by Stephen May
And she picked up the gramophone and threw it in after him. And after that she threw the rolls, the pâté and the ham, the plates, the knives, the rucksack itself.
‘Six hundred quid that gramophone cost me.’
It was later, back in her office, Russell’s clothes on the radiator filling the room with the rich scent of warm river mud, and he was under a towel moaning. Sarah always kept a towel in her office just in case. It was part of being organised, a grown-up. Other just-in-case things she had in the office included dressmaking scissors, cotton, tights, an evening dress, posh shoes and a bottle of brandy. He was sipping at a small glass of it now.
She asked him how he’d thought she’d react. He gave a hostile look like a mutinous schoolboy caught writing rude words on the blackboard.
‘I want you, Sarah. I need you. I do.’
‘I’m pregnant, Russell. I’m married to your oldest friend. You were the fucking best man.’
‘I know. But still . . .’
‘But still? You are fucking insane.’
‘That wedding made me sad, Sarah. Those dweebs in cheap suits. Those fat birds getting pissed on pinot noir.’
‘My friends, my sisters . . .’
‘You going back to that desperate hotel for your honeymoon.’ He took a swig of his drink. Made a face. The big baby. ‘I just think you are worth more. I could give you more. A lot more. And the baby.’ He stopped, rubbed his hand through his hair. Looked sadly at the mud and slime that had transferred from his hair to his palm. ‘All the time I was doing that speech, I kept thinking it should have been me not him.’
He told her how he’d gone back to the US after the wedding, how he’d tried to settle back into his life but how she was always with him. Haunting him. Stopping him sleeping. Stopping him focusing on his work, making him think about what was really important.
‘And you decided that fucking up the lives of your friends was what was really important?’
‘No, I decided that happiness was what was really important.’
She sighed. She made them both a cup of tea. He asked her not to tell Nicky. She refused. Said she was definitely going to tell him. It was the first thing she was going to do when she got home. ‘You just hate him being happy,’ she said. ‘I bet you’ve always tried to take things off him.’
‘That’s bollocks.’
‘You’re jealous of him.’
‘I am now, yes. And it’s a weird feeling.’
‘I bet you’ve always been jealous of him.’
The last thing he said was that he always got what he wanted in the end, and she should remember that. And he squelched off in his still damp clothes, his sodden brogues. He didn’t look back.
And pretty soon it all felt like a daft dream. Like he’d never really been in her office at all. And that’s probably why she didn’t tell Nicky. Not that night. Or the next one, and then of course it was somehow too late to say anything at all. It would look weird that she’d held back. And when the year moved on until it was time for Russell’s birthday again and the tickets didn’t come for the flight to San Francisco like they usually did, she still didn’t say anything.
And when she saw how puzzled Nicky was when his texts and emails weren’t answered – how hurt he was – she still didn’t say anything. And then two, three years go past until this year the invitation does come with the usual business-class air tickets, sent as an attachment to a cheery email, just as if nothing had changed. As if there had never been a break in the birthday tradition. Nicky is really made up and Sarah hasn’t the heart to say she doesn’t want to go. All she says is, ‘But he’s just such an arse.’
‘I know,’ says Nicky happily. ‘I know.’
And so now it turns out that, weirdly, Russell does get what he wants. In a way. She’s going to be Mrs Knox after all. If he’d had a sense of humour he might have laughed at how things have turned out.
Rich people don’t laugh much though, do they? It’s one of the things they trade for jet-set perks like being able to sit close to the action at ball games, or decorate offices with original pre-Raphaelite art. Sarah is inclined to think the price is too high.
Thirty
POLLY
‘Completely irresponsible.’ Irina is enjoying this, Polly can tell. Righteous anger has given her a glow, some new energy. She’s feeling a bit alive right now. She looks quite pretty too, which Polly has never noticed before. She should get annoyed more often maybe. ‘You know poor Mr Fisher was in the taxi for over an hour. He went all over town many, many times. It cost him over twenty pounds and by the time he found his way here, he was very distressed.’ She pauses. ‘And, also, when he came in he woke everyone up because he couldn’t work his key. Poor Stanley had to spend ages making everyone calm down.’ Stanley was the caretaker/handyman who sometimes acted as a kind of concierge during the nights at Sunny Bank.
There’s silence. ‘What have you to say, Polly?’
‘Sorry, I guess.’
‘Sorry, you guess? That’s it? That’s all?’
‘What do you want me to say, Irina?’
‘I want you to say a proper sorry. And then I want you to promise me that it will never ever happen again. Also, Polly, what the fuck was Mr Fisher doing at your house? Most unprofessional.’
This is too much. ‘But I’m not a professional, Irina, I’m a volunteer, remember.’
Irina purses her lips. Her eyes narrow. She doesn’t look pretty any more, Polly decides. ‘That’s irrelevant.’
But Polly hates rows, so she says, ‘Irina. I messed up. I’m sorry. Can we put it behind us? Just, you know, move on?’
She sees Irina consider this. And then reject it. ‘No. Sorry Polly, but I just can’t let it go. I must make an official report.’
Polly almost laughs. Who will she make a report to?
‘Well, this is so serious it is almost a matter for the police, I think. It’s a kind of abuse, Polly.’
Really? What, going for a pint or three with an old geezer?
‘He’s a grown-up, Irina. He’s not a child.’ She makes an effort to keep her voice soft. She keeps her eyes fixed on the carpet. The worn, dirty, dingy carpet.
‘He’s ill, Polly. He has a serious disease. And you went drinking with him and then you left him to get home on his own.’
Polly thinks that if she had a serious disease she might want to go drinking all the time. If she had a serious disease, then she might chase any scrap of adventure going.
‘Are we done now?’ This is the rudest Polly has ever been to anyone. At school she never really got in trouble. Kept her head down, tried her best. With her friends, she’s a listener not a talker, certainly not an arguer. Not a fighter.
Irina takes a deep and noisy breath. ‘No, not quite Polly. I think you shouldn’t spend so much time with Mr Fisher. In fact maybe you should deal more with our long-term patients.’
The cabbages, Polly thinks. She wants me to babysit the cabbages. ‘And I want you to be more involved in the day-to-day running of Sunny Bank.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I mean, taking a turn preparing food, serving food, cleaning up. The basic stuff.’
‘I’m a volunteer, Irina.’
‘But still . . . you are meant to be serving others. You’re not meant to be here for your own self.’
Now Polly takes a breath. ‘Fuck you, Irina.’
‘Fuck you too, Polly.’ And so at last they are saying the things they really want to say. And Polly says she’s quitting and Irina says she isn’t, she’s being sacked. And Polly says how can she be sacked when she is A VOLUNTEER and can’t Irina get that into her thick skull? And Irina says volunteers can still be sacked and Polly says no, they can’t. They can quit but they can’t be sacked. And Irina says that’s crap. And this goes on for a while until they stand panting, looking at each other. And Irina says, ‘You know, I really liked you, Polly. I even thought you might have a future in care management.’
And
Polly thinks that’s a shame because I never really liked you. And you can stuff your care management. But she doesn’t say anything. And Irina says, ‘I feel let down.’
And Polly knows she has to say something. ‘There, there,’ she says flatly, and Irina looks like she’s had her face slapped and Polly thinks that’s good. Serves her blinking well right. But on her way out of Sunny Bank she feels a bit shit. All the anger leaves her and she feels shaky. She feels like crying and she almost turns round to go back and beg Irina to keep her on when she bumps into Daniel. He’s looking very smart in a blue suit she hasn’t seen before.
‘Oh, hello, you,’ he says. ‘I hoped you’d be in. I just wanted to say thank you. I had a brilliant time the other night. Haven’t had a jolly up like that in ages.’
‘Really? You had a good time?’
‘Yes, of course. I had a great time. Didn’t you?’ He sounds surprised she should even ask.
‘Well, I think I got a bit drunk.’
‘My dear, you were maybe the teensiest bit squiffy.’
‘Squiffy?’
‘OK – you were completely and utterly trolleyed. But in the most charming and amusing way. And everyone needs to cut loose sometimes.’
‘But Irina . . . she said – what about getting lost?’
‘Oh, well it did take a while to get back, that’s true – but Roger, the cabbie chap, he was very good about it. He didn’t mind really, the meter was running. Easy money for him, especially with the tip I gave him. And we got here eventually. Of course, old Stan made a bit of a song and dance about it. Until I stopped his mouth with gold as well.’
‘What?’
‘I slipped him a few quid. He shut up sharpish then. So no harm done. No, it was a thoroughly splendid night out and I was thinking we should do it again as soon as poss. What’s wrong?’ He’s seen her stricken face. Polly explains. She’s quit. She’s fallen out with Irina, she won’t be back. Daniel is silent for a moment. And then he asks her to come along with him to his room, he wants to show her something.
Daniel’s room doesn’t look like many others in Sunny Bank. Other rooms are cluttered with overlarge furniture, knick-knacks and momentos, glass snails, pottery animals, graduation photos. Daniel’s room has a single bed against one wall, a small fold-out table against another with a solitary IKEA chair tucked under it’s one extended leaf. He has a TV and a battered leather armchair and that’s it. There are two pictures, both slightly wobbly watercolours. Pretty good. Really good actually, but not done by a professional. Polly doesn’t know much about art, but she knows proper professionals don’t really use watercolours any more.
One of the pictures is of a handsome middle-aged woman smiling but in a way that seems uncertain, as if she isn’t sure what’s going to happen next and whatever it is, she’s not sure she’s going to like it. Polly guesses that the woman is Susan. The other painting is of a particularly fine-looking horse, a sheer black Murgese stallion, Polly guesses, giving the painter a frank stare. I know you, he seems to say. I know all about you.
‘Who’s that?’ she asks.
Daniel smiles. ‘Ah, now that is Mr X. I know you shouldn’t have favourites but of all the horses we had, he was a bit special.’
‘I didn’t know you had horses.’
Daniel’s smile wavers a little. ‘Really? I’m sure I said.’
‘Maybe you did.’
In her time at Sunny Bank Polly has discovered that one of the things about dealing with people with chronic memory problems is that you assume that it’s always them doing the forgetting and the getting things wrong, when quite often it’s the staff or the volunteers. People forget stuff. All people. Particularly if they weren’t listening to the stuff in the first place. But she’d have remembered about the horses, wouldn’t she?
Daniel’s room smelt different to other rooms too. It didn’t really smell of old people. It didn’t smell of boiled sweets, Shake N Vac and milk. Instead it smelt of freshly baked bread. Daniel liked to make his room welcoming and so often warmed rolls in the oven. Sometimes he even ate them when they’d done their main job. If he remembered.
There was fresh air in his room too. Daniel had the window open and that was unusual in itself in Sunny Bank. Most of the residents here liked to shut themselves in, to cocoon themselves in central heating.
Polly feels oddly uncomfortable. She’s been in here many times. They’ve played draughts and cards. They’ve watched the Six Nations rugby in here together. Drunk beer from cans and yelled encouragement as big men crashed into each other. Daniel taught her what a knock-on was in this very room, but now it seems to have shrunk somehow.
‘Yes, I’ve always loved riding. So did Susan. We were members of a polo club actually for a while. But Nicky didn’t like horses, he was scared of them, and then Susan got ill and with my job taking me all over the place we just couldn’t keep it up. They’re a lot of work, horses.’
‘Tell me about it.’
‘Yes, of course. You’ve had horses too, haven’t you?’
See, he’s remembered her horse stuff and he’s got a hole in his head. Polly is feeling tired now and wants to be at home. A bath, she thinks. Then some time on the internet, see what’s out there. Write some reviews maybe. It would be brilliant to become a top-thousand reviewer on Amazon, wouldn’t it? That would be a real achievement.
‘You were going to show me something.’
‘Oh, yes. But now I’ve got you here, I’m not sure . . .’ He trails off and Polly is irritated, she can’t actually be bothered with this right now. She hasn’t got time to be coaxing anyone.
‘Oh, come on, Daniel,’ but then she thinks she’s been too snappy, so she says, ‘I’m all intrigued now.’ And she puts her hand on his arm. He seems to start, as if he’d been thinking of something else entirely and she’s tugged him back into the present.
‘Er, yes, right, well,’ and he goes into the little kitchenette and she can see him take down a piece of paper fastened to the fridge behind a little yellow sun. A magnet, Polly guesses.
He comes back out. It is a leaflet, one that is all words and no pictures. THE HOMECARE OPTION. That’s the headline. Polly looks at him closely as she takes it.
‘Probably not practical . . .’ he starts.
‘Shush, Daniel, let me read it properly . . .’ and she sits down on the arm of the chair.
‘Gosh, you are being forceful today.’
‘Sorry,’ she says but she doesn’t lift her eyes from the paper.
‘Oh, don’t apologise. I like it,’ he says.
The leaflet is all about how families can earn extra money taking an elderly person into their home. It’s like fostering, adoption even, but for pensioners rather than for kids. She reads it carefully and then goes over it again.
‘I just thought . . .’ He breaks off.
Polly looks up at him, then down at the leaflet again. She doesn’t know what to say.
‘Like I say, probably out of the question, but I just thought that . . .’ He stops again. He smiles. ‘Gosh this is hard, like asking for a date.’
Bit more than a date, but she doesn’t say anything. She’s thinking Come on, Daniel, spit it out. But she says nothing.
‘You’re not making this easy.’
‘I’m sick of making things easy, Daniel.’ And, as she says it, she knows it’s true. She’s always made things easy. Easy for teachers, easy for friends, easy for boyfriends, easy for her mum. Easy for her managers. She even made it easy for her dad to sell most of the horses and then fuck off with Lavinia fucking Macleod. And Lavinia had been her babysitter when she was small. And she’d always made things easy for her then too. Didn’t play up. Put on her jimjams, cleaned her teeth, took the wooden hill to Bedfordshire as soon as she was told to. Put the light out and everything. Lay there in the dark listening to Lavinia downstairs fix herself snacks and drinks and then snort at Roseanne on the telly. Maybe if she’d been a bit more of a brat then Lavinia would have thought twice a
bout stealing her dad. It’s a possibility anyway. Polly has always made things easy for other people, hard for herself. Well, it’s going to stop now.
‘Yes, well . . .’ Daniel takes a breath, wanders back into the kitchenette. Mumbles something.
‘I can’t hear you, Daniel.’
‘I just said that this place costs a fortune and I’d rather give my money to people I like, that’s all. And I get on well with your mum.’
‘I don’t know, Daniel, I’ll have to ask her. I think she’ll be freaked out.’
‘Well she sort of suggested it actually. She gave me the leaflet anyway.’
Polly stares at the carpet. It could do with a hoover, but so could everywhere at Sunny Bank. Not really the cleaners’ fault, they’re just a grubby lot, the old. Always shedding bits of food, hair, teeth.
She is certain that she has to say no. She even opens her mouth to say this when Irina bangs into the room without a by your leave.
She ignores Daniel, just stands there, hands on hips, lips curling, sneering, spitting nasty words in Polly’s direction.
‘You still here? Leave now please. Right this minute. Or I really will call the police.’
Polly sighs. But at least that’s a decision made for her. ‘Come on then, Daniel,’ she says. ‘Your stuff won’t pack itself, will it?’
And so that’s Irina nicely stubbed out.
Thirty-one
NICKY
We are lounging separately on our absurdly super-sized sofas, the pink one for Sarah, the electric-blue one for me, and we are watching sport. For those with time on their hands televised sport is a total boon. I never much liked sport as a kid. My dad did, so that might be why it never appealed to me. Rugby, that was his big thing.
I did get into Test cricket as a student. But that’s not really sport as such. Five days of not very much ending in a draw. It’s like contemporary experimental theatre more than anything. I’ve always been drawn to an absence of drama I think. Even in drama. Consider my favourite playwright after Shakespeare – Beckett. The man with the most inventive ways of saying and doing nothing. Only trouble with Beckett is that the plays aren’t long enough. Test cricket at its best is five days of Endgame and what could be better than that? Russell liked sport. He liked it all. Motor racing that was his favourite. F1 on the muted telly. Punk rock on the stereo. Cider in his hand. Bilkofest still to come in the evening. Russell’s perfect Sunday back in the day.