Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  Faces were shaping in the haze, voices forming within the spangle. Someone reached for her hand. For the first time, Georgia heard words and the sounds were deliciously familiar.

  “Come on,” they said, “you’re nearly home.”

  Georgia found her own voice. It was hesitant and very young, though very much her own. “Home? But I don’t want to go back,” she pleaded. “Not anymore. I’m dead, aren’t I? That’s what’s happened, isn’t it? Please don’t send me back.”

  “Oh no,” said a voice she knew so well but could not immediately place. “This is home now. In a way, it always was.”

  Chapter Two

  Dave sat by the window and looked out. He didn’t see the messy plop of the raindrops on the hydrangeas or their bounce onto the uncut lawn. He stared unseeing. He had chosen the window so that he would be left alone.

  The hesitant clink of china behind him signalled that Betsy had brought in the tea and was trying to maintain a respectful silence, passing out cups like secret diplomas, a nod of blonde curls and a wistful smile. He turned and took the cup she gave him. Through the steam, he confronted the two enormous breasts, straining against the outgrown black sheath. She nodded. He nodded. “Thanks.” Dave turned back to the window and the drizzle and the lower of the sky.

  So much dutiful black, the drifting scent of moth-balls, suits with the sheen of ancient patina, seams stretched. Whispers amongst the stirring of teaspoons, a smattering of biscuit crumbs and the handkerchief sniffs of Great Aunt Polly. Dave hunched into the chair and kept his barrier against condolences.

  Sophie stood in the kitchen and drank her coffee generously laced with whisky. All the old dears would smell it on her breath when they hugged her goodbye, but most of them would forgive her. The bereaved daughter, and therefore excused some small sins. Sophie watched the rain too, through the kitchen window, stainless steel sky over the stainless steel sink and its collection of dirty dishes. She had told Betsy she’d come in and start washing, but it wasn’t what she was doing. If they ran out of cups, then she could always unearth the chipped Faux-Minton.

  The drizzle had turned to sleet and a sudden whip-crack of thunder echoed from across the hills. “It was bright and sunny when my Arnold went,” said Mrs. Griffiths, taking two sugars. “Somehow never seemed right. Rain just fits better, doesn’t it?”

  “Georgia liked the rain,” nodded Betsy. “She wouldn’t mind.”

  Someone’s cousin said, “She’ll be watching, I reckon. I told Dave. She’ll be with you, old man, I said. Should be a comfort to you.”

  “Dave’s not religious though, is he?” said Mrs. Griffiths. “Won’t believe things like that. What’s gone is gone, far as he’s concerned. Well, that’s up to him after all.”

  Betsy eyed the scattered plates and their remaining sandwich triangles, crusts turning up at the corners like little fish tails, new caught and gasping. Most of the guests would hang around longer because of the weather but the biscuits were almost finished and the cake had long gone. “I don’t know what Dave believes. He’s only my neighbour after all. You should discuss that with Sophie.”

  “Oh well,” said the cousin, “he’ll be missing her, church or no church. They were married twenty years, and happy enough I suppose. Much as anyone can be.”

  “A fairy tale marriage they had,” interrupted Great Aunt Polly, wiping her nose and clutching the damp handkerchief between nervous fingers. “My David nursed her like a saint. And poor little Sophie, such a good girl. She was very close to her mother you know.”

  Everyone nodded again. “Such a tragic business. It’s a relief, in a way, that it’s over. Are there any sausage rolls left?”

  Sophie topped her coffee cup with more whisky, shoved the bottle back into the cupboard shadows, and wandered again into the living room. She saw her father huddled by the window and went in the opposite direction. Betsy passed her in the doorway with a tray of empty cups. “I’m sorry,” said Sophie. “I never got around to the washing up.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Betsy. “I’ll do it. Do you think I should make more coffee?”

  “No, don’t offer them anything else,” said Sophie, “or they’ll never go.”

  The hush of deferential reverence hung in layers like smoke, though Mrs. Griffith’s small son had the hiccups and was spilling his orange juice on the widower’s Axminster. “I’ll spread a few hints, if you like,” said Betsy. “Perhaps tell people I think you and your father need some time alone. Shall I?”

  The pelting sludge outside and the intermittent thunder created its own twilight. The guests moved with determination back into the warmth of the living room.

  “Dad’s already so morose,” murmured Sophie. “I don’t suppose it’ll make much difference to him, one way or the other. But I’d like to get off soon. Without Mum, this house is even more unwelcoming than usual.”

  “Well,” said Betsy with a sorrowful exhale, “it would be, wouldn’t it?”

  And that was really the whole point. Death was so sodding final. With humanity’s propensity for eternal hope, some more common horror, tragedy or dismal disappointment could always somehow, just perhaps and hopefully, be reversed in time. The misery could turn to happiness again and luck move in even where it had seemed eradicated. But not with death. It stopped the clock. There were no reversals. Some vital, living presence was wiped away completely and forever. The locked door. The utter negation of hope. The silence that shouts.

  Finally it stopped raining but the hydrangeas continued to drip their burden of raindrops onto the soggy lawn and the sky remained heavy.

  Georgia stretched and lay down on the long white bed. She had spent so long in bed, months of illness and all the bitter ache of physical pain. But this was vividly different.

  “Will you wake me, when it’s time?” she said.

  There was no sense of unwilling mattress, of impressions and lumps, distortions left by other occupants, of creased sheets or the ache of a pillow too high or too flat. The bed was simply a glove, feather sweet and fitting, arms of embracing safety. No blankets enveloped her but she was held. It was more cradle than bed.

  The man who called himself a doctor, laughed. “You’ll wake, when you’re ready.” He pointed to either side. “Look at the other sleepers. Some are deep in the haze. They’ll sleep for weeks. Some aren’t even really here yet. They might sleep for months. Others are bright. You can see their faces. They’ll be waking very soon.”

  “I don’t want to sleep for months,” said Georgia. “There’s my father and my grandmother waiting for me. I want to see them again as soon as possible.”

  “First you need to dream,” said the doctor. “And weeks, days, months – even years – these are words we use but they have very little meaning here. The dream is a cleansing of the subconscious. You’re very tired and need to wash all that past weight away. All that living business is so exhausting. You’ll feel wonderfully refreshed when you wake. You’ll see and hear more clearly. You’ll be more positively part of the new world.”

  Georgia felt the bed claim her, as if it wrapped love around her and cocooned her in silk. “But I’ve spent so long in hospitals,” she whispered. “Now I’m in another one.”

  “Oh, this isn’t really a hospital,” smiled the man, “and I’m not really a doctor. This is a Halfway House. Nearly everyone comes to one of these to begin with. We all arrive carrying so much worry and guilt and regret. That needs sleeping away. You’ll dream yourself back through most of the years of your past life and sort out anything unfinished.”

  Georgia sighed. “Oh, that. The last judgement,” she said. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”

  The doctor shook his head. “Not really. You’ll make some inevitable judgments as your mind runs through it all, but it’s coming to terms, rather than judging, that happens in the end. It can be a terrible burden, all that emotional baggage people bring over. So just whiz back through, iron it out a bit and only judge whatever you
want to. Self forgiveness can take longer. But you’ll wake up soon enough. Of course everything here somehow seems like soon. Time’s pretty much a game you see.”

  A deep drowsiness was enclosing her. “How do I know if I’ve judged the right way?” Her eyes were closing. The gleam of light was fading. A calm greenness crept around her.

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter, one way or the other.” The doctor’s smile hovered within the haze. “It’s just doing it that matters. And some of this isn’t dream time anyway. It’s just simple, heavenly sleep. And that’s the best of all.”

  The voice blurred and was gone. For a brief moment Georgia was aware of slow shapes, the trudge of the past. She saw the aisles of a dark church, the shadows on people’s faces, grainy, like an old photograph. There was Dave, staring into his lap. There was her daughter Sophie, reading something aloud, clutching at the pulpit. Then the shadows closed her out and her mind moved on. For one instant the dream brightened and the pretty sunbeams of lost days glistened through a high window and lit the cheekbones of a tall man pacing beneath. His face was wet, reflecting the sun across his skin as if he bled golden tears. The utter misery in his eyes tugged at her and she began to cry. She had never wanted to leave him. Then sleep took her utterly and the man was lost from view.

  Betsy was up to her dimpled elbows in bubbles and Dave watched her from the door into the hall. “If you find a tea towel,” he said, “I’ll dry.”

  “Well, it’s your house,” said Betsy. “You should know where the tea towels are. But these can just drain anyway. More hygienic in the end. Go and rest. I’ve nearly finished and then I’ll go and leave you in peace.”

  “I’m not sure I want to be alone,” said Dave. Sophie had gone already, no offers to stay and help clean up from that direction, no offers to keep him company either. Well – no surprises there. “You could make some more tea and wait a bit.”

  “I’m not sure,” said Betsy, “I could stay a little while I suppose, but Ralph’ll be home soon and I’ve got to get his supper. He was sorry he couldn’t take time off for the funeral, but you know my uncle. He’s always up to his ears in work.”

  Dave couldn’t care less about Betsy’s uncle, it was her he wanted. Betsy was so deliciously alive. The promise of all that pink flesh and polished skin. High, firm breasts and wide buttocks under tight skirts. The only time Georgia had breasts like that was when she was pregnant. And after months of dismal grey hopelessness and the endless smell of sickness, he longed to touch life again. The dying business had been such a long drawn out affair. Now he wanted to hug and press, feel and, especially, be held. He wanted, quite ridiculously, to fuck his ample neighbour. Not make love to. Forget love. No responsibilities, no hypocritical promises. He just desperately wanted to fuck someone living and warm and kind.

  “Stay just a bit,” said Dave. “I’ll make the tea myself. If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the past few months, it’s where the tea bags are kept.”

  “Well, go on then,” said Betsy. “You make a pot while I just nip next door and leave a note for Uncle Ralph.”

  And then, quite suddenly, Dave regretted the whole idea and knew he didn’t want to after all. He reached for the kettle, and then drew back. He shook his head. “Look, sorry. Maybe it’s not such a good idea. Maybe I’m better on my own for a bit. You go on home and don’t worry about me. It’s been good of you to sort the catering and all that. Well, you could see Sophie’s no good at any of that stuff. Besides, she’s got her own life to lead now. But I’m alright. I’ll see you around.”

  “Well, alright then,” said Betsy, stripping off the rubber gloves. “Perhaps I’ll pop around tomorrow and make you some lunch.”

  “I’d like that,” said Dave, though now he wasn’t sure he would. It didn’t matter anyway. Somehow nothing did.

  Upstairs the long wall of wardrobe glared back at him from its dust. Georgia’s room. He’d slept in the spare bedroom for ages while she was ill, and now the intimacy that had once been his own, seemed unnaturally cold. Endless bottles of pills still crowded the little table. Her clothes hung forlorn, dreary slump shouldered things, unworn for so long. Drawers, full of her underwear and woollens. Dull old cardigans with moth holed elbows. Dull old memories, as moth eaten as everything else.

  He didn’t want to touch Georgia’s things. He didn’t want to tidy her out altogether. He would insist that Sophie did it after all.

  Dave sat heavily on the edge of the bed and tried to remember Georgia’s face and eyes and touch, and didn’t really see anything. The bed had been stripped and was now just a flattened, dribble stained quilt over a lumpy old mattress. He thought about Georgia when he’d first known her, young and glowing and energetic, and how they’d walked long holidays together and he’d talked a lot and she’d kept smiling and saying yes, so he’d accepted they must have a lot in common and decided to fall in love.

  Of course, things had drifted fairly soon afterwards but that’s what you expected out of marriage, with love turning first into companionship and then inevitable irritation. But he was sorry, really awfully sorry, now that she’d gone. Even nursing her had been a friendly sort of business, staving off loneliness.

  The years of separate holidays had probably not been such a good idea after all. The proof of our trust, he’d told the family. Nonsense of course. Georgia had become passionate about Tuscany and gone flitting off to Italy with various different girlfriends several times a year. God, all those endless cathedrals and museums and hillside vineyards. It had left him free to take his own breaks with his mates, Mallorca and the Algarve, and not a cathedral or museum on the roster. Fishing and golf, they’d all told their wives. Cheap booze and illicit sex had been the truth, with all those willing young tourists eager to giggle in the back seat of the hire car or share a motel room away from parental policing.

  Georgia had gone off sex anyway, and it seemed fair to get it somewhere else. He’d never felt guilty. He’d tried to be a good husband the rest of the time, whatever that meant. Well, the monthly salary and occasionally drying the dishes. Of course, Georgia had been hard work sometimes, but perhaps all women were. Silly moods and far away looks, moaning on about never going to the pictures or out to dinner. Well, for goodness sake, they had nothing to talk to each other about at home, why stare in silence over a silly restaurant table and pay for a couple of lettuce leaves and a trickle of ketchup? She kept expecting something of him without ever having the sense to really explain what it was she expected. She said he didn’t understand. Well, that had been true enough. What the hell could you do when you didn’t have the faintest idea what it was you weren’t doing? But all that had stopped when the cancer was diagnosed and they’d grown a bit closer again. Perhaps if she’d got better, they’d have had a chance to improve things. Or maybe not. Life did that – make you want things only after it was too late. So, hardly his fault, after all.

  Her dressing gown hung on the back of the bedroom door in purple shadows. It was soft and warm and Dave imagined her gentle curves expanding its folds. He smiled, reached, and picked up the cup from the table beside the bed. It hadn’t been washed since Georgia had drunk from it, the last trickles of medicine still sitting sticky like minute crystals in the bottom. He held it gently, as if it were precious, and gradually lifted it to his face. He smelled it, as if something of her might still linger there. But even the medicine had lost its scent. He ran his finger around the rim, where her lips had been. But no trace of her remained. He carried the cup down to the kitchen and dumped it in the sink.

  Georgia’s dreams led her down the passages of the years, gold threads and chiffon regrets. Her memory stumbled over the mistakes, lingering over both the worst and the sweetest moments. She held her daughter again through the whispering baby months, and then chose to hold her again during adulthood, although in life this was something she had rarely done, and should have. She saw Dave, and passed him by. She would go back to that in another dream. It would all be faced, bef
ore she woke.

  She discovered Romano standing in the small grove behind the house, on the lower steps. The Cypress cut a straight shadow across his face like a bruise. He had been thinking about her and that brought her the path to follow, like Hansel’s trail of breadcrumbs. Georgia crawled into his arms and smiled, but he didn’t feel her. She tried to touch, reaching her glimmering fingers to his damp cheek. She murmured, consoling and loving. But he did not know she was there.

  Chapter Three

  His shelter had collapsed. He had been unconscious for too long and so had not mentally maintained it. When Primo awoke he found the walls crumbled and the sky, like an admonishing conscience, peering in upon him.

  Many of the birds had stayed. On a small heap of fading timbers, the harpy sat, preening her primary flight feathers. A bevy of twittering was behind his head, the sleek scarlet of a long plumed tail beside his cheek. Primo yawned, resetting his jaw, which seemed askew. He was resting on duck down. They had laid it for him. It was, as usual, perfectly sunny and the day’s energy was not diminished by his injuries. He stretched very carefully, aware of possible contortions, dislocations or breakages, and sat up.

  Gradually the birds dispersed, seeing he had regained conscious essence. As Primo carefully felt for the healing rips in his face, there were only three birds remaining, the harpy, who considered him her mate, a macaw who was snoozing, and an absent minded hornbill who had forgotten where else she had originally wanted to go. Primo scratched the hornbill’s crest. She shifted, ruffled, and settled to brood. Primo got up.

  He had, predictably, woken to agonising pain. Equally predictably, drearily so, he knew that in spite of the hurt and the severe injuries, he was destined to survive. There was no question anymore regarding survival, something he had once cared about, but would now rather have reversed. But then, had he the power to reverse it and therefore somehow manufacture another death, he would simply end up in the after-life anyway, which was exactly where he already was.