September Starlings

by Ruth Hamilton

  Benjamin Starling is here in this house, so I must not let the bubble of self-centred guilt rise up. I must go and see to his breakfast, paint on a smile, be happy. Yes, I’ll do all that in a minute.

  We had our honeymoon in Skegness, bundled the children into the car, deposited them at Anne’s house, then went off to find a boarding house on the other side of the Pennines. It took a while to pick out the right place. People must have thought us weird, because we pressed our noses against a dozen windows before we found what we wanted. She stood in the hallway of the Shoreside Haven, wrap-around pinnie, arms folded, a turbaned scarf failing to hide the curlers. Mrs Hyatt was her name. She was terrifying, of a breed that had begun to die out in Blackpool.

  Ben was courteous, as always. He wanted a double room for six nights, plus full board with HP Sauce, the Daily Mirror and a gingham tablecloth. She didn’t do papers. ‘I don’t do papers,’ the dinosaur said.

  ‘This isn’t the Park Lane,’ I advised him gently.

  ‘Then I shall manage without my newspaper,’ he said gravely.

  His humour was infectious, virulent. The bed did not squeak, so he loosened a few springs, tested the tone until he achieved what he chose to identify as middle C. According to him, ‘Air On A Bed Spring’ should be played on everyone’s wedding night. The next day, my disgraceful husband sat for two whole hours on the beach in a string vest, knee-length swimming trunks, flippers. And he wore a knotted handkerchief on his head. He was getting into the swing of it, he said, was becoming a comic figure from a postcard. Skegness was not ready for him, had become too sedate. But I was not sedate and I was ready for that lovely man.

  This bed is vast, king-sized. Entombed in its barren acres, I miss the squeaks and I feel like a pea on a drum, a pimple on the moon’s cold surface. Perhaps I should buy another, a single bed for a single woman. No, I’ll never be single in Benaura. What a name that is! He manufactured it, of course, took one syllable from Benjamin, two from Laura. ‘It’s daft,’ I said. He had prepared an answer. For him, it almost translated into ‘bene’ and ‘atmosphere’, implying that our house is surrounded by a halo of goodness. Has it been extinguished, then? Ben, Ben, my poor, sweet, gentle man.

  As soon as the curtains are opened, I smell rain and feel the wind rushing across the creaking leaded window. Weather can be shut out now by a second sheet of plain glazing, costly interior panes supplied by some company in Speke. The rep did not understand my desire to hold on to the frail lights, but I studiously resisted his photographs of patio doors in pale-brick dormer bungalows, of square pebble-dashed semis with sturdy plastic bays that were ‘a dead ringer for mahogany’.

  After a quick wash in the en suite so-called master bathroom, I make up my face. Sometimes, when he isn’t here, I loll about in Jodie’s old cast-offs, frayed jeans, long sweaters that almost cover my knees, then ankle boots or, if the climate is friendly, those thonged sandals called Jesus-wellies. But today, I pat my face dry, apply moisturizing foundation, blusher, lipstick, a greyish shadow that emphasizes my irises, still clear and blue after fifty-odd years. The ‘odd’ doesn’t matter – half a century is enough, a reasonable number at which to stop counting.

  I have kept my hair long, because Ben loves flowing tresses on a woman. All the fashion magazines insist that ladies of mature years should have short hair, but what do they know? The comb catches in a knot, twangs its teeth while breaking free. Perhaps those women’s weeklies are on the right track after all. Tresses is definitely the wrong word. Wires might be nearer the mark, because my hair has toughened over the years and with various treatments, some performed by an effeminate and very pleasant young man called Adrian, others delivered in a hospital and against my better judgement. Still, they saved my life, I have to admit grudgingly. But my once healthy mop has faded to a salt-and-pepper blonde that performs cruel dentistry on many a comb.

  I pull on my French navy suit, a good jersey wool with a scooped neck and elbow-length sleeves. A pearl choker hides the slight creping at the throat, while a quick dab of Chanel does its best to lift my spirits. She will be here shortly. She will stand on my doorstep with her back to the sea and she will make me know my guilt, my inadequacy.

  It is not my fault, I tell myself firmly, noting yet another worn patch on the stair carpet. It is a beautiful staircase with three turns and two small landings partway up. We bought the big, draughty house for its stairs and for an ill-treated fireplace in one of the living rooms. We have been kind to the fireplace, have released it from its prison of paint and Formica. My cat has not been kind to the staircase, though. He has sharpened his claws on the carpet and on some finely carved rails.

  It is not my fault. A chap called Alois Alzheimer messed about with brain tissue in 1907. He left his findings and his name for posterity, so my husband suffers not from senile dementia, but from Alzheimer’s disease. I am twenty years younger than Ben and, until lately, I have been robust. But during my own recent illness, Ben has slipped even further away from reality. My sin is that I did not notice, was too wrapped up in my fear. Now, he is … he is almost gone from me. I shouldn’t have been ill. Even if I’d allowed myself an illness, I should have kept an eye on him. And the dragon’s on her way again. She will look at me and she will think that I am uncaring, self-indulgent, a feeble-minded and ageing bimbo who hides behind face powder and good clothes.

  Ben is in his room. He may be sleeping, may be rambling. Worse by far than the confusion are those rare moments of clarity when his eyes blaze triumphantly and he knows me. ‘Laura,’ he says. ‘I do love you.’ Inside, I bleed for the man I adore, for the stranger who had five decades apart from me, before me. I arrived late in the life of Benjamin Charles Starling and we have not discussed our separate pasts. Instead of reminiscing and indulging in unsavoury anecdotes, we made a pact, threw ourselves into what was probably a near-perfect marriage, total trust, abiding love and close friendship. Dear God, help me to bear this sorrow, broaden my shoulders and dry my stupid female eyes. This is a Sunday, but You are here, not just in churches where people bend and scrape and show off a new hat.

  The kettle whispers, simmers, bubbles and boils. I brew his tea thick and strong, using loose tea from the tin marked YORKSHIRE. No perforated bag for Ben, just honest-to-goodness leaves, one sugar and a splash of milk. I think he must have lived for a while in Leeds or Halifax or somewhere over the Pennines, this wonderful man whose English is too perfect. Tea mashed and stewed the Yorkshire way has been his favourite beverage.

  Handel eyes me lugubriously, whiskers to attention as he waits for his dollop of catfood. Cats are supposed to be friendly when hungry, but he remains cool, offhand, paralysed by laziness. A psychologist once told me that laziness does not exist, that those who sit and wait for life to happen are suffering from lack of motivation. He never met my cat. I feed the monster, toss a bone outside for his partner in crime, a big soft dog who makes the mistake of loving and trusting all humans. The psychologist never met him, either.

  The sea is wind-tossed, angry waves vying for position as the tide forces its urgent way up the Mersey’s throat. The Vikings landed here, settled in Crosby, Thornton, Blundellsands. Had they arrived today, those ridiculous horned helmets might have provided some protection from elements whose anger is far from decorous, certainly unjustified. The holiday season, and the beach is as empty as Anfield when the lads are playing away. The Vikings might cheer things up a bit – even a bit of pillage would break the monotony. It could be reported in the Crosby Herald – ‘HORNED MAN BREAKS INTO LIFEBOAT STATION, STEALS PETTY CASH’. That would make a change from the usual shoplifting. The porridge is ready, the tray is set. I place a yellow rose in a narrow glass. On my second wedding day, I carried yellow roses.

  For twenty-one years, I have asked no questions. Now, as I ponder and worry my way through lonely nights, I accept that there can be no complete answers. He is a good man. His illness makes him no less a person, though I allowed myself to be considerably diminish
ed by a disorder from which I emerged intact. So I am now less than I was. Dr Ashby echoes again in my head. ‘You have not failed! Whatever you’d done, he would have deteriorated. And you’ve been ill, girl.’ Dr Ashby has no idea. Ben saved me years ago, took my life in his hands and held it like a piece of porcelain, protected me from all harm. And when he needed me, I was not here for him.

  Why didn’t I ask? Now, I find myself wondering constantly, dwelling on the subject of Ben’s beginnings. Where did he come from, this foreigner with an accent that is almost BBC circa 1950? I remember those commentators, all rounded vowels and clipped consonants, have read the famous stories of dress suits and bow ties for men, elegant dresses and straight seams in fully-fashioned stockings for ‘ladies’ who talked on the wireless. Yet Ben has failed, but only just, to reach Home Service standards. Each syllable of Ben’s is awarded almost equal stress, so he is probably European. I have been touched to the point of tears by his need to belong in this, his chosen country. If any of our friends has noticed Ben’s quaint speech, then he or she has held back query and opinion, just as I have. There was something in my husband’s eyes, a look that seemed to beg, ‘Don’t ask.’

  She rings the doorbell, and I dash like a timid schoolgirl who is late for registration. Running makes me breathless, reminds me of my weakness. Slowly, slowly, the doctors said. I press my palms flat against the door, breathe deeply through my nose, exhale through my mouth. I am recovering, convalescing after surgery, emerging from a breakdown that was ghastly. I don’t know which was worse – the physical pain or the emotional collapse. But I won’t panic. And I won’t panic about nearly panicking just a moment ago. I’m in charge, coping.

  I open the door. A dark grey raincoat is unbuttoned over a dress of royal blue whose seams have faded beneath the weight of an assiduous iron. A badge proclaims her status, announces to the world that she is a fully-fledged nursing sister. On her rigid bosom, an upside-down watch dithers in time with her asthmatic respiration. ‘Cold,’ she mutters.

  The tang of heavy smoking hangs around her. She must take the inhalations without using her hands, because the fags have stained her moustache a darker yellow on the left side. Yes, I can imagine her labouring over a patient, filter-tip clenched between nicotined incisors. ‘Not exactly summery,’ I reply. ‘Shame about those on holiday in Southport.’

  ‘Never had time for holidays, myself,’ she announces, her tone harsh. ‘All you get from holidays is sore skin and a pile of rubbishy photos. Waste of effort and money.’

  God, what I’d give for a fortnight in the Bahamas among healthy, strong people … Selfish again. She thinks I’ve been having a beano, dashing round and socializing while my husband languishes. ‘I had to go away, Nurse Jenkinson. It was unavoidable – business, you see.’

  She grunts, runs her muddy eyes over my thinning body. ‘What you need is a good dose of vitamins and three squares a day.’

  ‘Yes.’ I am meek again, and the meekness infuriates me.

  She passes me, jabs her brolly into the stand as if impaling an opponent on a skewer. ‘Is he awake?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve just made his breakfast. It’s on the tray in the kitchen.’

  She makes a great business of looking at her watch, long-sightedness forcing her to narrow the strange green eyes. ‘He needs his breakfast earlier than this, Mrs Starling. When he goes back to Heaton Lodge tomorrow, he will be out of his routine and that will cause problems.’

  I pretend to study my hands, because I know that this woman resents my manicured hands. Almost every week, Adrian does what he calls ‘a French job’, managing somehow to imply naughtiness in the term. But he simply paints the nails a natural pink, then whitens their tips. ‘Ben will be here until Tuesday morning,’ I reply, trying not to gloat over the small mistake. Nurse Jenkinson is always right. Nurse Jenkinson never forgets a schedule. ‘It’s a bank holiday.’ I look straight at her. ‘And you don’t need to come tomorrow. I shall see to him.’

  ‘But you can’t.’ She is speaking to a fool whose mantle of bravado is clearly slipping. I have not changed a nappy since my youngest child was two years old. But the stubbornness persists. ‘I am quite capable of looking after my own husband.’

  Her tongue clicks quietly as she rejects the lie. ‘I shall come tomorrow, as Mr Starling is on my list of regulars. Later, we shall decide what to do about his weekends.’

  Lists. She probably makes lists for everything, probably keeps an input and output chart on her own visits to table and bathroom. ‘As you wish.’ I step aside as she claims more space in the hall, her bulky body seeming to grow as it claims its right of entrance. She removes what she calls her mac, hangs it at the bottom of the stairs. While she fetches Ben’s breakfast tray, I make a point of transferring her outer garment to the hallstand. Sometimes, I am unbearably small-minded.

  She clomps her flat-footed way up the stairs and I notice how worn her shoes are, how snagged the black stockings. She is poor, gets monkey wages for taking care of people whose families have failed them, rejected them. In future, I will try to control my thoughts about her, try to appreciate her position. She runs about in an aged Metro, cleans up food and vomit, takes pulses, temperatures and abuse, washes faces and bottoms, sticks needles in sagging flesh, talks nonsense to corpses that refuse to stop breathing. Nurses have always been undervalued, though they probably save more lives than do the so-called specialists. The masters just sit and pontificate, hide behind seventeen-letter qualifications, make no effort to disguise superiority complexes big enough to make Adolf Hitler seem submissive. They wouldn’t know a bedpan from a first-class stamp. Bitterness again. They saved me and I curse them. Mind, they have ruined my hair …

  I walk into the kitchen, make coffee, pick up the newspaper from the side porch which doubles as a utility room. His pyjamas are in a bucket of cold water and Napisan, trapped air making the blue striped cloth bubble upward like a beachball. He bought a beachball in Skegness. And a bucket and spade, some paper flags, those awful green flippers. During the daylight hours of our honeymoon, he entertained the children from the boarding house. ‘My castle’s better than yours,’ he would say to some indignant seven-year-old. Budding architects came to light that day. By the end of the week, the competition was fierce and all the mothers were grateful to their unexpected childminder. ‘I told you to bring Jodie and the boys,’ he said repeatedly.

  ‘It’s our honeymoon,’ I insisted.

  He would then wear an expression that was tailored to infuriate. ‘Is it? Oh, I must have forgotten.’

  He forgets almost everything these days. Almost everything … I tip the pail’s contents into a deep porcelain sink, turn the tap until the flow is torrential, watch the stains as they separate and gurgle down the drain. I am glad that I decided to preserve this part of the old kitchen, grateful for the aged sink. When the machine is programmed for a half-load, I peel off the Marigolds and retrieve the newspaper from a wicker washing basket.

  I sit at the table in my beautiful newish kitchen, half-price one hot June with a portable telly thrown in. It took six months to persuade the firm to part with the television, a year to encourage its employees to fit the kitchen properly, preferably with the units actually fastened to the walls. The surfaces are pristine, a sort of imitation marble in cream and brown. Cupboards and drawers are white with fancy mouldings and brass handles. Nothing gets used, so nothing gets dirty. I cannot remember when I last cooked a proper meal in here, a real supper for more than two people.

  Yes. Yes, I can remember. It started then, when we got the wobbly kitchen. Ruth and Les Edwards came. We had avocado and smoked salmon to start, lemon chicken for the main course, sorbets for pudding. Ruth was on one of her diets, as usual. She’s short and beautiful and rather round at times. Throughout the meal, we drank a cold crisp hock, then Ben drifted out to crush some ice. Whether dieting or bingeing, Ruth always indulges her passion for crème de menthe frappé. I followed him, loaded the percolator, dug deep in an
unhinged cupboard for some Kenya medium and a half-empty box of After Eights.

  My eyes brim with salt water as I stare at the space Ben occupied that night, the spot in front of the freezer where he stood, forehead creased, hands uncertain and dangling loose by his sides. ‘Where is it?’ he asked in a voice unlike his own.

  ‘The ice is usually in the top,’ I replied, still blissfully ignorant of anything amiss. Ben was … past tense again! Ben is a mimic, often disguises his voice.

  ‘My gun,’ he said clearly. ‘What the hell have you done with my gun?’

  The ice was forgotten immediately, though I felt as if a glacier had been compressed and pushed down my throat by a giant hand. ‘Ben?’ I ventured. ‘Why do you need a gun?’ My tone became ordinary, I think, very low and steady. I might have been asking why he needed a new shirt or some clean socks.

  ‘They must be shot,’ he said clearly. ‘And we can use their valuables to carry on the work.’

  Flesh does creep. I felt as if my spine had raised itself from my body, as if it crawled like a slow, cold snake into my hair. He was a stranger. More than that, he was almost an enemy. His eyes were dull, frozen in their sockets. The kind face was twisting itself in response to some inner fury that he had suddenly accessed, something that had lain dormant over a long period. He was not Ben. He was a man with a mission, a man anxious to defend, attack, survive.

  Les came in and Ben jumped on him, leapt like a panther across the room and seized this good friend by the throat. ‘Pig,’ growled my husband. ‘Did they let you live, then? How many more, cochon? Combien?’ Ben turned his head and addressed the kitchen door. ‘Come, Ziggy. See what has crawled into the apartment.’

  Les is a strong man, but was too shocked to act for at least half a minute. He looked at me, his eyes round and fear-filled, bulging as the hold on his throat tightened.