by Rachel Joyce
It’s no use. His head swims. He doesn’t know if he is thinking about what she has said or Besley Hill or something else, something long ago. He says, ‘It was an accident. I forgive you. We must forgive.’
At least that is what he wants to say. The words glue to his mouth. They are only sounds that do not amount to proper language.
‘OK, Jim. It’s OK, darlin’. Let’s get you back.’
He hopes, he prays, she has understood.
11
Beverley’s Organ
‘I UNDERSTAND THE situation, Byron. But we must not panic. We must think in a logical way,’ said James in a breathless voice down the telephone. He had telephoned as soon as he read Byron’s letter. ‘We must list the facts and work out what to do.’
The facts were simple. Jeanie had not walked for five days; not since Lucy’s birthday trip to the beach. According to Beverley, she could not put any weight on her leg. At first Walt had tried to encourage her with sweets; Jeanie had cried. They had taken her to the hospital. Walt had begged the doctors to help. Beverley had shouted at the nursing staff. None of these things made any difference. There was no obvious sign of a wound and yet the child appeared to be lame. If Jeanie tried to stand, she either hit the ground or screamed. Now she refused point blank to move. She had a bandage wound all the way from her ankle to her upper thigh. She was refusing some days even to lift her hands and feed herself.
If Diana’s initial response was one of stupefaction, her second was one of frantic activity. On Monday morning she had bundled the children into the car. Parking outside the house, she had run into the garden with a bag of magazines and comics she had bought on the way. For the first time, it was Diana who looked the slighter and smaller of the two women. She had bitten her nails and paced while Beverley watched her with her arms folded. His mother suggested a man whose name she had in her notebook but when Beverley heard he was a psychologist she hit the roof. ‘Do we think we’re making this up?’ she yelled. ‘Do you think we’re nutters just because we live on Digby Road? What we need is proper help!’
Beverley had said it would be easier for her to move Jeanie around if she had wheels; her hands were a problem. Diana had rushed home and fetched Lucy’s old pushchair. Again the children had watched from the car as their mother showed how to clip the pushchair in place, all the while promising to drive Beverley wherever she needed. Beverley shrugged. People were very helpful when they saw you were dealing with a child’s injury. They helped you get on the bus and let you go first in queues at the shops. Her manner remained guarded.
Diana had spent the entire evening poring over medical books from the library. The following morning Beverley had telephoned with the news that the doctors had given Jeanie a buckled caliper.
Presented with all these facts, James replied in one sentence. ‘The situation is very serious.’
‘I know that,’ whispered Byron. He could hear his mother pacing upstairs, she couldn’t seem to keep still, and he had not asked her permission to use the telephone.
James gave an anguished sigh. ‘I just wish there was a way I could examine the new evidence for myself.’
For the rest of the week Jeanie sat on a blanket beneath the shade of the fruit trees at Cranham House. She had Lucy’s colouring books and her dolls and Byron could hardly look. Every time he needed to pass he took a longer route. Lucy had tied a handkerchief around her knee. She wanted her pushchair back, she said. She needed it. She even cried.
‘The thing is this, Diana,’ said Beverley from the terrace. ‘You ran into my daughter and then you drove off. You didn’t own up to what you had done for a whole month. And now my daughter is lame, you see. This is what we are dealing with.’ It was the first time Beverley had threatened Diana, and even so, it wasn’t said as such. She spoke softly, almost with embarrassment, fiddling with the buttons on her blouse, so that if anything it sounded like an apology. ‘We may have to get the police involved. Lawyers. You know.’
‘Lawyers?’ His mother’s voice was high-pitched.
‘I don’t mean this in a horrible way. You’re my best friend. I just mean I have to think. I have to be practical.’
‘Of course you do,’ his mother said bravely.
‘You’re my best friend but Jeanie is my daughter. You would do the same. You’re a mother. You would put your kids before me.’
‘Do we really need to involve the police? And lawyers?’
‘I’m thinking of Seymour. When you tell him, he’ll probably want to do things in the proper way.’
His mother hesitated, suggesting she didn’t know whether or not to voice the thoughts in her head. ‘I really don’t think we need to tell Seymour,’ she said.
In one last slavish effort to avoid the truth, Diana seemed briefly to become more perfect. She appeared slimmer, neater, faster. She polished the kitchen floor every time the children crossed it, if only for a glass of Sunquick. But to be so perfect requires constant vigilance and the effort was beginning to take its toll. Frequently she listened as if she were not hearing; or as if what she was hearing was something different from everybody else. She started making lists. They appeared everywhere, not only in her notebook. Torn pages appeared on the kitchen worktops. In the bathroom. Beneath her bedside lamp. And not run-of-the-mill lists, containing food to be bought or phone calls to be made, but fundamental ones. Among reminders like ‘White washing’ and ‘New blue button for Lucy’s cardigan’ there would also be ‘Make lunch’ and ‘Clean teeth’.
No matter what, every day when she was getting it right, when she was making the children their healthy breakfasts and washing their clothes, it seemed there was also the moment in the car when she had got it wrong. It was as if right from the beginning she had hit a child, and not stopped the car. And whatever she did to make amends, it would never be enough because Beverley had now started her own motion. The two women were spinning in separate places.
‘I don’t understand,’ his mother said one time. She stared at the floor as if she were searching for physical clues to help her. ‘She had a cut on her knee. They said the first time we went to Digby Road that it was small. Nothing, they said. How can she not walk? How can that have happened?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Byron. ‘Maybe it is in her head.’
‘But it isn’t in her head!’ Diana was almost shouting. Her eyes were more light than colour. ‘She can’t walk. The doctors do test after test and no one can help her. I wish it was in her head. But she is lame, Byron. I don’t understand what to do next!’
Sometimes he brought in little gifts from the meadow, a feather, a stone, something that might once have made his mother smile. He left them in places where she would come across them as a surprise. And sometimes the little gifts, when he checked, had vanished; sometimes he found them afterwards stowed, say, in her coat pocket. He felt he was bringing her luck without either of them having to say it.
The final straw came at the end of that second week in August. There had been a day of rain and Beverley was fractious. She sat staring out of the French windows, kneading her finger joints and sighing, while outside dirty curtains of rain splattered the terrace and upper lawn. Clearly she was in pain. She had already shouted at Lucy for snatching a doll from Jeanie.
‘I’m going to need a few things, Diana,’ she said suddenly. ‘Now that Jeanie is lame.’
Diana’s face puckered and she took a sharp intake of breath.
‘You needn’t look so uptight. I’m just being practical,’ said Beverley.
Diana nodded. She held her chest quite high. It was clear she wasn’t breathing all the way down to her stomach. ‘So what things are you thinking of?’
Beverley poked in her handbag and produced a list. Glancing over his mother’s shoulder, he saw it was uncannily similar to something James might have written, except that her writing was tighter and less clear and the paper she had used was unevenly ripped from a ‘Love is …’ jotter pad. It listed small items. Plasters. Head
ache tablets. Teabags. An extra rubber sheet for emergencies.
‘Of course the other things I’m thinking of are more practical.’
‘What do you mean, the other things?’ said his mother.
Beverley’s eyes ran over Diana’s kitchen units. ‘Things to make life easier. Like – I don’t know – your chest freezer.’
‘You want my chest freezer?’
‘I don’t want yours, Diana. You need yours. But I would like one too. Everyone’s getting them. Now that my hands are tied by Jeanie’s injury, I have to cut corners. After all she needs my help with the most basic things. She can’t even get dressed. And there’s my arthritis to think of. You know how hard it is for me some days to move my fingers.’ She held out her hands again as if his mother might need help remembering what they were, and from the way Diana was staring, mouth open, it was possible Beverley was right.
‘I still don’t see how a chest freezer can help Jeanie,’ said Byron.
‘Well I could ask for a car but your father might notice.’ Despite her smile, there was a hard edge to Beverley’s voice. It was like talking to a kind woman and discovering an unkind one right behind her.
‘A car?’ said Diana. ‘I don’t understand. You want a car?’
‘No, no. I don’t need a car. I can’t drive. It was Walt who mentioned that idea. As I said to my neighbour the other day, what’s wrong with the bus? Hundreds of injured people take the bus.’
‘But I drive you.’ Diana was speaking carefully again, as if the language they were speaking was not her natural one. ‘It’s no problem.’
‘It’s a problem for Jeanie. It brings back memories when she sits in your car. She has nightmares. This is why I am so exhausted. What I would like—’ She paused. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I can’t say it.’
‘Why don’t you try?’ said Diana weakly.
‘What I would really like is an organ.’
Byron gulped. Suddenly he had a picture of a bloodied heart in Beverley’s hands. As if reading his thoughts, she smiled. ‘A home needs music.’
This time it was Diana who broke the silence. ‘So not a chest freezer?’
‘No.’
‘And not a car?’
‘No, no.’
‘But an organ?’
‘A Wurlitzer. Like when you went to the concert without me. They have one now in the window of the department store.’
His mother was lost for words. ‘But – how? I mean I can manage the little things but …’ Here she simply ran out. She sat in devastated silence. ‘What will I tell Seymour? And anyway I didn’t even know you could play the organ.’
‘I can’t,’ said Beverley. ‘But I’ve got a feeling I would take to it. If I put my mind to learning. As for Seymour, I guess you’ll have to play the blank stub trick. It’s worked before, Di. You’re an old hand.’
The organ was delivered to Digby Road after the weekend. His mother had gone straight to the department store in town and written a cheque. According to Beverley, half the inhabitants of the street gathered to watch as the four delivery men lifted the organ from the truck and tried to negotiate its passage through her gate and along the garden path. Most of the neighbours had never seen a delivery van before, she said; let alone a Wurlitzer organ. The gate had to be lifted from its hinges in order to get it into the garden. Beverley said that the marvellous thing was that the gate had not squeaked once since the delivery fellows put it back.
The organ was installed in the sitting room opposite the new saloon doors that led to the kitchen. It came with a double stool, which had an upholstered leather cushion that lifted to provide storage space for her sheet music. When she plugged it into the socket, it gave a purring noise and a rush of green and red lights shot high and low above the keys.
Over the next few days, Beverley’s visits to Cranham House stopped altogether. His mother began to worry again. She drove twice past the house, though she didn’t park the car or go inside. There was no sign, she said, of anyone and the washing line was empty. Eventually Beverley rang from a payphone on Thursday. Jeanie’s leg had been particularly bad, she told his mother; this was why they had not visited. Byron sat at his mother’s feet. He could hear every word.
‘Jeanie’s been in such pain I couldn’t leave the house,’ said Beverley. ‘But there is good news.’
‘Oh?’ His mother pressed the receiver closer to her ear. She actually crossed her fingers.
‘My organ,’ said Beverley’s voice, a little distorted by the line.
‘I’m sorry?’ said his mother.
‘My Wurlitzer. I’ve taken to it like a duck to water.’
‘Oh. That’s wonderful news.’ There were tears welling in Diana’s eyes but she spoke with a smile in her voice.
‘Yes, Walt can’t believe it. I’m at it all day and night. I know five pieces by heart already. Walt says I’m a natural.’
She said she would pop round the next day.
The plan for Beverley’s musical performance came the same evening and it was entirely James’s idea. He said it had presented itself to him as a whole; he could see the event from start to finish. He spoke so loud and fast Byron had to lower the receiver away from his ear. There would be a concert at Cranham House, just like the one on the pier, and Beverley would play her new organ. There would be tickets to raise funds for Jeanie, as well as refreshments, and all the school mothers would be invited. James would accompany Andrea and this way he would finally examine the state of Jeanie’s injury for himself. Diana would make a speech, introducing Beverley and thanking the boys for their help.
‘But I don’t think this will work,’ murmured Byron. ‘An organ is very heavy. They are difficult to lift. You need removal men. And the other mothers weren’t nice to Beverley.’
But James was adamant. He kept talking so fast he trampled right over Byron. He would write the speech for Diana. In fact he had already written it. There would be a finger buffet on the terrace; all the mothers would bring something. The kitchen would serve as a stage; Byron would operate the curtains, while James would show guests to their seats. Maybe they should allow Lucy to help with the programmes? James would do the handwriting. He spoke almost without gaps.
‘But my mother can’t do a finger buffet. Beverley can’t do a concert. She’s only just learned how to play.’
James was not listening. Yes, he repeated; this was his best idea yet. It was a James Lowe special. Byron must tell Beverley as soon as she arrived.
‘Trust me,’ said James.
12
Perfume and Deodorant
IT WAS EILEEN’S idea that they should meet in town. Dropping him off the previous night after their walk on the moor, she suggested they might go out again. She mentioned a pub, near to the Pound Shop. ‘Only if you want,’ she said. ‘You might be busy.’
He said he wanted that very much.
After his shift, Jim heads straight to town. Arriving early, he looks at a selection of cut-price Christmas chocolates in the Pound Shop. He studies the shelf of deodorant spray and it occurs to him that he would like to smell nice, although he can’t tell which deodorant is best. In the end he picks up one that appears to have a picture of a green lion on the can.
He wonders what a green lion smells like.
The assistant says she will ring up those two items and this is how he ends up with a plastic bag containing both the chocolates and the green lion deodorant.
The latter is a mistake. He finds this out as soon as he tries it, while he is waiting for Eileen. He lifts his shirt, just as he has seen other men do, not patients but Mr Meade and Darren. Holding the can towards his armpit, he feels a shot of ice-cold spray. Now that he knows what green lions smell of, he wishes he had picked up something different. There was a can, for instance, with a picture of a mountain. He wishes he had chosen that instead.
Since he is still early, he limps as fast as he can up and down the street, trying to lose the smell, or at least dilute it. But it is like
being followed by a particularly pungent shadow. The moment he stops, it is back with him. He tries to go faster. He is conscious of his elbows going up and down like pistons. People are diving out of the way he is going at such speed.
When he stops, the smell seems to have got even worse. He wonders if he should go back to the van, if he can wash and change; but then he will be late for Eileen. He sets off again. Only now the smell seems to have grown more solid. It has grown paws. It is actually thumping along behind him, a green shape, getting faster. He runs. So does the lion.
‘Hey!’ It can even talk. ‘Hey!’ it shouts. ‘Wait!’
It is only when Jim shoots a glance at a shop window, and sees his reflection, and the solid one chasing behind, that he realizes that this last one is Eileen. He stops so suddenly that she comes flying straight into him. She actually lands in a crushed-up shape against his chest, and for a moment he wishes he could wrap his arms around her, and hold tight. Then he remembers that even though she is not a green lion, he still smells like one, and he jumps backwards.
‘Shit! Did I stand on your foot?’ Eileen talks in exclamation marks. Catching the scent of him, she takes a deep breath and makes a noise as if she is about to lose her balance. ‘Whoa!’ she yelps.
The second meeting is a terrible idea. He should never have agreed. He would like to be in the van right now. Quickly he passes her the bag with the chocolates, only too late he realizes he has left the dreadful deodorant in there too. He says it is nice to see her and that he must dash. Eileen listens with her face opened up in confusion, and all he can see is the way he sometimes feels about the world, as if he has been stripped of layers of skin.
‘It’s me. Isn’t it?’ she says suddenly. She looks appalled. ‘I smell awful. Oh fuck.’
‘N-n-n,’ he tries to say. But the word is hiding.