‘My friends all wanted plaits like mine. Mary Kate came to our house, one day, to play. You came home early from work, remember? Mum said, “Great, you’re back early. I’ll just pop out to the butcher’s.” You plaited Mary Kate’s hair, and then she went home, and then you took down my hair and brushed it straight, and you said my hair was the prettiest and that you loved me more than you loved anyone and that we had to be nice to each other. You said it was our secret. You’d have to cut my beautiful hair off if I told, and I’d have no hair left, and I’d be ugly, and I’d look like a boy, and that would be horrible.’
She sounded almost out of breath as she paced around the room. He couldn’t see much of her, but he could feel a minuscule flow of air as she moved back and forth somewhere near the foot of his bed. Maybe she was waving her arms. A windmill daughter. Or maybe a Don Quixote daughter, tilting uselessly at windmills. Once upon a time, she had sat on his knee while he read that book aloud. She was too young to understand the story, but he read it to her anyway.
‘The shock of it. I can’t describe it. Seeing my friend, Mary Kate, with her hair shorn. Stubby little haircut, like a boy’s. The look on her face. “I’m never going to your house again,” she said. “I can’t be your friend any more.” I knew it was your fault, but I said nothing. You cut my hair off anyway, in the end.’
He remembered that little spoilsport, Mary Kate, who had told her mother about the fun they’d had. The little brat. She had had the most delicious chestnut hair. She told her story once, but she refused to tell it again, because he’d warned her, you see. Hair first, neck next, he’d whispered in her tiny ear. Ah, the overwhelming pleasure of that thick rope of hair shifting in his hand. Oh, the sheer joy of the blades working through the sheaf of chestnut brown. No choice but to do it once again, with his own, the blonde.
‘What did you do to her? What other awful things did you do?’ She leaned over him and stared right into his eyes. ‘How could you live with yourself? I can hardly live with myself, and I did nothing wrong. You bastard.’
She moved out of his view again and paced while she spoke. ‘You know what, I was jealous. Can you believe it? You always said you loved me the most, and then I found out you were doing the same things with Mary Kate. Crazy, isn’t it? But that’s the way it was.’
She stopped and faced the window. Her smooth blonde hair touched the collar of her blue denim jacket. Shame it was so short now. ‘We were lucky. We got help in London,’ she told the window. ‘A great charity. I still donate. Only for that place we’d have been on the streets. The thing is, I’ve had therapy since then – loads of therapy – but I can’t get over it.’ She paused and took a deep breath. ‘I still feel guilty,’ she continued. ‘We just ran away. We left you there to do as you pleased. That didn’t solve anything. For men like you, there’s only one solution.’
He heard her unzip her bag again. There was a metallic swishing sound. ‘See what I have?’ she said, towering over him now with a large chrome scissors in her hand. ‘Chop chop.’ She snipped the scissors open, closed, open, closed, right in front of his face.
‘How do you like this?’ she said. ‘All these tubes. I could snip them all.’
Finally, he was afraid. It would be a painful death. Such hatred in her eyes. As usual, no Wretched Nursie, no Minnie Mousey Nursie, no little Nursie Tinybones. Like buses, there was not a single bloody nursie around when you needed one.
He felt cold air on his lower body. She had raised the bedclothes. He could only imagine the pathetic sight: his bare old legs, the hospital nightdress, the bulge of his hospital diapers underneath. His warm urine flowed along a catheter, and there was an itch somewhere on his left foot that he would never be able to scratch.
‘I think I’ll take your nappy off and give you a snip,’ she said. ‘I could do a right job on you, couldn’t I? I could snip, snip, snip your dirty great thing right off.’
He felt the bedclothes being replaced carefully.
‘Hmm,’ she said and leaned over. She snipped the scissors several times, efficiently, in front of his face. Then she stopped and looked straight into his eyes. ‘Not today,’ she sighed. ‘I can’t be bothered today. Snip snip. I’ll take my time about it. See you tomorrow.’
She picked up her handbag and held it high, so he could see her place the scissors carefully inside. ‘Toodle-pip and toodle-oo,’ she called, as she left the room.
Damn it, he thought, his heart racing. He had once accused Wifey of having a fancy man. He’d even tried to slap the truth out of her. He’d been certain the child was not his own. Now, he realised he had been wrong. This girl was flesh of his flesh, blood of his blood. The same feisty spirit. That zest for danger. The delicious tension. The tantalising feeling that a nurse could walk in on them at any moment. What a cunning little vixen. He was almost looking forward to her next visit.
But now the television was blank. That blasted Nurse Wretched. He wished she’d hurry up and turn it on.
The Late Bite
Gina Moxley
His days followed much the same pattern – the newspaper, the radio, a doze – though slower, much, much slower than before. And the weeks were punctuated by his children dropping by, all four of them, according to some rota they devised themselves which was meant to seem random rather than planned. He wasn’t up to going to them any more, which was handy since he’d lost interest in their labyrinthine lives. The couch was now in the kitchen, saving him the shuffle from place to place. It was firm without being uncomfortable, and he was thankful for its solid, collegial support. The television, microwave, phone, were all within reach, while disease made free with his bones. He was eighty-five. His pills were laid out like septuplets, in separate baby-pink cots, a mournful black capital indicating the day on the lid of the box. These were a new set of tablets, for pain management rather than any hope of a restoration to full health, the final furlong of the grind to a halt. He’d been to see the consultant on Tuesday, when he was told the prognosis was not great.
‘Doc,’ he had said, irked. ‘Don’t beat around the bush. I’d appreciate if you’d give it to me straight.’
He was a man who felt he could cope with almost anything if he was given the chance to prepare. As a teenager, he had spent a few years in the army, where he learnt that if he was to get anywhere, planning was key. From there, he lifted himself by the bootstraps and charted a path: he would become an apprentice to a printer, learn the trade, with the eventual goal of owning his own business. His approach had to be methodical, there were no handouts – his own father had died when he was three, leaving a large family. There was no money for university, everything would be achieved through hard graft. Once he was able to provide for a family he would get married. And his stolid groundwork had served him well. His life went according to plan. Without hitch or surprise. Until Hilary died. He was totally unprepared. A massive coronary, and out she went, without warning, like a light in the night. The shock of waking to his wife beside him, yellowing and marble cold, unravelled his military training. The spate of his loss ran unchecked for days; the pivot of his life was gone.
‘Please,’ he continued, his tone less gruff. ‘No pussyfooting. I’d like to know what to expect.’
A past master of difficult situations, the consultant looked at him evenly. He knew that the return to dust was well under way beneath his patient’s clothes. They both did. It just needed confirmation. The old man’s two daughters had come with him, and one had brought her son. The women held hands. His sons were caught up with work.
‘Six months.’
The sentence slammed home like a gavel hitting the block. Finality hung in the air. The old man nodded his thanks. Right, he thought, six multiplied by four multiplied by seven gives one hundred and sixty-eight days to go. He was a literal man and expected to live it out to the date. The daughters and child fell asunder – Oh Dad, oh Daddy, oh Granddad – untrammelled already by grief, when all he wanted was to be left alone. After the what
ifs and the maybes, there was some talk of what would happen next, both of his girls offering to take him to theirs for the stretch. But the very idea of it, all that noise, constant food and computers, was too much for him to bear.
‘Stop,’ he said, rather sharply. ‘Let’s see how I fare.’
At the shopping centre, his eldest girl, Elaine, went to pick up the new prescription, while the other, Alison, went to do a big food shop – they never stopped buying, those daughters of his, accumulating more and more stuff when they already had so much. He waited in the car, cold though the sun shone outside, pinging off windscreens in the car park. A draught licked his nape where the collar was too big for his neck. He rummaged in the pocket of his fleece jacket, then gave his grandson some money and asked him to go buy him a wall calendar, big print, yes, one with separate days. Finally alone with his sentence, he uttered, ‘I’m going to die,’ with palliative calm. He said it again, his voice unwavering, and braced himself, expecting some torrent of feeling to ambush him. His milky eyes looked around to check. A sniper of sadness. Or fear. But no, nothing came. Not relief. Nor longing. Nor a god luring him with promises of a heavenly renewal of vows. His burst of anguish – mortifying in retrospect – after Hilary went, had cauterised the emotional part of his brain. A portcullis came down. For the past eight years there had been no highs or lows, he ploughed, head bowed, across the prairie of some abstract terrain. Earlier that summer, when he first became ill, he went to see his solicitor to make sure his affairs were in order. Now all the paperwork was up to date, the will was made – everything divided equally between the four children, no favourites. His work was done, the day had been named. He was prepared.
His grandson returned, proudly waving his purchase, neatly rolled up in a tube. Since it was August, an academic year planner was all there was to be had. That suited just nicely, no pictures of animals or water lilies to distract, and it ran well into the next year. With several months to spare.
‘Good lad, keep the change.’
Right at that minute, he couldn’t remember the child’s name.
*
In the kitchen, Elaine and Alison unpacked bags and bags of shopping while he sat silently on the couch. As if food would lessen the blow. He wouldn’t have to shop again until he died. The sight of it made him weary, he strained to stop nodding off. It had been an eventful day.
‘We should ring Paddy. I told him I would.’
‘Text him. He’ll still be in surgery.’
Alison frowned at her sister. It wasn’t the type of information to send by text. Their father caught the look.
‘Dad, would you like to speak to him?’ Alison asked.
Her father shook his head. Paddy was a dentist, the first to go to university; he didn’t want to interrupt his son’s work. There really was no urgency, he had six months, why the fuss? Then Elaine said, ‘Who’s going to break it to Dennis? He’s in London all this week. He’ll be in bits, being away.’
‘Ring Sheila,’ Alison suggested. Neither of the girls was that keen on their brother’s wife.
‘Oh, the lady of leisure,’ sneered Elaine. ‘She’ll probably be out golfing. In fairness, she does little else. No, you ring her.’
‘Okay!’
He wished they would just go. At his grandfather’s request, Rory – his name came back from the blue – pinned the calendar to the wall, over the table, in full view. The daughters glanced at each other awkwardly as they watched their father count out the days of his damning decree. Taking a marker, he drew a diagonal line through Tuesday, 21 August, and said, ‘One down,’ though the day wasn’t over yet.
‘Ah, Dad,’ Alison said. ‘Don’t.’ A shellac of saliva coated her words.
Sniffling, Elaine took a sweeping brush to the frill of fluff that fringed the room.
‘Sorry,’ their father apologised, half-heartedly. His girls were neurotic about dust. ‘I haven’t been able.’
Alison stood facing him, trying not to look at him, to watch him whittle away. Instead, the ormolu clock on the shelf above him snared her attention.
‘I love that old thing,’ she gulped, swallowing the lump in her throat, nodding up at the clock. What she wanted to do was hug her dad, throw her arms around him, to hold his crumbling frame, to whisper some consolation, but she knew his hands would fly up like a preacher keeping any intimacy at bay.
‘Well, take it with you. It’s only gathering dust up there.’
‘Ah, Dad,’ Alison protested, eyes brimming. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. No. I don’t want it. I was just at a loss for something to say.’
‘Take it,’ he insisted, in a voice riddled with rust. ‘Where I’m going, what need will I have for time? I don’t even wind it; the tick is too loud.’
Glaring, Elaine sidled up to her sibling. ‘That was meant to be mine.’
Then a bushfire of tiredness swept through him, his head dipped, and he burnt out like a match. While he dozed, Alison and Elaine erupted into a whirlwind of cleaning armed with a blizzard of sprays. The grandchild watched cartoons on TV.
Day three of one-sixty-eight.
‘What was that noise?’ he wondered, on the second morning he woke alive. The third day of the countdown. Unaccounted-for sounds unnerved him; they spelt trouble, like burglars or leaks. He was standing at the kitchen counter, having popped the lid of his T for Thursday pillbox. He had washed, dressed and was feeling quite chipper. And there it was again: tap tap tap.
‘Bloody hell, it’s the front door.’
The bell was broken. The children all used the back entrance, and anyone he knew either didn’t call any more or was dead. He implored that it wasn’t his neighbour, Eileen Creed. He had danced with her at some wedding, a year or so after Hilary died. She nauseated him with her coquettish flirting and her sly ‘There’s still life in the old dog though.’ Occasionally, she would come to the door with a casserole, letting on she’d made too much for one and it would only go off. He refused all her offers of dinners, not wanting anything of her on his table, not to mention letting her inside. She had knocked again some time recently, when word of his illness first went out. Realising it was she – he heard her speak to the postman outside – he decided not to answer.
‘He must be dead,’ she had squawked, causing a commotion.
Somebody then called an ambulance, and all the palaver that ensued. That was when? June. About two and a half months ago. Four plus four plus two equals ten, multiplied by seven gives seventy. Seventy days ago, approximately. Time flew. He had since given her a wide berth. Sirens and hysteria were the last thing he needed, so he decided to brave it, and slowly he made his way to the door thinking, ‘To hell with her and her stew.’
‘Hello, Mr Holmes,’ said the man standing there. A man in his mid-thirties. Rough around the edges. Cheap clothes. Some scars. But the eyes …
‘Yes,’ Mr Holmes said in acknowledgement. Those eyes were unmistakable – cobalt blue. Then he continued, ‘Jimmy James?’
This visitor was most unexpected. He had resigned himself to never laying eyes on him again.
‘The very same,’ Jimmy nodded, confirming his old pet name.
Mr Holmes had to lean against the hall table in case he slithered like a silk slip to the floor.
‘Long time.’
‘Long time.’
Warmly and firmly they shook hands, with neither breaking away. They went inside to the kitchen and each took a chair. Last time they had seen each other was when Mr Holmes visited Jimmy in London, Pentonville Prison, a dozen years before. The only contact since had been the birthday cards that Jimmy had sent him, year in and year out, arriving bang on the day. No news, updates or return address, just ‘From Jimmy, with all my best’ in that loopy, sloping scrawl. They sat for a while, wondering where to begin.
‘Hilary died eight years ago. In ’99. Not long after I retired.’
Jimmy shook his head. ‘I’m sorry to hear it. Really sorry. I didn’t know.’
Hi
lary had been fond of Jimmy initially, but when, after his mother died, he took to the drink, left school and got into trouble with the guards – petty stuff but enough to get a name – her patience waned. He was biting the hand that fed him. She told him out straight. Nothing would do Jimmy but to head off to England; he had cousins there. Mr Holmes did his best to stop him, he offered him a proper job, an apprenticeship, but he didn’t want to stay. Instead, he gave Jimmy a couple of hundred pounds on the sly to set himself up while he looked for work. Once he had left for London, he rarely entered Hilary’s mind. She didn’t accompany her husband when he went to the jail to visit, though she did send a present. A jumper, or was it a book? Another detail lost in the mist of time.
‘If I’d known how to get in touch …’ Mr Holmes stopped himself, he hadn’t meant it to sound like a scold. Jimmy stood. He seemed edgy; the twinkle was gone from his eyes. ‘Yeah. Well, I was always moving around. Know what I mean, Mr Holmes? No fixed abode.’
Mr Holmes wondered whether he meant he had been homeless. A down-and-out. That the boy once brimful of potential had been sleeping rough.
‘I’ve let too much sh- … stuff slide.’
He asked Jimmy to put on the kettle, and they fell into the old pattern of the man instructing the boy. Cups, milk, sugar, tea. Spoons over there. Like it was when he first came to the printworks.
Jimmy must have been around ten. His mother, Cathleen, had started as the cleaner; there was no father on the scene. She never whinged or made excuses, though it must have been a struggle to make ends meet. She was smart, but life had dealt her a raw deal. Mr Holmes saw her potential and gradually trained her up in accounts so that she would help him do the wages every week. That year, 1981 or ’82, Jimmy came with her during school holidays – the aunt who looked after him was away. On his first day, he brought them tea in the office, unbidden, the tray laden with clattering cups.
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