“What happened to you? We were worried,” said Dad. “You might have let us know you were leaving.”
“Sorry, it all got on top of me. I didn’t think anyone would notice,” he replied, then looked up at me. I was standing just inside the doorway, trying to decide whether to force myself to stay downstairs or give in to the overwhelming urge to curl up in my bed.
“Sorry, kiddo,” he said, and the use of this term of endearment, once so familiar when we were younger but rarely heard these days, caught me off balance and the tears, always close to the surface, flowed again. Where was she now, that funny little girl, and where was the big brother who would tease her mercilessly but stick up for her at school as if she were the most precious thing in the world? The years seemed to have made strangers of us and I had lost him part of him too.
That’s the thing with families. One minute you’ve got them, and you don’t have a minute to spare, not a minute to yourself; you’re so busy loving them, sorting them out, keeping track of who’s happy and who’s sad, who’s doing OK and who needs to nudged back on track. And then you wake up one morning and they’re gone. Just like that. No-one to cook for, no-one to get cross with you when you suggest it may be time to get up, no-one to worry about when it starts to get late. That’s why it’s quite nice to have them here, to hear them moving around upstairs or even just to call out to them when I’m taking Jip out, or walking up to the shop. The thought that somebody might miss you is quite comforting, and this house is too big for one person anyway. Not that I see much of them, but that isn’t so important.
I’ve just remembered her, as clearly as if she were standing here beside me. Isn’t that odd? She was a strange little thing. Well, I say little – she was probably the same height as me – but she was elfin, like some sort of pre-Raphaelite nymph, with long, curly, wild auburn hair and translucent skin. Pink rosebud lips, huge blue-grey eyes.
“You’re Paul’s sister, aren’t you?” she said, and I didn’t see any reason to deny it, so I said yes or nodded; I don’t know, it’s all a long time ago now, isn’t it? And she didn’t glare, or shout, or show any outward sign of emotion which was odd, but she gripped my arm really tightly and said, in that same calm voice, “Well, you can tell him from me that … that … no, actually, don’t tell him anything. Don’t tell him anything at all.” And she turned on her heel and walked away without another word. I can’t remember if it was before he was ill or after, but it was around that time.
“Who the hell was that?” I said.
“Oh, that’s Penny Grayling,” said Monica. Monica had been in my class at school, and we were both at the bus stop. “Your brother dumped her a while back. Or did he? Come to think of it, it may have been that she found out he was two-timing her. Yes, that was it, I’m sure.”
Luckily, the bus came along then and she went upstairs to smoke so I didn’t have to reply. I didn’t like to think of Paul cheating on someone. I never went upstairs on the bus unless I had to, as it always smelled disgusting even if nobody was smoking at the time. I remember once it was packed, and I had to sit right behind a man who chain-smoked and coughed, deep, alarming, barking coughs, all the way into town and I decided, there and then, that I would never smoke, however tempting it might be. Not that I kept to that, but it wasn’t for long and
“Tell Laura I love her,” he used to sing. She’d be in that little wicker crib that he’d brushed and cleaned and painted until it looked like new, and he’d be leaning over her singing that old song. He didn’t know many of the words, which is just as well, thinking about it, as I’m pretty sure it’s about somebody’s boyfriend dying. Did I get stabs of pain, or was I too happy with life for it to matter then? I can’t remember. Maybe I’ll ask him. But he’s not here and I don’t know when he’s coming back. Nobody seems to be here at the moment but maybe that’s because they know I’m busy.
At least I’ve sorted out one problem. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before, when it was so obvious. I’ve closed all the curtains downstairs, so if she comes back again I won’t be able to see her and she won’t be able to see me. I’ve got the radio on loud enough so I can’t hear the door, especially if I’m in the kitchen or upstairs which is where I need to be if I’m going to get this job finished and write everything down too.
Tell Laura I love her. I do love her, of course I do, but she’s getting very bossy. I don’t remember giving her a key, but suddenly there she is, saying we’ve agreed to go out for lunch which I’m sure I didn’t. Of course I went, in the end, but she doesn’t understand that it’s not as simple as that. There’s Brandy to consider, and the others. What are they going to think if I just go out without even telling them? As it happened, they weren’t there when Laura went up to check, but that’s not the point.
She pulled all the curtains back and turned off the radio too, so I had all that to do when she finally left, and I was in such a state by then that I forgot to tell her about the woman. And I saw her talking to Linda outside and I know they were talking about me. Linda was waving her hands about and pointing at the house. Not Linda, that was someone else. She died. No, she was killed, there’s no point in pretending otherwise, and there’s no point in pretending I didn’t know who did it, not now, when it’s all going to come out, however awful it will be. So it wasn’t her, obviously, it was the horrible woman next door – I can’t remember her name, and then they went into her house, I saw them, so what’s going on there? Is it possible that Laura is on her side after all?
So many babies. I’ve been collecting them all, from every room in the house, and now the table is full of their cheeky little faces. It’s hard to remember who they all are now, but I need to keep them safe in case she gets in, so I can’t leave them on shelves and mantelpieces where she could pick them up and take them away. I know ours, of course. Robin, with his dark hair and eyes, I’d know him anywhere. All the nurses in hospital fell in love with him, and one of them took him down to the ward where the expectant mothers were. They were the ones who had problems, so they couldn’t stay at home. ‘The ladies in waiting,’ she called them, and she picked him up and tucked him into the crook of her arm.
“I’m taking him down to the ladies in waiting,” she said, “so they can see what they’ve got to look forward to. He’s absolutely beautiful!”
Everybody loved him and Mum and Dad said he was the image of Paul.
“He’ll be a looker, just like his uncle,” they said, and I didn’t say anything. I don’t think Barry was very happy either.
I’m not sure about some of the others. Paul’s children, Wendy’s children, other children I’m supposed to remember. They are my nieces and nephews but I can’t remember all their names and I don’t even know how many there should be. I even get mixed up with my own grandchildren. I will ask somebody to write me a list of all their names and who they belong to – another day, when all this is over. And I suppose there would have been another one, too, but that was never to be. How old would he or she have been by now? I can’t work that out, but I bet Barry could. He was always much better at maths than me. Now I have to put them all away somewhere safe, or I won’t be ready for tea.
Something has happened with the woman next door. I think I have upset her, as she ran away and went back into her house but I can’t remember what I said. I have to write this down quickly, in case I forget, and I know I was taking Brandy out – no, Jip, not Brandy – Brandy died years ago and the kids were devastated. We all were, but especially Kelly. She sat on the sofa, hugging herself, the tears rolling down her cheeks and I felt for her, but I couldn’t help thinking it’s only a dog, for God’s sake! I know we all loved her, and she was part of the family and all that, but I wasn’t much older than you when I lost the person I loved most in the world. There, I’ve written it now, and it’s true. I loved him more than I loved my parents and more than I loved Paul or Wendy. Is that wrong? I don’t know, but there’s no point in being anything other than truthful now.
But I wasn’t writing about dogs, or death. I was writing about what happened just now. I was walking Jip, but was I on my way there or coming back? Come on, Judy! Think! It’s there somewhere, it must be. I must have been to the shop as there is milk on the table and apples, so I must have been there first as I know I came straight back here after it happened. Detective work, that’s what it needs. So, I left the house with Jip, I walked down Church Lane, climbed the stile and went through the graveyard. Did I stop at the grave? No, I don’t think so, not today. So then I would have gone through the kissing gate and followed the path between the fields to the shop. They’ll remember, if anyone asks them. They know me well there. I’ve been going there since it was a few vegetables in a shed beside the gate.
So then I must have gone back down the path to the graveyard. Did I see anyone? I must have let Jip off, as he’s covered in burrs – more detective work there – and that means there weren’t any reindeer in the fields today. Laura says they don’t have reindeer in this country but I’m not stupid and I’ll prove it to her one day. They are often there, at the far side of the field, and there was something else once, but I couldn’t see what it was, not for sure. It was big, though, so I kept Jip close by, in case it was fierce.
In summer the grass was taller than me and we made a wiggly path from the garden to the stream and we sat there in a little den and I was on my back and listening to the skylarks and sometimes she would chase them, even though they were so far up in the sky and if I stood up I could see her back arching through the long grass like a dolphin and I tingled with the joy of it, with being alive in the sun with the smell of summer and a song in the air and a dog who could swim in the grass. But that was then, when I was still happy, and this is now.
I don’t know what made me think of that, but anyway, I must have been nearly home when it happened, but it’s all a blank from there. Did she come out to talk to me or was she on her way home too? Was anyone else there? I only know that my heart is still beating fast now and I have a strange feeling that I can’t really describe, apart from that it feels the same as when a girl was bullying Wendy once, when she had just started at secondary school, and I went with her to the bus stop so she could point her out, then I marched up to her and said “You’re not going to be unkind to my sister today, are you?” And she looked up at me, clearly shocked and yes, scared, and said no, she wasn’t, and I said that was good and walked away. And how I felt then is similar to how I feel now, as if I’ve been standing up for something. Righteous indignation, you could call it. Those are good words and now I have written them down I will remember them. Maybe I’ve been standing up for my rights at last, instead of skulking around in here like a fugitive and waiting until the coast is clear before I even go out with the dog. Yes, I’m sure that’s what it will be, and if Laura or anyone asks, that’s what I’ll tell them. That I have decided to stand up for myself from now on, and if they don’t like it, well, that’s just too bad.
They are saying that I shouted at her and waved my fist! It’s ridiculous, I’m not a shouting person and never have been. All three of them have been here, sitting in my house, the house that used to be their house too, but they might as well have been strangers. Apparently she is saying that she asked me something, I can’t remember now what they said, and that I got angry and threatened her. And my own three children believe her over me, and they have all left with stony faces so now I’m going to have to work doubly hard to get all this done, because if they don’t believe me no-one will and I need to be ready.
Eggs
Bread
Jam
Dog food
The loft is very difficult to get into. Ask Barry to get a better ladder.
Why do people have to die? I wasn’t ready for it, even though I knew it was coming. And now all the dead people are shouting in my head and I can’t even go to bed as they all follow me, and they want things and I don’t know what it is they want, unless it’s the truth, and that’s a hard thing to find after all this time. It was hard enough then.
Dear Linda, please forgive me and leave me alone. I didn’t know you were dead. That’s the trouble with secrets. If I had known for sure, if I had found it earlier, I would have told someone and it would have been different, but it was too late by then. That’s what I told myself. What’s the point? It wouldn’t change anything and it wouldn’t happen again. It’s not like he intended it. It was all just one of those things, one of those sequences and once it had started it couldn’t be stopped and nobody knew how it would end and even if they did
School tomorrow.
When I first saw their little faces looking up at me, all my certainty washed away. I can’t do this, I thought, all these little minds, wide open and expectant, waiting for me to fill them. Like baby birds. It was Barry’s fault, he thought it would be ideal for me. “You’re so good with kids!” he said, and drip, drip, drip, the idea became a plan and there I was. God knows what I will do with them tomorrow, as I can’t find a single thing, only some old books and I’ve put them down somewhere, but I can wing it now, after all this time. That’s the thing about teaching, you have to be able to wing it. Those that can’t, well, they’re the ones that sink. Did I sink? No, I don’t think so. I think I went before that, and that’s why I have to go back, to say goodbye.
Now the TV is broken too. Why do these things all happen at once and I can’t find that book, the one with everything in, that the girls made and even tied it to the table by the phone but now the string is there but the book isn’t and I can’t ask anyone because all the stuff is out and I haven’t got enough bags so they will see.
Night time and that dog is here again, barking at the door but if I open it they might get in.
At least the baby has gone now. Babies are such a tie. When we brought it back to the flat and Barry climbed the stairs as if he was carrying something made of glass and I watched to make sure nobody stole the carrycot until he called me and I ran up the stairs and he ran down to get it and there it was, it was Robin, and he was in the middle of the bed, our bed, in our bedroom and suddenly I realised this wasn’t a game we had been playing, that we could stop if we felt like it but this was it, now. This baby was here with us and we had to look after him for ever and ever and our lives would never ever be the same again and we wouldn’t be able to snuggle up in bed on Sunday mornings and eat toast and we wouldn’t be able to pop down to the pub and we wouldn’t be Barry and Judy any more we would be something else called parents, mummy and daddy, mum and dad and I didn’t feel like a mum I still felt like Judy but I got used to it. You do.
Laura is horrible. She shouted at me through the door. My own daughter, after all the things we’ve done for her. Barry will be shocked when I tell him.
He was shocked when I told him about Linda, but that’s another story. That nearly finished us, but he loved me too much and I knew that. Was that wrong?
If only I could find it, the rest of it wouldn’t matter so much and I could put it all back but now I don’t know. It’s Jethro Tull, the song that is in my head all the time, I don’t know why. He played the flute and we thought that was amazing and I wished I could play it like that but I didn’t even have one. It made our hearts sing, that bit when he stops and plays the flute and it is all husky and breathless at first and then it gets higher and sweeter. We played it over and over again, flipping up the stylus and moving it back a bit, letting it down again, gently. Sometimes he would have to lean over me if he was on that side and then he’d kiss me on the way. Sometimes he would try to do it and I’d pull him down, my hands locked together behind his head and then the whole of the next track would be finished. Ian Anderson. Hair like a scarecrow. He stood on one leg when he played and I always laughed when he said it, even though he’d said it before, just think how brilliant he would be if he played standing on both legs. He was funny like that sometimes, just little flashes that surprised you and then I would laugh until I cried and he would look at me a
nd say it’s not that funny even if it was. Living in the past, it’s called, that track, and I wish I could do that, it was nicer then. Well, sometimes it was.
Something has happened and I have to remember something. It will come to me.
Today is Wednesday.
Once upon a time there was a girl called Judy. She was only young, so she didn’t know what to do. And then she met someone she thought she would be with forever, but he died. No, he didn’t die, he was killed, just like Linda was killed, although that was different. I don’t suppose anyone actually intended to kill him, but does it make any difference anyway?
Judy wasn’t a bad girl but she didn’t always do the right thing. That’s what this story is all about. She went to university and worked hard, and she met someone else and, at last, she agreed to marry him. And they all lived happily every after, except Linda and her mother. Linda didn’t live at all and her mother was never happy again and that was a shame, because it made her drink too much and say the wrong thing and embarrass people.
The Art of Forgetting Page 9