September Starlings

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Why are you smiling?’ she asks.

  ‘Didn’t know I was.’ Gerald has made me smile – the thought of him, anyway. It would be wonderful fun to watch him pitted against Diana, she squatting in his mother’s house, he waving his arms a lot, consulting his Filofax for numbers of ‘contacts who know about this sort of thing’. ‘This isn’t a boarding house,’ I announce sternly. ‘Anyway, you said you’d paid your rent.’

  ‘He wanted more.’

  ‘More rent?’

  She chews her lip. ‘He wanted sex.’

  ‘Oh.’ She needs food, a warm bed, a friendly ear. I’m not feeling friendly just now. ‘Do you enjoy watching Neighbours?’ I enquire, can’t think why.

  ‘Hate that too,’ she answers. ‘Magnolia and Neighbours, both insipid, lifeless. Especially Neighbours.’

  ‘Then we shall suffer it together.’ I drag her into the house, force her to sit in silence through the whole episode. She hugs herself, sways gently in her seat like a baby in a cradle. We each glue our eyes to the screen, watch the cavortings. It is weird. Some people run into a house and say some things, then they dash off to another house and say the same things. After a couple of minutes, everybody gets together in a garden, and they repeat the earlier lines, but in a slightly altered order. A trio of vile teenagers giggles a bit, and a young woman with a pregnancy cushion stuffed up her skirt has difficulty rising out of a chair. This is probably because the size of the bulge would be appropriate for someone in the twentieth month of incubation.

  There is no interval in Neighbours, as it is BBC, so we don’t even get a Fairy Liquid advert or chimps with teacups. An older woman worries about Jim, is reminiscent of Mrs Dale’s Diary-as-was, and a sensible yellow dog wanders about, delivers a performance that deserves an Oscar when compared to the scriptwriters’ garbage. As the credits roll, we agree earnestly that the dog is a clever ad libber.

  Diana fixes me with a stare that does not match her cap’s rakish angle. ‘Do you watch that every day?’ There’s a near-hysterical edge to her words, but I suspect that this young woman is a good actress.

  ‘Twice a day. I plan my life around it, can’t go shopping or for a walk when it’s on. I know I could video the show, but it’s not the same, is it? I want to see it when it’s actually happening. Then Home and Away, A Country Practice, Flying Doctors, and there’s Families, of course, but that’s British and—’

  ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Families. What’s it about?’

  She’s clever. I flounder, surface after a few seconds. ‘It’s about groups of people, adults and children in nuclear groups, though one family has extended all the way to Australia, Sydney, I think, so—’

  ‘How many children?’

  ‘Some. A few.’

  ‘Names?’ One of her eyebrows has floated up the forehead, causing shallow, youthful lines on one side. ‘Go on, then. Tell me some names.’

  I sigh. ‘I’ve forgotten.’ Inspired suddenly, I managed to remember some of it. ‘A woman with red hair ran off with her half-brother. She didn’t know who he was, so they’re living in sin.’

  ‘The old incest chestnut?’ is the next piece of rhetoric. ‘You don’t watch that crap. I can tell just by looking at you that you’ve no time for rubbish.’

  I smile, think of Georgina Dawn’s rejected outpourings. ‘I am very familiar with all kinds of rubbish.’

  She nods quickly. ‘And you certainly don’t see any of it while it’s actually happening, because we’re ages behind with all the Antipodean junk. It’s recorded, was recorded about a year ago. All soaps are recorded. Even Coronation Street runs five or six weeks behind itself.’

  I rally. ‘I watch Coronation Street.’

  ‘That is acceptable,’ comes the swift response. ‘So is PCBH.’

  I am flummoxed, cannot create a reply, am not going to beg for an explanation.

  She can see my flummoxedness. ‘PCBH. Prisoner Cell Block H. Compulsory viewing in most select homes, even those with dishwashers and Axminster carpets. It is brilliantly bad.’

  This girl is so likeable. ‘Oh. My education is incomplete, then.’

  ‘You can’t fool me, Mrs … er … Laura.’

  ‘Starling.’

  She removes the cap and the hair tumbles down in oily, shampoo-starved rats’ tails. ‘Funny name, that. It’s like being called Sparrow or Cuckoo or Owl – Wol, if you’re an AA Milne fan. I liked Eeyore best. Bits kept dropping off him. It was all middle-class mush anyway.’

  I pin my eyes to a hole in the leggings, wonder how many other such goodies she has brought in her tattered luggage. ‘A rose by any other name,’ I mumble. ‘I’m rather fond of my surname, as is my husband.’

  Her fingers are digging into the chair arm. She is tense, though none of the nervousness shows in the lift of her head, in the clean clarity of her voice. ‘I need a room for a few weeks. You have plenty of rooms and I have none. We should share.’

  I shift in the seat, pretend some anger. ‘Are you a bloody communist?’

  ‘I’m pinkish,’ she replies smartly. ‘You?’

  ‘A professional floating voter. But nothing about fair shares is written into the constitution of this democracy. You are … invading my space? Isn’t that the with-it term these days for pushy people who move in and refuse to leave?’

  ‘Chill out,’ she begs. She’s heard that one on Neighbours, I reckon. ‘I’ve nowhere to go. Are you going to throw me out into the street? There are funny buggers in Blundellsands, just as many here as anywhere else. I could get mugged or raped or knifed or anything.’

  She is wearing a lot of clothes. There are at least three sweaters under that anorak – she probably ran out of plastic bags for her packing. ‘Get a shower.’ My tone is fairly … well, nearly fairly strong. ‘And put yourself in the attic. There’s a sleeping bag in the landing cupboard, some towels in the chest outside the bathroom. I want you gone by the end of the month.’

  Her gaze is steady. ‘How many bathrooms have you got here?’

  ‘Three.’ I meet her eyes, will not apologize for my living conditions, refuse to be ashamed of my comparative wealth. Inverted snobbery is as unacceptable as the usual sort. ‘Does that matter?’

  She lifts a shoulder. ‘Not really. It’s just I’m a bit messy, want somewhere to drip my underclothes.’ The grin widens. ‘I’d like my own bathroom.’

  Yes, she is dangerously likeable. Here I stand – well, sit – with one husband broken down by Alzheimer’s, the other suffering from angina, clogged lungs and narrowed arteries, and I’m taking on yet another problem. My kids are God knows where doing God knows what, but I still seem to collect people. Other women gather diamonds, designer clothes, perfumes. I attract lame ducks, not just ducks, either. There are still a couple of Jonathan Livingstones in the shed at the back of the garage, seagulls whose wings are healing in spite of my ministrations. ‘You should go on the stage, Diana. It’s a while since an actress of your calibre graced our theatres.’

  ‘I’ll pay,’ she says generously. ‘Seven pounds a week and I’ll find my own food.’

  I look her over. ‘You won’t. You’ve not found much food so far, anyway. Are you suffering from anorexia? Will you linger palely in my attic, then drift off to heaven all ethereal and beautiful?’

  She sniffs. ‘Don’t talk soft, I’m just starving. It happens, you know, even in 1992. I’ve a good BSc, can’t get a job, might as well go back to college and aim for a doctorate. So the rest of you will have to shelter my burgeoning genius.’

  ‘We owe you that?’

  ‘Somebody does.’

  She’s right. Even five or ten years ago, it was easier for young people to find a goal, work hard to reach it, enjoy the benefits of a career after all the studying. My own three went to colleges, universities, medical school; the two who wanted work got jobs. Jodie will do it soon, I tell myself. She’ll settle down, get a post in a hospital, save some live
s, have the occasional wash, invest in some ozone-friendly deodorant …

  ‘What do you think about all the time, Laura?’ The words are spoken softly, gently. ‘You seem to be preoccupied.’

  ‘I … I miss my husband.’ That’s the truth, the whole truth. Well, nearly. I miss Ben, support Tommo against my better judgement, worry about Gerald’s ethics, Edward’s sensitivity, Jodie’s foolishness.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ The eyes burn and I know that she really is sad for me.

  ‘Get yourself cleaned up, Diana. I’ll find something for you in the freezer.’ The idea of mundane tasks is suddenly attractive. ‘I’ll get you a quick meal.’

  She leaps up, makes a dive for me, places the thin hands on my shoulders. ‘You’re all right, queen,’ she whispers, laughter lurking in her throat. The tone lifts itself, finds a more audible level. ‘And can I walk that big soft dog and is the cat allowed upstairs and have you got a spare toothbrush? And I’m good with kittens.’ She points to Flakey, who is curled up in a shoe box next to the bread bin. ‘It was my dad, not the landlord. My dad’s a good bloke, but he cracked up when Mam died, took to drink. I’ve run away from him for a bit of a rest. I will go back to him, you know. But I need a break, that’s the truth.’

  I think of Confetti’s problem. ‘I’ve another friend in the same position. The drink affects her father’s brain. He started after his wife died, was almost teetotal before.’

  She sighs, looks pensive. ‘When we were kids, he was really good to us. But he drank to forget about Mam, then he started going a bit violent and unpredictable.’ She displays a slender, bruised wrist. ‘He doesn’t mean it. He’s just desperate, trying to keep hold of me. And I like kippers.’

  She grabs her possessions, runs out of the room, leaves me cold, empty, leaves me lonely. She is singing in the shower, a Beatles song, ‘Whatever Gets You Through the Night’. I cannot afford to attach myself to anyone. Somewhere out there, three products of mine are doing damage, one insider dealing, another moaning, putting on weight, seeking a permanent lover. And the third runs round with criminals and hippies.

  I find a pair of frozen kippers, linger near the microwave as I wait for the singing to stop. Tommo tonight. Ruth comes with me, though I need no protection from the feeble man. He sits, watches TV, waits for my visits. The eyes are still powerful, but the strength is diminished.

  Tommo was Ben’s only mistake. ‘Go to him,’ he insisted for years. ‘Three heart attacks and chronic angina have diminished him. For your own sake, you must see this man and realize that he is just a broken creature. Then and only then will you be free in spirit.’ After Ben’s constant nagging/encouragement, I went and laid the ghost. But, fool that I am, I supplement Tommo’s state income, look after his welfare. After all, he is a human being. I think.

  And last but never least, there’s my Ben. I won’t cry. I won’t stand here crying next to a pair of frozen, headless kippers.

  ‘Laura?’ God, they’ll hear that scream in Birkenhead.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I have a bath as well as a shower?’

  ‘Yes.’ I bet she’s dripped all over the landing, all over the bathroom too. Life will be fuller than ever if I let this one linger for too long. Three Confettis. I shudder. There’s the real one, then Jodie, now this apprentice offbeat upstairs.

  The phone again. ‘Robert, it’s over.’

  ‘I’m coming home,’ he says. ‘I’ve had enough of this bloody holiday.’

  ‘Stay where you are,’ I order.

  ‘I want to see you.’

  ‘Don’t blame me for shortening the children’s pleasure. Look, I’ll see you soon.’ I’m not a good liar face to face, but I’m quite feasible on the phone. ‘I promise that we’ll talk if you’ll give those kids another few days.’ Really, I can’t take him on as well! This place is going to be like Wembley Stadium if I’m not careful.

  ‘Do you still love me?’ Oh the urgency of youth. Though forty is not exactly infantile.

  How many people can one woman love? How many kinds of love are there, how many kinds of truth?

  ‘Laura?’

  ‘Yes, of course I do.’ Well, that’s one kind of truth, I suppose.

  Ruth makes the tea, carries it through to the tiny sitting room. My first husband is staring at me, his eyes seeming to bore into my soul. ‘There you are,’ my friend says to the invalid. ‘And I’ve put the sugar in for you.’

  He does not look at her. ‘Thanks.’

  I sit back, attempt to relax, wish with all my heart that he would stop watching me. ‘Are you any better?’ I ask.

  ‘No.’

  Ruth picks up the Echo, reads, or pretends to read.

  ‘Do you need anything more?’ I force some shallow brightness into my voice. ‘Some books, a particular kind of food? Is the home help still visiting?’ I ask, wishing that I could settle down and be comfortable in this little cottage. I’ve been coming here for about ten years, ever since Tommo’s third coronary. ‘Face him,’ Ben said to me over and over again. ‘Look at the nightmare, then it will become an everyday thing, it will go away.’ For a long time, Ben came with me, waited in the car. He was a sensitive man, still is, I suppose. Degeneration of the brain cannot possibly make the soul poorer. But Ben can’t come any more, and Ruth insists on being a witness. ‘You never know,’ she often says. ‘He might get strong and turn on you again.’

  ‘The home help comes,’ he mutters. ‘More of a hindrance than a help. But I’m all right.’ His eyes flicker for a moment, move towards Ruth. He wants her out, has always wanted me to come alone. But I told him right at the start that I would be accompanied at all times. Tommo disapproves of Ruth, was happier when I arrived with a husband who stayed outside. ‘Is he still away?’ There is emphasis on the ‘he’.

  ‘Ben’s in the nursing home, yes.’ You were my nightmare, I want to say. Ben made you unimportant, released me from the evil dream. But he finds no solace now from his own torment.

  He grins, displaying sickly yellow teeth that do little to enhance his sickly yellow face. ‘You backed two losers, didn’t you?’

  Sometimes, I amaze myself. I come here and sit with a man who beat me, raped me, murdered a man I loved, and I still find a sort of pity for this creature who altered the course of my existence. But he’s not a lot worse than my mother, I suppose. And I still visit her. I have hated this man, have hated my mother, continue to harbour negative feelings for both these people who have harmed me. But hatred is not strong enough to make me turn away completely. I’m no saint, no martyr, yet I do these ‘good’ deeds, keep turning up to be stared at by Tommo in his Bootle cottage, continue verbally abused in a certain person’s retirement apartment.

  ‘The kids haven’t been,’ he grumbles.

  ‘I know.’ They can’t stand him, even for a few minutes. Neither can I, I decide suddenly. This will be the last time. If he needs money, he can have it. By post.

  ‘Why won’t they come?’

  ‘Busy,’ I reply briskly. ‘Lives to lead, things to do.’

  ‘And the fairy-boy? How’s he getting on? Has he found a boyfriend yet?’ The eyes narrow as he contains the glee. His brother, the man he murdered, fathered a creature who is less than a man. ‘And don’t start telling me he’s not queer. I spotted it a mile off that time when he came with my son.’

  ‘Edward is fine.’

  ‘Your mother?’ he enquires sarcastically, as if able to access my thoughts. ‘Still smoking herself to death and refusing to lie down?’

  ‘Something like that.’ I place an envelope on the table, make the movement as discreet as possible. We never discuss the contents, never refer to the few pounds I leave here each time I come. This awful man is the father of Gerald and Jodie. He is diminished in body and spirit, has fought his last fight. It is impossible for me to allow him to starve. But I receive no thanks, expect none.

  Ruth makes much of looking at her watch. ‘Shall we go, Laura? After all, you’re supposed to get
your rest.’

  He picks up the clear plastic mask, holds it over his mouth and nose while he inhales pure oxygen. I am supposed to worry now, am supposed to stay with him in case he has another attack. That would be taking my charity too far. I am performing a duty, no more than that, am obeying my real husband’s instincts. And Tommo’s a sick animal, just another patient on my rota.

  We make our goodbyes, go out to the car. ‘I don’t know how you do this,’ says Ruth. ‘After all, he’s never grateful, hardly even civil. I wonder about you, I really do. Are you trying to win a medal? The way he looks at you makes me shiver.’

  ‘Shut up.’ I stick out my tongue, climb into my uncomfortable driver’s seat, wait till Ruth is strapped in. ‘He’s harmless.’

  ‘Only because he’s ill. He’d kill you if he could.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘All right. But don’t come running to me when he breaks both your legs.’ She giggles, presses my hand. ‘Laura, you’re incurable.’

  She’s wrong, I’m cured. I’m getting better every day, have come to terms with the reprieve I have been granted. Ben, Tommo, Flakey, Diana, the seagulls, my mother – these characters are not dictating my life. There are choices, so I do as I will. On an impulse, I jump out of Elsie, lean down, speak to Ruth. ‘Stay here.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Stay.’ I return to the house, find Tommo counting my fivers.

  ‘What do you want?’ he asks, the pale face stained by anger. He isn’t happy, is displeased because I’ve caught him in the act of accepting my charity. ‘I want an answer,’ I say softly.

  ‘Fire away.’

  I lean against the closed outer door. Words. I have to find the words. ‘You wrote to me, said you’d be sending friends to see me. Criminals, I should think.’

  He frowns. ‘And?’

  I clear my throat, wish I could cough the clutter out of my head. ‘How did Ben manage to keep me safe? How could he be so sure that you wouldn’t interfere? After all, you might still have sent someone.’ I pause, remember the early days of my second marriage. I can hear Ben now, can hear him telling me that it was all over, that Tommo could never hurt me again. ‘How?’ I plead. ‘Tell me.’