September Starlings

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘I’d sooner wrestle with a crocodile.’ Les makes another exit towards the cloakroom. He has been talking lately about cutting out the middle man by pouring the beer directly into the toilet. ‘I worry about his prostate,’ laughs Ruth. Then, suddenly sober, ‘When do you see the quack again?’

  The ‘quack’ is the specialist who saved my life. ‘In a week or so.’

  ‘Worried?’

  I shake my head. ‘The results will be negative. I’m all clear. Oh God, Ruth, I wish I could say the same about Ben. There I was all those months, wrapped up in myself—’

  ‘You were very ill.’ Her voice is as soft as a caress. ‘There were times when we thought … when Les and I thought we were losing you.’ Her little face is grave. It wasn’t the idea of my death that frightened her, because she had been convinced from the start that I would be saved. It was the aftermath that terrified her, when my mind took a holiday. So Ruth and Les watched Ben with Alzheimer’s and me with a total breakdown. It must have been very unpleasant, and now I blame myself all over again. Perhaps I should have been a Catholic – my enormous sense of guilt would surely have been big enough, even for the Church of Rome.

  I get up from the kitchen chair, remove the Trivial Pursuit from the table, fuss about with cheese, biscuits, coffee. Ruth is my best friend. She’s an accountant, but she manages to be human in spite of this dry calling. And Les is the salt of the earth, a Liverpool lad with his own business and a sense of humour that is wicked and lively. I love them both, I owe them much. ‘You’ve done a lot for us, you and Les. I’ll never be able to thank you enough.’

  She snorts. Ruth’s equine snorts would frighten the real horses. ‘Segal said that love means never needing to say “sorry”. The same applies to “thanks”. Anyway, we need you. We weren’t going to let you off the hook so easily, Laura. Are you sure you’re in the clear now?’

  I shrug. ‘I’ve to be tested regularly, but I’ve as good a chance as anyone else.’ I swivel, grin at her. ‘I’m a miracle.’

  Les finds us laughing, then we sit for an hour or two discussing their daughter, my scattered children, the state of the building trade. He waves his arms a great deal, gets excited about recession, lack of development, the poor quality of cement. We have had many evenings like this one, and we all continue to miss Ben. When Ben was here, we played four-handed bridge and the dummy freshened drinks, filled the peanut dishes. There is no dummy these days. Except for me. I was stupid enough to crack up when I was truly needed. He drifted then, my dear Ben, got worse when I stopped visiting him. Though Ruth insists that this might have happened anyway, that I noticed the deterioration because I had not seen him for a couple of months. The analogy she used was odd, yet so right. ‘When a child goes away to school, the parent notices how he has grown during term time. If the son or daughter had remained at home, such changes would have gone unnoticed.’ Ben is a child, yet he is not a child. Children learn, grow, mature. Here, we have that process in reverse …

  Ben is upstairs in the land of Nod. I realize that Les has been up to see him, has pretended to visit the bathroom. My Ben is in a world of his own. And we are all lonely without him.

  We have lived here for years, on an expensive road that faces the erosion. When I first arrived, I had to roll the word around my mouth for a while, taste its oddness before allowing it to spill from my lips. Erosion. There’s something medical about the term, as if it is meant to describe a weeping sore or a time-worn wound in the gynaecological department. It does not seem appropriate when applied to the wide neck of Liverpool’s famous river.

  When he was a pup, Chewbacca and I began our walks along the shore, one of us picking her careful way across mud-coloured and oil-streaked sand, the other cavorting in pools of grim grey water, his neck usually festooned with dirty seaweed. Even at his best, Chewy is far from beautiful. He is large and stupid, is the sole owner of a broad and vacant smile and a tail that might, in its cleaner moments, do justice to a Coldstream Guard’s helmet. Covered in grease, sewage and discarded picnic debris, he is not a pretty sight. He also has a marked penchant for discovering and collecting used condoms, an activity that can be embarrassing to his innocent companion. Especially when the vicar approaches with that yappy Yorkshire terrier.

  We took the dog’s name from the Star Wars films, because he bears an uncanny resemblance to the matted creature who threw in his lot with the good people like Harrison Ford. Yes, he is very like a Wookie. We have loved him for five years now, but I cannot allow him anywhere near Ben. Ben used to take the dog everywhere, has been known to walk him all the way to Formby at low tide. With the demise of so many brain cells, my husband has acquired a terrible fear of canines. And no matter what the medics say, I know that Ben is stuck in some abominable time warp, that he is revisiting a place in his past, an awful place. When he was whole, he could cope with the memories, could keep them in perspective. Yes, he has Alzheimer’s, but he has not lost all his yesterdays.

  When our walks began, I started to understand the word ‘erosion’. The river/sea is eating its way inland. In a hundred years, perhaps less, this area could well be flooded. There are stones heaped upon stones, every item rounded by a million tides. Were these boulders at the start of time, did dinosaurs clamber around them, hide behind them? Yes, there is erosion here, and it is contained, held back by concrete walls and ugly steps. For the moment, the wearing away of Blondel’s villages has been postponed.

  The dog and I enter the house by the rear porch, find Ruth waiting for us. She has been husband-sitting for me, has kept an ear cocked for sounds from upstairs. And she has visited him, I know that, has talked endlessly into ears that blank out most sounds. Ruth and I have occupied this kitchen for hours without speaking. Like most true friends, we enjoy comfortable silences. She occupies herself four times a year with my VAT forms, once annually with Income Tax. She is a person who does not interfere during working months, when Georgina Dawn, my alter ego, labours to give birth to characters and plots that will suit the True Hearts editor. Unlike so many friends, she chooses not to visit when I’m sweating over a hot computer, understands that I cannot indulge in small talk while one of my little stories is germinating.

  Chewy hurls himself at Ruth, washes her face, woofs his loud way through the usual enthusiastic greeting. Handel, my large and largo cat, is unmoved, sits by the sink, mesmerized by a slowly dripping tap. A Garfield in the furry flesh, Handel is economical with his movements except when organizing some form of destruction. His superiority over the dog is never questioned; Chewy has been known to run a mile from those sharp if slothful talons.

  We sit, drink coffee. The dog gets bored, claws his way outside and barks at the birds. ‘Ben’s quiet.’ She waves a hand towards the upper storey. ‘I suppose you can’t just go out and leave him, can you?’

  I shrug. ‘Sometimes, I have to. Ben-sitters are not always available.’

  Ruth stirs, clatters the spoon, sips the black and sugarless Nescafé. ‘Aren’t you afraid that he might walk out one of these weekends – if he remembers how to walk, that is? I mean, what if you came back from one of your strolls and found his room empty? He could fall under a car or into the water …’ Her voice fades, trails away. ‘Sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I’m not meaning to pile guilt on top of everything else.’

  ‘He’s probably happier here, even on his own.’ That’s a lie, because Ben isn’t happy anywhere, has lost all joy in life. And that was the most noticeable thing about him. He had joy, and he expressed it daily. ‘At Heaton Lodge, I’ve watched him becoming agitated when the others scream or cry.’ The fact that I’ve also seen him totally unresponsive does not bear talking about. Anyway, she knows, she’s seen it all. I remain quiet for a moment, dare not attach speech to my thoughts. If he walked out and died, I would be grateful on his behalf, calmer about my own part in his downfall. If I hadn’t been ill, if I’d worked with him … No, don’t even think about it. ‘He won’t walk, Ruth, doesn’t seem to have the
strength to make any kind of effort,’ I manage. ‘He’s made no strides in any direction for the past six months, either physical or mental. Even when he did walk a bit, he just paced about, four steps this way, four steps back, always counting under his breath.’

  She catches the full lower lip under teeth that are white and even. ‘What’s going to happen to him, Laura? Are you absolutely sure that he can only get worse? Is there no hope, no chance that somebody, somewhere might find an answer?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m seeing that specialist about Ben. Thank God I can afford to have him looked after properly. I’m going to make as much noise as I can, try to get some new treatment, anything at all that’s on the market. You know, Ruth, I’ll even offer him up as a guinea-pig if I get the chance. There must be a doctor, even at the other side of the globe, who would be willing to have a go.’ I nod wearily, am made aware yet again of my post-operative tiredness. ‘I’d send him to the moon if that would make him well.’

  ‘I know you would.’

  ‘And I sometimes think he’d be better off …’

  ‘You’ll be ill again if you’re not careful,’ she whispers. ‘You can’t keep your mind fixed on Ben all the time—’

  ‘If I don’t think about him, who will?’

  ‘I’m not tellng you to stop thinking, I’m just asking you to slow down and—’

  ‘And accept the inevitable?’

  A blush stains her cheeks. ‘Not exactly. I mean, try for a cure, put some feelers out, but consider yourself as well. What about your children? Do they know the score?’

  I shrug. ‘They know what they need to know. Or what they want to know. They can take care of themselves.’ There are still a few gems in an upstairs safe, I remember irrelevantly. I must make a real effort to find Ben’s contacts, get the valuables out of the house. He would want everything to be tidy. Though locating Ben’s business associates will not be easy.

  She is studying her solitaire. ‘He was a good cutter and polisher, Laura. He made this for our twentieth anniversary – remember? Les said it was so cheap, it was criminal. Ben should have had a shop, he would have made a fortune.’

  ‘He has shops.’ And God knows where they are. I’ve no chance of reaching them, no easy way of offloading the gems into hands that are friendly and fair. Because Ben never let me see inside his business … ‘Pardon?’

  ‘I asked about the shops. Are they in London?’

  I raise shoulders and eyebrows. He never said much, but the calls and letters came from far and wide. ‘There are several partners, I think. Probably in European cities. He talked about Paris, Amsterdam, Geneva – visited those places too. But he never brought his work home, always kept his home life separate.’

  ‘Except for the cutting in the attic.’

  ‘Quite.’ What wouldn’t I give now for the sound of his tuneless whistle floating down two flights of stairs? I used to moan about the whirring noises, about his tone-deafness. I wish he were here now, humming, whirring, polishing a perfect diamond.

  ‘Laura?’

  ‘Yes?’

  She clears her throat, shuffles towards the edge of her seat as if seeking privacy in a room filled by people. ‘He must have relatives. Wherever he was born … Look, Les tried to talk to him once, tried to work out where Ben had come from and—’

  ‘Why?’

  She lifts a hand in a gesture that is meant to be casual, nonchalant. ‘It’s only natural to want to know where a good friend comes from. I mean, he’s not English, is he?’

  I stand, walk to the drawer where I keep the Silk Cut. Although I have not smoked for years, I always keep fresh tobacco in the house in case I crack. But I won’t crack, I’m not the cracking type. Which is why that breakdown was so terrifying.

  ‘Don’t smoke,’ she begs. She’s a member of ASH and can be very boring about it. Most people with a mission manage to be tedious at times.

  I choose my words, pick them over before speaking. ‘Ruth, I’ll smoke if I want to, so don’t start rocking the hobby horse.’ There’s some Wrigley’s next to the cigarettes, and I take time to unwrap a piece, chew for a few seconds while I learn the lines. ‘What doesn’t matter is where Ben comes from. Wherever it is, he has never expressed the desire to return or to contact anyone there. It hasn’t mattered to me. And where I came from never mattered to him.’ The chewing gum is ancient. I put it in the rubbish where it belongs.

  ‘Sorry,’ she mumbles.

  ‘It’s OK, don’t worry. But as far as we are concerned, our lives began when we met. He pulled me out of hell, never asked what I’d done, what sin I’d committed to merit damnation. So I never asked about the pain behind his eyes.’ He made me face Tommo, though. Yes, he knew a lot about me, much more than I ever discovered about him.

  She swallows. ‘I’ve seen the agony in his face, too. But only recently.’

  Ruth knows, then. Ruth recognizes his misery.

  ‘It’s awful, isn’t it?’ It’s good to talk to someone who has seen his fear, who understands the dilemma. He’s remembering something, living it again. ‘I don’t know what to say to him, Ruth, don’t know how to comfort the man I love.’

  She touches my hand, guides me into the chair. ‘Are you feeling guilty again? Are you? Is it because of Robert?’

  The smile on my face does not touch my eyes. I can feel them cold and dead as they reflect Ben’s unhappiness. ‘That’s one thing I’m easy about. When we married, Ben instructed me to take a lover if necessary. “I’m old already,” he said. “Don’t leave me, but find comfort if I get worn out.” He got worn out, Ruth.’ The tears brim and threaten again. ‘I needed Robert before I was ill. Now, he’s surplus to requirements. All things change after you’ve expected to die. All my years from now will be a bonus. It’s time for reassessment, and Robert’s not a part of my future.’

  ‘Have you told him that?’

  ‘No. He’ll catch on in a year or two. Young men are so … slow to learn. All those qualifications and he doesn’t understand the word no.’

  Ruth chews her lip for a second. ‘You wonder what it’s all been about, don’t you? Like Ben – I mean, he’s worked damned hard, made a good life for both of you – and look what happens.’

  ‘I know.’ He sits upstairs with a small fortune in this country, God knows how much abroad. He cannot write a cheque. He cannot write his name. He toiled, he saved, he prospered, he got confused.

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve been indelicate,’ she says.

  At last, I can smile properly. ‘Ruth, you always were about as delicate as an elephant in clog-irons. Will you stay for a bite of brunch?’

  ‘No, I’m roasting pork. Les can’t even butter a scone, you know. As a New Man, poor old Les is hopeless.’

  ‘Trade him in.’

  She shakes her head. ‘Can’t. I’m the sort that gets used to toothache after a while. Take care.’

  After she has disappeared down the path, I hang out more of Ben’s washing. The birds are still quarrelling, chattering over a few scraps. He doesn’t hear them, even though his chair is near the window. I want to enter his mind, share the terror, hold his hand through dark days. There is nothing I can do and the knowledge of my uselessness is strangling me.

  The stairs are like Everest, there to be conquered. But I push myself, throw open his door, place myself at his feet. ‘Ben! Where are you? Look at me, please.’ I hold his face in my hands, watch closely as his eyes fail to focus. ‘Tell me about it. Speak to me.’ Oh God, I am shaking a sick man!

  ‘No matter,’ he says. ‘No matter. He will come for us.’

  ‘Who? Ben, who will come for us?’

  He sniffs, licks dry lips, blinks rapidly. ‘Have you found it yet, Laura?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right, Ben. I’m Laura, your wife. Where have you been while I have needed you? I was ill and you didn’t visit me. I went out of my mind after my body was mended and you still didn’t come. Where are you? Where the hell are you?’

  He is hummi
ng, and his deafness of tone has not improved.

  ‘Ben. What do you think about? Tell me. Tell me about what frightened you all those years ago. Who are you? Where did you come from and why? Ben.’

  The tuneless noise stops. ‘I burned my arm.’

  ‘Yes.’ I lift the sleeve and look at the old purple scar. ‘How did that happen?’

  ‘It is all written down.’

  ‘Ben—’

  ‘I don’t like frozen peas. They don’t listen, you know. I said several times that I eat only fresh vegetables.’

  My heart pounds. He is talking about the here and now, about the nursing home. ‘Are the meals terrible? What do you have for breakfast?’

  He nods sagely. ‘It is all written down. Strawberry yoghurt.’

  I have failed again. He sleeps, moans, snores softly. Even his snoring has lost heart. Somewhere inside this figure is my husband. And I can’t find him. I can touch him, see him, hear him. But he is no longer of this world.

  After lunch, Ruth’s husband arrives to carry Ben downstairs, bundles him into an armchair that I have covered in plastic sheeting. The sweat drips from Les’s hair, runs down his face like tears. ‘He’s still putting weight on. Mind, I suppose he feels heavier with being so limp.’ He straightens, pushes a wet and stringy length of hair from his damp face. ‘I’ll come back this afternoon and carry him upstairs again.’

  Ben studies us with eyes that are untypically alert. ‘I can walk,’ he says, the tone imperious. He stands, stumbles over the dropped car rug, rights himself slowly. The legs are uncertain, jellyish. A large paunch throws him off-balance again, and he sinks into the chair. ‘Rien ne va plus,’ he mutters, the voice conveying acceptance rather than hopelessness.

  ‘Sounds like a bloody Monte Carlo croupier,’ remarks Les, his face half-hidden by a handkerchief. He emerges, less moist but still hot. ‘Is he a gambler?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ That is the truth. Ben came, went, came home again. Sometimes, he phoned or wrote to say when he would be home. Occasionally, an operator would talk to me, the English broken and brushed with foreign tones. I don’t know. When we were together, I didn’t think about where Ben had been, always understood that I should not ask. During separations, I wrote Georgina Dawn’s books, shopped, improved the house, looked after children and animals. My husband is a stranger, a beloved and broken man who remains a mystery to me, though I have held him in my arms and shared the laughter and the loving.