Chapter 38
Nobody was in form for the protest at Shirley’s house the following week. After the suddenness of Rita’s death, the flurry of arrangements and then the fanfare of the funeral, everything felt sluggish. A deep-seated lethargy settled into the cracks at Ancaire, infecting all who passed through. This was not helped by the weather, which had turned, just as Pearl had said it would. It was cold and wet, the wind whipping around the house, a wicked temper of a wind, everybody having to speak louder than usual to be heard over the battalions of rain that flung itself in slants against the worn-out windows.
Marianne was worried sick about Patrick, whom she had only glimpsed sporadically since the day of Rita’s funeral.
In desperation, when a whole day had passed and she hadn’t laid eyes on him, she phoned Agnes.
‘Hello?’ Agnes’ voice was as quiet as Marianne had expected. Almost a whisper.
‘I was … looking for Patrick?’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Do you know where he is?’
‘No.’
She never asked who Marianne was or why she wanted to know where Patrick was.
‘Agnes is so weird,’ she complained to Aunt Pearl in the kitchen after she hung up.
Aunt Pearl was not herself either. ‘She’s just shy,’ she said, instead of using the golden opportunity to go for Agnes’ jugular. To bitch about her to her heart’s content. Marianne had handed the opportunity to her on a platter and all she could do was make a benign comment about shyness?
Things were bad.
In the absence of anything else, Marianne flung herself into her routine, grateful that there was a routine that she could fling herself into. She clung to it, insisting on collecting the Get-Well-Sooners every day, rain or shine.
Mostly rain, it seemed.
They complained roundly.
‘What’s the point?’ moaned Bartholomew.
‘You’ve got your new job next week to look forward to,’ Marianne reminded him.
Bartholomew shrugged.
‘I can’t see any point either,’ said Freddy.
‘There is none,’ declared Shirley.
Even Ethel, looking apologetically at Marianne, said, ‘I’m sorry to say, I’m unconvinced of the point of anything myself.’
The Jeep cut out at a junction and Marianne sat there, waited for the driver of the car behind to blare his horn. He didn’t, just sat behind her and waited as she turned the key in the ignition, then stepped on the accelerator. One short pump followed by two long ones. The engine coughed, spluttered, then caught. She drove away and the driver in the car behind followed suit, slow as a funeral procession. If he had leaned out his window and mumbled, ‘What’s the point?’ Marianne would not have been surprised.
Back at Ancaire, Marianne made tea, glad of something to do. She no longer had to think about who wanted what type of tea, in what cup, with what kind of milk, if any. It was ingrained in her muscle memory now. A muslin bag of peppermint tea in a delicate china cup for Ethel. Marianne was careful to leave the string hanging from the top of the cup so Ethel could fish the bag out when the tea was strong enough. Pop it back in if she decided on a refill.
PG Tips for Bartholomew and Freddy, in the Chippendales mug and Mr Neat cup respectively.
Marianne nearly gave Shirley a cup of Barry’s in her #mefuckingtoo mug, just to hear her roar, ‘Blueshirts’ but she decided against it because … what if Shirley didn’t roar, ‘Blueshirts’? What would be the point then? Of anything?
She made a tray of shortbread. She thought shortbread might be an easy one to begin with.
It was dry. It didn’t crumble when Marianne cut it but rather snapped, and the pieces, when she arranged them on a plate, were of wildly contrasting shapes and sizes.
When Bartholomew and Freddy didn’t argue over whose slice was bigger, Marianne felt her spirits, already flagging, sink lower.
‘We should talk about the protest,’ she said, in an artificially bright voice when she cleared away the cups and plates and returned from the kitchen.
‘Well, I’m all set,’ said Shirley.
‘Are you?’ said Marianne, astonished but relieved.
‘Yeah, I’ve got all our stuff packed up,’ said Shirley. ‘Three suitcases. One for me, one for the boys and one for Star Wars merchandise. The amount of lightsabers those fellas have. If we’re ever invaded by the Dark Side, we’ll be grand.’
‘Where are you going to go?’ said Ethel, fearfully, with no mention of Shirley’s fighting spirit or its whereabouts.
Shirley shrugged. ‘I asked Mam if I could move into her flat for a while.’
‘Rita said you could stay here,’ said Marianne. ‘At Ancaire.’
Shirley shook her head. ‘But Ancaire is yours now, isn’t it? You’ll be selling up.’
Everybody looked at Marianne and she felt the weight of their stares. ‘Developers would pay a pretty penny for the land, I dare say,’ said Bartholomew with authority.
‘All good things must come to an end,’ said Ethel, lifting her chin and doing her best stiff upper lip.
‘Will you?’ asked Freddy gently. ‘Sell up?’
Marianne shook her head. ‘I … don’t know,’ she said. ‘I … haven’t really had time to think about … anything.’
Everybody nodded. They understood that much.
They discussed the protest. There was a local councillor who had promised to come. A Green. But he had promised to come to the last one and then had made his excuses, late in the day. Still, he was the only politician who had responded to the blanket invitation Patrick had emailed a few weeks ago, so that was something, Marianne supposed.
‘I emailed everyone who signed our petition at the first protest,’ said Freddy proudly.
‘Did you get any responses?’ asked Bartholomew.
‘None,’ admitted Freddy.
The man behind the counter of the local Chinese takeaway said he’d come. ‘Who’s going to eat my chicken balls and curry chips if you move away?’ he’d said to Shirley.
Bartholomew’s troupe at the amateur dramatic society said they would definitely come. ‘But they’re actors,’ said Bartholomew shaking his head. ‘So they probably won’t.’
‘Hugh is cutting hair at the nursing home in Lusk tomorrow,’ said Ethel. ‘He said he’d make it to Shirley’s if he could but …’ She trailed away. Everybody nodded grimly. They’d seen the amount of blue rinse Hugh went through when he went to the nursing homes. He’d be there for the day and possibly much of the night.
Marianne felt equal measures of relief and disappointment. She wouldn’t have to feel that feeling in the pit of her stomach when she saw him. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Like indigestion. She wished she could just put a bottle of Gaviscon on her head and be done with it.
But Hugh would be good at a protest, Marianne felt. The size of him, for starters. He could not be ignored. The timbre of his voice. It sounded like the voice of someone who could bellow a chant.
‘Don’t forget Patrick,’ declared Freddy. ‘He’ll be there for sure.’
Marianne didn’t share Freddy’s certainty but, in a room filled with such toxic amounts of pessimism and, yes, hopelessness, Freddy’s declaration was like a pinprick of light in the dark. Marianne reached for it, smiled so widely at Freddy that he took a physical step back and tripped over George.
George seemed to be the only one left that Marianne could rely on, stopping only briefly outside Rita’s bedroom to paw at the door and sniff at the air, before following Marianne along the landing towards the stairs.
At night, the kitchen seemed unbearably quiet and tidy without the clatter of Rita’s heels against the floor, preparing food for the following day, the bubble of one of her concoctions simmering on the hob, the collection of wooden spoons she used, spooling their wares in puddles along the counter. ‘Try this one, Marnie,’ she’d say. ‘I’ve used basil instead of rosemary. I think you’ll like it.’
Marianne had tried them all in the end.
Now, all she could hear was the creak of Aunt Pearl’s bed as she tossed and turned, trying to find a position she could sleep in, the fumbling tick and tock of the grandfather clock in the hall, and the wind. Always the wind, wailing around the house like a lament.
She could leave. The thought presented itself at odd times. Especially on nights like these with the wind and the clock and the dark, empty kitchen.
She could leave.
Sell Ancaire.
But what about Aunt Pearl? She had her savings and Rita had bequeathed her the How to … books. She could rent an apartment in Skerries, maybe? Or even buy one, with the surplus left over from the sale of Ancaire and the purchase of the house on Carling Road. But Marianne couldn’t imagine Aunt Pearl accepting what she would deem to be ‘charity’.
And Marianne couldn’t imagine Aunt Pearl anywhere that wasn’t Ancaire.
Then there was Patrick. Technically, he was fine. He had his home and his business. Perhaps he would be glad if Marianne sold the house. It seemed clear that he was not interested in Ancaire. Not without Rita.
Marianne bristled. She could scarcely remember her old life, when she didn’t have anybody to worry about other than herself.
Marianne looked up the house on Carling Road online. It was being sold furnished. There it was, exactly as she had left it, all her possessions still there, in the same place as she had left them, as if they were waiting for her to return. As if it was just a matter of time.
She clicked through the rooms, all of which were painted a uniform magnolia. Everything looked smaller than she remembered. She zoomed in on the venetian blinds that guarded each window, inspected them. The slats always managed to collect layers of dust at an exponential rate. Marianne had calculated the perfect downward angle for the blinds early on, which had the joint benefit of protecting the furniture from sun damage and compromising the view of passers-by. Now, they were open much too wide and Marianne winced at the clash of the white daylight against the magnolia paint. It made the place seem sort of … unlovable. Marianne shook herself. All she had to do was pull the cord and reposition the blinds and the house would look the way it always had when she had lived there. A haven. A place where she didn’t have to consider anybody else. Or listen to the melancholic shuddering of the wind about the house. After Brian left her, there were nights when Marianne sat in the dark and listened and listened, but all she could hear was the machinations of her own body.
It had been her haven for so long.
Maybe it could be again.
Chapter 39
Marianne held her placard high over her head, just like Bartholomew had shown her, that first time. It read, ‘There’s no place like home.’
She stood in the middle of a ragged line, made up of Ethel, Bartholomew, Freddy and Shirley. Also George, who leaned against Marianne’s legs.
Marianne roared, ‘Power to the people.’ A magpie, ripping a discarded chip bag apart on the path, squawked and fixed her with its cold, black eyes.
One for sorrow. Marianne tried not to see it.
‘Do we have to sing that one again?’ said Freddy, moving his placard from one hand to the other.
‘’Cos the people got the power,’ Marianne sang, louder this time.
‘My throat is sore,’ said Bartholomew, pawing at his neck.
‘Tell me can you hear it,’ shouted Marianne.
‘I’m afraid my arms are aching,’ said Ethel, apologetically lowering her placard. ‘And my feet.’ She had forgotten her little fold-up stool.
‘Getting louder by the hour,’ said Marianne.
‘This is hopeless,’ said Shirley, pitching her placard on the ground and sitting on it.
Marianne lowered her arms. It was true that the situation did appear to be devoid of hope. The absence of Rita was proving an obstacle that nobody seemed willing or able to overcome.
Without her, they were falling apart like their placards earlier, during a brief but intense deluge of rain.
No journalists, no photographers, no bloggers.
No politicians. Not even a lowly councillor. Or the man from the Chinese takeaway.
Of Patrick, there was no sign either. Marianne had called to his house, rang his phone. She had been sure he would step up for them today. But he had gone to ground.
Very few motorists or pedestrians passing by offered a beep of a horn or a wave of a hand to cheer them.
The landlord was due at two o’clock.
Shirley was due to hand over the keys to him.
The boys were due home from school at half two.
Bartholomew’s stomach rumbled like thunder.
‘Will we have lunch?’ said Marianne, thinking food might cheer them. Although probably not, as she had been in a hurry earlier and hadn’t had time to go to Rita-style lengths. Inside the bag she had brought were a few cheese sandwiches, a bag of apples and a packet of Hobnobs. These meagre offerings would serve only as a stark reminder of what they were doing without.
Who they were doing without.
They ate the cheese sandwiches in the garden, grateful for any distraction from the hopelessness of their situation.
And it was fairly hopeless, Marianne had to concede. She checked her watch. Ten to two. She looked at the house, across which hung a banner – a bed sheet that Pearl had agreed to stitch – that read, ‘Homes are for life, not for profit.’
She looked at the Get-Well-Sooners. Even if they managed to rouse themselves back into a line with their placards held aloft, what difference would it make?
The lure of these dismal thoughts was strong. Wouldn’t it be so much easier to admit defeat and throw in the towel? Be done with it?
Marianne threw the remains of her cheese sandwich towards the magpie, now strutting around a drain. He grasped it in his beak and flew away.
‘One in flight is worth two in sight,’ said Ethel, absently.
‘Is that true?’ Marianne asked.
Ethel nodded.
‘Two for joy,’ said Marianne. ‘Isn’t that right?’
Ethel smiled. ‘Yes, dear,’ she said.
‘It’s a sign.’ Marianne jumped up from the picnic blanket Ethel had insisted they sit on, to ward off all ills but most especially, colds in the kidneys. She ran to the Jeep, opened the back and yanked her handbag out. Her phone was at the bottom of it. She rang Patrick’s number again. This time she left a message. ‘Patrick, it’s Marianne. This is urgent. I need the chain you use to lock your bike. I’m at Shirley’s. Thank you. This is urgent. Did I say that already? Okay, bye.’
She hung up and threw her phone back inside her bag, slammed the Jeep door. She steeled herself. The Get-Well-Sooners eyed her cautiously.
‘Are you all right, Marianne?’ asked Bartholomew, eating the crusts that Freddy had peeled off his sandwich.
‘Do you have your phone with the fancy camera?’ Marianne asked him.
‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew slowly. ‘Why?’
‘Can you get it?’
‘Surely you’re not thinking of …’
‘Start filming.’ Marianne bent down and reefed off one of her runners, threw it into the garden. Peeled off her sock. The ground was soggy and cold against her bare foot. She pulled off her other runner, yanked off her other sock, reached for the waistband of her trackpants, pushed them down her legs.
‘You wouldn’t,’ said Freddy, alarmed.
‘You’ll catch your death, my dear,’ said Ethel, as the trackpants went sailing past Bartholomew’s head, snagging on the edge of the splintered, wooden awning over the front door.
‘This is a respectable neighbourhood,’ said Shirley, smirking as Marianne wrestled herself out of her anorak, her fleece, Brian’s ancient T-shirt with the Rubik Cube on the front, its colours dull and faded now. She tossed it in the air.
Now she was standing in Shirley’s front garden in a white bra and a black pair of knickers.
She would have worn matching
ones. If she’d been thinking straight. Which she clearly wasn’t. And anyway, what difference did it make, since she was taking them off anyway.
She was taking them off.
Was she?
Was she really going to do this?
She clenched her eyes tight shut. Someone tapped her arm. ‘Excuse me, love?’ She opened her eyes. It was the postman, handing her an envelope. He looked wary. ‘Number three, yeah?’ he said, nodding towards Shirley’s front door.
‘Eh, yes,’ said Marianne, clamping one arm across her bra and accepting the envelope with her free hand. ‘Thank you.’
He mounted his bicycle and rode away.
The Get-Well-Sooners cheered as Marianne tossed the envelope at Shirley and grappled with the catch of her bra. ‘Do you need some help with that, Marianne?’ said Freddy, taking a brave step forward. ‘I’ve had a lot of experience in that department.’
‘Yeah, right,’ screeched Bartholomew.
‘I’m talking about my job,’ said Freddy crossly. ‘Costume hire, remember?’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve obviously never undressed a woman in a … a romantic way since I … I’m a … gay man.’ He seemed as shocked as everybody else by the declaration. He said it again, louder this time, as if he were making sure. ‘Actually,’ he said then, ‘for the purposes of full disclosure, I should say that I am a gay alcoholic.’
‘My dear boy,’ said Bartholomew, shaking his head in something like wonder. ‘I commend you for your honesty.’
They all swarmed around Freddy, taking turns to hug and kiss him. ‘We’re so proud of you, Freddy dear,’ said Ethel, beaming at him.
Shirley thumped his arm. ‘I think you’ll make a great gay, Freddy,’ she said. ‘No offence.’
‘None taken,’ said Freddy, beaming.
‘Eh, hello?’ Marianne shouted over at them. ‘I’m naked over here.’
They all looked at her. She had taken the balloons that Sheldon and Harrison had affixed to the front door and was using them and her placard to cover as much of herself as she could manage.
Make Yourself at Home Page 31