Remember Me

by Trezza Azzopardi

  the dead are the dead

  It’s hard to keep a friend who won’t believe. No point telling him that the spirits decide for themselves when to come. They can be bloody-minded, spiteful as a child. The state of the house after Mr Stadnik got his hands on it – I should think my grandfather would have had a few choice words, if he ever turned up. But he never did. I could give reasons, quote Bernard’s gospel. But Mr Stadnik had cast a doubt over everything. I thought I knew it all, until then. I was taught to believe – not just in the spirits, but in the gift they said I had. They’d turned my head, Bernard and Jean. I wouldn’t sit on Mr Stadnik’s dirty chair for fear of catching something. Fine clothes, fine words. Mr Stadnik was right about that. It makes me laugh now; these days my words are not so fine, and the only kind of seat I get to enjoy is a bench, marking time, looking at adverts for furniture I can never buy, in a freesheet I took from a rubbish bin.

  I tried to keep Mr Stadnik, that was my mistake. I could have gone back to Bernard and Jean and made my apologies. But my insides were hollow. I had seen the ghost of Joseph. I had seen him, I was sure of that. It cleans you out like a dose of meths. If I think of that time now, it’s white as a page. There was nothing left of me, after the hall, and the bird, after I saw Joseph fall. And it wasn’t beautiful, try as I might to imagine it. He was young and afraid. He fell from that tower on a flat grey morning, like a stone into mud. No bells ringing out a wedding song; just crows, screaming in a ring above his head. That’s all there was to mark his flight. No one told me, not Aunty Ena, not Alice, but it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t alter the fact. Fell like a stone.

  Just when I thought there was no one else left, Mr Stadnik appeared, bringing a feeling I could hardly remember: safety. I thought he would look after me. I wouldn’t have to stand in front of the faces and hope that I could make the right words come out. But then we went to Chapelfield, and I understood him for what he had become: a mad old man, buying back the pawn shop with his wages, picking over the rubble, hoarding the debris. As if these people would ever come back, turn up at his house, sort through all the boxes, hoping to find that silk blouse her mother wore when she got married, the father’s sheet music, or his watch, or the silverware handed down, the tangled baby clothes. As if a single item could bring a person back to life.

  When the rain stopped, we crossed into Chapelfield gardens. It was good to be in the air, that smell of light after a downpour. We wandered around the gardens, now and then Mr Stadnik bending to pull up a weed, or examine a fallen leaf. The wrecked pagoda stood in the middle of a patch of scrubby grass. We climbed the steps and leaned on the rail, side by side in our new, awkward silence, looking out across the trees. Hunched over, Mr Stadnik was even smaller than I remembered, almost grotesque, with his shiny black hair and his thick glasses and the film of grime on his skin. His cuffs hung loose about his wrists; on the right one, he wore a gold bracelet with what looked like a heavy charm attached.

  What’s that? I asked, A keepsake?

  No, he said, touching his finger to the chain, Over there – pointing to a bank of shattered houses – I found this chain.

  You’re just keeping it safe, then, I said, Until someone comes to claim it.

  Correct.

  Bernard had a name for it, what Mr Stadnik did: Bernard called them the Vultures. We saw men like him all the time, sifting through the bombsites, trying to find something worth selling.

  And this, he said, holding the charm up to the light for me to inspect, you will recognize.

  It wasn’t a charm: it was a small round brooch. The stone was lost. Aunty Ena’s opal. He hadn’t even mentioned her, yet he wore her only piece of jewellery.

  She always said opals were unlucky, I said, Did she give it to you, then?

  Of course, he said, his voice bitter, How can I be so stupid! You think I stole it. No. She gave this to me. As a token of love.

  He jerked his other arm into the air, revealing the cuff I remembered he wore, its laces frayed with wear. Unfastened it. Held his wrist up to the light, showing me two livid lines where the leather bit into the skin, framing a series of coarse white scars.

  And here is another token, he said.

  I could read nothing in the marks.

  What does it mean?

  This lover was called hope, he said, A foolish name, don’t you think? I carved it myself, after a different war.

  My father’s words came back in a whisper on his lips.

  Cross my heart and hope to die.

  He ran his finger along the scars, then carefully replaced the leather cuff.

  They say hope is the worst of all evils, because it prolongs the torment of man. Believe me, there are far worse evils in this world. Never give up hope, Princess. Promise me.

  ~

  The roof of the cathedral glinted through the trees. We walked to a clearing to get a better view. I wanted to keep him, still. I was ashamed that I could think of him as a thief, when he was simply collecting bits of hope; keeping them safe for others to claim back. I thought by showing him the cathedral roof, he would forgive me. Perhaps he would recognize that we were both attempting the same thing; I was trying to give hope too, in a way. I wanted it to be like old times again. I was wrong to want.

  Look, I said, Look at the roof, Mr Stadnik.

  The sun was low in the sky, a bank of rose-coloured cloud above it. The cathedral stood proud in the dusk.

  It’s a roof, he said, shrugging, A fine example.

  See? I said, pointing to where the blue light shone, soft as melt, See the spirits there?

  A fine example of a zinc roof, he continued, Beautiful, how it takes on the colour of the sky. Like a pool of water. Watch, it will change in a minute.

  We looked on as sunlight caught it, the blue dissolving into pink, pink into purple as the last rays sank away, then a simple, dull grey.

  Your spirits have gone home, Princess, and so must I, he said, breaking from my side. He looked baffled, bitten by a thought.

  You are welcome to stay with me, of course. It is your home too, he said.

  I told him I had to go back. They would be worrying about me. I lied for both of us.

  Then take care of yourself, he said, and as he turned, Oh, beautiful hair, by the way, and the colour – just like mine. We two, we could be the exact same age!

  He bowed, took my hand and placed the brooch in my palm.

  A token of love for a Princess, he said, waving me away.

  twenty-five

  The woman eyes me suspiciously from round the edge of the door; the rain has been blown away by a bitter wind, leaving a sky black as jet. When the dark came down and the city shrank into itself, I thought again about Mr Stadnik’s offer. I even went up to the door. He had taken his handcart inside. The memory of the clothes piled high in there, like so many discarded pelts – it was enough to stop me. I asked at The Steam Packet if anyone knew of lodgings. The man looked me up and down, considered a while, before finally directing me to Mrs Philips.

  Mrs Philips does not look pleased at being disturbed so late. She won’t let me in, despite the cold. A gulp of air whistles past her down the hall, banging a door deep inside the house.

  I charge by the week, she says, In advance. I’ve got one room left if you’re interested. It’s a bit on the small side, mind.

  She shuts the door on me, disappears down the hall, reappearing a minute later with her scarf on her head and a coat draped over her shoulders. We cross the road to the boarding house, where she lets me in.

  Here’s the key, she says, If you want to take a look, motioning me up the stairs.

  When I get to the first landing, I realize she’s not coming up.

  The very top, she shouts, Private, it says on the door. Toilet’s on the floor below.

  The room is furnished with a single bed, a chair and a wardrobe. The sloping roof on either side of the bed gives it the appearance of a crib; the windows above it show the clear night sky. In one corner is an an
cient stove, propped up on a pile of books; in the other are two filthy dusters, a broom and an empty tin of floor wax.

  Private, it says on the door.

  Perfect, I say, looking up into my two black squares of the night.

  ~

  On the first morning, in the kitchen, I meet the other residents: an old woman who kept me awake all night with her cough; a younger one who sits shivering in an armchair next to the fire, her trembling hands reaching out, over and over, to steady her legs; one who stands by the window, not looking or speaking to anyone; and a fourth woman, freckle-faced, with a tinkling, nervous laugh, who makes up for the awkwardness by talking all the time.

  Pleased to meet you, she says, ducking her head like a chicken, My name’s Noreen. This here’s Sissy – gesturing to the coughing woman – And over there by the fire, that’s Emily. Hogging the hot seat as usual! Say hello to our new friend, Em – she won’t stand up, my lover, it’d take her all day. Just on release, she is, from Bethel Street. And Georgie too, she said, pointing at the woman near the window, We call her Garbo. It’s our little joke, on account of her not saying much. It’s in the eyes, you know.

  I won’t be able to remember all the names at once, I say.

  Don’t you worry about that, says Noreen, You just tell us who you are. Not often we have such a lady in our midst. We’ll have to mind our manners now, girls! The other women look away. I can’t tell whether they’re embarrassed by her or by me.

  Go on then, she says, in the silence, What’s your name?

  Winnie, I say.

  Winnie what?

  Just Winnie.

  Her smile takes in the whole room.

  First-name terms is fine by us, she says, We’re all on first names here, aren’t we, girls?

  The others completely ignore her.

  Anything you want, Winnie, just you ask. You’re welcome to pool your points with us. That’s what we do, and it suits us just fine.

  I don’t have coupons, I say, But I’ve got a bit of money. She gives me a roguish look.

  No last name, no book, you’re a mystery girl. Never mind. I know where you can get stuff. That’s right, isn’t it? Noreen says, to no reply. She leans in close.

  But don’t tell Mrs Philips. Stickler, she is. Doesn’t like us to break the rules.

  ~

  All the residents here are women, and more than the four I’ve met – six at least. Most of them have come from Bethel Street House. There’s one who seems to spend all her time in the washroom, crying, and another one I’ve only ever heard behind her door; Mrs Philips and another lady take her meals in on a tray. She keeps to her room, and I keep to mine. Everything I need, I take up the stairs, hidden in my case.

  Noreen is hardest to avoid. While the other women circle me like a pack, or stare blankly through me, Noreen goes out of her way to make an excuse to stop me on the stairs, just as I’m going out.

  Business, is it? she asked, the first time. I thought it best to just agree, but she wasn’t letting me go so easily. She gave me a narrow look.

  I thought I recognized you from somewhere, she said, Maybe I’ve seen you about in the city. I work too, in a manner of speaking. Mrs Philips doesn’t know, mind, so don’t say. Careless talk and all that!

  I said nothing; she wouldn’t get any kind of talk from me. But Noreen was persistent, closing in with her sweet scent and her knowing little eyes.

  Get you anything you care for, I can. I’ve got contacts. Give us a shout if you’re wanting anything.

  I said I’d remember for next time, and left it at that.

  ~

  What I do, when I go out, is walk. There’s no one I want to meet, so I avoid the main roads. I learn the passageways and cuttings and paths that lead onto open land. Each day, I walk a bit further. I just walk. It requires no gift and no thought. I walk until my legs ache and my feet are sore. It’s a long way, I tell myself, a long way to the end of the world, and I must plan for it. I walk in a straight line, as far as I’m able. It’s twenty-five miles to the sea. I have never seen it. I have no ambition, but if there’s a wish inside me, it’s to walk there.

  ~

  When I run out of money, I go back to the pawn shop and I sell my coat. It’s valuable, made of wool. All those things Mr Stadnik collected, the old suit jackets and the shirts and bits of baby clothes too tiny to bear, they’re worth something. He said he was buying them back from the pawnbroker – to store them for the people. I’m thinking he lied. Perhaps he was really taking them in to sell them. I never saw what he had in those two paper bags. I can think anything now, of anyone.

  Jean taught me many things, apart from the coaching and the hymns. I get by on very little, I can fashion a new coat from the blanket on my bed. It’s no disgrace to wear it. When the cold creeps in at night, I lay my new coat across the bed, and it becomes what it used to be.

  It’s my boots that fail me. The walking has ruined them. I think of Hewitt, the soft slippers, and how easy it would be for me to just drop by, be polite. Then I remember his hands on my feet. I take the two dusters from the corner of the room, and tie them round the soles. It serves its purpose, until Noreen notices.

  My God! she says, staring at my feet, Don’t tell me you’re going to work in them things? That’ll never do. Us girls, we’ve got to stick together.

  The following day, Noreen corners me on the stairwell, insists I follow her into the kitchen. Emily is sitting, head down, in front of the fire.

  These are just beauty, Noreen says, pulling a bag out from under her arm, Got them from a chap I know on the market. Owed me a favour.

  Not much of a favour, was it? You don’t need coupons for those, says Emily, pointedly. Noreen ignores her.

  That’s right, she says, Just you try them on, see if they do the job.

  She’s brought me a pair of clogs. Wooden, with a scarlet trim.

  They’re lovely, I say, How much are they?

  On me, she says, Think of it as a gift. Only don’t tell Mrs Philips. I won’t say anything, if you won’t. She gives me a bright-eyed, knowing look. Nothing is ever free, not even a stranger’s kindness. Her face tells me everything. Noreen knows who I am – the person I used to be. I accept the clogs. I thank her. I pack my case, and when the two square windows go black, I begin to walk.

  twenty-six

  I’m eating the sky, eating it up. Walking straight, in through day and out through night, light falling on my shoulder, sinking low behind. My shadow grows long and thin. Best is when it’s clear, with the moon cutting over my head like a scythe. On the ground, everything turns to silver. Stars sharp as pins. Often the sky is like that; going into it is like meeting your lover. I tell myself he could be any one of those points of light up there: that one, hanging like a sapphire on invisible thread. The walking is always best in the dark, when no one else is about. In the daytime, the distance is too near: a man a mile away can see you clearly. I rest when it comes light, spending the hours against the fencepost of a farmer’s field, or the warming stone of a bridge. I get heat from the sun, a windless corner of a barn. I’m heading for the sea.

  The spirits have left me now. I can no longer see them. But I see ordinary things, and wonder at Bernard, for whom the ordinary wasn’t enough. A heron lifting off a lake, a cloud of golden midges hanging in the half-light, frost spangling the grass; these things are so much better than wearing fancy clothes, learning the language. Better than a blue spirit and a widow’s tears. I see other blues now: trapped in a web on a windless morning, still as glass on flooded field, and all around me, the simple, open blue of the sky.

  I think I can walk a straight line, but then the road will turn to water under my feet. There’s nothing to be done but to go back, join another road, and hope that it will last. The wind becomes unexpectedly brisk, metallic on the tongue. I imagine it blowing off the sea, mineral blue. I follow the scent, turning round on myself, breathing the air through my mouth, as if taste alone will find it. It feels like I w
on’t ever get there, so when I come up over a field, find a road, see the tower of St Giles in the distance, I have to bite the tears away: it’s then I know I never will.

  part three: rise

  menu

  Feather

  Locket

  Brooch (opal missing)

  Wooden foot

  Hair

  There was plenty of other stuff in my case. You don’t last as long as I have and not accumulate. There was a woollen scarf I found outside Tesco’s, yellow and green striped, very long; and lots of gloves. I’m partial to gloves – pity they never come as a pair. Usually, they’re stuck on a railing, waving at the world. It’s more often the right glove that’s left behind. I know my right from left, Mr Stadnik taught me. My first glove came from him; I think that’s why I adore them. My favourite is a pair of tiny mittens. Pure white, knitted, with little cartoon faces on them. I like plastic bags, too. They’re everywhere, blowing down the road with nothing but the wind inside them, caught on the bushes, hanging from the trees like witches’ knickers. I like the ones that have my grandfather’s face on – they say KFC, the chicken place. He never wore a tie like that, and his beard needs trimming, but it’s him.

  I had Joseph’s golden feather, the heart-shaped locket from my father, the brooch from Mr Stadnik and the hair from Bernard’s dead wife (not strictly inside my case, but stolen all the same). The divine wooden foot – well, that was a late addition. I never did get my shoes from Hewitt, despite his promises.

  I left the teashop and walked out into the street. Hope is an affliction, all right, and I had it bad: of finding the girl who stole from me, of getting back everything that I’d lost. I should have known; the moment I made that decision – the first proper decision for years – trouble leapt up and bit me in the face.

  twenty-seven

  There’s a paved area above the market, directly in front of the city hall. Everyone knows it. All sorts of people go to sit outside and have their lunch: council workers in their neat shirts and ties, mums out with their pushchairs, girls and boys, pretending not to notice each other. Then there’s the rest of us, sitting where it’s free, killing the day. I know some of them by sight: the Roofless girls, baiting a middle-aged man in a suit; the woman who keeps a dog in a pram, lifting the lid off a leftover burger; that lad that sings all the time. You can sit, eat, pass the day, use the public toilets when the attendant’s got her back turned and get a wash if that’s what you want, but mostly it’s like a market over the market. People come to buy all sorts: drugs mostly, and knock-off, as they call it. You can get anything really, depending on who you ask. The benches are always full, but there’s a long low wall to sit on. You have to eat your chips with the pigeons purring round your feet; their droppings spack the ground like stars. I sat for a while and watched them, waited for the words to come back. It was part of my plan to ask around, and I needed the language to do it. Thinking of Mr Stadnik put the idea in my head: perhaps the girl was trying to sell my stuff on. She would come here. I was just working out how to go about it, feeling the breeze pick up, skying the chip papers, when I heard a shout from the steps. It was Robin. He’d grown a little beard since he’d left Hewitt’s place, had his hair in knots and a wide grin on his face.