by J. A. Baker
“So as I say, it’s lovely having somebody closer in age to chat to. It was beginning to seem like a retirement home around here.”
I snap back into the conversation, my attention constantly being diverted by the worry of Martyn wandering above us or yanked back to that day by the river all those years ago. She seems nice, this Anna. I’m being rude and have to make more of an effort. It’s tiring being permanently on edge. I let out a stifled yawn and stretch my neck to release the tension. Tillie patters around behind us, oblivious to everything and everyone. She is fixated on the birds that are swooping and diving outside the window. Great tits and thrushes fight for the scraps of bread I threw out earlier, their tiny wings flapping ferociously as they lodge small chunks of dough between their beaks and dart off into the trees. I envy them; their freedom and ability to flit off whenever the fancy takes them.
“Maybe we can get together for coffee sometime on a regular basis, swap recipes and stuff? I enjoy a bit of gardening too, although our tiny patch is nothing compared to yours. You are so lucky. This is a fabulous house.”
I ruminate over what she is saying. Lucky isn’t a word I would ever use to describe my life. I am anything but.
She eyes her watch and makes a move to get up. Just in time. I hear a slight creak above us. I freeze and look up. The hairs on the back of my neck prickle in alarm. She doesn’t seem to hear it thank god. It stops once more and I exhale more loudly than I intended to. She scrapes her chair across the tiles, stands up and leans on the back of it,
“This is an amazing place you have here Phoebe. One of my boys was out the back and said they thought they heard you talking with somebody on the day you moved in.”
And so it begins. I quickly consider my options. Should I lie to her? Is that really the best way to begin a friendship? I think she lives too close by to do that. I’m just not sure Martyn is up to a stream of visitors quite yet. Or if he will ever be. I steel myself for what I’m about to say.
“Yes, that would my husband, Martyn.”
I leave it at that hoping it’s enough for her. Of course it isn’t. It never is. People are naturally curious. Too curious sometimes. And that’s when things usually take a turn for the worse. Some people just can’t leave it be.
“Oh, he must be out is he?”
Her eyes shine with girlish innocence. I want to scream at her that apart from the journey here, he hasn’t been out for two years. But I don’t. Of course I don’t. It isn’t her fault we live like prisoners. So instead I speak softly, remaining calm and composed, my unflustered, steady demeanour belying the torment that lies within,
“He’s upstairs napping. Martyn rarely leaves the house. He’s disabled you see.”
This usually stops people in their tracks, makes them acutely embarrassed, injects an awkward silence into the conversation. Not with Anna. If anything it seems to fuel her interest. She sits back down, leans towards me and cups my hand in hers,
“Oh Phoebe, that must be so difficult for you! I had an inkling when I first saw you. I have a sense about these things you see. Grandma Radley, my mum’s mum used to read tea-leavesand I think I must have got it from that side of the family.” I am seconds from telling her to shut up and that she knows nothing about such nonsense. Bloody tea-leaves ? She continues on, her eyes suddenly shimmering with excitement, “Has he always been disabled or is it a recent thing?”
My head begins to throb and I have to clear my throat to speak. It is thick with trepidation. I don’t want him coming down here. I don’t want her hurt.
“It’s a recent thing. A couple of years ago actually. We were cliff walking at Whitby and Martyn slipped and fell. He broke his hip and collarbone and suffered a fractured skull. He was very ill for quite a long time afterwards. He has a limp and sometimes suffers headaches but unfortunately the psychological impact has been the hardest to deal with. It’s been quite devastating for him.”
I try to still my trembling fingers which remain cupped in Anna’s warm palm.
“Oh, I’ll bet it has! Poor man. Does he suffer from nightmares? Probably PTSD.”
I am inexplicably maddened by her words. Suddenly she’s an expert. Everybody is. Except they don’t have to live with it, whereas I do. I’ve lived with it for over two years now and it feels like an age.
“He’s developed agoraphobia and suffers from depression and a personality disorder. He also needs a cane to help him walk but his mental state is far worse than his physical one I’m afraid.”
I close my eyes, suddenly overcome with dizziness and exhaustion. This is the first time I’ve spoken openly to anyone about Martyn and his issues. Since the accident we’ve just got on with our lives, tried to ignore our predicament and just make the best of what we have. There are many times I’ve been in danger of becoming agoraphobic myself. I’ve been so reluctant to get out and meet people, to talk about our lives and our problems. I wonder if this is what I need? Maybe this will be the catalyst that will, at long last, turn our lives around.
“Oh you poor, poor dears!” Anna stands up again, leaving go of my hand, which is now clammy and trembling and she starts counting off things with her fingers, “Well first off, we must meet him and assure him we’re here to help him out then with a bit of gentle persuasion, we might be able to get him to amble around your lovely garden. It might help if he gets to meet the walkers that pass through here. I know a bit about phobias with my studies with the Open University. I mean I’m no expert but. . .”
“No,” I half shout, not meaning to but too worried to disguise the anxiety I feel at her suggestion, “he won’t respond well to interventions from strangers.” I suddenly feel I’m losing my grip and try to steady my breathing. My heart begins to vibrate wildly, climbing its way up my neck at her words.
She looks at me, her eyes glassy and wide. “But we’re neighbours, not strangers.”
My mind is in a complete whirl. I stare up at the clock on the kitchen wall. “I’m really sorry but I need to go and wake Martyn so if you’ll excuse me. . .”
I make my way into the hallway towards the front door hoping she’ll follow me. Anna remains in the kitchen, her voice filtering through to me as she speaks. So accepting. So innocent. So terribly, terribly naive.
“I can stay and give you a hand if you like? I’m studying for a diploma in psychology and as I said earlier, I know a thing or two about mental health issues.”
I am running out of options and now need her to leave. If Martyn wakes and finds her here, there’s no telling what he will do. A million things go through my head about how I should never have moved here, how I should have accepted the stronger medication the doctor offered at our old surgery, how I could once again, just push this woman out of the door and slam it shut behind her.
“But if you’re sure you can manage, then I guess I’ll be off. I’ve been out all morning and have things to catch up on.”
She is beside me in an instant and I fell delirious with a mixture of guilt and relief. Here she is, baking for me, being friendly, offering to help and here I am, working out ways in which I can shove her out of the door.
“Look, I’m so sorry to appear rude Suzie. It’s just Martyn wakes up in such a grump and I need to calm him down before we do anything. Maybe I can call around and see you another time when we’re both feeling a bit more relaxed?”
She stares at me for a few seconds puzzled then gives me a small smile, “Of course. That’s probably a good idea. It’s Anna, by the way,” she whispers as she touches my shoulder lightly, “not Suzie.”
And with that she is gone, her hair bouncing in the breeze as she makes her way back home.
I watched as the others splashed about in the puddles, too excited and full of themselves to notice me lurking in the background. That had always been the way; Suzie leading the pack, full of spirit and energy while I hung about like an unwanted puppy.
Mother had made Suzie take me along while she stayed at home and put up with our father. Bes
ides his drunken, boorish behaviour and bouts of indescribable rage, she also had to cope with his health, which had been failing for some time. Poor mother was at her wits end as to how to manage it all. Summer holidays were the bane of her life; trying to keep us entertained and out of her hair while having to put up with our father. Suzie couldn’t see it of course but I could. I used to watch as our mum struggled to help him in and out of his chair when he was deep in the drink, the sheer effort of it draining all the colour out of her face. I was too little to help but I willed her on and wished there was a better way. An easier way. Which eventually, after he died, there was. Unfortunately it wasn’t the easy way for me. But that’s another story.
‘Come on, don’t be such a spoilsport Phoebe!’
Suzie stood in front of me, damp and full of excitement, her eyes glistening like tiny, azure marbles set deep in her flawless face.
‘I don’t want to get wet,’ I said sullenly. I tried to not whine but couldn’t help it. I was tired and bored and wanted to go home. Even watching mother try to cope with father’s demands and dance around the conflict caused by his alcoholism was infinitely better than watching Suzie act like she was something she wasn’t when her friends were around. It drove me mad to hear her false laughter and see how she manipulated everyone around her. Of course they were all too blind to see it, too transfixed by her beauty and confidence. Thirteen going on thirty our aunt used to say.
‘Oh, come on. Let your hair down for once why don’t you? It’s such good fun. Everyone’s having a whale of a time!’ she shouted as she spun around, moving closer to me with every step. The pavement glistened and sparkled under her feet like a sheet of glass embedded with diamonds.
‘It’s only rain Suzie! Why make such a fuss over a bit of rain? And why dance around like an idiot?’
She didn’t hear me. She was deaf to my pleas, too caught up in the moment. I continued to watch as they played games, leaping over huge puddles, some of them landing smack in the centre sending dirty water spraying up into the air. I failed to see the allure. And Suzie was old enough to know better. This was a pastime for seven year olds. As far as I could see, it was just plain silly. Then in what seemed like an instant, the rain stopped and a split appeared in the clouds overhead revealing a perfect blue sky. A whoop of excitement went up as the rest of Suzie’s gang clapped and cheered. Such childish behaviour. I was irritated beyond reason.
‘Let’s head down to the river!’ one of them yelled, “It’ll be really fast after the downpour. We can go swimming.”
My skin prickled as I saw the look of delight on Suzie’s face, ‘We’re not allowed to go down by the river when it’s been raining. It’s slippery and gets flooded. The path might even be under water by now,’ I said, hoping my words might sway her.
She would go. Of course she would. Like Suzie ever took any notice of anything anyone ever said, least of all me, her younger sister. And if Suzie went, I would have to go too, trailing behind like a bad smell. Making friends had never been my forte unlike Suzie who seemed to attract people as easily as breathing.
She laughed and placed her hands on her hips defiantly. ‘Exactly how old are you? Aren’t you supposed to be the naughty younger one and I’m the older sensible sister?’ She turned around and marched ahead, ‘Why don’t you try having some fun for once in your life Phoebe instead of being a boring stuck up old fart?’
I was incensed. Not just by her words but also by my powerlessness. Arguing was futile. If I went home alone, mother would worry where Suzie was and I would be turned right around to go and find her. Head down, I traipsed along behind them all, hoping against hope the river would be full of fishermen who would chase us away.
It wasn’t of course. They all steered clear of that particular stretch of the riverbank when the schools were off. They didn’t want to be bothered by gangs of noisy kids splashing about and disturbing their peace. We had the river to ourselves. Or rather they did. I had no intentions of joining in with their stupid behaviour. Strangely enough, Suzie wasn’t the first to strip down her underwear. She was beaten to it by Tamsin Cartwright who paraded around like a circus animal, her pale, almost translucent skin covered in huge ragged freckles. I wanted to yell at her cover up her stupid, pulpy body and stop embarrassing herself but found myself without a voice. The only noise I could make was the rustle of leaves and snapping of twigs underfoot as I shuffled about aimlessly under the shady canopy of the trees. I briefly considered going home and hiding out in the garden shed until Suzie came back. And of course if I had, it wouldn’t have happened. My not being there would have changed the whole complexion of the day’s events. But what is done is done. There’s no changing the past now is there?
Eight
Four weeks later
The day stretches out in front of her, filling Anna with a deep inertia. She sighs and bites at a piece of loose nail. She can either sit around all day doing nothing or she can fill her time with any number of chores that she has been putting off for god knows how long. Boring stuff, jobs that she hates doing; washing curtains, steam cleaning rugs. They all need doing. Or she can throw herself into her next OU assignment. Five chapters to get through and a 2000 word essay. Her heart sinks at the thought of it. She isn’t in the right frame of mind today. Reading about comparisons and contrasts of how social order is made and remade will be enough to make her want to curl up into a tight ball and sleep through to the end of next week. She sighs loudly, pulls the blinds apart and stares out at the back garden at the post winter mess. A mass of debris greets her gaze - leaves scattered everywhere, a mud splattered patio, snaking ivy that has somehow managed to curl its way up the side of the shed and is now on its way over to next door’s garden. Hardly surprising really. Winter has dragged its feet this year and the rain has been pretty torrential. Even the last few weeks have been awful despite it being March - dark and stormy and downright bloody depressing - but today it’s warm enough to venture outside and be part of the elements as opposed to being beaten down by them. She continues to stare outside at the general mess and especially the state of the lawn. It might be warmish but from here it looks as if a year’s worth of weeds have attempted to take over the flower beds. Everything is knotted and tangled, a sprawling invasion of chickweed, nettles and groundsel. She reaches for her boots and then stops, deciding that the garden in its current state is not a job for the fainthearted. Next week is when she will get to grips with it. Or perhaps next month. Definitely an all day task for when she’s feeling more energetic, more positive.
The spare room however, definitely needs doing. Not a particularly pleasant job but she can sort it in anticipation of Toby coming to see them. Her heart leaps halfway up her chest at the thought of seeing her brother again. Since the death of their sister Bridget a few years back, she puts as much effort as she can into preparing for his visits. She feels the loss more since giving up her job at the school and Toby moving down to Lincoln. She tried her hand helping out at the corner shop for a while to keep her mind ticking over and actually loved it, but found it too difficult to keep on top of the housework and with no parents handy to help out with childcare, it all became too much. And now there is a definite void in her life. No work routine, no older sister to go to for advice or even just for a general natter. Just a big gaping hole where her life used to be.
Dragging herself upstairs, she spends the remainder of the morning de-cluttering the spare room, bagging up old toys and clothes and turning the mattress so she can put clean bed sheets on. It’s while she is on a footstool dragging all manner of junk off the top of the wardrobe that Anna sees her. From this height, she can just about see into Phoebe’s front window over the top of the hedge that runs round the perimeter of the front of her house. Not a clear view but it’s enough. A pulse hammers at Anna’s temple and her chest constricts as she watches her neighbour. The room is dark and gloomy looking; full of shadows and tight corners but even in the murkiness Anna can see that Phoebe is rocking back
and forth on the edge of the sofa, head dipped, arms wrapped around her body like a straitjacket. Anna levers herself up onto her tiptoes, her arms clasped tightly around the edge of the wardrobe for balance. It’s too great a distance to see Phoebe’s face clearly but even from this far off its patently obvious that she is completely and utterly distraught. Anna stands stock still, feeling slightly sick, unsure of what to do. Her head swims. She shouldn’t by rights, be seeing this, but now she has, she can’t possibly just ignore it, can she? Knowing what that poor woman has to go through with her husband every day, that would be cruel and downright mean, possibly even dangerous. What if she tries something awful? Attempts the unspeakable? Phoebe’s disabled husband is hardly in any position to help her. Plus, she is new to the area. Anna is the only one round here who knows her predicament. She should call over again. No cakes this time. Phoebe doesn’t seem like the kind of person who likes to sit around chatting and putting the world to rights, not a coffee morning type of woman at all. But she does need a friend right now. And she is obviously really upset. Guilt tugs at her. She absolutely should do something. She just isn’t sure what that something is. Anna continues to stare over, feeling more than slightly voyeuristic. It’s one thing to watch somebody carry out boring, everyday tasks when they’re unaware you’re watching but a whole different league when you are able to see someone at their weakest - vulnerable and distressed and clearly not coping with their lot in life. Anna climbs down and wipes her palms on the sides of her trousers. Clammy with embarrassment and shame.