My Name is E

by Frederick Lightfoot

  Abby didn’t take Agnes’ hand but tentatively moved away, hesitantly looking back to check that Agnes hadn’t grown bored or impatient with this after Christmas game. To her surprise it seemed she hadn’t: she followed willingly, not offering encouragement, simply allowing herself to be led. Her expression became even more solemn, which if Abby had known of Hazel’s prediction that her daughter would always be a Catholic at heart she might have taken as spiritual. There was that quality to it, of being impressed and satisfied, knowing something of grace.

  As they made their way to the pond the frost deepened to either side. The trees and shrub spread out a network of silver-white filaments like connecting nerve fibres. Leaf litter sparkled, furred over with crystals. The pond was a grey, opaque sheet. When they reached the shore Agnes picked up a stone and threw it onto the ice. It bounced and then slid across the surface making zither music. The sound delighted her. She turned to Abby smiling. Abby made out that she had detected something of the weird, wire tightening sound, but Agnes was sceptical and her smile evaporated. Nevertheless Agnes threw stone after stone, seemingly determined to throw them ever farther distances. Some went completely awry, ending up in the bushes behind them, sometimes off to right or left. After a while she signed for Abby to copy her. She didn’t give any of her stones but signalled that Abby collect her own and throw them. It hadn’t crossed Abby’s mind until her mother suggested it. Abby immediately set to work. At first it wasn’t too difficult, there was some loose debris, but the supply was quickly exhausted and then she had to pry away stones frozen into the earth. Her hands smarted with the cold and the effort but she kept on. After all, her mother hadn’t given up, so nor would she. Eventually though, Agnes had enough and the stone throwing came to a halt.

  The end of the game created something of a problem. Up until the game Abby had been leading. She had brought Agnes to this shore. Agnes had initiated the game, though, and brought her into it. Whose was the next move? Was it time to take her mother to the mine, to the warmth, or was Agnes leading now? It was so cold the mine certainly made sense. Abby’s face and hands ached with it, and she held the muscles along her torso and thighs rigid, guarding herself, trying to keep the cold at bay. Her mother’s face shone with a distinct symmetry of white and red. Her breath was visible. Still Abby waited, uncertain whether she was through or she still had permission to lead.

  She thought Agnes gave her a nod, something slight, almost indiscernible, but a nod, nevertheless. She couldn’t decipher it. Did it allude to the present, the past or the future: stone throwing, tower or what came next? She waited. Agnes pursed her lips and then made her way to the water’s edge, to the ice sheet. She stretched out her leg and tested it with her toes, pressing down, at first gently and then with increasing force. It didn’t give. She turned to Abby as if looking for encouragement. Abby simply stared, but her name ran round her head, quietly, as if whispered numerously at once. Agnes stepped out completely onto the ice. It bore her weight without any sign of strain. She held her hands out like a dancer at the commencement of a performance, and then began to kick at the surface with her heel. She hardly scarred it, managing only a limited contusion of white crystal. She began to slide, at first heavily and carefully, keeping both feet on the surface, but eventually with greater freedom, taking short runs, propelling herself forward, even having the temerity to lift one leg and glide on a single shoe.

  She beckoned Abby to join her, urging her with an impatience Abby found entirely novel. Abby couldn’t have refused, even if she had felt so inclined, which she certainly didn’t. Such an invitation was not to be gainsaid. At first she was hopeless and struggled to keep any balance. As she picked herself up she expected her mother to be angry and disappointed, Agnes was so adept herself, so at liberty in this discovered element, but Agnes helped her. She took hold of Abby’s hands with her own, took small backward steps, sliding her shoes across the surface and pulled Abby along. At first Abby’s back was arched but slowly, very slowly, she lifted herself up, until she was fully upright. Agnes periodically released and grabbed her, the time between each growing ever longer, until Abby was moving by herself, not fluently nor with any great freedom – left to her own devices she arched her back, rounded her shoulders and kept her attention directly on the ice in front of her – but not hopelessly either, though likely to fall at any moment.

  She kept sliding, scared to stop, scared to look up in case she should lose her balance and come crashing down. The name in her head ran rapidly, though she had no concept of whether she was scared or thrilled. She did know she was pleasing her mother. That had to be the case. Agnes had brought her to it, tutored her and let her go. Abby felt she had to keep going for her, despite the fact the cold was making her feet throb with pain.

  When she did eventually look up she found she had strayed some way from the shore. Agnes was waving at her from the frozen water’s edge. Abby didn’t comprehend that signal at all. Her name welled up inside her head. The edge of the pond seemed so far away. She felt elastic. She couldn’t keep her balance and fell onto her hands and knees. She gazed towards the shoreline. Agnes was still waving. Abby’s hands ached with the cold, though when she pressed her fingers together, criss-crossing them, she couldn’t feel them. She was sure her mother must be telling her to get up, get up and come back. She pulled herself up onto her knees, and then with some effort regained her feet, but she felt incapable of moving, the shore seemed just too far away to manage.

  She stood there for some time incapable of movement, as if frozen with the environment. She was no longer able to gaze directly at the shoreline, her attention was too drawn to the ice sheet in front of her, but from the corner of her eye she could see that Agnes had stopped waving, though she remained exactly where she had been, keeping an eye on her. Abby lifted her head slightly higher, expanding her field of vision. The segmented creature, the bloated worm, wasn’t too far away, certainly much closer than the shore. She thought she could make that. Its inner belly called to her. She didn’t stop to consider how she intended to scale its back, which at that point in the pond was certainly raised enough from the surface to be a challenge.

  She inched forward, her arms crossed over her chest, each palm resting on its opposite shoulder. She forgot about Agnes, forgot about trying to decipher what message was intended by her waving and then not waving. She only had thoughts to reach the drain. The mine was banished from her mind.

  She was still some ten feet from the tube when she saw a white line pattern through the ice, a stronger white than the surface. She stopped. The whole surface was veined and streaked with a variety of shades, in patches grey, almost colourless, in other places still pure white. More fractures appeared. Water spread around the soles of her shoes. She instinctively lifted her feet away, treading on the surface. With each step the water was deeper. She panicked and began to jump and hop on the surface. Fracture lines appeared all around her, and the ice broke into smaller insufficient fragments. She plunged into the blackness. There were ripples on the water. She thrashed her arms and grabbed at the ice sheet, but it broke in her hands. As she struggled on the surface she tried to look towards the shore, but in the chaos of her fight she didn’t manage to see Agnes, though she was pretty sure she was looking at the place she had last seen her, waving and then not waving.

  It was already dark when they came looking for her. Of course, it was dark early, just after four. Harold brought a paraffin-lamp. They thought she had to be dead. Harold walked down the spine of the drain looking for her body, swinging the lamp from its wire handle in large arcs towards the pond, lighting up the ice and frost in a glittering display. He had a broken branch in his other hand and periodically poked at the water. Agnes watched from the shoreline, her expression solemn and sombre as she had been when she accompanied Abby to the pond earlier. She recognised that Harold never hesitated long enough to indicate he had found anything. She waited with a sense of overwhelming expectation, already rehearsing in her
mind the moment of discovery. Eventually Harold threw the branch towards the pond where it landed without breaking the surface, and then marched back down the length of the drain. He went up to Agnes, where she remained rooted to the spot. He roughly told her that Abby was inside the drain making disgusting sounds, not at all recognising the name she was uttering. He strode off and for a second day became hopelessly drunk. It was left to Agnes to crawl along the spine of the drain and find a portal to reach her, which in the dark wasn’t easy, Harold having taken the lamp with him, in the end having only Abby’s voice to guide her.

  I don’t know how Abby didn’t die. She was ill afterwards, but never critically. She remained in bed for a number of days and Agnes brought her soup, tins of condensed tomato or oxtail, and sometimes her own home-made broth. She placed the bowl with a spoon already in it on a small bedside table and left Abby to it. Abby couldn’t decipher her mother’s guarded look, the brief half-glances she gave her as she walked in and as she placed the bowl down, though Abby recognised it was similar to the look she had revealed on the day they went skating together, though not identical. Each time Agnes lay down the soup Abby was determined to leave it, but hunger invariably got the better of her and she eventually lifted herself up and slowly swallowed the by then tepid offering. Her sheets evidenced each meal, sipping soup recumbent being a skill she never quite mastered.

  For those days she was in bed she didn’t exhibit any sign of fever, any obvious discomfort or pain. If anything she was simply morose. She lay with her eyes wide open and stared blankly at the ceiling, but what she was witnessing remained secret. She certainly made no attempt to describe her escape to Agnes, remaining remarkably quiet whenever Agnes brought in her soup. Her survival was something Agnes would have to mull over and accept as wonderful.

  If Agnes had waited longer than simply watching the ripples break across the frozen surface she would have seen that when Abby calmed, when the intense cold modified into dull numbing ache, when she gave herself to the certainty of drowning, she found that her feet could reach the bottom. If she bobbed up and down she could bounce in the water. So that’s what she did. She bobbed along the length of the segmented creature, breaking the fragile ice where it met the rust encrusted pipe, until she reached a point where it sank deeply enough into the pond to be scaled. She discovered that leaving the water was the worst moment. The cold was so intense she nearly passed out. Somehow she managed to crawl inside the drain then along the inner tube until she reached a point where she could balance on its side above the stream that still flowed along the floor despite the freezing conditions. Of course there was nothing to warm her so she simply wrapped into herself as best she could and waited. Once again, as Grace and I thought so often, it might have been presumed she was dying; she was so numb, so devoid of any life giving warmth, how could it have been any other way? She couldn’t have done any more herself. All she had left was to wait, though she can’t possibly have known for what. If Agnes and Harold hadn’t assumed they should claim her body she certainly would have died. How else could Agnes peek at her but with wonder?

  They never did give up the obligation of Christmas, though they were always unforgiving. The following year when Abby ate all her biscuits, because the tin was on the end of her bed, they beat her. Harold was particularly severe as the tin contained a number of chocolate biscuits which, to his mind being luxuries, greatly amplified the crime. Of course he had lived with rationing for many years. Abby never seemed to learn her lesson though. The year after that saw her receive yet another beating when she tore up the wrapping of her present to find that it was part of it. Inside the envelope she so inexpertly and wantonly ripped open and tore to shreds was a paper doll dressed in only fringed white knickers, her cut-out clothes, all outlined with thick black easy to follow scissors lines, were on the envelope itself. Not a single costume could be saved. That year it was Agnes who proved the more severe, who seemed to take great exception to the paper doll going naked. In truth the doll went unclothed but not naked. She berated Abby, struck her, slapped her around the head and dismissed her as the most stupid girl on the planet. Of course Abby was attending school by then and should have known better.

  *

  Despite the fact that Agnes had smoked heavily for so long she was not an accomplished smoker – her eyes contracted and gave her a crimped, reptilian look, emphasising the damage it was doing, the ageing, the making ugly – nevertheless, she smoked with a real air of satisfaction. I know that was obviously as a result of me. She was indulging herself for my benefit, for me, against me. It infuriated me. What achievement was she so smugly enjoying? Dealing with me, making of me an outsider, a misfit? I wanted to slap her across the face.

  I froze at the possibility.

  I saw the scene. A shrieking young woman, her noise diluted for herself, unaware of the spectacle she was. The elder of the two, nursing her smarting cheek, the rough, discoloured skin puckered, saying it was all right, no need to fuss, it was all over.

  Of course, Agnes would understand the sign. She would peer at me from her bruising and more than likely smile, the smile denoting comprehension, vigilance and the certainty of retaliation.

  It was her language.

  Why was I literate with their language?

  A wave of revulsion surged through me. I had to be free of their signs. I had to eradicate their lexis.

  I stood up and uttered: ‘‘I should be going. I don’t want to detain you.’’

  She smiled and replied: ‘‘It’s no bother. I would have told you if you’d outstayed your welcome, if I’d had things to do.’’

  ‘‘Your mother. She must keep you busy.’’

  ‘‘She’s not on death’s door, a bit chesty, can’t catch her breath, a bit hoarse, but not dying.’’

  I shrugged and made my own way to the door. As I reached for the handle I turned and asked: ‘‘Did she ever tell you she loved you?’’

  She looked momentarily incensed, but quickly controlled herself. She inhaled deeply, burning the cigarette down to the tip, her face contracting as she did and then stubbed it out, smiled and said: ‘‘I said, she’s chesty, not dying. No need for that.’’

  I smiled back. No, no need for that.

  ‘‘What kind of life has your mother had?’’

  She shrugged. ‘‘Why would she say?’’

  ‘‘She’s done things, that’s all, good things.’’

  ‘‘I think so.’’

  ‘‘Of course.’’

  ‘‘She wouldn’t look for thanks.’’

  ‘‘No, I know.’’

  ‘‘But she’d have it. That’s why I do my bit. No need to be la-di-dah about it. But you’ll grow out of that, maybe.’’

  ‘‘Do you think?’’

  She smiled again. ‘‘Kids don’t give you time.’’

  ‘‘I don’t have kids.’’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  I pulled the door open. ‘‘Do you think Abby would do her bit?’’

  ‘‘I said, you don’t know what they’re thinking.’’

  ‘‘That’s right, you did. Don’t know what they’re thinking.’’

  ‘‘And do they?’’

  I smiled and nodded my leave taking. As I went out she called to me. I could only just hear her voice. I could have ignored it. She had already had the last word. Nevertheless I turned, let her know my aid was up to scratch.

  ‘‘You were going to leave me, you know, whatever they’re called.’’

  ‘‘Rothmans.’’

  ‘‘Rothmans.’’

  I stepped back, leaving the door open, took the pack from my pocket and offered it.

  ‘‘Just one,’’ she said, ‘‘maybe two, just for a change.’’

  ‘‘Take it. I’ve bought bulk, duty-free, and as I said, I should be giving up. Maybe Harold will want to try.’’

  ‘‘Players, untipped, not particular, but, well.’’

  ‘‘I know.’’

  ‘‘He
’s spoken about packing up, but, well.’’

  ‘‘Willpower.’’

  ‘‘It’s chilly with the door open.’’

  ‘‘I’m sorry.’’

  She nodded and averted her eyes. So, I had the last word and it was what she wanted to hear.

  She was formidable. I had learnt that, at least.

  Chapter Nine

  My kind and vivacious hairdresser offered to do my nails, insisted on it, in fact. Something a bit flashy, she said, taking up my permanently stained fingers, which I don’t believe she would have if the tarnish wasn’t past tense: at least my fingers no longer smell, have a purity of being well looked after and respected. Strange the disrespect we pile on ourselves when young. Is it over-confidence, ignorance or disgust? The trouble is, at some point everything ceases to be ours to change around.

  My lovely hairdresser, more blonde than usual, certainly down the right side of her head anyway, commenced to do my nails with neat strokes of deep crimson, the fine fibres of the brush covering the nail in numerous distinct clean lines. She worked with incredible concentration, her expression that of an old master, not wanting a single fibre of the brush to deviate and so treacherously despoil perfection.

  As I watched the colour form I began to cry, big slow drops that pooled along the lower lid, but then inevitably overflowed and trickled down my cheek. It was stupid I know, but it’s such little things that speak to us about how much we have lost, how much we failed to gain, how little would have made it well.

  When she was through with one hand she stood up and, as always, looked at me in the mirror. How must life be for her addressing people in the mirror everyday, seeing herself? It must be one endless performance. Presumably it is so second nature that whenever she speaks, mirror or no mirror, she can see herself in her mind’s eye as she must be. She must know every nuance of herself. Such self-awareness bound to get her down at times. How could anybody stand themselves so much?