Stranger Still

by Marilyn Messik

  Now Joy shrugged apologetically, and reached out a couple of fingers to pat Kat’s head. “Sorry, sorry, but...” she stopped, embarrassed.

  “What?” said Brenda.

  “It’s just... well, Trevor’s said sometimes when I get home, I sometimes smell... you know... a bit doggy.” Katerina tossed her head, turned her back and settled down to a bit of intimate grooming which broke any tension in the air. Brenda and Hilary were uneasy; I was appalled.

  What Brenda and Hilary couldn’t know was a short shower, in Trevor’s opinion, wasn’t sufficient to deal with this sort of olfactory issue. At least twenty full minutes were necessary. He’d pointed out, with affection and a cute wrinkle of his nose, that sometimes the individual concerned was the last to notice a shortfall in personal hygiene. He’d bought Joy a timer she could set. Her overriding emotion, emerging from the shower flushed with embarrassment, hot water and the rough loofah Trevor favoured, was guilt. Guilt she hadn’t known there was a problem, guilt that Trevor had put up with it for so long without mentioning, and huge gratitude that he finally had. He’d put it off because he hated to upset her and often now, when she emerged, wrapped her tenderly in one of their big bath towels and reassured her again that you get so used to smells on yourself, you simply don’t notice them the way other people do.

  “Well, can’t stand here gossiping, all day can we?” Brenda was picking up her hastily discarded coat and bag, “Come on. All the upstairs lot - upstairs.” And the brief awkwardness was covered up, smoothed over, an ugly little spot covered by concealer, although concealer never really works, does it? As we went upstairs, I glanced back at Joy - pale lipstick, Alice-banded, no-longer-bright-blonde hair, high collared blouse, mid-calf Sandra Dee flared skirt. She looked lovely; she just didn’t look like Joy.

  But she was happy. I couldn’t get round that fact. She was only feeling anxious this morning because she’d thought she was late. She’d never had a job she enjoyed more than this one. She loved the camaraderie in the office and she took pride in her own efficiency, although work, as Trevor was always pointing out, was only a small part of her life now, certainly not the most important part and she could stop whenever she wanted. She didn’t want to but it was rather wonderful to know how much he cared. Never in her life had she felt so special, so happy, so cared for, so lucky.

  As our upstairs office door shut behind us, Brenda turned to me, “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “Something’s not right, can’t you see?”

  “She’s happy Brenda, she’s madly in love with him, I know she’s changed and we may not like those changes, but it’s not really our business is it, as long as she’s happy.

  “Well I don’t know how you can be so sure.” she snapped back in a very unlike Brenda way. I couldn’t of course answer that truthfully and I couldn’t ignore what she was saying, but neither could I deny what Joy was feeling. It was all a bit Catch 22, on top of which it seemed I was pregnant. Some days just don’t go the way you expect them to.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I had consulted my Mother far more than I’d expected to on the surprisingly complicated business of running a house, planning meals and dealing with a quantity of washing that I refused to believe was generated by just two people. It wasn’t just the cooking which, to be honest, was all still a bit of a mystery to me, but the forward thinking and shopping. On top of that were such puzzles as Evelyn Rose laying down one cooking temperature, when the ladies of Way to a Man’s Heart dictated a different one altogether. Now however, I needed input of a different nature and considering my Mother had spent years dealing with Agony Aunt questions, freelancing efficiently and sometimes concurrently for Woman, Woman’s Realm and Woman’s Mirror, she seemed the obvious place to start.

  She listened to what I had to say with no surprise. Yes, she was watching Joy too; Hilary and Brenda had spoken to her. She told me what she’d told them - it was a familiar story.

  “Shouldn’t I do something?” I said, “It’s…” I paused for thought, “It’s like he’s erasing her, rubbing her out little by little.”

  “But you know she’s happy?” There was no need to dissemble here; we both knew how I knew.

  “Never been happier.”

  “Well there’s your answer then.” My mother was pragmatic, although beyond that I saw levels of frustration and anger accumulated over many years, over similar issues. “Listen to me, sweetheart, there’s nothing, nothing you can do. The marriage may last and work and work well, because that’s what she chooses. Or there may come a time when she stops being happy - next month, next year, twenty years from now, but it’s her choice. You have no rights here.”

  “But...”

  “No buts. If Joy came to me and wanted my opinion, I’d tell her what concerns me but until such time you, me, Hilary, Brenda, all of us can scream blue murder, it won’t make any difference.” That conversation didn’t make me feel better, but as long as Joy was happy, I was helpless. The only comfort was that I had her under my eye almost daily, I would know the minute that changed.

  * * * *

  I had heard they were developing something in America that could be used to confirm a pregnancy in your own home, but over here we were still reliant on the GP. We hadn’t yet joined a new practice, so I took myself back to Hendon to Dr Woodside, who was getting on a bit but was at least familiar. He wasn’t exactly a ray of sunshine, probably because he was totally unsuited to do what he did, his dislike of touching people having grown with the years; there wasn’t a day that passed he didn’t curse himself for not going into psychiatry. He preferred to hear about symptoms as opposed to actually having to look at anything, but he’d become a little hard of hearing. This meant that those in the waiting room often became rather more familiar with your intimate issues than was comfortable for anyone.

  I gave him facts, dates and a sample, but he said he probably ought to check; neither of us was keen but it seemed needs must. Yes, he said, probably coming up for three months but he’d send the sample just for certainty. I should book into the hospital for a first visit, and then see the midwife monthly here at the surgery. Early days though, he said, lot of things could and often did go wrong but try not to worry. I exited the surgery to a lot of congratulatory smiles and nods from those nearest the Doctor’s door and decided that as a lot of Hendon now knew, I probably ought to share with those more closely involved.

  David hadn’t been able to come with me, he’d been commissioned by the Telegraph to do a series of articles for a science section they were running on genetics, one of the innovators was over here from Switzerland and there was a press conference that couldn’t be missed, but in fact he got home before I did. I was pleased, because for no apparent reason I’d been crying all the way back.

  “Are you nervous?” I asked once the news had been imparted and we’d both calmed down slightly.

  “About?”

  “The baby.”

  “Why?”

  “It might take after me?” He paused; the thought obviously hadn’t occurred to him, then he shrugged and hugged me.

  “Nobody else in your family is like you. No reason to think the baby will be.”

  “And if it is?” I said.

  He grinned. “We’ll have our hands full, won’t we?” Which made me cry some more. I could only hope I wasn’t going to be this soggy for the duration.

  * * * *

  My parents and sister were as excited as might have been expected, although unfortunately, our visit coincided with Dawn being collected for a date with a nice boy who, caught up by default in the kissing, crying and congratulations, developed a look of incipient panic and after that evening was never seen again.

  “Can you feel anything?” my Mother asked.

  “Don’t be silly,” said my Father, suddenly an expert on all things ante-natal, “Far too early.”

  “No, I mean feel anything?” and she made the gesture she used to indicate oddities – a bit si
milar to the Queen’s circular wave. I shook my head; I was in no way sure whether I did or didn’t want to ‘feel’ anything.

  The news went down less well at the in-laws, which might have had something to do with David saying, “Hello Granny,” when his mother opened the door. Melvyn kept saying he couldn’t believe it, just couldn’t believe it, which seemed silly as presumably he knew how this sort of thing happened, but he grabbed me for a bear hug, then touched my cheek gently – I just wished he’d put down the cigarette.

  My Mother-in-Law rallied bravely, said she couldn’t believe it either but kissed us, said she’d do anything and everything she could to help, all the while thinking, she wasn’t ready for this, and in the general kerfuffle I forgot myself completely and replied I wasn’t either, but I don’t think anybody noticed.

  After the initial excitement, things settled down as they usually do and I duly booked in for my first hospital visit, on my own, because David was seeing an eccentric geneticist who could only be interviewed on a Tuesday because he didn’t speak to people the rest of the week.

  “You mean journalists?”

  David shook his head, “No, anyone; his family, his team at the University, no-one.”

  “So how…?”

  “Notes. He passes them notes. Apparently, feels he can say all he wants on a Tuesday, and not wasting energy on vocalising means more productivity the rest of the time. Thing is, what he’s working on, is so out there, people are prepared to put up with whatever he wants to do. Getting him to agree to see me hasn’t been easy.” I assured him I didn’t mind, this first visit was only going to be lots of form filling, blood tests and passing out – I’m not good with needles. I’d probably be unconscious a lot of the time so he really shouldn’t worry.

  I didn’t immediately take to the midwife I saw. I wanted her to be warm and friendly, instead she was cool and business-like and kept calling me Mum. I told her, before she took my blood that I usually fainted, and she said ‘well, she was sure I wouldn’t this time’ and then took the fact that I did as a personal insult. As she hauled me off the floor and propped me back up in the chair, she told me we were running over time and I must remember other Mums needed seeing. I was suitably chastened whilst at the same time quite perky with relief at the blood test being out of the way.

  She felt my tummy then listened through a Pinard horn which put us uncomfortably close for a while. Baby, she said, was good size for dates – strong heartbeat, all was well. I believed her, but couldn’t help double checking and was reassured to see there was no dreadful truth she was hiding. I also saw she felt she’d drawn the short straw this particular morning. She was tired, her feet ached, and her back too after a late night with a patient on the ward a good few hours after her shift had ended. She’d overslept this morning so hadn’t had breakfast and to top it all, here she was having to handle a fainter.

  I was instantly ashamed, and when she handed me my pregnancy booklet - to keep on me at all times mind; I thanked her sincerely, apologised for passing out, said I was grateful for the way she’d put me at my ease. She initially thought I was taking the mickey, then realised I wasn’t and patted my hand. Mum, she said, should just stop worrying, we didn’t want a stressed baby did we. I agreed we certainly didn’t and we parted on good terms.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  There was an incident that made some of the papers around that time, it wasn’t huge news and probably only gained column space because it was a good filler and allowed some amusing copy lines. The Eagle has Landed was showing on a Saturday night to a sold-out cinema in Finchley, and whilst Michael Caine and Donald Sutherland were doing their stuff onscreen, a rat joined the audience.

  It was apparently minding its own business, making its way along a row in the middle of the auditorium, and had gone completely unnoticed in the dark until it was brought to general attention by a woman whose foot it happened to climb over. She looked down, leapt up, tried to climb onto the back of her now upended seat and screamed. A lot.

  A few people in the immediate vicinity started looking around to see if they could relocate seats, making a phlegmatic British assumption that she was drunk, drugged or a bit funny in the head, and a cinema official would be along shortly to deal with her. Her companion, an older woman, was struggling to pull her down, hush her up and understand what had happened; when she did, she started shrieking too. She was a little more coherent. “Rat,” she hollered, “bloody great rat!”

  At this point, a lot of people took the decision that maybe the rest of the film wasn’t worth hanging around for, especially as the message, as messages often do, had mutated to “Rats!” A surge of highly motivated humanity made for exit doors which were never designed for everyone to try and get through at once. Panic feeds panic and there were a lot of minor injuries as well as one broken leg, a fractured wrist and two asthma attacks.

  A specialist pest control company were rushed in to do what they were good at, although by then any self-respecting rat would have been as panicked as everybody else and long gone. Traps were laid, poison spread, the whole building checked from top to bottom and lots of ticket money refunded. The theory was it must have come in through one of the service doors backing on to the bins, probably left that way too, sensibly avoiding the stampede for the main doors. The story hung around for a day or two, people shivered in empathy, rats in the dark not being anyone’s idea of a good night out. There were lots of James Cagney jokes and then it all died down and everyone –apart from those who’d been there – forgot about it.

  A month or so later, at Her Majesty’s, Godspell was in full noisy flow, and a minor disruption at the back of the auditorium didn’t immediately register until the panic ripple widened. As large sections of the audience started jumping up, brushing themselves down, shaking their heads, yelling, stamping and wriggling it became evident that something was ‘not right’. By the time the curtain was hurriedly brought down and lights equally swiftly put up, order had been abandoned. There were injuries again, some minor, several more serious. The theatre manager swore blind, every kind of safety procedure was in place for evacuation, all the staff knew what to do to get people out safely, but - and here he shrugged while furry-monster mics shoved him in the chin and cameras jostled in his face – people had panicked unnecessarily. He was right, the majority of the audience had arrived breathless and frightened on the pavement, with not the faintest idea why they were there.

  Apparently, it was ants. Not your everyday ants – although even those wouldn’t have gone down well, but according to one witness ‘socking enormous, bloody great things, size of my fist.’ And whilst there might have been a certain amount of exaggeration, there did seem to be a consensus from all who’d actually seen, or shaken some off, they were ants – but not as we know them.

  The theatre and surrounding area was blocked off and Environmental Health alarming in full decontamination gear, moved in. Reassuring statements were put out and several entomologists got more exposure in a few days than they’d dreamt of in a lifetime. They said it was simply a swarming, earlier than usual because of unseasonably warm weather. Earlier and longer breeding periods meant increased numbers and insects larger than the norm. However no-one, not Environmental Health nor insect experts were prepared to be pinned down precisely, because by the time they’d got in, the insects had got out and the question of how they were there in the first place was also left open to speculation and further joyous copywriting opportunity was seized, with lots of different riffs on ‘antybodies’. It was odd though that so many insects, causing so much disturbance to so many people, could disappear so completely. Surely, it was argued, there should have been at least a few squashed ex-ants left for the experts to examine.

  The mass panics had been distressing for me because something that strong can’t be shut out altogether, and I’d had a stonking headache on both occasions, but there seemed little point in contacting Boris, I had nothing helpful to tell him. My headaches, of cours
e, were nothing compared to those of cinemas and theatres all over London, who suffered a hit in the pocket. They rallied manfully - ticket prices were slashed, free refreshments thrown in for good measure and human nature being what it is, those who hadn’t actually had the fright of their lives, muttered about storms in teacups, mountains out of molehills and lightening not striking twice and within a short time, things returned to normal.

  As it transpired, fans of stage and screen were correct to be unconcerned because the next time there was a huge panic - you’ll remember this one - was at Madame Tussauds, packed to the gunnels with tourists, families and school outings.

  It started, aptly enough in the Chamber of Horrors, and because there were the usual patient queues around the block waiting to get in, when people started flooding out screaming, those waiting outside panicked too. It was only a few months back, in January, that the IRA had triggered thirteen bombs in Oxford Street, setting fire to Selfridges, and a scant three years before that there’d been the explosion in Madame Tussauds itself. Amidst the panic and confusion, parents were separated from children, teachers from students and tour leaders from tours. The emergency services turned out mob-handed and a major part of the West End went into lockdown. There were quite a lot of people hurt that time, mainly crush injuries, and tragically, two deaths; a terrified Japanese couple fleeing from they knew not what, knocked down and killed by a taxi.

  It was assumed the bomb or bombs had been made safe, there was no explosion, but the security services clamped down on the press and there was pretty nearly a complete news blackout. I called Boris.