Hello, My Name is May

by Rosalind Stopps

  Don’t try to talk Mum, it’s OK, Jenny says and I try so hard not to cry that I knock the water out of her hand as she offers me a drink.

  Now now, May, one of the carers says, there’s no need for that, your daughter has come to visit you, let’s be nice. It’s not fair, I think, it’s not fair and if at that moment I could have blown the place up I would have, daughter or no daughter. I’ve never liked things that aren’t fair.

  When I was at school there was a fashion for biros with more than one colour, and you clicked a button to change the colour of your writing. I didn’t have one, so when Carol Eliot’s got lost, it was me everyone thought had taken it. I didn’t, I didn’t, I said, but the teacher still insisted on searching my bag based on ‘information received’. It wasn’t there of course, but some of the girls believed it anyway, and for months they held their pens to their chests when I walked past.

  I stopped trying to remind Jenny of the water slide, I stopped trying to tell her I was sorry, I turned my face to the wall and waited for her to go home. I was very sad when she had gone.

  I’ve got to get out of here. September is usually my favourite month. There’s a feeling of new year, new possibilities, but no fireworks. Sunshine. I think I was reading in the garden only last week or the week before, when I was still at home and everything was different. I think I was, only I’ve got into a muddle over dates. I’m sure I was at home with all my body parts working when the children went back to school, I heard them walk past my window and then there’s a blank part and now they tell me it’s the twenty-second of September. The thing is, as you get older, you don’t look at the date every day like you do when you are at work. You take things a bit more slowly, you wind down a little. It doesn’t mean I’ve been ill for nearly three weeks just because I wasn’t noticing the date, and I’d tell them that in no uncertain terms if I could.

  Something a little different this evening. Just after the tea trolley and before the pill trolley, they came round shutting all the room doors. I thought it was just mine at first, and that maybe I was in trouble, or Jenny had complained about me or something, and they were teaching me a lesson. But I listened hard, I’ve always had good hearing, and I heard them shutting all the doors, up and down the corridor. We were banged up. A lockdown. I knew the words because I’ve always liked the prison shows on TV. I listened, and I could hear them roll a trolley down, I could hear those trolley wheels. I’m quick, and I realised what it was. It was creepy. The death stretcher, that’s what it was, the last journey, the only way out of here. Poor old bugger whoever you are, I thought. I wondered for a moment whether I should show respect by bowing my head or something.

  They opened the doors a few minutes later. I think it was only a few minutes. I tried to make my eyes as questioning as possible but same old, same old, Kelly just asked me if I’d like a drink or a wee. I jumped (figuratively) at the chance of a bit of a hoist and a nose, so I made a particularly enthusiastic sound in the appropriate place. It sounded a little like, yeeeeuuugggsshshshsh.

  They always use the hoist when they’re busy. It’s quicker. It can take me half the day to get across the room otherwise, even with two carers helping me.

  Come along now, May, Kelly says.

  She has that voice on that means, I’m busy and you’re a nuisance. If I had a way of having a tantrum I’d have one. I’d sweep all the tissues and the polo mints and the orange squash right off that tray, and lob the sticky toffee pudding left over from dinner right at Kelly’s hair. She’s got this complicated hairstyle, all winding plaits and Princess Leia and it would look just the thing with a handful of custard and sponge on the top. It’s the assumption, that’s what I don’t like, the assumption that whatever I do, I’m doing it as part of a plan to disrupt their lives as much as possible, ruin their busyness. I know it’s only a short time since I went to the toilet last, and that when I got there I couldn’t make much impact anyway, hardly a trickle. But it’s my right to go to the toilet whenever I want to, I know that much.

  So Kelly and Lee-An strap me into the hoist and lift me up, swing swing, into the air and across the room. Talking all the way about hair extensions. I’ve got used to carers talking to each other as if I wasn’t there. It’s restful sometimes, listening to chatter about wallpaper and children, dinners waiting to be eaten and holidays planned. I don’t mind, most of the time, but I’m sad this time what with death rolling past my door so recently. I’m lonely, I’m not sure what hair extensions even are, and I miss Jenny. She might be nearly forty and as quiet as a mouse, but she’s my only family and I can’t help thinking that it would have been nice if she could have stayed a little longer. I’m on my own, after all. She has a long journey to get home and she doesn’t drive, that’s true and I should remember that but I’m upset.

  I can’t have a proper tantrum but I manage a side swipe to the left that knocks the half-drunk mug of tea to the floor as they swing me round. You’d think it was some kind of chemical, the way they carry on, something from a Batman film that could burn through floors, walls and bones. She looks at me, Kelly, not a look that anyone would want to receive, especially from the person who is operating the hoist that gets you to the toilet. I look away, settle down a bit into the sling, so that she can see there isn’t going to be any more drama.

  Something catches my eye. The room across the corridor, not the one with the open door and the booming television, but the other one. The one that’s usually closed and silent. There’s someone in there, a man I think. It’s difficult to tell once you get old. The person is tall, because I can see the back of his head over the top of the chair he is sitting in. There’s something familiar about the tilt of his head as he faces the TV. As if he’s breathing it in, listening hard. I can hear a man’s voice and the hollow sound of questions being asked. I’m not sure until I hear the music, dum diddy dum, all threatening and serious, but I’m right, it’s Mastermind.

  Alain used to love that show. He was good, too, he often got more right than the contestants. Mastermind. I haven’t thought about that show in ages.

  CHAPTER TWO

  September 1977

  Hull

  ‘May,’ called Alain as he opened the front door, ‘May, do you want the good news or the really, really good news? Don’t worry about the lovebirds,’ he said as May looked towards the top of the house, ‘they’re out, I saw them in town. And we won’t have to worry about them for much longer, I promise. We’ll have our own place soon, our very own with no housemates to worry about.’

  May smiled. She hadn’t minded living with the student couple at first, in fact she had liked having other people around, but as the baby’s birth got nearer, May felt a nesting instinct. She wanted to be on her own with Alain and her bump, thinking about baby things and preparing. She didn’t want to make conversation or worry about how she looked. In fact, she didn’t want to think about the world outside of her bubble at all.

  ‘Go on then,’ she said. ‘I could use some good news, anything you like, bring it on.’

  She washed her hands and moved away from the stove.

  ‘That smells great,’ Alain said. ‘Let me guess, tomato mince?’

  May blushed.

  ‘I’m going to learn some new recipes,’ she said. ‘I’m working on it.’

  Cooking did not come naturally to May, but she had bought some old recipe books at a jumble sale and she was trying. Her mother had gone for the easy stuff, baked beans, fish fingers, frozen peas, and that had always been good enough for May until now. Now she had a husband and a baby on the way, and she wanted to do it well.

  Alain put both arms around her and lifted her slightly off her feet.

  ‘No need,’ he said, ‘men can cook too, you know. I’m going to cook every night when this little one is born.’ He dropped to his knees and kissed May’s pregnant stomach.

  ‘Hello, little tiny,’ he said in a quiet voice. ‘Any chance of some kicking for your old dad?’

  ‘He’
s been quiet today,’ said May, ‘probably waiting for you to come home.’

  ‘He?’ said Alain. ‘He? Isn’t that a bit sexist? If she’s a she, she’ll be listening and she’ll think we want a boy.’ He stood and kissed May on the side of her neck. ‘I’m happy with anything,’ he said, ‘boy, girl, alien, I’m just so happy that he, she, or it, is there.’

  May was happier than she had been for ages, possibly forever. It had all been so quick, meeting Alain, marrying him and getting pregnant, only not in that order, and sometimes she still had to pinch herself to make sure it was real.

  ‘So, the good news things in order. First, it’s Mastermind on TV tonight and we can watch it together, score sheets and everything. I read in the Radio Times that one of the contestants is going to answer questions on the poems of T.S. Eliot for their special subject. I bet we know all of the answers between us.’

  May smiled. It still seemed amazing that Alain liked the same sort of things that she did, and that he understood her so well, so intimately. May and her mother used to watch Mastermind together, especially when she was ill.

  ‘Did I tell you,’ May asked, ‘about the last time Mum and I watched Mastermind?’

  ‘You did,’ said Alain, ‘but I’d love to hear it again.’

  ‘Really?’ said May. She was worried that she was boring him. It still seemed inexplicable to her that someone like Alain would look at her twice, let alone marry her. He was six years her junior for a start, handsome, funny and clever. He knew about politics and poetry and he could play the guitar and sing like Paul Simon. Everyone who met him loved him. Her mum would have loved him too, she was sure of that.

  ‘Really,’ said Alain. ‘Come on, you sit down and I’ll take over the cooking. I’ll tell you my other piece of news later – it’s worth the wait.’

  ‘No,’ said May, ‘no, go on, I want to hear it now, right now.’

  She put the memory of her mother out of her head. Sorry, Mum, she thought. I’m not ignoring you, but I’m moving on. It’s OK, she could imagine her poor old mum saying back, smiling even though she’d been dismissed, go on, you have a good time.

  ‘Are you OK, merry May?’ Alain said. ‘It must be so difficult for you, I’m sorry if I forget that sometimes. I read an article the other day about grieving, and it said that it’s even more difficult to grieve when you’re pregnant, because everything is invested in the future, all your hopes and dreams, but that’s hard when the loss is still there to make you sad. I think that’s what it meant, anyway.’

  Fancy that, May thought, reading articles for her sake, how lovely. Alain lit a cigarette. May decided not to mention again how much she hated the smoke now that she was pregnant.

  ‘So, here’s my good news. I’ve got a job! I’ve got a job, just when we were starting to panic, a real job with real money and everything. And a flat! We won’t have to live with Love’s Young Dream upstairs any more, it’ll be just us: me, you and Jiminy Cricket in there.’ Alain patted May gently on her bump, and looked at her. She could tell he was keen to see her reaction.

  ‘Al,’ May said, ‘Al, I can’t believe it. Where? Teaching? How come there’s a flat? I don’t understand.’

  ‘OK, OK, well, I haven’t only been applying for teaching jobs. There’s nothing around now, term has started and there are loads of good teachers without jobs, we both know that. I didn’t want to tell you, because I wasn’t sure if it would come to anything and I didn’t want to get your hopes up. But my dear May, my merry May, I got out my special skill, my superpower, and it’s going to save us.’

  May wondered for a split second whether Alain had been drinking. She didn’t know what he was talking about. They were both teachers, newly qualified, in fact they’d met in college only nine months ago. He’d never mentioned applying for other jobs or having a special skill and May realised again how little they knew about each other, how quickly everything had happened.

  ‘You don’t know,’ said Alain, clapping his hand to his head in a pantomime gesture. ‘Perhaps I never told you about my superpower. You’re going to be so surprised.’

  Alain rubbed his hands together. May waited.

  ‘I can speak Welsh, that’s my hidden talent, my special thing. I can’t believe I didn’t tell you before, but I guess I didn’t?’

  ‘Really?’ said May. ‘Proper Welsh? But you come from Sevenoaks, we went to see your nan there.’

  May was surprised. Surely it would have come up before, a whole language? She wanted to believe him, but it seemed so strange. They had talked about languages, and swapped stories of German and French exchange visits, and he had never mentioned this hidden talent.

  ‘So the lady isn’t buying it. Have I ever lied to you? So disbelieving for one so young. Well, maybe not so young, but…’

  May felt unreasonably upset. She hated any mention of her age, absolutely hated it, and now she felt stupid as well. Of course it was true that he spoke Welsh, why would he lie to her?

  ‘Oh May, I didn’t mean to upset you, I was just joshing, come here.’ Alain sat down at the kitchen table and pulled May on to his knee.

  She wished that she wasn’t so emotional, so girly, so weak. She hadn’t been like this before she got pregnant, she was sure she had been tougher. Why couldn’t she just ask him why he had hidden it from her?

  ‘Oh lovely girl,’ Alain said, followed by something in a lilting language that May presumed must be Welsh. ‘See, I can still do it! I was at university in Wales, you know that, a little college in Lampeter, and Welsh was on offer to all the students there. There weren’t many English students, in fact hardly any, I don’t know quite how I ended up there but I did and I took the Welsh option and I loved it. And now I’ve got a job from it and it’s such a good start for us. It’s with the Welsh Film Board. I bet you never even knew there was such a thing, did you? Go on, admit it. But there is, and I’m going to be one of their translators. They have a small team, you see, who translate the major new releases into Welsh. They either oversee the dubbing process, or they write subtitles. It’s a dream of a job and that’s not even the best bit.’

  Alain turned to May. She could see the excitement shining in his eyes.

  ‘What is the best bit?’ May asked. It must be a pregnancy thing, she thought, some altered reality thing that made her feel as though she was playing along, as if none of it was true.

  ‘I’m glad you asked that,’ Alain said, ‘very glad indeed. It’s as though you could read my mind, thank you, missus, lady with the lump, you’re a picture of beauty even when you’re stirring the mince. I’ll tell you, seeing as you asked so very nicely. There’s a flat with it, that’s the best thing. Look, I’ve got all the details here.’

  Alain reached into the bag by his side and pulled out a sheaf of papers and photographs. May stood up, conscious of how heavy she must feel on his lap. He handed her the papers and May gasped. The pictures were amazing. May could see a large house with a long driveway set amongst trees. She had been so worried about where they would live when the baby was born. The panic she felt had increased with every week of her pregnancy, until it was there all the time like a malevolent parrot attached to her shoulder. May felt the weight of it lessen.

  ‘That’s it, merry May, that’s the Welsh Film Board house. And our flat is inside, imagine! There’s a Land Rover that everyone can use to get to the end of the driveway, and from there it’s only a few minutes into Bangor, it will be such a great place for the baby to grow up, May, imagine.’

  Wales. May had spent a seaside holiday in Wales once, in a caravan. She had always wanted to go back. Just the word conjured up pictures of sunny beaches and picturesque hills. Compared to Hull, it sounded like paradise. She looked again at the trees and the big, friendly-looking house.

  ‘Will it matter,’ she said, ‘that I don’t speak Welsh? I mean, if everyone else does.’ May trailed off, painfully aware of how boring she must sound. She wasn’t good at languages, Alain knew that.

  �
��I’ll learn, of course,’ she said, trying to sound more together, less pathetic, ‘I’ll pick it up, I’m sure.’

  ‘Oh darling, you will, you will, and we can bring the baby up to be bilingual, maybe call her Myfanwy or Glendower.’

  That’s going a bit far, thought May, I’m not sure about that at all. She would have liked to say something about the names they had already chosen, but Alain was so excited and really, he was right, it was a great opportunity. A flat in a big house, with trees and grounds and space for the baby, no housemates. May could hardly eat for excitement. It was going to be OK.

  Later that evening, after Mastermind, May snuggled up to Alain on the rickety sofa. He was knitting, following a pattern he’d made himself.

  ‘I love you because you knit, do you know that?’ she said. It was true. May adored the fact that he knitted, loved the way his mouth pursed as he was tackling a difficult part of a pattern. The little creatures Alain had knitted for the baby marched across the mantelpiece in a line. There was Pooh, Christopher Robin, Eeyore, Tigger, four hedgehogs and a family of dogs with sticking up ears.

  ‘The baby will love them, and I love them,’ she said. ‘Tell me a story.’

  ‘Ah, well, Eeyore, there, he loves babies. Not to eat, you understand, he loves to wash them and feed them and generally look after them. It’s his thing, his private passion.’

  ‘Like speaking Welsh,’ May said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alain, ‘exactly like that. Only more difficult to follow through, because at least a person can speak Welsh in their head, or to a wall or a dog. But looking after babies, well, you need a baby for that. Eeyore tried to get his hands on one, but no one would trust him. “You’re too damn miserable,” they said, “it’ll rub off on the baby.” One of his friends, I think it was Tigger, bought him a doll, a little woolly baby he could practise on. Do you think that worked?’

  ‘No,’ said May, ‘I think Eeyore would have wanted the real thing.’

  ‘Spot on,’ said Alain. ‘You couldn’t pull the wool over Eeyore’s eyes, if you’ll pardon the pun. He was so sad. All the creatures with babies kept away from him; they still saw him on adult occasions, obviously, nights out, that kind of thing, but at home he was alone, and he longed for a baby and a family of his own.’