by Anna Maxted
My mother tilts her head. ‘I don’t remember that,’ she says. She pats my hand and says softly, ‘Don’t take it personally, darling. He could be very rude sometimes. I told him off for it. Like when he told Vivienne her mink coat stank.’ She sighs. ‘Oh Helen, I miss him. The ache. It’s always there. You understand. Some days it fades and then, I’ll see his spectacle case in a drawer, and it’ll be back with a vengeance.’ I nod dumbly. What else can I do?
My mother sighs again. ‘Oh well,’ she says, snapping a large corner off the Dime bar, ‘that’s the price you pay for love.’
I think about what she’s said long after she leaves. (Vivienne is due round for advice on which dress to wear for Jeremy’s latest premiere. ‘I don’t know why,’ grumbles my mother. ‘They’re all red and sequinned.’)
I feel I’m paying the price for love despite it bolting back to the shop before I could get any use out of it.
Chapter 45
MY MOTHER DIDN’T set out to be a bad parent, she just didn’t know any better. Her support has been erratic, to say the least. When I was eleven she made a big deal about taking an afternoon off work to watch me compete in a school swimming race. She attended, and I came third. Out of four contestants.
‘I was sure you were going to win,’ she said as I slumped, sodden and defeated, in the car home. I brightened at this show of faith, until she added, ‘The other children looked so scrawny. What a shame you did so badly!’
Wary after more than two decades of this, I hesitate to tell her about Tom. I’m too delicate to cope with her booby-trapped reassurances. However, when I give in and confess, my mother is surprisingly optimistic.
‘He’ll come crawling back!’ she says. ‘They all do eventually!’ She suggests we go shopping instead. ‘You could do with wearing brighter clothes,’ she says, ‘No wonder you’re such a mope.’
While we are closer, her ability to ricochet from gushing to crushing never fails to astound me.
When I’m not being insulted by relatives, I sulk indoors. I have added a lamp to my living room and rude magnets to the fridge, and the flat feels warmer and more mine every day. I like to be in it. And I get every chance to be in it because I don’t feel much like partying. If I do see my friends, we meet in the day. (They don’t feel much like partying either.)
Talking of which, yesterday I saw Tina. She returned to work and while she looked fragile and on edge, the first thing she said when I bounded over was, ‘Alright, you big tart!’ I beamed and replied joyfully, ‘Hello, slapper!’ Then we hugged. It was a blissful cross between Romford and New Jersey.
Later on we snuck out for a coffee and Tina said she was feeling stronger. ‘I take it Luke’s still cooking for you then,’ I said teasingly, looking at her gaunt face.
To my surprise, Tina said fervently, ‘That man is a gem. Everyone’s been great, especially you. And the police were good. They gave me pamphlets. I’ll never forget what you did, Helen. I, God knows, I needed the push. I – ugh – even to talk about it. I can’t. It’s too raw. Maybe later.
‘But Luke. I don’t know what I’d have done without him. He’s been solid. Because this hasn’t been easy, Helen. It’s frightening, being out in the world again. It sounds mad but I felt safe with Adrian. And I, I haven’t heard from him but I’m scared I will. He’s got to be madder than hell. I’m almost resigned to it. Sometimes I think, I’ve survived this many beatings, what’s one more? But Luke says I won’t see Adrian again. He’s confident of that. I half believe him. I should feel happy, but I’m not sure how I feel. It’s like there’s a void where the feeling should be. I might feel different when the case is over. But I don’t know if I could have stuck it without Luke. I can’t tell you. Every woman deserves a Luke.’
Humbled, I said, ‘No Tina, you deserve a Luke.’ Not wishing to sound soft I added, ‘A Luke with good hygiene and some vestige of dress sense.’
But Tina said quietly, ‘He’s cool.’
Instantly, I felt mean. Trying to sound joky – but wishing to procure serious information – I croaked, ‘Oh! So it’s like that, is it?’
Although Tina insisted that it wasn’t like that and that she planned to remain single for a long while, I knew it was only a matter of time before it was like that. And this morning, as I hunch over my marmalade on toast, I think, why can’t it be like that for me? I would say I’m always the bridesmaid, never the bride, but I’ve never even been a bridesmaid. How dare bridesmaids complain! They don’t know how lucky they are in their puffy lilac.
As I brood on the ungratefulness of some people, I hear a thud. Yet another crippling bill. I stomp downstairs to be financially damaged and see a large white envelope lying on the floor. I snatch it up, rip it open, and inspect its contents. A scrawled note: ‘Darling, look what I found!’ And a faded birthday card. The illustration is of a baby penguin wearing a woolly hat and scarf and carrying a flower (as they do). The message reads ‘For You Daddy On Your Birthday’. I open it and my eyes prickle. ‘To dear Daddy’, a little girl has written in her neatest handwriting, ‘With lots of love and kissis and hugs and best wishis lots of love forom Helen xxxxxxx oooooooo.’
I wait till 9.32 then ring Laetitia. ‘Hello?’ I whisper, forcing out a weak cough. ‘Laetitia, it’s Helen, I’m [groan] not well. I’ve [wheeze] got a cracking headache and [choke] I feel sick [sniff]. I’m going to [snuffle] have to drag myself [rasp] to the doctor. I feel [gasp] terrible.’
I await the fearsome cry of ‘Don’t lie to me, you skiver, get in here this minute or you’re out on your sodding ear!’ But Laetitia merely says, ‘Don’t come in until it’s officially not contagious.’
I agree, plonk down the receiver and crow, ‘And the Academy Award for Best Actress goes to Miss Helen Bradshaw! For a staggering performance! Ta naaaaa!’ Then I pack what I need, grab my metal bin from the bathroom, jump in the Toyota, and speed to the cemetery.
I’d forgotten how quiet it was. Quiet except for the insolent drone of aircraft every five minutes. It’s less windy than on the day of my father’s funeral, but the sky is grey, not blue. I survey the desolate landscape of white stones and sigh. Who would have thought it. I hope no one sees me carrying this bin. Or wearing trousers. I glance around, then crouch and read the inscription on an ancient-looking headstone. ‘Thy Will Be Done.’ I suppose that’s called resigning yourself to someone else’s fate.
I walk around, hugging the bin and peering at strangers’ graves. I frown at ‘Not lost but gone before’. Bloody optimists. I decide that ‘Watch, for ye know not when your Lord doth come,’ is spiteful scaremongering. And it hurts me to read the inscription for Joey Steadman, aged twenty-two.
‘To the world he was only a part.
To us he was all the world.’
It’s a long while before I approach my father’s grave.
Finally, I stand and stare at the name. ‘Maurice Bradshaw’, etched in granite. And my first thought is, what the fuck is my father’s name doing in this graveyard! I stare at ‘Maurice Bradshaw’ for a long time, and scowl. Slowly I reach out and touch the cold stone. I trace my finger along each solemn letter. Maurice Bradshaw. His row is nearly filled up, with people who have died since. But the grave itself looks stark. I stare some more, and see a dandelion struggling to survive in the soil. ‘He hates yellow,’ I murmur. Something about being here immobilises me. I feel I could stand here staring until dark.
I stare and stare. Then I kneel on the ground next to my father’s grave, rummage through my bag for my notepad and my pen, and start scribbling. Pebbles dig into my knees through my trousers, but I don’t mind. I like feeling the sharpness. When I’ve finished, my trousers are wet with mud and my knees hurt. I brush myself off – which smears the mud – and read what I’ve written.
‘Dear Dad,
I hope you’re well.
I’m not. I miss you and it has been awful. I wish that it had been different. Of course, the family have been no help at all. I hate Cousin Stephen. He h
as disgraced himself. He was so greedy at the will reading that Nana had to tell him to shut up. He had egg mayonnaise at the corner of his mouth, it was disgusting. No one can see beyond themselves to a bit of compassion and decency. Nana Flo hasn’t heard from Great Aunt Molly for ages. But we’ve tried with Nana, and I think she’s a bit better. She’s a strong woman. Mummy is slightly less strong but I think you’d be proud of her (apart from the wrist business). She was brilliant when I moved into my flat. You’ll be pleased to hear it’s in a good location.
I lost confidence when you died. I didn’t know who I was, suddenly. What to do. And if you must know, I don’t feel too good at the moment. Maybe your death YOUR DEATH YOUR DEATH YOUR DEATH YOU ARE DEAD YOU ARE DEAD I CAN’T BELIEVE IT WHY CAN’T YOU COME BACK WHY WHY WHY WHY NEARLY A YEAR AND STILL NOT BETTER. Not many people understand. They decide how I feel, should feel, ought to feel, in relation to how bad Mum feels . . . I’m twenty-nine years younger than her, therefore subtract grief to the power of two, add one for . . . I don’t mean to complain. They mean well. It’s useless trying to convince them it isn’t like that. Like trying to convince Nana that gay people aren’t doing it to spite their parents. But Mum and I are getting on better, which is good.
I wish we’d got on, Dad. I was hurt that you called me the Grinch. I tried hard with you, Dad. I loved you. I wanted you to love me back. If you don’t mind me saying, it was like trying to force the Toyota up a steep hill. I meant to say I love you at the hospital, and I was saying it inside. I hope dying wasn’t too bad, leaving us and sinking alone into the dark. I hope you play golf with Grandpa and get to know him. It must be nice for you both to meet at last.
I have wondered what I did to make you not care but now I see you did, in your way. Mum says you were rude in general so it’s good to know it wasn’t all me. No offence, but not all men are like you. Some try harder. Which makes me feel better about things.
Anyway, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but it was time. I still love you. And I feel better now. With lots of love and kissis and hugs and best wishis lots of love forom Helen xxxxxxx oooooooo
(Remember!?)
I don’t want to over-romanticise the moment but I feel like I’ve just had an enema.
I sigh deeply and fold the letter. Then I turn to my death-kit. I open the grey paper sack and place the letter inside. I also put in the paper Mercedes (to ferry Dad to a heavenly golf club), the gold and silver watch with ‘Rolex’ printed on its face (he likes to be on time), the Chinese gold leaf, and the Bank of Hell notes (to buy a drink at the bar). And the five ripped-out end pages of Single & Single by John le Carré (he hadn’t finished it). I stick in the glasses, the pen, and the cigarettes. Then I write my father’s name on the sack, make a note of the date on a Post-it note and attach that too. Then I seal it.
I glance around to see if anyone is watching, but the place is deserted. Furtively, I light the three joss sticks – I crouch behind the headstone for shelter – and think ‘Dad, Dad, Dad.’ Then I realise, shit, I could be summoning anyone’s dad, so I quickly amend it to ‘Maurice Bradshaw, Helen’s Dad, Maurice Bradshaw, Helen’s Dad.’ After five fragrant minutes, I poke the joss sticks into the ground, and light the red candle. ‘Okay, Dad,’ I whisper, feeling only slightly silly. ‘I’m sending you cash, fags and a Merc, because I know that’s what you’ll appreciate, even if it isn’t very zen. I’ve also sent you a John Le Carré but please read my letter first. Okay, now I’m sending it.’
I jam the red candle in the earth, right behind the headstone so it doesn’t blow out. Then I wonder, do I torch the lot like a pyromaniac or do I play the control freak and burn it item by item? I might as well be organised. I owe it to that stupid list. I tip everything out on to the ground. Then I set fire to the sack first, so that all I send has transport. I fold the Chinese money in the way that Lizzy showed me, plop it in the steel bin, and strike a match.
The money burns and curls, orange cinders squirming over it like bugs, devouring the paper until it is dust. I stare, bewitched. The smell is sweet, heady, almost sickly. I am nervous that the smoke will alert the gravekeepers (or whatever they’re called) and keep peering over the headstone to see if any officials are thundering towards me shaking their fists. They aren’t. Then I light the Hell notes. I watch and wait until they crumble to ash before lighting the cigarettes (I hope they’re not stubs on arrival). Then I light the pen, the watch, the glasses, as I don’t want a fire raging out of control. My father would be mortified. Then it’s the turn of the Merc, which takes about three hours – not what I’d expect from a fast car. Then John le Carré. And finally, my letter.
‘I’m shutting the door after the hearse has bolted,’ I joke to the whispery air. My eyes water from the smoke and other things and I wipe them with the back of my hand, before realising it’s filthy. Then I glance down and see that so is the rest of me. I look like a charred potato. My face is hot and itchy from crouching over the bin, my throat stings, and my knees are damp and frozen. But I don’t care.
My heart races as I watch the cinders fly.
Chapter 46
I DRIVE HOME in a trance, flames leaping before my eyes, my hands black with soot. I speed along, invincible. There are no tangible thoughts in my head, just an image of ash dancing in the air like a thousand white butterflies set free. I run upstairs to the mirror to see if I look different and a grubby urchin stares back at me. When I breathe deeply it is like I am encased in a steel corset. Slowly I place my hands on my chest and feel the frantic beat of my heart. I stand still. And the ache of loss, dragging on my insides like a devil tugging at my soul, seems fainter.
Later, when I sink into sleep, there are no pursuers thumping up the stairs behind me.
But fate compensates for the absence of nightmares. I open my eyes in the morning and instantly feel [groan] not well. My first thought is that I’ve caught something from the graveyard. All those germs seeping up from the ground. My second is that I’m being punished for lying to Laetitia, in which case God has no sense of justice and shocking taste in women. And my third is, I have just taken a large step towards exorcising a ghost – at the very least, I’ve sacrificed a Mercedes – I should feel light and springy and full of zing.
Instead I feel as bouncy as a dead kangaroo. I heave myself upright in bed and attempt a delicate ‘hhu hh’. Suspicion confirmed. My throat is raw, my head aches and my eyes have been bathed in ammonia.
I flop on the pillow and stare at the ceiling. So. The day after I visit my father’s grave, I am haunted by the tedious moral punchline of The Boy Who Cried Wolf. I’m too old for this, I think as I wincingly shift position. I’ve learned all the lessons from fairytales that I need to know. (Thanks to Little Red Riding Hood and The Three Billy Goats Gruff I grew up with an abiding fear of Nana Flo and humpback bridges.)
‘I’m as weak as a kitten,’ I croak self-pityingly as Fatboy lands on my bed with the force of a small building. I stagger to the kitchen and retch as I open a tin. Then I ring work and leave a hoarse message. I also ring the doctor and demand an emergency appointment. ‘He’s on holiday,’ warbles the aged receptionist. ‘You’ll have to see the duty doctor, Dr Sands. Eleven ten okay?’
I lean heavily on the reception desk for a full minute before one of the three women behind it stops jawing and deigns to notice me. I am about to say sweetly ‘Mrs Cerberus, I’m sorry to trouble you but I’m about to expire,’ when all the life exits her voice and she says, ‘Can I help you?’ I announce myself and am despatched to the waiting area. I sit as far away from all the ill people as possible. There’s a Hello on the table but the thought of it is too intellectually demanding. I swallow carefully – it feels as if I’m gulping down a golf ball – and close my eyes.
It seems like an age before a gruff voice raps out ‘Helen Bradshaw!’ I jump up and scuttle into the surgery. The duty doctor and I regard each other and my heart shrinks. Dr Sands is about ninety-three with tufts of yellow-white hair, a curved back
, and a disdainful demeanour. I start to describe my symptoms and he interrupts me as if I am simply too dull and stupid to be heard. He glances down my throat and mutters, ‘Nothing there.’
I want to exclaim, ‘What! no oesophagus!’ but lack the strength. His contempt takes my breath away.
I collect myself and say firmly, ‘My father died quite recently and I’ve been stressed and sad, I think, and maybe—’
The doctor says, ‘When?’
I clench my fists and say ‘July.’ I add, ‘I’m just so tired, and I’ve had no time to think, and maybe if I had a week off work it—’
Dr Sands cuts in again. He says sneeringly, ‘A week won’t do anything! I can prescribe you a course of anti-depressants—’
It is my turn to interrupt him. ‘I don’t want anti-depressants!’ I snarl. ‘I want to deal with it not stun it!’ I look at his drooping face and see the acute boredom and know I’m wasting my time. ‘Oh I’ll manage,’ I say and walk out.
I rage and fume all the way to the Toyota then drive home at the speed of sound. Patronising old goat. What if I had throat cancer? He’d probably suggest I eat a Tune. I think uncharitable thoughts about Dr Sands being struck off and dying in the near future. ‘He’s on his way out,’ I say meanly, addressing the steering wheel, ‘and he wants to take everyone with him.’ By the time I get home I’ve burned the edge off my aggression. I flop into bed and fall asleep.
I wake up at 3 p.m., feeling dazed. I swallow to test my throat. Not bad. If only the fluff would go from my head. I can’t go back to work, I just can’t. I can’t face doing. I cannot stomach the reality of chasing Laetitia’s laundry. I just need to be. I lie back and see the flames as the Hell notes burn. It feels like I imagined it. I grab yesterday’s top from the floor and sniff it. It’s streaked with dirt and reeks of smoke and incense. I wonder if Dad received his parcel. I can’t help smiling as I imagine him opening it. Maybe I should have sent something for Grandpa Gerald too? Nah. He can share with Dad. You can’t get too carried away. It’s like feeding the pigeons in Regent’s Park. Feed one, and it’s pleasantly British. Feed two and it starts a frenzy and before you know it you’ve got birdshit on your head.