Hello, My Name is May

by Rosalind Stopps

  ‘Alain,’ she said. ‘Alain, listen to her. It doesn’t have to be like this. Give me the key and I’ll go and get her and we can talk.’

  Alain stared at May as if he had no idea what she was saying. He didn’t move at all. I could get the key, May thought, I could just reach in there and pick it out. It seemed so terrifying to act in any way that she stood still too. They faced each other and stared and May suddenly thought, one of us is going to die here. She might have been right too, she thought afterwards, but the doorbell rang. The sound seemed to wake Alain up from some kind of sleepwalking, some kind of trance and he limped off to open the door, throwing May the key to the little bedroom first.

  It was Joan, their neighbour at the door. May could hear her cheery, normal-sounding voice. She unlocked the bedroom door with shaking hands and grabbed Jenny out of her cot. May held her tight.

  ‘One day,’ she whispered into Jenny’s tiny ear as her sobs gave way to baby sniffles, ‘one day I’ll explain all this to you, I promise.’

  Joan’s voice sounded like a blast of normality from a world May didn’t belong to any more, and it made her want to cry.

  ‘Hi,’ Joan said. ‘I saw that you’d been in the wars and brought some scones I made, they’re still warm.’

  There was an awkward silence as Alain stared at her, saying nothing. May pushed through, holding a sniffing Jenny.

  ‘Hi,’ Joan said. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘I’ve got things to do,’ Alain said.

  He hobbled back into the living room.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ May said, ‘he doesn’t mean to be rude.’

  ‘Are you OK?’ Joan asked again and May realised that she must have heard something, that the scones were a front. Tell her, she thought, walk right out of the door and go with her, make sure you and Jenny are safe. She couldn’t speak. He’ll be OK now, she thought, the dangerous part was over. May stood as if rooted to the spot, staring at Joan.

  ‘Really,’ said Joan, ‘are you alright? You don’t look well. Can I help?’

  Alain appeared in the doorway.

  ‘We’re fine,’ Alain said. ‘Thank you for the scones.’

  He pushed past the two women and left the flat.

  ‘Don’t wait up for me,’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘Can I come in?’ Joan said in the kindest voice May had heard for ages.

  They went into the living room and sat down. May’s brain was spinning. She was grateful to Joan for saving the day, but so embarrassed that she had seen a glimpse of the life May was living. May looked at her. Joan was wearing faded jeans that fitted her perfectly and a striped skinny rib jumper. No milk stains, no rude and dangerous husband in tow. How could May explain? Where were her words when she wanted them?

  Come on, May thought, tell her. Let her help you. She wants to, you can see that, she wants to and she’s right there, waiting. Just say something.

  ‘Erm,’ said May, ‘things aren’t going very well.’

  ‘I’m listening,’ Joan said, ‘go on.’

  May was deciding how best to explain things when she caught sight of something moving outside the window. Joan was facing into the room so she couldn’t see, but from where May was standing she could see Alain. The flat was on the ground floor, and the front room window faced the street. He stood to the side of the window, and he was shaking his head. As May looked at him Alain shook his head slowly, and mimed zipping his mouth shut. He pointed at Joan, and put two fingers to the side of his head like a pretend gun. He then knocked on the window and waved to May and Joan, in full vision now and blowing kisses.

  ‘It’s nothing,’ May said. ‘Just hormones I guess. I’m pregnant, so it’s all a bit, you know, but I’m fine.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Joan said. ‘Only I’m not being nosy or anything but if I can do anything, I’m just here.’

  May felt furious with Alain. This woman was nice, kind, and she was a neighbour. She could have been a friend, just a normal, ordinary friend like other people had. Instead, May knew that she couldn’t confide in her, couldn’t be friendly. It would inflame the situation even more, possibly putting Joan at risk as well. She felt so ashamed. Alain’s pantomime outside the window had been very clear. It was not a risk May felt she could take. However well-intentioned Joan was, however much May wanted to tell her, she absolutely couldn’t, that was clear.

  ‘It’s OK, honest,’ May said. ‘No problem.’

  May could see that Joan didn’t believe her. She was not surprised. This has absolutely got to stop, she thought, I cannot go on like this.

  As soon as Joan left May strapped Jenny into her buggy and went off to buy a ticket to Hull.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  May 2018

  Lewisham

  I know I shouldn’t like Tuesdays but I do, I can’t help it. Tuesday is craft day, and the Do Good Lady comes to my room to play at helping the sick and giving hope to the hopeless.

  I wouldn’t talk to her the first few times. I just lay there and stared at the wall or the ceiling but she kept on chatting to me as if I was joining in. I’ll say one thing for her, she’s got some stamina. She talked to me about all sorts of things, politics, stuff in the news, the lot. It’s put her in an odd position really, I know all about her family and her opinions and everything but she doesn’t know anything about me, only what they’ve told her here. Obstinate old woman, they probably said, not a lot going on up top.

  I feel sorry for her. I sat in my chair and watched what she was doing and one thing I liked about her, she wasn’t condescending. She didn’t talk to me like I was a mad old woman, even when I acted like one.

  It’s nice being here with you, she said last week, kind of restful. I’ve got some stuff to make cards if you’d like, or if you don’t fancy it, I’ll just sit here and knit.

  Look, she said and she held up her needles with a nearly finished stripy sock on them, look I’m making some socks, I thought they’d be difficult with the heel and everything but it’s quite easy, as long as you remember to count. No good getting distracted.

  I indicated with my hand that I was fine with her knitting her sock and we sat like that for an hour or two. It was quite pleasant. I’ve always liked watching people knit. She told me about her eldest boy, and how he has a problem with the drugs they sell these days, even though he’s a clever boy and could easily go to university. He’s jealous of his sister, though, a sister two years younger than him who can’t help being good at everything. She dances, and sings, plays the cello, and gets top grades for everything. You’d think that would be a good thing but my Do Good Lady, she says each new award her daughter wins or exam she passes just makes her think of Patrick, the brother. They’re one of those annoying families who think it’s cute to share the same initial so my lady is called Penny and her children are Patrick and Poppy. I have not asked what her husband is called because I don’t care, although I would be interested to know if she has one or not.

  So today I’m up and ready for her when she comes. I’ve written a sentence for her on my pad, I did it yesterday when I was feeling strong.

  Some people complete their education later, it says, it can work better that way. It took me ages to write because yesterday was not a good day, and it’s shaky. I hope she can read it. It isn’t everything I want to say but it’s a start. I wait when she comes in, wait while she takes off her raincoat and dries her hair with one of the paper towels from the bathroom.

  It’s raining cats and dogs, she says, isn’t that the oddest thing, when we say that. She looks at me so I nod, but I’m thinking that actually there are much odder things that we say.

  Wouldn’t it be lovely if it was true, she says, if lovely fluffy puppies and kittens were falling from the sky, and all you had to do was catch them. Of course, she says, there would have to be soft stuff down everywhere to break their fall, mattresses and that bouncy flooring they have in playgrounds these days.

  I can see she needs to chat a little, get
something out of her system so I nod and try to look sympathetic.

  But more importantly, she says, never mind me going on about puppies and kittens, more importantly how are you. Have you had a good week?

  I make a hand movement that’s supposed to mean, so-so, and she laughs.

  I guess that’s pretty good for being stuck in here, she says, I wouldn’t like it, I’m sure.

  It’s weird but when she says that I start to feel protective of the damn place, the damn gravy boat, I feel like maybe it’s OK for the inmates to say how crap it is but not for outsiders who just come by when they feel like it. I’m not having that. I turn to another page in my jotter and write, it’s OK, but when she takes it to see what I’ve written she sees the page before, where I wrote about it being fine to complete education later.

  Oh, she says, and her eyes are all watery, oh did you mean that for me, about Patrick, that’s so kind of you. And you’re right, of course you are, except he’s gone missing now, he’s been away for a week, the police aren’t interested because he’s been in touch, told me he’s OK. Lots of young people like to challenge their parents, the police said, he’ll be back when he’s ready. I’m sure they’re right, of course they are, but I worry, I can’t help it.

  I nod like mad, show her I’m listening. I can’t do much else. I never had any problems with Jenny, she was a good girl but I can imagine how hard it is if they go off the rails. I think Alain had a stormy adolescence but then again I never knew whether anything he said was true.

  We had a row, she says, still crying into her knitting. It’s another stripy sock, only in sombre colours this time to match her mood. He was smoking in the house and I asked him not to because of Poppy, she gets asthma. Only I didn’t say that because it would drive him mad, I said that I couldn’t bear the smell in the house.

  That’s reasonable, I think, smoke in the house is dreadful. I make a whatever gesture with my hand and Penny picks up what I mean.

  That’s the thing, she says, and she looks really agitated, he caught me once, having a sneaky fag on the garden step, I couldn’t go right out because it was raining. This was quite a few years ago, he was about eleven.

  I’m sorry, I said to him, I thought you were upstairs. Do you know what he said to me then? He said, it’s OK Mum, it doesn’t bother me at all. Such a lovely lad, he was.

  Oh dear, I think, the two things are not at all the same. I reach for my pad but my good hand isn’t behaving itself at all well today and I can’t manage. I want to write something like, don’t beat yourself up, something like that but I have to settle for a small squeeze of her hand instead.

  Oh listen to me, I’m a silly woman, she says, he’ll be fine, much worse things happen, look at you not complaining that you’re stuck in here.

  She lowers her voice when she says ‘stuck in here’ and looks towards the door and then smiles at me and it feels like a little club, just the two of us. I wonder if I can tell her what’s bugging me. I’ve got a wish to talk to someone, share things, and it’s so strong it’s making me feel crazy. It’s making me feel homesick, that’s how strong my desire to share my troubles is. I’m not sure where I’m homesick for, certainly not that lonely little house I’ve been living in, or the poky flat in Pimlico or even my childhood home. Homesick for a feeling, that’s more like it, the feeling of talking to someone, someone who cares, and being listened to.

  You want to tell me something, don’t you, Penny says. Let me hold the pad steady.

  I appreciate that. It’s nice of her. Even if it doesn’t work it’s nice that she is trying.

  Let’s see if it makes it easier if I hold it steady and keep your bad arm out of the way, like this, she says.

  She pushes her chair as near to mine as she can get, and leans across me so that she can anchor the pad.

  Go on, she says, give it a try now.

  I can smell her shampoo and it smells like pot pourri. The stuff I used to put in little dishes at Christmas. I used to use shampoo that smelled like green apples, I think, and the thought makes me sad. I get the pen in my hand in the right position and I think I’m going to write about Penny’s lad, how she shouldn’t beat herself up. Or about her shampoo smelling nice. And then I think of it, just like that. I could tell her. I could tell her about Bill, and then it would be someone else’s responsibility.

  I’m worried about the man in the room opposite, I could write, I think he may be my ex-husband and I’m scared of him.

  Oh, she might say, let me help you with that. I want to do it so much that I even make myself write, I’m, to start it off and then I think, nice one May. Not only would he know I was onto him but also there’s a fighting chance that I’d end up in a real loony bin instead of this bloody gravy boat. I’m tired, I write. I drop the pen and slump back a little.

  OK, says Penny, are you sure that’s all? Only I thought, for a moment.

  I nod like crazy but I don’t think she’s completely fooled.

  Anything that’s worrying you, she says I hope you know you can tell me. For a moment I think I’m going to cry. She sounds like my Helen, that’s the thing. A kind person and we know what happens to them.

  I grab the pen back and write, what do you come here for. I feel sorry then, I never meant to be mean to her so I make big lines through what I’ve written. Big lines that scratch and tear the paper, until my writing underneath can hardly be seen.

  It’s OK May, Penny says, it’s OK you don’t need to do that. Look, I’ll do it for you. She takes the pad and tears off the top sheet, the one I had been trying to cover up and she tears it into little pieces.

  There, she says, all done.

  I open out my palm in a gesture that is supposed to show her that I feel desperately lonely, that I don’t know what to do, and I think she gets it.

  I can tell there’s something wrong, May, and if you ever want to tell me, that’s great, but if not, I promise I’ll keep an eye out for you, when I can.

  I can’t look her in the eye, I just can’t, so I stare at my stupid hands. I need more than that, I think, in fact I need a miracle.

  Shall we make some cards, she says, I’ve brought my crafty bag, look.

  She empties her bag all over my bed and there’s card and little cut out shapes and glitter and all the things that would thrill a small child. I want to shout at her, tell her that I’ve got serious worries and all she can do is show me this nonsense but I look at her face as she’s laying things out.

  You bitch, May, I think, you absolute bitch. What do you expect her to bring, a crochet hook? She doesn’t know, she can’t know that I was handy once, even the word makes me laugh now but I was. I learned to sew and make things and every time there was a fancy dress parade at school Jenny had the best costume. I manage to meet her eye and I give a thumbs up. It’ll be worth it for the chat, I think, and it will take my mind off Bill.

  As if I’d conjured it up by thinking about him, there’s a knock on the door. Jackie’s head pokes round first and she says, hi Penny, hi May, can we come and join the party?

  I don’t know, says Penny, looking worried, it’s May’s room.

  I’m pleased to see Jackie so I gesture for her to come in and then I realise Trevor is with her and my old heart is glad. I attempt a smile.

  Very crafty, me, says Trevor, I once made seventeen feather boas for a pride parade in London.

  Wow, says Penny, they’re difficult to do, getting all the feathers attached. Trevor looks as pleased as punch.

  Just call me nimble fingers, he says and he’s off to get chairs for everyone. I like the feeling of togetherness as my room fills up. Jackie and Trevor are rifling through the contents of Penny’s bag and exclaiming over the pretty colours like small children. I can’t quite join in but I’m happy they’re there and Penny gives me a wink over their bent heads so it’s all OK.

  I know, says Trevor clapping his hands, let’s make a collage together, of how we’re feeling. I’ve got just the thing.

&n
bsp; He rushes out and comes back with a large piece of white cardboard.

  Don’t ask any questions, he says, it was legally obtained. I will do the sticking and everyone can take it in turns to choose a piece.

  May is at a disadvantage, says Penny.

  I’m so pleased that she has thought of me that my eyes tear up a little. I make a hand gesture that’s supposed to mean, you guys go on, I’ll just watch but none of them are happy with that. They’re so sweet, all of them, that they start gathering up bits and scraps and clearing off my tray so that they can put them on there for me to choose.

  You go first May, it’s your room, it’s only fair, says Jackie. She leans over and gives me a little kiss on the top of my miserable old head. How come I was on my own for so long, I want to say, I could have had friends like you coming round for tea, I could have made a cake.

  We’re here now, says Trevor as if he understands, go on, choose.

  They all look excited so I look down at the scraps on my tray. Glittery stuff, pretty red net, wiggly lines of binding, little pictures of dogs and chickens and cats. I shuffle it about a bit with my hand and there underneath is a piece of material, brushed cotton, pink flowers on a dark green background. I made a little dress in fabric just like that for Jenny when she was little, I remember it as clearly as if I’d just put my needle down. I sewed it by hand and halfway through something happened, but I can’t think about that now. I hold it up.

  That’s lovely, isn’t it, Penny says, I made a dress out of that, a maternity dress.

  I bet you lot would just shove it on anywhere, says Trevor, thank God I’m here.

  He scrunches it artfully into a corner of the cardboard and all of us are laughing like mad when there’s another knock on the door. I freeze and look at Penny but she’s still smiling and I feel safe until he puts his smarmy little head round. Bill. I suppose I should have known that if Jackie has fun, he’ll want to join right in. He was always like that, I think, killjoy.