September Starlings

by Ruth Hamilton

  ‘Do you want more cornflakes, Ben?’

  He is no longer with me. I lean back, watch his lips moving in time with thoughts that are seldom voiced. Ben is in another location, another time. I cannot reach him. I cannot find my husband.

  ‘Hello.’ A hand settles on my shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, he’s been calmer this morning. Did you get your shopping done yesterday?’

  ‘Hello, Susan.’ I sniff, try to swallow the rising tide. Bereavement is never easy, is particularly difficult when there hasn’t been a funeral at all.

  Nurse Jenkinson dries my tears on a tissue, stuffs it back into a side pocket of the blue dress. ‘No use you getting upset, love. They do hear things, you know. He might just remember your sadness after you’ve gone away.’

  We shared everything, Ben and I. The grief, the joy, the tears, the laughter. ‘I feel so guilty,’ I say. ‘He should be at home with me, should be where he belongs.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But I’m his wife, I ought to look after him.’

  She drops to her hunkers, takes each of my hands in a grip that is firm but friendly. ‘You’ve been ill. Getting ill is nothing to feel guilty about. Why don’t you have some rest, rent a cottage somewhere, have a break and some fresh air?’

  ‘I can’t.’

  She tugs at me, forces me to look at her. ‘Why not? He’s going nowhere. He gets all he needs here, food and warmth and a doctor just a phone call away. There’s nothing you can do to bring him back as he was. Making yourself worse won’t be any good to either of you.’

  The ‘worse’ comes out as ‘werse’, reminds me of Ma Boswell in Bread. ‘He wasn’t so bad when I went away for the first lots of tests. Then when I … had the breakdown, I couldn’t even look after myself, so I had to leave him in here with the other lost souls. I drove him to this. I should have got a resident nurse, then Ben could have stayed in his own environment.’

  She shakes her head, releases my hands, rises carefully because her weight is distributed unevenly over the wide frame. ‘Alzheimer’s goes its own way, Laura. It’s just that you noticed the deterioration because you’d been away from him. Your husband would have been just as ill, but you’d have come to terms with it gradually. Mr Starling stopped responding to most exterior stimuli years ago. None of this is your doing.’ They keep telling me the same things over and over, and I keep not listening.

  She pats my shoulder, moves on to another group, two children, their parents and a frail man who smiles all the time. The vacant grin is not improved by threads of saliva that run down to a towelling bib under his chin. His son or son-in-law reaches out, catches a few of the dribbles on a tissue. Dear God, this is a kind of hell, a capsule trapped in some dark zone of another dimension. We sit with the living dead, then we go home and cry all over again. I won’t look. I won’t look at Ben, at the other stricken family. Determinedly, I gaze round a room that is becoming almost as familiar as my own house.

  It’s a nice enough place, lots of cheerful chintz, an open fireplace with a painted screen hiding the unused grate, coffee tables covered in Country Life, Lancashire Life, some daily papers, the odd Merseymart. Tea-trolleys sit sedately along walls, the pottery deliberately non-clinical – one of the Johnson’s, I think, possibly Eternal Beau, flowers and ribbons painted on earthenware. No china here, no crystal, no sharp-edged knives. The carpet is moss green, one of those American Shadow types, probably scrubbable. There’s a grandfather clock, a notice-board, some hardback books on a shelf with jigsaws and a compendium of games.

  Nurse Susan Jenkinson is combing an old woman’s hair. This old lady sits here every day, never gets a visitor. Our nurse straddles the now slim divide between National Health and private, seems to treat all her clients equally well. She is part of the system that dictates to once-private homes, comes in here, works the district, covers both sides of the fence. She’ll get no OBE, no mention in the honours, yet she represents the true heroes among real people.

  I walk to a table, flick through Vogue. These poor folk are probably Nurse Jenkinson’s only family. I picture her huddled over a gas fire in the evenings, beans on toast or Pot Noodles for supper, the TV doing its best to persuade her that she is not truly alone. There will be a photograph of her mother in a cheap frame. I could offer something, a pretty rug, some prints for her walls. But it doesn’t work that way. Giving is easy, receiving is hard.

  I walk out along a corridor whose red and black Axminster shows some signs of wear. Shalom sits near a door, cleans his whiskers. The home cat is a huge beast, bigger than my Handel. I cannot imagine who gave him such a peaceful name, because he is not tranquil by nature. He takes my measure, rises up, stretches, announces his desire to be released. I let him out, keep an eye on him while he bounces nimbly towards a tree. Should any stray feline come this way, Shalom will separate the intruder from at least six of its nine lives.

  Ben’s room is like the others, small, clean, with neat hospital corners folded into the pale green bed cover. My image sits on top of a small television set. The three children are suspended from a picture rail, their faces frozen in yesteryear’s laughter. I sit in the cushioned wicker chair, listen to the soft ticking of Ben’s travel clock. Where have you been? I ask this timepiece. When you came out of his suitcase, when your face was uncovered at the end of a journey, what did you see?

  The room does not smell of Ben. I know that, because I bent down once and buried my nose in his pillow. Nothing. No trace of him, just clean linen, a whiff of Daz, a hint of pine disinfectant. He would be better … yes, he would be better dead, because he’s not really alive. There’s a sickening pain in my chest, because I cannot bear to think of him dead, even though most of his brain has pre-deceased him. My husband has lost much of his mind, is tormented by the few grey cells that still sign on for work every morning. He has mislaid much of the present and most of the recent past. The clearest memories are bad ones. There is no comfort for him unless we have him sedated.

  What shall I do? For five minutes, I have sat here, have found no solution. Can I leave him here? Can I leave him with well-intentioned and capable nurses, a twinkle-eyed matron, a killer cat called Shalom? If I bring him home, will I manage, will someone with medical training move in and sustain me until … until the end?

  I look out on a garden that is neatly trimmed, square, sufficiently unimaginative to be easy. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ I mouth to an inquisitive thrush. ‘He’s looked after your lot for years, so when are you going to help him?’ Am I going loopy? No, I think not. Strange, because I’ve been crazy before, and I wasn’t under pressure like this. Ben has been my strength, my suit of armour. Now, I must be his.

  There’s a mist over the window, so I must be crying again. He doesn’t need me, doesn’t really know me. I am useless, stupid, incapable of patching up this one broken man. But no, he told me many times that I am not stupid. Tommo was the one who put me down, who finished off the job started by my mother. You did so much, Ben. Please tell me how I can help you.

  ‘Come into the light,’ Ben said to me many years ago. ‘Do not hide in the shadows, my lovely girl. You are clever and kind and your husband was a fool to let you go.’

  My blouse is damp with salt water. I need him now. Ben, where are you? Self-pity, disgusting self-indulgent tears. I powder my face, go back to say goodbye.

  He looks at me, his eyes narrowed, searching, groping for a clue. Then the face clears. ‘Laura?’

  I sniff, smile, wait.

  ‘It’s in the bottom safe,’ he says softly.

  ‘’What is?’

  ‘Paper. Writing. The housemartin’s nest.’

  I drop to my knees, rub his hands, will him to be warm and alive. ‘Ben. You are the only one who has the combination to the bottom safe. Can you remember it?’

  He grins, grips my fingers. ‘Strawberry yoghurt,’ he whispers.

  With this final piece of information, I am forced to be content.

  Three times now I have dri
ven past my mother’s place. Today, my resentment for her is active. I must therefore stay away from her. In her eighties, the woman displays more intactness of faculty and spirit than I do. But I won’t kick her, not even with words. She’s old, and temper seldom improves with time.

  My car is parked outside the newsagent’s, has begun to grumble about its circular, boring route. With all this starting and stopping, Elsie will decide to have another coronary soon, will go down with a clogged carburettor and dirty points. I enter the shop, pick up a handful of papers, pay a small fortune at the till.

  The neo-Nazis in Germany have attacked a Berlin cemetery for Jews. We pulled down the wall, so it begins again. The Hitler Youth is alive, well, throwing petrol bombs. So I’ll do the crossword. Diana will be enjoying the run of the place, must be glad when her middle-aged landlady gives her some space. She’ll be in my living room eating my chocolates and watching EastEnders.

  ‘Laura.’ He pokes his head into my car. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine.’ I stab at the general knowledge quiz, make a hole with my angry ballpoint. ‘Go away.’

  He opens the door, climbs into Elsie’s passenger seat, squashes my Observer. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Good holiday?’ The whole of Crosby is walking down Coronation Road, is watching me with the best-loved vet in these parts. They love him for his kindness to animals; I have loved him for the same quality, also for his goodness to me. No, that’s not strictly true. I’ve loved him because I’m selfish and he took away some of my pain by making love to me. Sex was not just an expression of love, not in my life. It became an essential like food and drink, it was necessary. It still is, but I’m staying on a diet. ‘How are the children?’ I ask.

  ‘OK.’ He pulls the newspaper from beneath his buttocks, smooths the creases, plays jig-saw with torn corners. ‘Is it over, Laura?’

  ‘Yes.’ Five down is beyond me. I need to go back into the shop for some Tippex, whiten my mistakes. Though I can’t blot out Robert with a little brush, can I? ‘We should never have started it.’

  ‘It was good,’ he whispers. His arm creeps across my shoulder. A current spills from his fingers, travels the length of my spine in a long, continuous and persuasive beat. It is a gentle, familiar pulse that attempts to waken my lazy, resting body. I sit forward. They all know him. There’s a gaggle of young parents, a tangle of prams outside the shop. They are standing in a queue, all waiting for Daddy to come out with the Sunday ice-cream, the weekend toffees. ‘Sweets are delicious,’ I am inspired to say. ‘But they’re no good for you. Gratification of a base hunger doesn’t exactly strengthen the soul.’ God, I sound like Confetti used to before she got a bit of sense.

  ‘I won’t rot your teeth,’ he replies.

  He is annoying me. I am annoying me. I want to jump out into the road, scream about my privacy being invaded by this handsome intruder, but I am trapped in a vice created by my own sins. Also, I don’t want to show myself up unduly. ‘Robert, I don’t want to see you again. Ever.’

  ‘OK.’ The door swings open and he gathers up his long legs, the muscle straining against black tracksuit bottoms. I am a lustful woman, have often studied men in the same way as I look at pieces of art. He looks right in crazy clothes, would look good in a flour sack. Most men don’t do justice to casuals, trainers, polo shirts, as they make the mistake of confusing ‘casual’ with ‘scruffy’. Robert is not merely handsome, he is beautiful, like something created by Michelangelo or another of those Italian oddballs. He has a superb body and I will not look at him.

  I turn the key, grit my teeth while Elsie strains herself to come to life. But she can’t move, because I dare not shift her. A man sits on the bonnet, squats in a position that is almost lotus. He is a lunatic. I’ve been aware of that, have watched him swimming in icy November water, smelly water, too. He has climbed up trees, across trees, inside trees. He has talked to the trees, has swung in Tarzan fashion from branch to branch, his only anchor a piece of frayed washing line left behind by the scouts. Robert has nothing to lose but his reputation, and he cares not one fig-leaf for that. In fact, I ought to be grateful for the fact that he has remained fully clothed.

  Well, to hell with it all. While this lot of pram-pushers is talking about me, some other poor beggar will be left alone. I climb out, straighten my coat, lock both doors. A child stares, his mouth oozing melted orange lolly-ice. Two older women have stopped mid-sentence, Sunday shopping forgotten in all the excitement. There’s a button hanging off my coat. It has been my experience that when dignity is required, elastic breaks or a button comes loose. With my head held high, I stalk towards the group of witnesses, stumble over a drop in the pavement, manage to remain upright. That’s another thing that spoils dramas, a tendency to lift the nose so high that nothing is truly visible.

  ‘Laura, what about your car?’

  I stop, listen to the silence. There must be fifteen or twenty people standing between us, but not one of them is breathing. ‘Keep it,’ I shout, throwing my voice ahead, not bothering to turn and look at him. He can have the bloody car. My feet slow long before the message from my brain has reached them. My feet remember that I’ve promised the car to Edward. When I get too old to drive, Edward will adopt my baby. Elsie is valuable, a collector’s item. Robert catches up with me. He seems unflustered, is fit enough to endure any barb I might throw at him. ‘Why do you want me?’ I ask. ‘I’m old, far too old. Your children need a younger stepmother, someone who can tolerate the noise, even add to it.’

  ‘I didn’t ask you to marry me.’ He is so attractive, 6 feet 2 inches tall, brown wavy hair, bright blue eyes. He should be on the telly in that Nescafé advert, ought to be borrowing coffee from a female executive who pretends disinterest in his body.

  I look him up and down. A dozen pairs of eyes are fixed on us. Some people have gone away, their constitutions too delicate to witness raw emotion. ‘Bugger off, Robert,’ I say.

  ‘Would you?’ He is serious. I know he’s serious because his eyes aren’t crinkling at the corners. ‘If you were free? And if I asked you?’

  My tongue clicks, making me feel and sound like one of those old nuns who tried to educate me many moons ago. ‘How quaint. These days, the women do the asking and the telling. No, I wouldn’t ask you and no, I wouldn’t marry you. I’m going to be a recycled virgin.’ A young mother giggles, understands how I feel, pushes her pram away.

  Robert is plainly intending to persist. He is leaning against the shoe shop window, has assumed the age-old attitude of the young buck on the prowl, seriously casual. He opens his mouth, ‘Now, look—’

  ‘I’m leaving Crosby.’ Well, that is news to me, but what a splendid pearl of wisdom. I wonder how I’m managing to be so resourceful. There again. Perhaps I do intend to leave. That could have been the plan all along, so secret that I haven’t even told me about it yet.

  He falters, blinks a few times, then crosses the pavement and steels his spine against a lamppost. It’s like being fifteen again, keep off the streets or the boys will get you. ‘Where are you going?’ The tone is low, disappointed.

  ‘Never mind.’

  ‘I can visit. Have stethoscope, will travel.’

  ‘No. To go where I’m going, you’d need a visa.’ I am learning so much about my intentions today.

  ‘Rubbish. Even if you’re going to Russia, the cold war’s over. As for the rest of the world, a visa never was a problem.’

  Again, I am inspired. ‘I’m taking Ben home. He’s a foreigner, wants to be with his own people.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘No.’ I walk away, push past a few lingering witnesses, leap into Elsie and drive off at a speed that is extravagant. He is still leaning on that lamppost. Perhaps a little lady will pass by – it worked for George Formby. Sainsbury’s is open, has defied the Lord’s day, but it’s peaceful and the parking is free on Sundays. Robert was just a plaything, I tell myself firmly. He was a toyboy, he’ll find some other strong woman to am
use him.

  The pigeons swoop, pick at a McDonalds carton. From the corner of an eye, I watch as a single starling awaits his turn, just as we all await ours. Time to go home.

  Chapter Four

  She has finished the painting, has done a good job. I saunter about, pick up the odd piece of valuable tat, a figurine, two crystal paperweights, an old Venetian vase. What will I do with these tangible memories? Ben was with me when I bought some of them, he even chose one or two while on his business trips. What was he doing, where was he doing it? No, I won’t think.

  I have to leave here. Some part of me realized that long before my subconscious leapt into my mouth when Robert was performing for the crowd. I’m going. This is Ben’s home, our home, this is Benaura. He won’t get better. He won’t kick me out of bed on Saturdays, won’t ever be here to persuade me to make the tea. ‘Every day, I do it,’ he used to say. ‘Go on, woman, earn your keep.’ Then he used to chase me round the bedroom and beat me with a pillow. I never made the morning tea, not once.

  Benaura is my property, was signed over to me by a weary man with a weary brain. ‘Take it, Laura. It is brick and mortar, no more than that. And the money in my British accounts too. What time is it?’ That was an early symptom, asking the time, the day, his address. ‘Are we in a hotel, Laura?’ I won’t cry.

  Where am I going, then? Will I abandon Ben in Heaton Lodge, just turn my back on him, leave him to sit alone like the old lady who never gets visitors? Don’t worry now, I tell myself. Take it easy, you’ve been ill, you’ve had a rough time, old girl.

  I sit on an arm of the sofa, fix my gaze on the window. They are here, the September starlings, fighting, shouting at each other in the pear tree. Ben loved them so, envied their anger, their survival skills. Among some species, when a bird fails to keep up with its peers, its life is ended by other members of the same group. Do Starlings kill Starlings? Is that the kindest thing, is it? Laura, does that idea sit with the others that have surprised you lately? You’re so sure about leaving here, so positive about new starts, clean sheets. Don’t think. Look at the birds, but don’t think.