Street Symphony

by Rachel Wyatt

  Posthumous betrayal could eat up your heart and soul and leave no place for life, the counsellor said. But that kindly woman with her comfortable chairs had no idea of the anguish, the one-sided raving arguments that, for the first months, had gone on in the night, often ending with a whimpered “I thought you loved me.” The frustration lay in knowing she could never throw a lamp at him and stomp out the door yelling, I’m leaving you! And that was the first betrayal: He was the one who had, in his sneaky way, left. Kissing her that morning as he set out for work, shouting over his shoulder that he’d decorate the tree that evening, he went and collapsed at his desk without a word of apology.

  “Don’t give up on life,” the books said. Well, she hadn’t. It was only at Christmas, his favourite season, that she replayed the tapes in her mind and indulged in this lonely vigil. “Gleams of joy” had truly become bright lights during the last two years at least. Her curling team was on a winning streak, she had enough money to make the trip to Bhutan, decent men now and then made offers to console her in her widowhood and, at the office, her promotion had long ago been validated.

  “Well, Joanne,” she said to the chair at the other side of the fireplace, “you’re gone. Dead or disappeared. Moved back to Australia, or did I say New Zealand? You weren’t really happy here.” Next year, yes, perhaps she would make the feast herself and invite her friends. It was time to let that old spirit back into the house, into her life. Forgive me, Darren’s ghost said. I could’ve been better, could’ve been worse. But I loved. I knew love. What more do you want?

  “You’re out of here,” she replied.

  The knock at the door startled her and she shrank back. It was too timely, too synchronized with her thoughts. The door opened. She stood up and waited for the apparition, the insistent spirit. Julie and Ted came in shouting, “Merry Christmas!” Julie began to say, “We left the others playing charades. I’ve brought pudding and mince pies and shortbread so we can have dessert with you and J –”

  Then they looked at her with “eyes like strange sins”, at the chair with a blue dress draped over it, at the untouched glass of wine, at the plate with a cracker and a piece of cheese on it. Eve sat back down and said, “She cancelled at the last minute.”

  Julie said, “You didn’t have to lie.”

  And Eve knew that Christmas would always come with great delight and wonder for those who believe. It would come for the greedy and the hungry and the unwilling alike. It was unavoidable. Christmases stretched ahead of her in a long line. Eighty-years old, she sat with Ted and Julie, all of them terribly sprightly for their age, chewing on turkey with their well-preserved teeth, and him putting his hand on her reconstructed hip in the kitchen while they slowly cleared up.

  Julie said again, “You didn’t have to lie.”

  Oh but I did. Choosing to be solitary at Christmas is seen as a perversion, a sign of depression or worse. It’s simply not allowed if you have friends, relatives, anyone who cares about you at all. Think of their guilt!

  “We’d begun to suspect.”

  “How did you get in?”

  “You gave us a key, remember?”

  “Come back with us.”

  “Stay,” Eve said.

  Julie said, “Okay. l’ll light the candles. You and Ted sort this stuff out.”

  Arranging the tarts and cookies on a plate, tasting the sweet richness of the pudding, she felt Ted’s hand on her shoulder, his Merlot breath on her cheek, and thought perhaps she had been right to opt out of the Great Season. On this day next year, maybe she’d help serve dinner at the shelter and then take off again for the place called elsewhere.

  “You’re an idiot,” Ted said.

  She let that stand as an explanation for the bare tree and the cousinly figment. She wasn’t going to betray Darren to anyone, ever. There was no good revenge in this scenario. Her friends hugged her when they were leaving. Eve thanked them for their kindness and their love, and said she was fine, just fine. Then she stood by the fireplace and looked at the fragile golden balls on the mantel. Darren’s grinning face was no longer reflected there, but in case it planned to return, she smashed them one by one with his granny’s toasting fork.

  The Companion’s Tale

  Shireen walked towards the baggage carousel and let Ms Conrad’s words pursue her like stones.

  “Stupid, stupid bitch. You abandoned my mother. You left her alone. She’s nearly ninety! They called me from Vancouver. And now I have to get over there. For Christ’s sake, Shy-reen. She’s paying you to travel with her. To travel with her!”

  It’s not enough. Was never enough! There isn’t the money.

  Mrs. Van Klees’s largest suitcase appeared. Shireen waited for it and then hefted it off the conveyor. It hurt her back once again.

  “It was not my fault,” she said. “They made her get off the plane because she wouldn’t pay for oxygen and they wouldn’t take the responsibility for her without it.”

  “You were responsible for Christ’s sake. You, Shy–reen!”

  People were staring at them.

  Ms C stopped yelling and said, ”Well look, here’s the address of the hotel.” Then, fortissimo, “But for Christ’s sake, I do not understand. You could have come on the ferry instead.”

  They were a bossy, yelling family, the Van Kleeses. They added to all the unpleasant noise in the world. Mrs. VK had been yelling at the flight attendant till a woman in an airline uniform came into the cabin and told her she had to wear an oxygen mask or deplane. So off the old lady went, huffing and puffing and trying to complain though her voice was tired now, croaky like a crow’s. Shireen had got up to follow, but the door had closed and the plane at last rolled along the runway and took off for Victoria.

  “There’s the other one.” Shireen took the smaller, expensive green leather suitcase and put it on the cart with its mate.

  “You go out there and get a cab. Take everything to the hotel, the Bestway on Waterfront, and we’ll sort this out when I get back.”

  “I have luggage too,” Shireen said, hanging on to dignity as best she could. She was determined to tread the high road and wished her shoes were more comfortable.

  “Urrrrgh.” With a growl, Ursula Conrad née Van Klees click-clacked off on her heels towards Security and Vancouver.

  Brought her over on the ferry indeed! As if the old lady would have allowed Shireen to change the set plans. As if Shireen knew where the ferry was. She’d had misgivings about accompanying Dora Van Klees all the way from South Africa to British Columbia via London, but she’d coped so far by being patient and holding her tongue, and had failed only in this last and shortest lap. It will be the trip of a lifetime for you. And you’ll maybe get a chance to go home to North Bay. That’s what Miriam and Jimmy had said after the fire and the problem with the insurance company. They made it sound as though she needed to leave the country for a while. And there was a bit of truth in that. But her chances of getting across Canada to Ontario were slim to zero at the moment.

  The “trip of a lifetime” had so far been a pattern of “Where’s my medication?” “Where are you?” “Where’s my green jacket?” The week in London, to which Shireen had looked forward so much, had passed by in a stream of visits to the homes of Van Klees relatives and friends. She’d seen the Palace and the parks and the Houses of Parliament and once the Tower, all from the back-seat windows of various cars. Kindly, she was included in all the plans, but she’d recognized this “kindness” as a way of ensuring that Mrs. VK was no one’s problem but hers.

  One afternoon, her employer had said, “If you want to wander round, Shireen, off you go. But be back by five for my injection.”

  Too tired to go far, she sat in Hyde Park and watched boats and ducks on the pond and then went to the Orangery for a quiet cup of coffee and a cake, pondering as she stuck her fork into the creamy bun whether she should have known better than to accept the job. Pandering to the wealthy had been all very well, a necessity even, in the d
ays of genteel old maids and elderly daughters of indigent vicars. She was none of those, simply the friend of a cousin of a cousin who’d worked for Dora VK in the past and said she was a sweetie pie and needed a travelling companion. On a Saturday at home, a fine Saturday, she would have… No, in fact, she wouldn’t have cleaned her apartment because it no longer existed. She shuddered when she thought of the charred remains of her life. Camping out with Miriam and her husband had been okay till Jimmy seemed to take a fancy to her, perhaps preferring her rounder shape to Miriam’s skinny body. Running away again, Shireen? That was her mother’s voice. And at the back of Shireen’s mind was the thought that should the frail old lady die here, she might stay in Canada, find a job and look for the man she’d left behind seven years ago.

  “Here you are,” the driver said, pulling into the driveway of the hotel. Mrs. VK was to stay at the Conrads’ house, and this then was the servants’ quarters. It could be all right. Through the lobby window, she watched a float plane glide along the surface of the sea and then heard the roar as it rose up into the air.

  So she was here, back home in the country she’d left in a mad desire to go far, far away from him and her sister and everything to do with them. And the money was hers by right, as they well knew. The cottage was likely still there. And the farm. Just two or three thousand miles from here, over the mountains, across the prairies, a hop, skip and jump. She sighed for the beauty of those childhood summers. Mother baking muffins, making pancakes. Mother telling her always to do the right thing. Mother’s ashes scattered on the lake.

  “Madam. Madam?”

  “Sorry. It’s been a long day – night. I came from London.”

  “We have a room for you. It’s ready now if you’d like to go up,” the smart young man behind the counter said, smiling as he gave her the plastic key card and asked if she needed help with the luggage.

  She wasn’t sure whether to take the green bags up to her room or leave them in the charge of the concierge. She decided to keep them with her; she’d lost their owner, better hang on to the stuff. The room was small but looked out on a scene from a calendar: red kayak, pale water, white sails, blue ferry bringing people most likely from Seattle. She waved to the seagulls and said, “I am free too.” Free for a couple of hours at least. She felt the bed and turned on the TV. It would be all right. The family would help with their mother/grandmother. The big celebration would go ahead. And like Cinderella, Shireen too would go to the ball. Caught up in preparations, they would forget that she’d left the old lady behind. Besides, it hadn’t occurred to Ms Bloody Conrad, when she was shouting her fool head off for all to hear in the airport, that security required a person to travel with her checked-in luggage. And that checked-in luggage contained the wedding gift. I was guarding the treasure.

  Ms Conrad and her mother and the oxygen tank would soon be flying over that narrow strip of water. Shireen lay back on the bed and dozed. It had been a truly exhausting ten days and such a long flight from London to Vancouver, Dora VK up front in Executive Class, herself in back sitting next to a large snoring man.

  “You’ll soon get used to my ways,” Mrs. VK had said when they met at her house in Johannesburg, and hadn’t bothered to enquire whether Shireen had any needs or ways of her own. The fact that Mrs. VK’s usual carer, Dina, had declined to accompany her on this exciting vacation should have told her something. At first Shireen had enjoyed listening to the old woman talk about her life in the theatre, her husband’s ambition, and admired her courage in making this long trip when she was only a breath away from the grave. Edward VK had taken her to one side the day before they set off, and said he knew that his mother could be a little demanding but the family really appreciated Shireen’s willingness to go with her. He, alas, was unable to go to his niece’s wedding – pressure of business in these difficult times. And he’d dropped a hint that his sister was not on his Christmas card list. Three times on the drive out to OR Tambo, he told Shireen that the credit card he’d given her was for emergency use only. Yes, she’d said, yes. At the airport, he’d waved goodbye and there she was with her charge in a wheelchair going through the security line, on her way back to Canada via the UK.

  To be fair, the old lady had shown some interest in Shireen’s life. That’s an unusual name. What’s that you’re reading? Did you say you used to work in retail? She tired easily and the answers weren’t interesting anyway. How to explain that she liked sci-fi and ghost stories? That she’d sold kitchenware, special expensive brands, until the disaster? Or that her mother thought the name had a lilting Irish sound to it? Shireen had to acknowledge to herself that the nursing aspect of the journey had grown on her. Was it too late to sign up for a medical career? Go back to school? The oldest in the lecture hall? Fall in love with a doctor, hands meeting over someone else’s heart?

  Prancing men with lion heads were blaming her. Long pointing fingers reached across a ribbon of water and poked her in the chest. The pain was acute. Old lady last seen begging on the street. “Criminal negligence,” a hundred voices yelled. Jail. Chain gang. “Lucky you have an honest face,” the lawyer said. Disgrace had caught up with her. “You’ll never get away with this,” the Mountie cried, letting loose his fierce giraffe. She was running, running…

  She woke up and shook herself. Looked at the time. She’d been asleep for more than an hour. Must sort her clothes out. Have a shower, be ready for the next angry onslaught from the daughter. She was hanging up the red gown she’d borrowed to wear at the wedding when she glanced at the TV and saw a “latest news” crawler creep across the lower edge of the screen: Passenger dies in Vancouver airport. Airline officials deny…

  Shireen couldn’t breathe. She began to cry. She had really and truly been fond of the old lady, demanding though she was. And Dora VK had looked forward so much to this visit with her daughter. Now the Conrads would be on her like vultures, and all this just before their daughter’s wedding. A funeral instead of a party. They would be righteous and right too. Back in South Africa, Jimmy and Miriam would hear about it and know that once more she had failed. She drank a glass of water and then another. And considered time.

  I am in a strange city, unknown except to the Conrads. I have to get out of here.

  She walked up and down the room and then lay on the floor breathing slowly in “thou foster child of”, then out “silence and slow time”: her usual calming mantra. After a few moments, her mind stopped its crazy whirl and she was able to think.

  John Conrad must be at work or he would have come to the airport to welcome his mother-in-law. Shireen washed her hands and face, and moved. She tipped all the stuff out of her shoulder bag onto the bed. The thousand Canadian dollars. The four thousand five hundred and eight rand. The return tickets dated August 15. The books. Mrs. VK’s Kindle. Mints. Pills. HandiWipes. The two passports. The two passports? Well, that no longer mattered. She reached into the inner pocket of her suitcase. There was the parcel that was to be part wedding gift, part investment. She tipped the shiny little treasures onto the bed. How much were they worth? Tens of thousands? Thousands of thousands?

  “We’ll put them in your bag,” Dora VK had said, implying that the customs people were less likely to search a cheap black suitcase than one with a costly logo. More likely to accuse a wealthy old woman of being a smuggler than a paid companion! Wait a minute! It came to Shireen as she stood there that she’d been used. Why had it only just occurred to her that if the diamonds had been found by the customs officers, she might now be in custody? Had she been a mule? Foreign jails were full of two-legged donkeys. Resentment took the place of sympathy. As she stood in the dock, would Dora Van Klees have come forward to say, She is innocent. Take me instead. I am close to death anyway? Very likely not! I am innocent. No you’re not, Shireen, they would say, and she’d be shut up somewhere on this island with never a visitor to bring her books and fruit.

  She picked up the diamonds and let them run through her fingers onto the bed. Littl
e bits of glass. Shards. Shiny tears. The second time she let them drop, two fell to one side. So small but giving back rainbow rays to the light. She held them in her palm and let them sit there before she slipped them into her pocket. She put the rest back and resealed the packet. The Conrads couldn’t have known how many there were. Did they even know about the diamonds at all? Or, come to that, the money?

  The envelope in the desk drawer was in no way big enough to hold everything. There was nothing for it but to part with her shoulder bag. Into it went one passport, one first-class return ticket, the Kindle, the medication, five hundred dollars, all but a few hundred rand, the diamonds. The bloody diamonds. That’s what they were. Blood-stained bits of mineral now.

  Slow down! Be careful. Think, Shireen! Is it right to run away? To run away again! Who is that woman in the mirror there? Thief? Coward? Adventurer?

  More tears came, along with a thought that she should stay and face the music, mourn the old lady properly and help clear up the chaos caused by her death. But they will hold me responsible!

  She called the front desk and told them she had to check out and would be leaving the room shortly. The charge could be put on the credit card they had: Ms Conrad’s. And she would like a taxi. Could they call one, please?

  The driver was reluctant to deposit two expensive-looking pieces of luggage and a shoulder bag on the front steps of the Conrads’ apparently empty house. Shireen assured him that her employers had insisted she do that. They would be home in a few moments. See, the address was on the label. It was arranged.