My Name is E

by Frederick Lightfoot

  ‘‘What does that mean?’’ I asked.

  She shrugged, indicating incomprehension, incomprehension rather than refusal.

  ‘‘Being good, I mean, what does that mean?’’

  She shrugged again, but lightly, partly amused, partly embarrassed.

  ‘‘But good at what, Agnes, good at what?’’

  ‘‘Don’t be silly. Is that how they go on in London?’’

  ‘‘I just wondered, that’s all, wondered.’’

  ‘‘He said you’d got a bit flighty.’’

  *

  I don’t know when Abby gave up her belief in flight, but it happened. Of course, I was guilty of not recognising its possibility until it was too late and the likelihood was gone. I should have suspected the dream of it whenever I saw her gazing at the horizon, her features dazzled yet coy, as if it were a forbidden gem and she was criminal to ever contemplate it. In truth when she ran around, flapping her stumpy wings, I never really understood whether she believed in the air or the earth. I tried to decipher her though, how she defined herself, as if the calculation could produce something definitive: an insect, an albatross, a scout, a trickle of water. I never realised, not to be begin with, that she recognised herself as chameleon. She didn’t have to be tied to one thing, because inevitably the singular would desert her. Besides, she wasn’t allowed to be one thing. Certainly by the time I’d worked that out her belief in flight was gone. In fact maybe it was the absence that signified the existence, that only when it was lost could I know it had ever been found.

  There is so much we only recognise when it has ceased to exist, when something missing subtracts from us, so that our definitions reduce around us, ourselves robbed of shade, texture, line, temperament. Usually we complain about those things over which we have no power, berating acts out of season, ill-will, accident, ignoring completely those things we can control, because then we would have to act, assume responsibility, chance failure. Having said that, I don’t think it was failure that made her give up her belief in flight, but certainly her expectations changed. That is in the nature of a chameleon, it is after all its instinct to survive. Without adaptation we are finished.

  Some adaptation is a terrible admission to make, though, so terrible we usually refuse to acknowledge it. So, maybe she still gazed at the horizon, knew what desire compelled her attention, but drew a line under any possibility. Instead she would have told herself that the sky and the sea were two dimensional, a flat surface, one of her confined spaces, unsuited entirely to flight. Of course it never stopped her launching Poppy on single doll missions, as free and doomed as Icarus, her unkempt figure flying gracelessly against sea and sky, inevitably coming to ground in a minor eruption of coal blackened sand. Grace was quite put out by such a display of rough treatment of her gift, but would invariably run to reach Poppy first in order to launch her ever further afield, which sometimes created friction between them, though more often than not Abby demurred to Grace, the natural mother, the legitimate owner. Our games always were only as good as those we had seen.

  Flight strikes me now as really quite imaginative, indeed sophisticated. Of course, we had no sense that flight was also falling, falling a thing to defend.

  *

  I smiled at Agnes. She didn’t return it but eyed me sceptically, suggesting that my smile was misplaced, that there was nothing worthy in being flighty. That deliberately dour look struck me as really quite funny, though I had not reckoned with laughter. I reached up and fiddled with my hearing aid. It was a mannerism. It is something I do. Very rarely am I altering anything, nor do I believe I am drawing attention to its existence, which I make no attempt to conceal; it is simply a pause in proceedings, a bridge from one circumstance to another. In this instance it stopped any laughter: it created laughter’s opposite, which isn’t a sound of any kind at all.

  ‘‘He thought Abby was a bit flighty, didn’t he?’’

  She pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows, clearly signing that she was on her guard and would reply only to what she wanted, what didn’t aggravate her. My question was evidently sanctioned because she straight after shook her head and, without any emphasis, said: ‘‘I wouldn’t say that.’’

  ‘‘That she played games. He thought she played games.’’

  ‘‘You don’t know what they’re thinking,’’ she replied, then smiled, pleased by her comment. ‘‘No, you see, you really don’t know what they’re thinking.’’

  ‘‘Did you love her?’’

  ‘‘You don’t know what they’re thinking,’’ she repeated, mouthing it carelessly, as if she hadn’t heard my question, or didn’t choose to.

  I repeated it, my voice rising, becoming brittle, which was stupid, betraying things about me I would sooner have had ignored: ‘‘Did you love her?’’

  ‘‘I brought her up,’’ she flashed back.

  ‘‘Is that the same?’’

  ‘‘Is this London talk? Do you have time for all this, then, because I don’t think I do?’’

  ‘‘Why are we ashamed of it?’’

  ‘‘We’re not ashamed. Don’t be so full of yourself. We just have things to do. You see what happens when you go away?’’

  ‘‘Do you love Harold?’’

  ‘‘Don’t be cheeky. Remember you’re in my house.’’

  ‘‘I know, I know. You can tell me to go if you want.’’

  ‘‘When I’m good and ready.’’

  ‘‘I mean it. I’m at an age, wondering, wondering about myself. Marriage and love.’’

  ‘‘We got by.’’

  ‘‘Is that enough?’’

  ‘‘More than a lot.’’

  ‘‘But, still, does that make it enough? I think you’ve put up with a lot.’’

  ‘‘Nobody knows that.’’

  ‘‘But it’s not secret, not brushed under the carpet.’’

  ‘‘You don’t know what you’re putting up with, because you have to do it, that’s all. That’s all.’’

  She eyed me closely, her expression nettled, yet at the same time curiously patient. She had decided to give me the benefit of the doubt, the younger woman seeking guidance, advice. Maybe it flattered her, though it undoubtedly surprised and disturbed her.

  I smiled, a helpless, deprecating smile and said: ‘‘I always thought of you as a shy woman.’’

  ‘‘I brought up four children.’’

  ‘‘Why did he hit her?’’

  ‘‘I didn’t like him hitting her.’’

  ‘‘You didn’t stop him.’’

  ‘‘I made him go outside.’’

  ‘‘I thought he chose to do that for you.’’

  ‘‘I made him.’’

  ‘‘Your father’s deaf.’’

  ‘‘Not like that. You wouldn’t know. A bit like, well …, you wouldn’t really know.’’

  ‘‘But you do know.’’

  ‘‘No, I do not know.’’

  Her face was again that one drained of colour: a stark, impressive, hostile face. She seemed to be taunting me to say more, to pursue my insistence that she possessed knowledge, knew what I didn’t, but at the same time was insinuating consequence.

  I had said I considered her a shy woman, but that wasn’t true. I had considered her lacking in any notion of volition, devoid of life, of the jeopardy that constitutes life. It was as if she had never entirely become grown-up, but nor had she retained anything of the child, rather was caught in some dulling transition. I blamed the combined influence of Harold and Martha. Who could have survived their joint ministrations, particularly if entry into their domain had been entirely voluntary? And yet, that same woman, a Shaughnessy, was effortlessly threatening me, effortlessly blunting my arrogance. I had clearly misread Agnes, but wasn’t that the whole point of my being there, to read things correctly, pursue suspicion and give myself entirely to the final rash act. I was delighted by that colourless face. It spoke of opposition, deceit, strategy. I was shored up by it. It bruised m
e with the past, and defied the future. She could frighten me, that after all wasn’t a difficult thing to achieve, but she couldn’t decipher me, read my signs, know the prophecy I kept in mind for her.

  I smiled, smiled broadly, though at the same time fingered my aid, and asked her about her mother, asked her lightly, her mother’s dutiful visitor. ‘‘Your mother, how is she, he said she isn’t well, wasn’t well?’’

  She took a moment to answer, a moment to allow the colour to return to her face. She picked up her cigarettes, but before she could take one I offered her mine. She took one, examined it with her eyes, sniffed it, and then lit it and took a deep drag. ‘‘Nice,’’ she said, ‘‘not bad at all. No, she hasn’t been too good, nothing serious, the chest, but gets her down none the less, can’t do for herself as well, or him, and that was never her way. You’d know that though, that it was never her way. I’ve had to go round, help out, a bit of washing, ironing, a spot of cooking, but I don’t mind, not a bit. I’ve done that all my life, washing, ironing, cooking.’’

  ‘‘I know, it can’t have been easy.’’

  ‘‘You seem very bothered by that, things being easy.’’

  ‘‘Curious, interested, yes; bothered, why not.’’

  ‘‘I told you, we got on with it, that’s what people did, got on with it. That’s what I did.’’

  ‘‘Why did you stand by?’’

  ‘‘Because somebody had to.’’

  *

  That day with the rat, when she stood close to the door of the lean-to – for how long only Agnes really knows – wasn’t the only time she chose to stand by. Only Agnes herself would ever be able to say how many times she decided to stand by, but one time in particular stands out, the Christmas she watched the ripples on the water.

  It always surprised me that Harold and Agnes bought Abby Christmas presents, and for that matter birthday presents. I don’t suppose Harold was much involved – the only present he had ever given was a chicken claw – but he watched, nevertheless, on Christmas morning when Abby trailed Joseph, Ruth and Dennis into his and Agnes’ bedroom to show them the presents Father Christmas had brought, and managed to feign a modicum of interest. Abby always followed her brothers and sister, despite being the elder, something she had learnt was for the best soon after Joseph had started to walk. If she tried to lead him she got in the way, and that was something she never wanted to do, get in the way.

  Of course, the fact that Joseph, Ruth and Dennis were there could account for Harold’s uncharacteristic patience, but that doesn’t account for the fact that the same sense of truce existed on her birthdays – she was born under Pisces, the twelfth sign of the zodiac, the two tied fishes. There was obviously something regarding the occasions themselves that mellowed him. I don’t suppose he was taken by Christmas spirit or fatherly tenderness, but rather custom – simply getting on with it.

  I am sure that if I had brought up the question of Christmas and birthdays with Agnes she would have said, and with some pride, that they always bought Abby a present, always ensured she never went without, in much the same way she never went naked or barefoot. They were, after all, her parents, and they accepted the obligation, even if they didn’t like it. Not that her presents amounted to much – though, nor did anyone’s – a picture annual, mixed nuts and raisins, a tin of biscuits and a tangerine. It means that neither Harold nor Agnes were necessarily evil. If that had been the case there would not have been a single hazelnut. If that is accepted, then what does it make them?

  It is too soon to say, and probably by the time I know, it will already be too late. Life leaks away, the expectation changes, the vendetta remains, the persuasion goes on begging, understanding wanting.

  On the Christmas in question I don’t know that Christmas Day itself was cold, but certainly the day after Boxing Day was. – In all honesty I can’t remember whether Abby was seven or eight, so can’t name the year, though in my mind I feel that such details are important; how else can the past exist but through accuracy. – Agnes had decided she needed to get Abby out of the house. She had spent the morning lying on a rag rug flicking through the pages of her annual, though it can’t have meant a great deal to her as she couldn’t follow a cartoon or read a bubble. Nevertheless, she must have been pleased because when she picked it up again after lunch she began to shout out her name. Harold, who had been drinking for most of Boxing Day, hadn’t appeared until then. – He drank modestly on Christmas Day, limiting himself to four or five pints at lunchtime whilst Agnes prepared the pork, therefore felt he was owed the following day. – Joseph, Ruth and Dennis had had sense enough to play in the yard, but as they had made no sign of invitation Abby hadn’t followed.

  Harold began to swear. Abby had no notion of it. Agnes placed her palm against the side of Abby’s face. She didn’t stroke it or run her palm across her temple and head, but simply held it there, firmly, neither caressing nor hurting. For a moment it quietened her, the surprise of it shocking her into submission. No doubt she expected such a touch to be followed by a slap. When she realised the blow hadn’t materialised she looked up and saw Agnes peering at her with an expression she had never witnessed before. With a minor movement of her head Agnes indicated for her to go out, and it was evident from the slight movement of Agnes’ body that she intended going with her. As if to underline the point she helped Abby with her coat.

  It was bitterly cold outside. The sun hadn’t appeared all day. The frost and ice of the morning remained. Ruth was drawing pictures in it with a length of stick. Joseph and Dennis were in front of the house sliding. The yard was too rough and uneven. For a while Agnes simply looked at Abby as if presenting her with the choice of joining either her brothers or her sister. Abby didn’t respond. It was obvious they didn’t want her. Eventually she uttered her name very quietly, perhaps more subdued in using that syllable than she had ever been since discovering it. She wanted to show Agnes something.

  I don’t know how Abby came to the decision of which space she would show her mother, which confined environment she wanted to reveal, but she opted for the mine, to begin with the disused mine buildings and then the subterranean space itself. I suspect at that moment she simply considered it the most impressive, not to mention the most recent of her haunts. Agnes was to be admitted to the most magnificent of all Abby’s domains. Nevertheless, despite the prize she knew she was suggesting, she was still surprised when Agnes agreed. She saw her mother look back at the door through which they had come, then turn and study Ruth for a while, then slightly cock her head to listen to the boys, then stare at the ground at her feet for some time, until finally, once again with the slightest of head movements, she signed for Abby to go wherever she wished.

  Abby didn’t rush off, of course, but sidled away, looking back to see if Agnes meant it, whether she really did intend to follow. She decided to go across-country, the frost attracting her, the joy of treading on untouched crystals. Much to her surprise when Ruth began to follow Agnes sent her back. Ruth didn’t kick up any fuss, simply resumed her drawing, a sequence of circles, squares and spirals patterning the yard and pig-sheds. Abby wanted to shout out her name, shout it loud and musically, but somehow knew it was a bad thing to do, bad for Ruth who for some reason was not favoured.

  For Agnes the frost rendered everything quiet, her footfalls crisp and, unaccountably, pleasing, even uplifting. For Abby the silence of hard winter was immaterial but its colour, basal greys, turquoise hints, a swirl, light filtered and struggling, had the same effect. She wanted to let her name burst free, but taking her cue from her mother conformed to the human tendency to control the urge to cry out. Still, as she witnessed the formation of incomplete footsteps behind her, the frost smudging rather than allowing neat imprints, her name rang inside her head – in no way aping hearing, more like a sensation of pain. She looked at her mother regularly, apprehensively, sure she had transgressed, been unfair to Ruth, but Agnes showed no disapproval, no disappointment, no anger. In fac
t Agnes’ expression was imbued with satisfaction, albeit a solemn rather serious satisfaction, but that made it all the more believable. Abby was certain she wasn’t being cajoled, or humoured. It inspired her to give more.

  She brought Agnes in sight of the tower and the tumbledown sheds but didn’t show her the stair, didn’t take her up to reveal the extent of winter, the revelation the viewing tower could achieve. Maybe it was simply deferred, a promise of something to come, or perhaps she reasoned it wasn’t hers to give. – Grace and I never did know whether she had discovered it before we did, whether her indifference to it when we took her there was because it was familiar or because it simply did not match the scale of the mine. – She stood on the crest of a frozen knoll and gazed down at it. There were thin white mists trailed along the banks that led up from the pond. The mist had frozen onto the trees and bushes making them so thick with frost it looked like snow. The funnel shaped gorge that ran to the pond was whiter than anywhere she had so far seen. The exposed ground, in patches completely devoid of vegetation, was frozen solid; it appeared granular but was unbreakable. She felt the intense cold through her shoes and her ears burnt with it. Still she stood for a while showing off one of her places, an appetiser to the underground galleries. In the mine she would be warm. In the mine she would show Agnes how she could be comfortable.

  Agnes was undoubtedly aware of the existence of the old mine buildings but she was generous enough not to let Abby know. When Abby looked for a response she smiled appreciatively, agreeing it was interesting, approving what she understood to be a place where Abby played all those long hours she wasn’t under anyone’s feet. Agnes might even have suggested admiration for Abby’s play world, disclosing as it did an imagination she hadn’t before considered. Abby was delighted with her success, delighted her mother so clearly saw as she saw – though Abby’s listening was of a different order. She decided that the mine workings, the sanctuary of cover and warmth, should be postponed further still. There was the pond before that.