Hello, My Name is May

by Rosalind Stopps

  ‘And that’s another thing,’ Alain said, ‘the job, it didn’t work out.’

  ‘The Welsh Film Board?’ said May. ‘Oh Al, I’m so sorry, you must be upset.’ She moved towards Alain, instinctively wanting to comfort him, reassure him that she still cared about him. Alain stepped back, held his arms out as if to ward May off.

  ‘No need to get maudlin,’ Alain said, ‘no point talking about it, these things happen. They lost their funding, that’s all there is to it. I’m back in the market for a teaching job and that’s that. I’m sure one will come up.’

  But what about the flat, May wanted to say, what about the money I paid for the hotel when we went to Bangor? They said they were going to refund it; will they still do that? And if not, how will we cope? She didn’t say anything. It wasn’t the right time. Alain’s face was set, he looked hard, like a person she hardly knew.

  ‘We’ll be OK, Al,’ she said. ‘We have each other, and the baby.’

  It was the best she could come up with, but as soon as May had said it she knew it was the wrong thing. Alain looked at her in a way that made her shiver. She put her hands on her stomach as if she needed to protect the baby.

  ‘Really?’ Al said. ‘You’re sure of that, are you?’

  May concentrated hard on trying not to cry. It’s just those pregnancy hormones making things seem worse, she thought, it’s all fine, just a little setback, that’s all. Everyone has moods. Count to ten, don’t say anything, keep your breathing even.

  May could feel the tension in the room uncoil. It’s getting better, she told herself, see, it was just a blip. Alain smiled and reached out to touch her arm.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, ‘don’t look so worried, it’s all OK, something else will come along. I didn’t mean to upset you.’

  May felt as though the world had righted itself again, as though a comet that had been hurtling towards her, hurtling towards them, had changed course at the last moment. Perhaps it was all in my imagination, she thought, I’m ridiculous.

  The students who shared their house came downstairs that evening. Alain usually liked to stay as far away from them as he could, but that evening he went out of his way to play the host. He cooked scrambled eggs for all of them and they sat together in the dining room.

  ‘Isn’t this lovely?’ Alain said, beaming round the table. ‘We should do this more often.’ He balanced the plates up his arms like a waiter and brought them to the table.

  ‘Ta da,’ he said. ‘Look at that, I’ve still got it.’ Alain did a little twirl and sang, ‘I did it my way.’

  May caught a look between the two students. They obviously found him funny. May felt protective of him, annoyed with them for being so immature. They didn’t like him, that much was obvious, and he had tried so hard, it wasn’t fair. What did they know? They were both practically still teenagers. Both with long hair parted in the middle, and both hardly able to keep their hands off each other for long enough to eat the meal Alain had prepared. May felt so angry with them that she forgot how much she hated scrambled eggs, forgot how the gloopiness usually made her heave. Alain must have forgotten that too, she thought, hardly surprising when he had so much to think about.

  May looked up from her plate and saw that the male student, Steve, was mimicking Alain’s expansive hand gestures. Ruth, the young woman, convulsed with laughter and covered her mouth with her hand to keep her food in. May looked at Alain and saw that this time there was no doubt that Alain had seen it. He looked crestfallen and May’s heart went out to him.

  ‘I’m feeling tired, Al,’ she said. ‘It’s been lovely, eating together, but maybe Steve and Ruth have got work they need to be getting on with. We don’t want to keep them.’

  ‘Ah, May is feeling tired,’ Alain said. ‘So we must all do as she says, eh, you two?’

  He winked at the students. They shuffled awkwardly, hilarity forgotten. They were clearly almost as embarrassed as May.

  ‘I only meant…’ she said before tailing off.

  ‘And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen,’ Alain said. ‘She only meant, and we her humble slaves can do nothing but obey.’

  He lit a cigarette, picked up May’s hand and kissed it.

  ‘Your servant, ma’am,’ he said, bending his knee to the floor with a dramatic flourish.

  Alain laughed as though he had made a great joke and the students stood up. May stood still, trying to resolve what had just happened. Was he mocking her? Surely not, surely that was her being insensitive again, not getting it. He meant well, he loved her.

  ‘Let us do the washing up before we go,’ Ruth said. ‘Come on, Steve, roll your sleeves up.’

  ‘No need, no need at all, it was our pleasure, wasn’t it, May?’ Alain said.

  May nodded, not trusting herself to speak. The students went upstairs, but later, when May came down to get some water, she bumped into Ruth on the stairs. Ruth had a strange expression on her face and for a moment, May couldn’t place it. She was back in bed and lying down before she realised what it was. Pity. She had seen the same expression on the faces of her mother’s friends at the funeral. Poor May, they had said to each other, thinking that she wasn’t listening. Poor May.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  November 2017

  Lewisham

  It’s not quite as bad here as I thought it would be.

  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not a holiday camp, not even a rubbish one like the place in Filey I took Jenny to once, but it’s not Holloway Prison either. I’ve been getting out of my room more, that’s what’s made the difference. Socialising with the other residents, they call it. Like in prison. I can’t actually talk to them, of course, they wouldn’t understand me. We’re in a different kind of prison here, I’d tell them if I could, imprisoned by our own bodies. They’ve ganged up on us, our bodies, and got their own back for all those years of abuse. That strikes me as very funny and I decide to practise saying it, in case I get a chance. Timing, that’s the key, if you’re going to make a joke you have to make it at the exact right time to get them laughing. I might have enjoyed being a comedian, only my life wasn’t very funny and anyway I didn’t think of it till recently. It’s a bit late now.

  We had a meeting the other day, all the residents in the dining hall. What a sorry looking lot. Missing legs, arms that wouldn’t move, bent spines, heads that couldn’t look up. If you scrapped us all for body parts you’d be hard put to make one decent whole one. Anyway, one of the carers, (‘call me Siobhan’, if you please. I would if I knew how to say it, I want to say), one of the carers says, we want to hear from you guys.

  Guys, I thought, aren’t we mostly gals? I don’t understand why the young ones aren’t protesting more about that. In my day it was ‘man’. Everyone said ‘man’, as if it meant woman as well, and we all said, don’t call me man, I’m a woman.

  She said, guys, we need to hear from you about what you want to do, recreation wise. Cocaine, I tried to say, that’s a recreational drug, but they can’t understand me, even on a good day, so I can say anything I damn well please.

  Knitting, one of them said, a knitting circle. That’s not much good for me, one of the old men said, last time I looked I had a pair, and he looked down at his lap. As if real men couldn’t knit. I get a picture then, little knitted animals lined up and it makes me feel tearful. How dare he say that. I can’t believe this is the level of ignorance I have to live with, I thought, me, me who could recite the opening chapter of Pride and Prejudice if only my mouth would work properly. Knitting, I’d say if I could, I’d like to learn to knit. I was always too clumsy, back then. Two left fists and neither of them fit for purpose, that’s what Alain said the time he tried to teach me.

  What about something that suits everyone, Siobhan says, what about bingo? She gets a bit of a cheer for that one, but there are groans as well and I’m happy to groan along with the best of them. Ooh, she says, that’s controversial, I like a bit of controversy. Bingo it is.

  What about
a letter writing circle for Amnesty International, I think, and I’d say it if I could. I wish I’d done more of that sort of thing in my life, made a difference for someone. I feel like I understand more about being locked up now that I’m in here. I wish someone would write a letter asking for my release. Free the Lewisham One, that’s what I’d write on my wall if I could.

  What about dancing, one of the young carers says, I’ve seen this research that says it’s good for, good for. She tails off, as if we’re going to be surprised at her calling us old people or people with brain injuries or whatever thing she was going to say. As if we didn’t know what we were.

  One of the old chaps gets up. He’s tiny and neatly dressed. He goes to the front, bows and starts twirling round, bending and swaying as if he’s at a Saturday night shindig. He stops after a while, he’s coughing too much to go on. He’s not bad actually, quite a sense of rhythm and we all clap when he’s finished and he bows. You can see that Siobhan is getting a little bit cross.

  Dancing, she says, well I’ll put that on my list.

  Pub quiz says someone else, a woman on the next table to me. That’s a bloody good idea, I think, that could be fun. It’s nearly Christmas, says someone else, let’s have a card making workshop. Let’s not and say we did, I think but Siobhan, she loves that idea. She actually claps so I guess it’s going to happen pretty soon. I suppose it will be worth sticking some glittery trees on some folded paper so that I can get out of that damned room. I can send a card to Jenny, maybe cheer her up a little.

  I’m thinking that the meeting is over, that someone will come and wheel me back, when one of the really old ones speaks up. Singing, she says, we could have a sing-song. She points at the piano over in the corner of the dining room. I hadn’t noticed it until then. Nearly everyone likes that suggestion. They’re all chatting away and I can hear a snatch or two of a tune. Everyone wants to say what their favourite is. Of course, most of them are much older than me. The Beatles, I want to say, Billie Holliday, Eric Clapton, Elvis Costello, what about some decent jazz. Leila, I think and the old riff plays in my head as if I have headphones. Da da dee dee da da da, la la la la la. ‘May You Never’, I want to say, my theme tune. But no one can understand me, so I keep quiet and listen to the sad old voices warbling about bluebirds and Dover or Tipperary. Surely we’re too young for that, I think, even the oldest of us?

  My my, Siobhan says, that’s got you all going, I can see that you would all love a sing-song. Only thing is, we need to find some songs you can all sing, ones we all have in common.

  Good luck with that, I’m thinking, but then this old one pipes up from the back. She’s got a loud voice, not usual in here where everyone is aquiver and speaking like they’re worried they might interrupt someone from dying. She sounds like a head teacher or a politician. What have we all got in common, she says, what’s a thing that we all learned at our mother’s knee? You have to be careful with that kind of language in a place like this, I’d like to tell her, a mention of the word ‘mother’ and the word ‘knee’ in one sentence and they’ll all go stark staring bonkers. They do too, there’s a dabbing of tissues at the corners of eyes, a sniffing and a sighing and a shuffling.

  I don’t know, says Siobhan, and she’s speaking for me too for once. What have we got in common, she asks.

  Nursery rhymes, says the loud old one, we all know our nursery rhymes and they’re very relaxing. I don’t know who for, I’d shout if I could. I wouldn’t care who heard, who got upset. It’s the worst idea I ever heard. I can’t think of any way to convey quite what a bad idea I think it is. Bloody nursery rhymes? As if we weren’t infantilised enough already, grown women and men – you wouldn’t believe it if you hadn’t seen it with your own two eyes. I’m expecting everyone to think like I do, to be horrified and shouting and telling the loud voiced one what she could do with her idea. I want them to rise up, to get some dignity in here but they’re nodding. They’re a bunch of those nodding head dogs from the back windows of cars, nod nod nod. What a good idea, I hear one of them say, and some old woman on my table starts humming baa baa black sheep. I try to arrange my hand so I can give her the finger but she doesn’t notice. I look up and catch the eye of a woman on the next table. She’s grinning, and she mimes a little clap, so I try a bow but it may have looked more like a lurch.

  I’ve noticed the woman on the next table before, and to be honest, I’ve been thinking that she looks like the most interesting one in here. It’s her hair, that’s the thing. She stands out in a sea of shampoo and set lookalikes. They’re all grey and white and tidy and short. I’m not knocking it, I am too but she’s different, this woman. She’s old, maybe around my age, maybe even older, it’s hard to tell, but she’s got dreadlocks that reach halfway down her back. She’s pretty too, pretty for an old one, and I wonder how on earth she’s ended up here. I’d say she had a look of my lovely Helen, same confidence in her own skin. There’s a spirited look I remember Helen having, that’s the other similarity. A let the world go hang itself look, a don’t bother me with your nonsense look. I can see it now on the woman at the next table. They’re both their own person, that’s the thing. Some days I still miss Helen. I smile over at the woman on the next table. I hope she comes over, I think, she’s not in a wheelchair, she must be able to walk. I hope she comes over at the end when it’s mingling time.

  There’s a bit more talk about knitting and playing cards but I’ve lost interest now. I’m thinking about the way she looked at me and smiled, as if we were the only two people in here who would understand what nonsense it all was. I try to look interested in it all, just in case she’s watching me. I try not to look at her but I can’t help sneaking a peek from time to time, I’m only human. She tilts her head in a way that makes me think of someone else but I can’t remember who.

  Just at the end, when it’s all being wrapped up and the carers have come forward to disperse us, take us to our various perches and give us a cup of something and a biscuit, they bring in another old chap. He’s in a wheelchair and he’s a bit slumped so I don’t recognise him at first but when I look again I realise that it’s the old man from the room across the corridor from mine. He’s changed. He looks like his head won’t stay up but there’s still something about him, I don’t know what, that gives me the absolute creeps. I’ve got a feeling that I’d like to go over there and slap him, which surprises me because I’m not often the slapping kind. Especially someone who looks so poorly. Bill couldn’t come to the meeting, his carer says, Bill’s been having his physio, what did we miss. She says it in that sarky way, you can tell she’s only saying it to get attention from the other staff. There’s a clucking of ladies, the ambulant ones, and one of them even gets up and goes to fiddle with Bill’s blanket.

  I don’t like the look of him, that’s the only way I can say it. Something wrong, something amiss, and I was enjoying myself, he’s one of those people who spoils things, I can tell that. I take my eyes off him, the poorly spoiler man, and look back at my new nearly friend on the next table. She looks at me, looks over at him and makes an, aww face, a shorthand face for, oh, look at him poor fellow. I make the face back, or a version of it anyway. One side of my face still doesn’t move, so I’m surprised that she can interpret it but she does, and when the meeting breaks up she comes over to me, not him.

  Hallo, hallo, she says, I haven’t seen you around much in here.

  I point in the direction of my room, to show her I mainly stayed there until recently and, strange as it sounds, I think she can understand me.

  I don’t blame you, she says, this lot would drive you to drink.

  We both laugh as if she had said something much funnier.

  Nursery rhymes, would you believe it, she says, and I want to jump out of my chair. It’s so exciting, having a conversation with someone new. If I could manage a word or two I’d be over the moon.

  She doesn’t seem to notice, she just trundles on as if it’s absolutely normal, talking to someon
e who jerks and points and doesn’t say anything recognisable. I suppose it is in here. I can tell she’s educated. She’s got a lovely way with words.

  I’m sure they’re not trying to diminish us, she says that, and something about no malice aforethought. I could listen to her all day but I don’t want her to think I’m one of those vegetables, not like the others. I work and work on my tongue and the shapes, that’s what the speech and language therapist told me, concentrate on the shapes before you open your mouth, feel what you’re going to say. I miss the last things she’s saying to me because I’m trying so hard and then it comes out, pops out like my mouth has turned into one of those guns that shoots little pieces of cork.

  Proust, I say, and I make a pantomime of reading and point to myself to show her that I’ve read Proust, I’m not like the others. I can see that she is nearly as surprised as I am.

  Well done, she says, that’s more than I have.

  I’m relieved at that, because it’s a lie, I actually never read Proust so I’m pleased that she won’t be trying to talk to me about the plot. It’s the kind of thing I would like to have done, that’s all. I used to say it when I was young as well, and it’s got me quite a lot of admiration, as well as dropping me into some sticky situations. I tune back in to what she’s saying.

  Poor chap, I hear her say, and she’s talking about the chap in the wheelchair who just came in.

  He was walking about only last week, she says, he’s had a nasty bout of pneumonia.

  I bet he’s faking, I want to say. It’s lucky I can’t. What kind of a heartless bitch would she think I am? Only I mean it, his kind, they lie and they cheat and they are crammed full of fakery. I can tell from his eyes. He’s looking over at us now and she’s preening a bit, my new friend. It would be fun, like being at a Saturday night dance with a mate, if it wasn’t him she was preening for. He looks bad, that’s all I know. He looks like the smell that hits you when you open a packet of chicken that’s way past its sell by date, sour and familiar.