I go downstairs. Diana, who cheers me beyond all measure, is plainly up to mischief again. The kitten is on the table, is worrying a piece of sticky tape, is worrying about the same sticky tape, as its relationship with Flakey’s paw promises to be on-going. I rescue the near-crazed baby cat, peer over my human lodger’s shoulder. She is taping a candle and a fifty pence coin to a postcard. ‘I had to cut the candle,’ she says mournfully. ‘It was too long to stick on the card properly.’
There are some odd days in life, some strange people, too. I won’t ask, not just yet. A spoonful of pulverized Whiskas disappears down Flakey’s throat. She’s a good kitty, a quick student. I make coffee, throw some bread into the toaster. I’m supposed to ask Diana what she’s doing. ‘What are you doing?’ I ask, the tone nonchalant. For all I know, she might be following in the footsteps of Guy Fawkes. Like Jodie, she’s mercurial, unpredictable.
‘Charity work,’ comes the tardy and deliberately vague reply.
I scrape some honey onto my toast, sit opposite her, wait for clarification.
‘Have you got an address for Neighbours, Laura?’ she asks eventually.
‘No.’
‘Pity. I shall never perform my good deed for today unless I find that address.’ Naughtiness exudes from her, hovers in the air above her head like summer lightning with the sting removed. ‘What a shame,’ she moans.
I nibble at my toast, enjoy the honey, sip strong coffee. The words have to be spoken, because I cannot tolerate her giddy anticipation. ‘What are you doing with a candle and fifty pence? And why have you used so much tape?’
‘I don’t want the candle to drop off in the post. They’ve run out of money, I think. The lighting’s terrible – yesterday’s episode of Neighbours was a mystery to me. So I’m sending a donation for the lecky meter and a candle to help throw some light on the subject. I’ll address it to Neighbours, Australia.’
She’s what the Scousers call ‘a case’, what I call daft as a brush. ‘You don’t watch Neighbours,’ I inform her.
‘I watched it yesterday. Well, I tried. Is there something wrong with your telly?’
‘No.’
‘It was all shadows and ghostly happenings. Prison’s the same – you can only tell who’s talking when somebody lights a cigarette or sets fire to a mattress.’
I lean back, finish my toast, count the seconds while she prints AIR MAIL in giant-size blue capitals. Eating in such pleasant company is so much easier than eating alone. Revived by caffeine and carbohydrates, I tackle her. ‘Diana, don’t you think you should put that lot in an envelope?’
‘They’d think it was a bomb. Manchester Airport would grind to a halt while my candle got defused.’ She winks at me. ‘I know what I’m doing.’
‘Glad to hear it. I’m sure a psychiatrist could help. Would you like to see mine? He’s redundant now, could do with cheering up.’
She glares at me. ‘I’ve pinched enough of your cast-offs, thanks. And there’s a hole in the green jumper you gave me.’
‘Ah, but my head-doctor’s in one piece.’
She laughs. ‘I doubt it, especially if you’ve had a go at him.’
‘Touché,’ I say politely.
She sniffs knowingly. Most Liverpudlians are knowing, are born knowing. ‘You take all the excitement out of life, Laura.’
I swallow my vitamins.
‘Why are you taking those?’
‘I’ve just had surgery and a breakdown – I’m hedging my bets.’
The blond head shakes slowly. ‘Go the whole hog – you’re loaded, aren’t you? Get to one of those health farms, I’ll look after the menagerie.’
The menagerie. There’s Handel the vandal sitting in the sink, Chewbacca asleep with all four legs in the air, Flakey trying to have a wash, falling over due to underdeveloped co-ordination. In the shed at the back of the garage, there are two quarrelsome gulls whose broken wings are flapping again. This is the difficult stage, as they are strong enough to be angry, too weak to fly. Members of my extended family include a difficult mother, two husbands who are strangers to me, a nun in frayed trousers, a demanding lover, a cousin who phones, seldom visits, three offspring who are widespread, two very supportive friends and a girl who sticks candles and money to postcards. A holiday would be nice.
‘Go on, book yourself in.’
‘Oh, I’ve done all that, thanks. They slap what they call natural oils all over you, call it aromatherapy. I finished up with so many allergies that I needed a doctor. The food’s natural, too. We were all sneaking out to McDonalds and the pub. There were women of all shapes and sizes leaning on the bar with pyjamas rolled up under their coats.’
‘No men?’ she asks.
‘No, the men do as they’re told.’ Talking, making a stab at entertaining this young woman, is keeping my mind off Ben. I need to stay away from thoughts of Ben. ‘Men have no trouble with health farms. But we were a mess. One woman’s winceyette dropped down in the middle of a double martini, very dry, one cherry. The locals never turned a hair, they were used to it. Anyway, the short story is that you need a rest after a week on a health farm.’
She throws down her pen. ‘So you’re going nowhere. You won’t leave him, will you? He’s why you’re staying.’
‘Yes.’ Diana is a student of the human animal, and I am now one of the victims of her scrutiny. She would perhaps do very well as a social worker or a window cleaner, because she’s very intrusive, nosy about other folks’ lives. This young madam probably picked me out three interviews ago, when she first started mithering about plastic window frames. Her assessment was correct, no doubt. She needs shelter, so she foists herself on one who seems to lack company.
I rise, grab bag and keys. ‘I’m going shopping. Don’t answer the telephone, the recording’s on for messages. And don’t paint any cows on the dining-room walls.’
She sticks out a healthy, pink tongue. ‘You’re no fun.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Buy something stupid,’ she yells after me.
Elsie sits outside. She’s an ancient Alpine with a British racing green complexion and a temperament to match. She has a tendency to get confused about her gears, and she’s showing distinct signs of oil-dependency, is a motorized version of a human alcoholic. When I turn the key, she makes a loud vomiting sound, reminds me of my mother and her acid indigestion.
I sigh heavily, engage first gear, speed up until I manage to jump to third. Elsie no longer responds to a plea for second, seems to have dispensed with anything that’s not strictly necessary. ‘You’ll have to go in for surgery soon, old thing,’ I tell her. She grumbles, threatens to stall, is plainly disturbed by my threat.
Well, I’ll have to visit Liza soon, mustn’t keep putting off the next fateful day. Meanwhile, I’ll seek nectarines for Ben, pick up three tubes of Smarties in Sainsbury’s. My child/husband has developed a craving for coloured sweets. And yes, I may very well buy something stupid, indulge myself for a change.
I pay my 25p for the privilege of parking on a plot of land that was bequeathed to the village, wonder anew about the old dears who enjoy a stroll around the shops. A potter for some of them lasts more than an hour, and they are now forced to pay for pleasures that were once free. They’ll all stay at home and die quietly, I suppose, die for lack of company and exercise.
‘Coo-ee!’
I freeze, one hand on Elsie’s door. This is not Ruth’s call, yet I recognize it instantly, cannot quite attach a name to the shrill sound.
‘Mrs Starling. Laura!’ It is Susan Jenkinson, my erstwhile husband’s erstwhile district nurse. She is panting heavily, is garbed in civvies, an ancient brown coat over a Crimplene-type suit whose vintage is circa 1975. ‘It’s lovely to see you,’ she gasps. ‘Are you coping all right?’
There’s something in the homely face that lets me know she really wants an answer. She has little money, next to no life of her own, yet she still manages to be generous, concerned. ‘I’m OK. You?’
<
br /> ‘Not bad, ta. Busy – you know how it is.’ She glances round the car park. ‘I’d like a word, if you’ve time.’
‘Well, I’m just going to do a bit of shopping, but—’
‘It’ll not take a minute.’ She places a bag on the ground, balances its uneven weight between thick legs and feet that look flat and tired. ‘See, I visit Heaton Lodge, work there about three times a week, check up on residents and report to doctors. We’re community nurses now, so our brief’s a bit wider than it used to be. It’s poor Mr Starling. He’s getting on the difficult side.’
I swallow, feel the dryness of my throat. ‘Yes, he can be hard work at times.’
She peers closely at me, narrows the muddy green eyes. ‘What is it he keeps going on about? Everybody’s asking the same questions, wondering what’s making him so aggressive. We don’t like over-sedating old folk, you see. It’s not fair to dose them up just to make them containable. But he’s screaming and shouting, using foreign words—’
‘I know.’
She moves away slightly, rights the lumpy plastic bag on the ground. ‘He’s fretting, going over and over the same things all the time. On Tuesday, it was “close the door” and “they’ve got to die”. Then the next day, he kept saying he’d had enough of it. “For Laura’s sake”, he kept saying.’
I haven’t heard that one. ‘He’s confused,’ I say lamely.
She shakes her head, causes the newly frizzed hair to stand to attention. ‘The psychiatrist says that Mr Starling’s accessing the past, having real memories of troubled times. We need this clarifying. Can you tell us what he’s thinking about?’
‘No.’
‘No idea at all?’
I look towards Sainsbury’s, wish I could get inside. Inside, I won’t think of Ben. I shall fold him up carefully like a road map that might be needed again, will place him in a rear compartment of my head, will study vegetables and fruit and Smarties. To stay sane, I have to put my love on a back burner, keep the gas low.
She is staring at me, continues to hope for clarification. I can’t help her, can’t help myself. ‘Ben was in his fifties when I met him,’ I tell the nurse. ‘I got the impression that he had been away, or that he originated from another country. There is something in his past, something he never wanted to discuss. It’s too late for me to find out now.’ The phone has not rung for years. After the very early days of Ben’s illness, the calls stopped. Somehow, those widespread people have learned about Ben’s condition. All links with the past, with the business partners too, have obviously been severed or put on hold. So the jewels in the safe will stay where they are.
‘I just wish we could ease him,’ she says.
‘I know. Thanks for caring.’
She awards me a huge smile that lights up the whole face, making her warm, almost attractive. ‘Well, I do care. It’s not just a job to me, it’s a way of life. Like I’ve been thinking about you a lot, hoping you’re better. And you’re not even on my list. Lists don’t mean much, do they?’
In the past, I have categorized this woman wrongly. She’s OK, a good sort, a woman who doesn’t depend on rotas. ‘No, but I wish I could find my shopping lists.’
We separate and I enter Sainsbury’s, where the plot to confound me continues apace. They have reorganized, have moved everything except the building. It takes me a while to find animal food and toothpaste, but I finally stuff the lot in Elsie’s boot, march onward to obey Diana by buying something silly. Nobody in Crown Records raises an eyebrow when I buy £60 worth of memorabilia. I shall sit tonight with Little Richard, Bill Haley, Elvis Presley for company. I was not a rock and roller, but I was alive then, I suppose. The music of my teens has grown on me, is attractive when compared to the current morass of metal. Will the young folk of today play Guns ’n’ Roses in defiance of something even less melodic?
The jeweller has a sale. I buy a Westminster chime mantel clock and a pair of crystal hedgehogs, a mother and a baby. But after a moment or two, I relent and buy the father, too, as I have no wish to create yet another single-parent family. The proprietor congratulates me on my choice of timepiece. She is a beautiful woman with good clothes and a sincere smile. ‘How’s Ben?’ she asks.
‘No improvement, Marie.’
She knows him as well as anyone does, asked him for an opinion sometimes. ‘That’s a shame.’ She means it, they all mean it. There are many people who would help if they could, if help were possible. But I’m on my own. He’s my husband and I can’t do anything for him. And I’ve unfolded that map, the one I was trying to store in a box at the back of my brain. He brought me joy, freedom, wealth, and I can’t bear to think of him. Something must be done. Soon. I shall probably ask for my darling husband to be sedated to a point where he might become comatose. Do people in coma dream? I wonder.
Across the road, Barclays has a new branch, has cleared out of a lovely sandstone building to continue the steel, glass and plastic dream that is a nightmare for many of us. On the corner of Moor Lane and Liverpool Road, the once-proud bank hides its vacant eyes behind a FOR SALE notice. Thatched cottages and a working mill have fallen victim to the onslaught of progress. Everything changes, diminishes, including Ben. Wherever I look, I am reminded of him.
I drive past the comprehensive where my Jodie was educated, wait at the crossing while diesels for Southport and Liverpool rattle past. Shall we ever see real trains again? Or a clean snowdrop? Ben won’t celebrate any more when the blackbirds achieve their spring hatching. Our kitchen robin still comes, struts on the window-sill, one eye on Handel, the other on me. Ben was so much better with the birds, so much easier than I am. Who will love the birds as much as he did? Who?
I am sitting near the coastguard station, my vision blurred by two kinds of water, both saline. The sea throws off a pewter-coloured sheen, my eyes sting as I continue to come to terms with the end of my husband’s life. I cry for him and for the birds. I cry for myself.
My heart is still breaking. Sometimes, I don’t feel much, just come in, look at him, talk to a member of staff or to a resident who continues to manage a decent conversation. But today, my Ben is back with me for a few minutes. He smiles, allows me a glimpse of how he was, who he was, before the illness. His hand comes out. ‘Laura, how lovely to see you. I’ll come out with you today. We might walk along the shore and look at the gulls.’
I gulp, force back the sobs, plaster a false smile across my stiffened face. ‘How are you, darling?’ I manage, clinging fiercely to that small portion of my mind that prompts me to function automatically.
‘I am good.’
He is good, so good. There’s stubble on his face, a bit of dried soap on a cheek, a new puffiness round the eyes. He is the finest man I have ever known, the bravest and the best. With Ben, I was right, I made a sensible decision. We were lucky, because we had love and friendship. Without love, there’s no marriage, without friendship, there’s no communication. We were so fortunate. Till it all got taken away. ‘Did you have breakfast?’ I ask.
‘Oh yes, I had cornflakes and milk. Of course, they watch me. But I’m used to being watched, just as I’m used to watching. Our eyes were the most important part of the job.’
I pat his hand. ‘Which job is that, Ben?’
He is staring at one of the nurses. ‘She shouldn’t have gone in there, you know.’
I look at the door, still swinging after the nurse’s passage through it. ‘Why?’
‘They never come out.’
‘Ben, look at me.’ I turn his face towards me, push the hair from his eyes. He won’t let anyone near him with scissors. My Ben is terrified of scissors and dogs. ‘What job, Ben?’
The eyes are bright, brimming with moisture. ‘Why do you leave me here? Why can’t I come home? Remember the rubies and that square emerald in the top safe. I must have promised them to someone. My memory is so poor. They watch me all the time.’ He glances round the room again, shakes a finger at an empty space. ‘Over there,’ he mutt
ers. ‘Go away from me now.’ Ben’s brief flirtation with near-normality is almost over.
‘Where are you, my love?’ I whisper. ‘The stove, the cow going to market, the hut you keep mentioning. Where did it all happen? Why are you so afraid? And what did you say to Tommo?’
He fixes his attention on me, though he seems not to recognize me completely. I am, perhaps, someone he knows vaguely, a face that is not quite familiar. ‘Dove?’ he says. The second syllable is extended, sounds like ‘vay’. Italian, then, the Italian for ‘where’. He rattles off some fluent French, slips into German, confuses the two. From a stream of unrecognizable words, I pick out ‘nein, nein’ and ‘bitte’, watch his face as it twists into a shape that must surely echo his inner torment. I can’t sit here and do this, can’t bear his pain, can’t bear my own fruitless agony.
He stops shouting, places a hand on mine. ‘We shall make no more noise.’
I mouth quietly, ‘Are you German, Swiss? Ben—’
‘I am Greek,’ he answers clearly, flooring me completely. ‘My mother was Jewish. I am now a Christian, just as my father and grandfather were.’ He blinks slowly, listens, his head on one side. ‘They are gone and we are safe for now.’
In his sleep, Ben used to punctuate his terrible snoring with words in a language I could never place. Is he telling me the truth, is he Greek? Or is the Greek just another symptom of a brilliant mind going to seed? He’s certainly a linguist, speaks better Paris French than any Englishman would trouble to learn. I knew he wasn’t English, thought he might be French or German.
‘Strawberry yoghurt,’ he announces loudly, back to his old routine now. He’s had a fixation with strawberry yoghurt for some time, though he never used to be terribly keen on dairy produce. ‘And cornflakes.’ Well, that’s a change.
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