On this occasion Rita-Mae felt slightly more anxious when turning the key in the door to the Centre. She looked about nervously. Could the stalker be out there watching her right now? She’d taken the precaution of parking well out of sight behind the building. Perhaps the move would throw him off.
She pushed open the door quickly, comforting herself with the thought that at 4 p.m. on a weekday she was less likely to encounter many drunks or TM callers the likes of Lenny. They were generally a phenomenon of the later hours at weekends.
She went through to the cloakroom and hung up her coat, catching the whiff of cooking as she went. Odd, she thought; must be the people next door, and continued on down the corridor.
But the aroma of brewed tea and baking only intensified. It was clearly not coming from outside but from inside the Centre and from the upstairs kitchen. Someone was up there and they were singing: a female voice, trilling out the words to a familiar air.
How very curious! There were only two other volunteers at the Centre: Linda and Henry. She’d met them briefly at the beginning and they’d exchanged phone numbers, but she’d not seen them since. They were so short-staffed that the three of them were timetabled to do separate shifts and on different days. In between times the phone lines were switched over to the bigger centres in Belfast and elsewhere to pick up the slack.
“Hello there!” she called out.
But the singing continued unabated, to the accompanying sounds of crockery being set down and cupboard doors opening and shutting.
There are three lovely lassies in Bannion,
Bannion, Bannion.
She climbed the stairs, not a little perturbed.
There are three lovely lassies in Bannion,
And I am the best of them all.
The door to the kitchen was slightly ajar and she was taken aback to see a woman in a floral-print overall bent over the cooker, retrieving something from the oven.
“Hello there!”
“Good heavens!” the woman cried, twirling to face her.
She was clutching a tray of cupcakes between a pair of oven mitts.
Mid-fifties, Rita-Mae reckoned, a little on the heavy side. Kindly face all pinked from the stove heat. Brown hair cut into an unflattering bowl shape.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” Rita-Mae said.
“Oh, that’s all right,” the woman flustered, smiling shyly and setting down the tray. “I’m Blossom Magee.” She removed the gloves and proffered a hand. “You must be Miss Ruttle? Pleased to meet you.”
“And you . . . you’re a volunteer too, Mrs Magee?”
“Oh, no, I’m only the cleaning lady and I keep the tea things stocked,” Blossom said meekly.
She pulled out a chair and checked the clock.
“You’ll have time for a wee cuppa tea, won’t you, Miss Ruttle? There’s still plenty in the pot. For when you’re cold it warms you. When you’re warm it cools you. When you’re depressed it cheers you, and when you’re a wee bit anxious it calms you down.”
She flushed some more when she saw the new recruit’s bemusement.
“Oh, don’t mind me, dear. It’s an old saying of my father’s . . . and call me Blossom. Everyone that knows me calls me that.”
Rita-Mae sat down, not a little surprised by the congenial Blossom bustling about the simple kitchenette, filling it with homely smells and the lilt of her cheerful voice. Her normal reserve, so rigidly held when meeting someone new, was beginning to thaw.
She eyed the cupcakes nervously. No, she didn’t really want to have tea. How was she going to eschew the cakes without offending the lovely lady though? That was the question. Because she had the impression that Blossom’s primary function in life was looking after others and performing selfless acts.
“Just the tea would be fine, Blossom. The cakes look lovely but I’ve already eaten. Later, perhaps.”
“That’s a pity,” Blossom said, setting a cup and saucer before her. “I’ll put them in the tin when they’re cooled, and yous can have them whenever. I know Henry and Linda love a bun now and again.”
The cleaning lady wasn’t the persistent type when it came to food. Rita-Mae was glad of that. She seemed so easy-going and she envied that a little.
“What a lovely name you have! And call me Rita, please.”
Blossom smiled her endearing smile and sat down.
“Now, it isn’t what I was christened, Rita. My mother loved flowers, y’see, and I was an only child, so she used to always call me her little blossom.”
Her cheeks dimpled with the reminiscence and she dipped her chin briefly in reflection.
I’m sure you had a lovely mother, thought Rita-Mae; a kind woman who loved you and didn’t call you names. She regretted that she couldn’t have had someone like that in her own childhood – someone with open arms and an open heart who really cared. A spurt of envy flamed briefly in her when she thought of the heartless mother who’d raised her. But she doused it swiftly; looking back was a dangerous thing.
“Have you worked here long?” she asked gently, drawing Blossom out of her beautiful memories.
“Nearly three years now. After my Arnold passed I had to get out of the house. The loneliness was terrible, Rita.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you, dear. But y’know, God doesn’t give us burdens unless He knows we can carry them,” she added, stroking a little gold cross she wore. “Now tell me this: where d’you live, Rita?”
“Willow Close.” She was interested to see how the news would be received.
A flicker of concern passed across Blossom’s features.
“You’re a tenant of Bram Hilditch then?”
“Yes . . . I’m renting number eight.”
Blossom considered this.
Rita-Mae thought of a ruse to draw her out. In fact, she reasoned that Blossom’s cupcakes would be quite acceptable, given what she’d seen of the lovely lady so far.
“D’you know, Blossom, perhaps I’ll have one of those nice cakes of yours after all.”
Blossom’s eyes lit up. “I’m so glad,” she said, proffering the plate.
“By the way, did you know the woman who was renting number eight before me?” She paused. “Just in case I get post for her.”
“Oh, Vivian . . . she was a lovely young woman. Very religious. Always praying in the church. That’s why it makes no sense what happened to her.”
“Oh . . . What happened exactly?”
“Well, she just disappeared one day, y’see. No one knows where she went. Bram couldn’t understand it. None of us could. She didn’t leave a note or anything.” She sighed. “But you never know what’s going on in someone’s life, do you? Maybe she was running away from something and just couldn’t confide in anyone.”
Rita-Mae could understand that. “That’s awful. Did they never find her?”
Blossom shook her head. “The strange thing is, her relatives in Sligo didn’t seem too concerned. Said she was adult enough to live her own life. But you’ve no worries on that score, Rita. And Bram’s a good man . . . a gentleman, just like his father . . . so good to me after Arnold passed. You can depend on him.”
You can depend on him . . . I wonder. She took a tentative bite of the cupcake.
“Yes, he seems so,” she said. “These cakes are very good by the way.”
“I’m glad you like them, Rita! Here, have another one.”
“Okay, just one more then.”
Something occurred to her at that moment. She was recalling that peculiar sentence written on the outside of Vivian-Bernadette’s letter. Blossom, being religious herself, would probably know the answer.
“Does the name Catherine of Siena mean anything to you?”
Blossom’s countenance took on a look of reverence. “Oh, she’s one of my favourite saints! Italian she was. I pray to her all the time, Rita. Why d’you ask?”
“Just wondered . . . came across the name recently, that’s all.”
> “She’s the patron saint against illness and miscarriages. My mother was a great believer in her, God rest her soul. She nearly lost me when she was expecting, y’see. I’ll bring you a wee book about her next time. Now, I’ll get us more tea.”
Rita wanted to say “no thanks” to the book, but had no wish to disappoint the lovely Mrs Magee. She could decline the tea though, with a good excuse. “Gosh, is that the time? Duty calls I’m afraid.”
Blossom returned the teapot to the stove and smoothed down her apron.
“I understand. You’re doing the Lord’s work, Rita, and He’ll reward you for it, God bless you. I’ll just tidy up here and be on my way.” She held out her hand again. “It was lovely meeting you, and we’ll meet again soon I’m sure.”
“Thank you . . . I’m sure we will.”
Rita-Mae turned to go.
“Oh, Rita?”
“Yes.”
“On the notice board in the office you’ll find my telephone number.”
“R-Right.”
“Just . . . just in case you need . . . you need someone to talk to,” she explained, blushing slightly. “It can be difficult settling into a new place.”
“That’s kind of you, Blossom,” she said, finally taking her leave.
But as she went down the stairs she wondered whether Blossom’s offer stemmed from Christian charity or from concerns about her occupancy of 8 Willow Close.
She rather suspected it was the latter.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Samaritan Centre, Killoran
“Samaritans. May I help you?”
No answer. Rapid breathing down the line.
Oh dear God! Let it not be him – Lenny.
“In your own time . . . when you’re ready . . . ”
“This bloody life’s pointless.” A male voice, sudden and belligerent, in her ear. A young man.
She palmed the mouthpiece for a moment to steady herself, uncovered it again and said as calmly as she could: “I’m sorry you feel that way. I—”
“No, yer not. You’re just trained like a monkey to say that. Yer as sorry as Hitler in his bunker. Only sorry for yerself, that’s all.”
It was going to be one of those evenings. Mondays invariably brought a raft of desperate young men to the helpline. The boozy weekend was over. They’d squandered a week’s pay in two nights. Now penniless, depressed and suffering the mother of all hangovers, they wanted to offload to somebody or kill themselves.
“Would you like to give me your name? I’m Rita. It doesn’t have to be your real name—”
“Kevin!”
“Kevin. Hello . . . and why are you feeling so down right now?”
She heard his breathing quicken with irritation. In the background: cars swishing past in the rain. Guessed he was calling from a public phone. Then:
“’Cos this life’s bloody pointless, like I . . . like I told you at the start. That’s why I’m feeling down right now, if you must know.”
“When did you start to feel this way, Kevin? Did something go wrong today? I need to know, so we can talk it through.”
“I’ve always felt this way,” he said in a flat voice, “from the bloody minute I was born.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. You’re no doubt dwelling on the past. We cannot live in the past or . . . or the future for that matter. The present is the safest place for all of us. You had the courage to make this call . . . to reach out for help . . . so in that respect you are being very positive, and we can take things from here.”
“Rubbish! How can I not live in the past? The past is who I am. If we didn’t have pasts we wouldn’t exist. That’s why your comment is rubbish, and that’s why this life is shite, and I’m sick of do-gooders like you trying to tell me different.”
“I’m sorry you—”
“And stop sayin’ yer bloody sorry. No, yer not sorry . . . Yer . . . ” She heard him grope for the right obscenity to hurl back. Pictured him trapped behind the breath-fogged glass of the phone booth. Launched into life from a dark place, trapped and lonely, just like herself. Like so many.
He sighed.
“May I ask how old you are, Kevin?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I’m interested . . . And you sound . . . well . . . young.”
“What age d’ye think I am?”
“Gosh, let me see . . . Late teens, early twenties perhaps.”
“Twenty-two last Friday.”
“See? I’m not as rubbish as you think.”
“No big deal. I know what age you are. Don’t have to guess neither ’cos you sound like an oul’ doll.”
She suppressed a chuckle. “Yes, I suppose you could say that, Kevin. What did you do for your birthday?”
“Got smashed.”
“Kevin, you’re only twenty-two. You’ve got your whole life ahead of you.”
“Yeah, right. And you think that’s something to celebrate? Well, I don’t! I’ve no job. No money. No bloody hope! Me dad’s a violent bastard . . . me ma’s a nervous wreck. The bastard kicked me outta the house ’cos I was tryin’ to save her from his bloody fists. I’ve nowhere to go. That’s my life! So when you say I’ve got my whole life ahead of me, that’s what I see and I don’t want any of it. And no matter what you say it won’t change the facts. Yer just full of senseless talk . . . That’s all any of you are good for. You don’t know nuthin’ about anything.”
“Perhaps,” Rita-Mae said carefully, “perhaps nothing makes sense because you’re just in a bad place right now. But life changes from moment to moment, hour to hour. We shouldn’t look back because we see so much we regret doing . . . so many things we believe we did wrong. It’s dwelling on the past that makes us depressed.”
She felt such a fraud saying those words because she could not live by them herself. The past was an ever-present spectre in her life and in so many lives. There were few perfect parents, so few perfect childhoods.
“How do you know I do that?” Kevin was saying.
“Sorry, Kevin, do what?”
“That I dwell on the bleedin’ past.”
“Well, you’ve just said as much, and you wouldn’t be calling the Samaritans if you didn’t. All negative thoughts are about the past, or indeed the future. But more often the past, and so they make us feel bad about ourselves.”
She tried not to sound too assertive. But sometimes assertiveness, or rather firmness, was necessary to make people understand where they were in their stories. Mrs Emmeline Wilton used to say as much, in training sessions. Your job is to lead them out of the dark chapter where they’re stuck, and give them hope so they can begin a new one.
The caller made no answer.
“Kevin . . . are you still with me?”
She heard the sound of him slumping down.
“Kevin, are you all right?”
Nothing.
“Kevin, can you hear me?”
Then: “Yes,” he said calmly. “I’m still here . . . but not . . . not for much longer. Wh-What did . . . wh-what did yer say your n-a-m-e . . . w-a-s?”
Emmeline Wilton’s voice came again. Sometimes they will die with you on the phone. They will have already overdosed and just need someone to be with them as they pass. Yours will be the last voice they hear.
She knew she was dealing with just such a situation.
“My name’s Rita, Kevin . . . Kevin, what have you taken?”
“Does-ent . . . m-a-t-t-e-r . . . ”
“Kevin, where are you? I can get an ambulance to you right away. Please, Kevin, tell me where you are. I can come immediately and be with you.” She knew she was breaking the rules with her plea. But sometimes you simply have to forgo rules when the heart demands.
“N-o-o-o, Rita. There’s . . . there’s no . . . no point any . . . more. N-o-b-o-d-y cares . . . They n-e-v-e-r did . . . ”
“That’s not true. I care! I can get an ambulance and get you to the hospital. I’ll stay with you and be your friend. I promise. Please,
Kevin, please just tell me where you are.”
She heard his breathing slowing, pictured him slouched down in the cold telephone box with the rain lashing the windowpanes, the desolation of the scene making her weep. There was a kiosk at the end of the street. Maybe he was there. Should she run out and check? But she’d promised him she’d stay on the line.
“I care, Kevin. Believe me, I care.”
“Then . . . just . . . s-t-a-y wi-with me, R-i-t-a. Don’t . . . leave . . . me. I . . . I don’t . . . don’t want to die . . . a-l-o-n-e.”
“I’m here, Kevin,” she said, trying not to weep, “I’m here. No, I won’t leave you. You’re doing fine. Everything’s going to be all right. I promise.”
“Thank . . . thaaank youuu.” His voice was barely audible. “It’s . . . it’s so . . . so c-cold in . . . here . . . soooo . . . ”
His voice faded.
His breathing ceased abruptly.
She heard the receiver fall.
“Kevin, Kevin . . . hold on.”
But her appeal went unheeded, filled instead by an eerie quiet where Kevin used to be.
“I love you, Kevin!” she cried down the line, knowing that she’d lost him. “You were always loved by people like me, even if you never realized it.”
She put the phone down, sobbing quietly, for both Kevin and herself; for she knew what it was like to live life as a victim and pass the days unlauded and unloved.
Brrrring brrrring . . . Brrrring brrring . . .
The phone was ringing again. No time to mourn. She wiped her tears. Picked up the receiver.
“Samaritans. May I help you?”
The sound of weeping. Female. A young girl, she guessed.
“It’s okay . . . I’m here to help . . . When you’re ready you can tell me all about—”
“H-He hit me.”
“I’m very sorry to hear that. Who hit you?”
“Stephen.”
Pause.
“Is Stephen your boyfriend?”
“No, he’s . . . he’s Mammy’s new boyfriend . . . H-He’s always hittin’ me.”
“That’s too bad . . . My name’s Rita. What’s your name?”
The Spinster Wife Page 10