‘Yes, New York,’ she said quietly. ‘But it did lead to a job,’ she added. She couldn’t help herself.

  ‘And how long did that last?’ Robert asked, going to his desk. He didn’t seem to expect an answer. He sat down and opened the drawer to his left. He made a great show of opening his blue-and-gold chequebook, picking up a fountain pen with a sigh.

  Two minutes later it was all over. She walked back downstairs, a sizeable cheque in her hand and the bittersweet taste of freedom in her mouth.

  She boarded the London train at Waverley Station, slung her overnight bag onto the rack above her seat and sat down. The carriage was surprisingly empty. She put her coffee and sandwich on the foldout table and picked up her magazine. As the train pulled slowly out of the station, the tall, dark granite buildings on either side that formed the canyon of th
e city’s heart began to fall away. The hills were golden-orange in the unexpected sunshine, tufts of egg-yellow gorse flashing through as Arthurs Seat appeared, and passed. After years in London, the stillness of the Scottish landscape never failed to move her. She let it work lightly on her, over her, struck again by the space it gave you to breathe. The tightness in her chest that always came over her at home began to ease. It was as if the open, empty landscape was preparing her for her return. She looked out on the stretch of fields and flowering scrub, broken here and there by a clump of dark trees and small, jutting platforms of craggy rocks, and was grateful.

  31

  Kemi’s enormous, battered suitcase lay open-jawed in the middle of the living room. All around it was the debris of her packing choices: T-shirts, cardigans, jeans, underwear . . . make-up, hair products, books, a pair of trainers with the laces missing, odd socks rolled into mismatched balls. She rested on her haunches, sifting through the piles, deciding what to take, what to store, what to throw away. It was years since she’d done a thorough clear-out . . . in a way, it was oddly cathartic. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly six o’clock. She’d been at it pretty much all day. There was less than a fortnight to go until their departure. Jen had gone up to Edinburgh the night before to break the news to Uncle Robert that not only was Kemi leaving for three months, she was too. Why she’d left it to practically the last minute was beyond Kemi. ‘Just pick up the phone and tell him,’ she’d said, only half a dozen times. But Jen stubbornly refused.

  ‘It’ll be better if I talk to him in person.’

  ‘Well, just do it. What’s he going to say?’ It was sounding eerily like their conversation of more than a decade ago.

  Jen shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I still have to ask for an advance, you know. I won’t be working.’