Ghost Moon

by Ron Butlin

  SUNDAY

  TIME TO BRACE yourself on the Rosehaven doorstep, press the bell. Stand on the yellow cross marked on the doormat, show yourself to the CCTV angled above. Speak your name into the security grille: Tom Stewart.

  Buzzed into the overheated hall, into the combined smells of floral air-freshener, yesterday’s macaroni cheese, urine, today’s stew and vegetables, laundry, disinfectant.

  Not managing more than the first few steps along the corridor leading to the dayroom before it hits you – you’re about to throw up there and then.

  Reaching the visitors’ toilet just in time.

  Forget about what your ex-wife said about your having no feelings. What does she know? Too many feelings, more like – and always too keen to share them. You just keep trying and hoping. And getting hurt. The lovely Janice . . . and now Mandy. A steady girl, a caring girl. Maybe that’s what you need?

  Feelings? Clearly you’re deeply, deeply distressed about your mother’s deteriorating condition. Visiting her at the cottage every Sunday without fail and now coming here to her care home is the hardest thing you’ve ever done . . .

  Hours it seems like, leaning over the wash hand basin . . . one dry heave after another. Retching and retching. There’s a slick of cold sweat on your cheeks. Your hands shake as they grip onto the porcelain rim. Your stomach’s churning, but nothing comes. Never does. Hard work even to spit. You keep trying.

  Then stop.

  Because, quite abruptly, you’re feeling fine again. Back in top form. A1 and then some. Yes, you’ve got the magic touch, all right!

  Now, bin the paper towel – your face and your feelings at default setting once more, you’re ready to go through and greet your mother. Bringing her a smile!

  ‘Hello, Mum. How are you today?’ You sit down in the empty seat next to hers. A few minutes’ chat to get things started, and then you’ll suggest she zimmer herself through to her room – no old biddies there, talking to themselves, crying and the rest of it. There you can almost pretend everything’s normal. At least you’ve got her into a good place – costs megabucks, but hey, she’s your mother. It was the best of the homes you checked out, the very best, and every time you sit with her in the dayroom you do what you can to shut out the worst of it – the little accident that’s not been mopped up, the spilled food, the helplessness, the calls going neglected, the residents’ feeding, bathing and bedtime arranged for the convenience of the staff. Most of all, the total dependency. The locked doors. The closed windows. The smell.

  She’s calling you Michael again today. Better to ignore it and tell her instead about your drive down from Edinburgh, the weather, the traffic, why you prefer the Moffat road via the Beef Tub to the multi-lane racetrack of the M74, show her your new iPad, tell her how you didn’t manage to leave Edinburgh till lunchtime as you’d had a late gig last night. Because she keeps nodding and smiling at the right bits, you hope she’s following everything. Best to say nothing about getting the cottage ready for sale, of course, no sense in upsetting her. Instead, you describe a new trick you’re working on and explain that nobody wants rabbits out of hats these days, not unless they’re virtual rabbits, virtual hats and performed by a virtual magician! You’re working on it, you joke. She doesn’t always follow what you’re saying, but you keep talking to keep things moving forward.

  The drugs trolley’s rattled up to her seat. It’s Kylie on duty today, the small overweight woman, the one your mother calls Boss Beryl and who looks like a binbag that’s not been fastened properly at the neck. Must be the Polish girl’s day off. A real pity as she certainly brightens the place up.

  ‘Time for your meds, Mrs Stewart.’

  ‘I’m called Maggie, I keep telling you. Maggie, maggie davies.’

  ‘OK, Mum, okay. Don’t get upset. It’s all right.’

  Patches of red stand out on her cheeks. Clutching your arm so tightly you feel each separate bone in her fingers. ‘Tell her. Tell Beryl there’s no Mrs Stewart and there never was.’

  While lifting a small plastic cup of water from the trolley, you give Kylie a smile that’s half-apology and half-embarrassment.

  ‘Here you are, Mum. Another green one, another sip, and you’re done.’

  Empty cup replaced, you thank the woman. She and her trolley move off to the next chair.

  When you showed the Polish girl – Mariella? Marietta? – a couple of simple tricks recently, making a pound coin appear out of her ear and then turning it into a shower of petals from her closed hand, she gave you a very big smile. Meaning that she liked how you’d touched her hair and her ear, and enjoyed the older-man confidence with which you’d opened out her cool fingers, one by one. She’d been impressed. She’s mid-twenties at most. You could be her father? Her grandfather, more like! But so what? You can appreciate her, can’t you? Those blonde curls gathered into a bunch at the back of her head, the loose strands framing her high cheekbones, that not-so-innocent glint in her blue eyes.

  For several moments you and your mother sit in silence.

  ‘Would you like some tea, Mum? I can ask them to — ’

  ‘It was cake. Jean baked a cake.’

  That bloody cake again. If you’ve heard about it once, you’ve heard it a hundred times. ‘Yes, Mum. Auntie Jean had a cake shop – in Haymarket you said, wasn’t it?’

  ‘This cake wasn’t for sale.’

  ‘No? Just for eating?’

  ‘Eating? Jean wasn’t going to eat it, me neither.’

  The red floods back into her cheeks, warm-red this time. Genuine pleasure. And she’s grinning: ‘What a cake it was! Three layers. A sponge with cream and chocolate and marzipan, slathered all over with icing and dusted with hundreds-and-thousands. Irresistible.’

  ‘Pity you never took a photo of it, eh, Mum! We could have put it into that album I — ’

  Her sudden anger. ‘For the last time: I don’t want to see any photos. I don’t want to see any people. And I don’t want to see you, whoever you are. Coming here, asking questions. I don’t want people coming, people not coming. I don’t want questions . . .’ The red in her cheeks has become like a burn mark. She struggles to raise herself out of her chair. ‘I don’t want . . .’

  A moment later she has calmed down and is perfectly still once more. Completely composed.

  ‘Nice of you to visit. What did you say your name was again?’

  ‘Tell me about the cake again, Mum.’

  ‘What cake?’

  ‘The one you said that Auntie Jean made.’

  ‘Jean made lots of cakes.’

  ‘All chocolate and marzipan, you told me, and — ’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

  ‘Who was it for?’

  ‘For Boss Beryl and the others, and Donna, too, of course. Who else?’

  ‘You mean the people who’re looking after you here? I don’t understand, Mum. Auntie Jean died . . . years ago. How could she have known the people here?’

  ‘Forget the cake. There was no cake. I must have dreamt it. All of it. I’m tired of your questions. I’m tired of you. Who do you think you are? Coming here and upsetting me – you’re not Michael, you’re not anyone. You make me feel like I’ve been doing the laundry all day, like you’re squeezing and squeezing me to get the last of the — ’

  ‘But Mum — ’

  ‘Tom would have helped me. Sometimes I’d pretend he was standing there beside me on the three-legged stool, turning the handle while I fed the wet clothes through. We’d have had great fun together! The windows steamed up with the condensation so there was nothing outside, nothing in the whole world but the two of us . . . They’ll be bringing tea soon. No cake today unless you brought some.’

  ‘I had a lovely slice last time I was — ’

  ‘You had a slice? Not Jean’s cake you didn’t. She certainly wouldn’t have g
iven you a slice.’

  ‘But, Mum — ’

  ‘She wasn’t giving that cake to just anybody. And you – you’re no one. Get out. get out!’

  Boss Beryl’s abrupt tug-and-swish of the curtains.

  ‘Been looking through the family snaps, have we?’ She’s picked up the photo album that’s still sitting on the chest of drawers. ‘Mind if I –?’ Without waiting for a by-your-leave, she starts flicking through it.

  You want to snatch it away. Whoever’s pictures they are, they’re not Boss Beryl’s, that’s for sure. You don’t want that woman’s hands all over them, nobody does. Her sweaty pawprints and snide remarks.

  ‘Someone’s secretary, were you, Maggie? Very smart- looking. Weren’t you the heartbreaker!’

  Only my own heart. Keeping its jagged shards clutched to you for most of your life, keeping them for the touch of Michael’s fingertips to melt away the pain.

  4

  AFTER THE EARLY morning dash in the taxi across the ­wintry-dark city, across the Meadows and down a completely ­deserted Minto Street to Queen’s Crescent with Jean’s hand in hers to grip hold of at each contraction, there came five hours of pain and then exhaustion, followed by more pain and more ­exhaustion, and people telling her to push-push-push.

  Afterwards, as she lay awash with sweat and still trying to catch her breath, she was told to look up for a moment. But only if she wanted to:

  The tiniest mouth and nose, damp feather-light fair, hazy blue eyes. A boy.

  Held up for only the briefest moment, held too far away for her to touch –

  Hardly the chance to catch a glimpse of each other –

  Then whisked away out of sight. Through to another room to get cleaned and swaddled up.

  Woodstock House has been phoned, they said to her, and someone’s on their way.

  Maggie knew this was going to happen, didn’t she? Her son going straight to the children’s home? She herself must have arranged it, they reminded her. With Mrs Saunders at Woodstock House. She and Mrs Saunders would’ve discussed all the details between them.

  Getting upset like this would only make things worse, they told her. Always best to be separated as soon as possible. It was easier that way. Easier for everyone.

  Of course he’d be well taken care of, they reassured her. Woodstock House had a good reputation. She needn’t worry. She could be really proud of herself and it was time to let others take over now. She’d done all the hard work. He looked a bonnie wee baby and was going to be fine. Everything was going to be fine. She needed a proper rest now. Needed to get her strength back.

  Maggie struggled to sit up in bed, begging and begging to be allowed to see him one more time, to hold him just once before –

  All in good time, they said. All in good time.

  Let’s open these curtains a little wider so you can see out.

  Let’s straighten these covers and plump up these pillows. Let’s get you comfortable.

  A cup of tea? – with plenty of sugar, if you fancy it.

  Getting upset like this wasn’t helping anyone, least of all her, they said. Once she calmed down they’d leave her to have a good sleep. She’d feel better after that, they said. A good sleep. A good sleep. A good sleep. They could give her something if she wanted.

  Totally worn out, Maggie fell back onto the freshly arranged pillows. She turned her face to the window, away from their firm hands, away from their repertoire of comforting words and kindness. Better to stare out at the November afternoon, better to follow the tracks of the raindrops streaming down the glass . . .

  Her suitcase, a handful of painkillers, good luck and goodbye.

  Jean had come to collect her and the taxi was waiting in the street.

  Maggie stood looking down the flight of stone steps, the same six steps she’d toiled up the day before, more like six hundred now, and pitiless every one of them. There was a handrail, at least. She held onto it, quite unable to start her descent.

  Taxi or not, she was in no rush.

  A cold easterly pulled at her knotted headscarf and made the loose ends flap against her cheeks; she could see the clouds being hurried on, driven forward, scattered across the ragged winter sky. The wind tugged and tugged at a leafless silver birch that stood so close to a wall its thinnest branches scraped to rawness against the stone. On the rooftop directly above where she stood, gust after gust set the grannies whirling in their chimney pots. They screeched at her to get herself down the steps and out of their sight. Now she’d given birth she no longer belonged in this mountain refuge of soft pillows and round-the-clock care. Down the stairs with you, they shrieked. Get back to where you came from.

  She caught hold of her loosening scarf. Jean took her arm.

  ‘Yer gey peelie wallie lookin, Maggie. Shouldae stayed a bit langer, no?’

  ‘At £9 a day?’

  ‘Come on then, let’s get ye back hame.’ Her sister-in-law guided her to the top step. ‘Taxi’s my treat.’

  ‘Jean, I — ’ She stared down into the everyday lowlands far below – the Edinburgh streets, tenements, her couch in the back room of the bakery, the job she’d need to find, the room she’d need to rent, the visits to see Tom at Woodstock House. Would he recognise her? Would he come to love her?

  ‘Come on, Maggie, let’s get you back home.’

  ‘My suitcase?’

  ‘I’ve got it. Ready? We’ll take it easy. One step at a time.’

  How shaky Maggie felt to be up and on her feet again. Her left hand clutching at empty air for better balance until she’d found the rail. Her right gripping Jean’s arm, together they began their descent.

  Two steps, three, four, five . . .

  The driver stayed in his cab with his engine running for the heater. It was warm inside, thank goodness. Maggie slumped down in the corner. Jean stood the suitcase at her feet.

  ‘Are you all right, Maggie?’

  ‘Thanks, Jean. Taxi’s a real kindness. A tram would have been beyond me.’

  ‘A tram! Away wi ye!’ Jean gave the address and they drove off.

  ‘I was wanting to go and see Tom today, but — ’

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Hardly saw him for more than a few moments, but long enough to know he’s called Tom. He knows it too, I could tell.’

  ‘A guid name. There’s nae Tom in the family as far as I ken. He’ll be stairting aff wi a clean slate.’

  Maggie leaned forward and turned to face her: ‘I’ll go and visit him first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘We’ll see. Ye’ll want tae get some colour back into yer cheeks first, or he’ll be thinking his mither’s a ghost.’

  A ghost? Maggie bit her lip, and sank back into her seat.

  The door of Woodstock House was opened by the same tangle of blonde curls and smiles as before.

  ‘Hello.’ The girl looked Maggie full in the face. ‘You’re Miss Davies, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s right, Donna. Hello to you, too. Can I come in, please?’

  ‘They never said, so I don’t know. Well . . . (a theatrical sigh), I suppose you’re here now. Mrs Saunders will have heard the bell anyway.’ She stood aside to let Maggie enter. ‘No need for the mat today, the wind’s blown away all the wet.’ She pushed the door closed behind them.

  ‘How’s your dancing coming on?’

  ‘Blisters. Thank you for asking. Some advice – never try doing the can-can barefoot. Too many splinters.’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll remember.’

  They crossed the hall. Though it was only a month since Maggie had been here, the linoleum seemed to have hardened to a sheet of permafrost and the varnished staircase become encrusted with ice. It was so cold she could see her breath.

  ‘Heat’s kept for the children’s rooms. No one hangs about in the hall, so why heat it? That’s what M
rs Saunders says. Sometimes I do my dancing here because it’s a good big space – but only if I’ve warmed up in the kitchen first, Mrs Saunders says, or else my muscles’ll break in the cold or maybe even my arms and legs. He’s a lovely wee boy.’

  ‘Yes. He’s called Tom.’

  ‘Tom?’ They had reached Mrs Saunders’ room. ‘A nice name. If you want, I’ll look out for him.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘But only if you want me to.’

  Donna knocked and opened the door for her. ‘Really suits the wee lad. Tom. Cheerio.’ She shimmied off up the corridor.

  ‘Cheerio, Donna,’ Maggie called after her.

  The superintendent was again seated behind her desk, her cigarette sending up a thin line of smoke from the ashtray at her elbow. She was clearly involved in very important work and made no effort to look up when her visitor approached. Her fountain pen continued to scratch line after line onto a sheet of headed foolscap.

  Hands by her side Maggie stood in front of the desk, and waited.

  Two further lines were completed.

  She coughed. ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Saunders.’

  The superintendent didn’t look up. ‘One moment, please.’

  Where the surface of the desk wasn’t covered in papers, there were ink stains, cup ring marks. The right-hand edge was scarred by a line of cigarette burns.

  Maggie was about to speak again, but stopped when the older woman put down her pen and reached for a sheet of blotting paper. Finally, the completed foolscap page was placed on top of a nearby pile. The superintendent laid her palms flat on the desk:

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve come to see my little boy. He was born yesterday, and — ’

  ‘Name?’

  Maggie took a step forward, right to the front of the desk. She smiled. ‘I’m going to call him — ’