Maria in the Moon

by Louise Beech

  ‘Flood Crisis, can I help?’ said Christopher.

  The second phone started and Jane reached it before the fourth ring. I listened to the one-sided conversations and sipped my tea. Questions like, ‘Tell me more about flood day?’ and ‘How did it make you feel?’ are never indicative of the level of distress being discussed. They form only half the picture, the white not the black. I wondered if I’d be able to help these callers. Would I get them to feel; would they get me to feel; would they pull me in?

  The rope tightened.

  Christopher returned after a fifteen-minute conversation, and I said I’d answer the next call. I took my leg off the table to show I meant business, knocking Barbara Cartland to the floor.

  ‘You lost my page,’ smiled Christopher.

  The phone rang. I stood and shrugged to show I wasn’t daunted. It should have felt like the first time I’d walked towards a ringing phone almost a year before. Then I’d felt like a prisoner on death row, legs shackled, heading for that last room, inevitability as heavy as the chains. But not this time: this was my second call.

  I picked it up on the fifth ring.

  ‘Can you tell me it’ll never rain again,’ a woman’s voice demanded.

  I hadn’t had a chance to say my greeting or grab the pen and pad. My mind was blank. This might be my second call, but officially it was my first. How should I respond? What was I to say?

  ‘Tell me why you fear the rain,’ I said finally, and wrote the date on the top of the sheet.

  ‘Why do you think?’ she snapped.

  I knew the obvious response but I’d learned never to presume. Questions from callers were best ignored. We had no idea what answer they sought and no right to offer judgement anyway.

  ‘Were you flooded?’ I asked – the obligatory question.

  ‘Yes.’

  I heard the Coronation Street omnibus on TV and fingered Deirdre Barlow’s all-seeing eye, which still encircled my knee.

  ‘I can’t sleep when it rains. I go to the window when I hear it on the roof and wait for it to stop. My husband sleeps in the kids’ room. He can’t stand my restlessness. I don’t know when we last had sex. Do you think it’ll happen again?’

  Did she mean the rain or the sex?

  ‘I can’t answer that.’ I spoke softly.

  I was Katrina; Hurricane Katrina. I supposed I had been Katrina all through Crisis Care. I just hadn’t had a name for her then. The rope did not pull. It loosened; I loosened.

  ‘Tell me more about being flooded,’ I said.

  ‘I was at work,’ she said. ‘My son Evan rang to say the water was at the step and he was scared it was going to come in. The house three doors along was already flooded. They’re an American family. She has some beautiful handbags. I wanted to go home but my boss said Margaret had gone early with diarrhoea, so I couldn’t.’

  I nodded, knowing she couldn’t see, and remembered the rain. I’d been on a rare day shift at the care home when it came and I’d left at lunchtime, despite protests from the boss. I’d told her it was easy to be dismissive when your luxury home was on top of a hill. I’d called a taxi, afraid the buses would be cancelled.

  I was too late. The water had invaded. But I’d refused to admit defeat. My neighbour, Sally, helped me carry things upstairs. ‘They’ll dry,’ I’d said. They’ll dry. And they did. But they were never the same.

  ‘I went home, anyway,’ said the caller. ‘The water was up to my knees. Some bloke in a rowing boat was handing out bricks so people could raise their furniture out of the water. Frig knows where he got it.’

  ‘How did you feel when you saw your house?’ I asked.

  She paused. I hadn’t written any notes. This was familiar territory.

  ‘It wasn’t home anymore,’ she said. ‘When you can’t see your carpet and your kids’ toys are floating around I don’t think a house can ever be home again, can it? We’re living upstairs. Can you imagine it – with all the work going on downstairs? I often want to go to the door and scream “Cunts!” into the street.’

  I wanted to tell her to do it. Say she might feel better. But that was instruction, and though Norman had said we could offer flood-related advice, I imagined telling a caller to swear in the garden was not what he meant.

  ‘Does it help to talk?’ I asked.

  ‘I feel less agitated. You’re a nice girl. Oh shit, he’s back. Harry, my husband. Best go; he hates me ringing anyone.’

  The phone died. I replaced the receiver and looked at the blank sheet of notepaper, sensing that the flood was the least of her worries.

  I returned to the lounge area. Jane was still in the other booth; Christopher was reading Good Housekeeping magazine on the paisley sofa.

  ‘How did it go?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s like I never left the phones,’ I said.

  ‘And is that good?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I searched in my bag for an apple.

  Christopher spotted the cards. ‘Cool,’ he said, pointing. ‘Shall we play?’

  Jangly Jane came back and dropped onto the huge cushion.

  ‘Card-playing detracts from concentration,’ she said.

  ‘Lighten up, Jane,’ insisted Christopher. ‘Let’s play to lose.’

  ‘Oh, I’m good at that,’ I said.

  We settled into a polite, new-marriage-like, give-and-take routine, alternating turns with callers. A half-hearted game of gin rummy was side-tracked – a shame because I had a nine, ten, jack, queen and king of hearts, and I’d seen that Jane had nothing of value. But after I’d taken a call from a man who’d had constipation since the floods and Christopher had spoken to a regular caller, we couldn’t remember whose cards were whose. So I worked out that Jane’s jack of diamonds and three of spades meant a dark-haired man was cheating on her but refrained from saying so.

  I took a few calls from people who immediately hung up and one from a man who shouted ‘Whore!’ and then sang ‘I Get a Kick Out of You’. My notepad remained empty, awaiting someone’s sadness, the weight of words.

  ‘You never called me.’ Christopher handed me a third cup of tea.

  It had grown dark outside and the streetlights had come on, like a row of orange stars. Jane pulled the shutter across and it was just us and the wailing of another ambulance heading for tragedy in the city.

  ‘I’m your buddy,’ he said. ‘You’re supposed to call before your first shift. Talk about leaving a man hanging.’

  The phone rang. I was glad. It was my turn.

  ‘Hello, Flood Crisis, can I help you?’ I settled into the still-warm leatherette recliner in booth two. Silence. I picked up the pen and read one of the wall prompts: ‘Give your caller time, even if the silence lasts ten minutes.’ I waited.

  ‘I met Marcus because of the floods,’ she said eventually. Well spoken but nervous. No background noise, nothing to give her life away. ‘Where should I start?’

  ‘Wherever you would like to; whatever comes to you first.’

  ‘I was having sign-language evening classes at Eastfield School,’ she said. ‘It got flooded, so I had to swap class. I was rather miffed. I’d been enjoying the course. So I started child psychology at another site and Marcus was my tutor. All I remember about that first day, other than his eyes studying me when I walked in, was how the fir trees near the classroom window were broken and looked sad, like they had downturned mouths.’

  She became silent again. The phone rang in the other booth. I chewed the pen end.

  ‘Tell me more about Marcus,’ I said.

  ‘I love him,’ she said.

  I couldn’t think of a single word. I read the prompts and none of them fit. Love was something I understood so little, I should have been overflowing with questions about it; yet I couldn’t think of one. Instead I drew a heart in the top corner of the pad; and then I scribbled it out.

  ‘The sex is amazing.’ She giggled. ‘Am I allowed to say that? I’m nervous. It’s just … very sexual. He gives me better mar
ks when I … well, when I give him reason. Last night he rang me while he was marking the work … he got me to … I’m embarrassed…’

  ‘I’m not here to judge in any way.’

  ‘He got me to, you know, play with myself while he talked,’ she said. ‘He told me exactly what to do. It was so arousing. He’s teaching me but says I’m teaching him too, that even though he’s my tutor we’re both adults. It’s wrong, isn’t it?’

  ‘Why do you feel that?’ I asked.

  Who could define wrong? I wrote the word on the paper. There had been nothing right about my last relationship.

  ‘He makes me feel like a child. I’m twenty-nine but he’s so persuasive. I know he’s abusing his power. I tried to end it last week, and we ended up making love in the cupboard, me pressed against the door in case someone came in. I can’t walk away from him.’

  ‘How do you feel now?’ I asked.

  ‘I keep thinking about my acting lessons,’ she said.

  ‘You’re having those too?’

  ‘No. I used to.’ Her voice changed, became childlike, and then she was silent again.

  I moved the phone away from my ear, assessing its weight. I thought of Will, because it was evening, and turned off the cubicle light. I liked to listen in the shadows. Blind, I relied on my instinct and though it had let me down when climbing the steps earlier, it rarely let me down here.

  ‘I’m Helen,’ she said.

  ‘Katrina,’ I said.

  She began to cry.

  ‘If it feels difficult, just take as long as you need,’ I said.

  ‘I had acting lessons when I was eleven,’ she whispered.

  My throat felt tight and I scratched my fingers. I remembered the sense I’d get during a call when something seemingly innocuous was said that changed the direction of the conversation, so subtle, a casual observer would never know. But I knew. I knew that this was what the call was really about: acting lessons.

  ‘If I were to ring back another time would you be here?’ she asked.

  I didn’t know what to say. At Crisis Care we weren’t allowed to give out our shifts. I felt I might lose her if I gave her the option of calling back.

  ‘I’ll be in again next Wednesday,’ I said. ‘But why don’t you—’

  The phone died. I didn’t replace the receiver for a few minutes, refusing to believe she’d gone. It was frustrating when you made a connection with someone and they hung up. We weren’t supposed to get attached, but I’m human and her words pulled at me.

  After a while I went back into the lounge. Jane was still in cubicle one. Christopher was playing patience. I noticed the beginnings of a tattoo under his T-shirt sleeve. He had lean arms, sturdy hands. He looked up.

  ‘OK?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah.’ I was tired. It was eight-fifteen and there were eleven different cups on the coffee table, some empty, some half full.

  ‘We don’t have to answer any more.’ He looked at the clock.

  I nodded and sat opposite him on a velvet chair.

  ‘How’s the cut?’ he asked.

  I had forgotten about it. Now remembered, it throbbed. Was it better to sometimes forget? Did cuts heal better ignored? I looked under the tea towel; the blood had congealed.

  Christopher said I’d have to wash and stitch the tea towel back together.

  Jane flopped onto the cushion. ‘The girl I just talked to is addicted to sleep. She goes to bed at eight and sleeps all night. Then she takes the kids to school, goes back to bed, sleeps until midday, gets up for lunch, goes back, gets up when the kids come in and still sleeps all night. Said if she sleeps it won’t rain.’

  Christopher turned the phones off and stretched. We were done. It was over. My first shift. Jane carried half the cups to the kitchen and I followed with the rest. Then I got my coat from the back of the sofa and looked at the now-silent phones; I had no regrets about returning to them. Fern once read in some paranormal book that if you open the portal to the spirit world you can never close it, even with an exorcist or a priest. This was my spirit world.

  In the hallway Christopher fastened his jacket, unlocked his bike from the banister and asked how I was getting home. The bus, I told him.

  ‘Will you be OK?’

  ‘It’s a bus. I’ll be fine.’ I regretted my flippant tone but I hate people fussing over me.

  ‘Don’t fall up the step.’ He carried his bike onto the path.

  I wanted to go home, but remembered that it was ruined. That I had a lumpy sofa and the smell of old chicken to look forward to. I turned to say goodbye properly, but Christopher had gone. So I hobbled into the night with a leg wrapped in a stained tea towel and hands aflame.

  That night I dreamt again of the room.

  This time it occupied a house with furry walls that pulsated as though they breathed. Will was there. Miranda too. They talked in a sign language I couldn’t understand, but I felt the weight of their words and knew they were discussing me. She laughed. Her silvery rabbit charm flashed a warning.

  Then it appeared – the door to the room. I asked them to stay with me, but they signed something and shook their heads. Will’s mouth was sewn up. And then they were gone. I couldn’t look at the door. I couldn’t think about the room beyond. Flies buzzed around the door handle, and I closed my eyes and began to cry.

  Someone whispered, ‘Don’t cry.’

  I awoke on the lumpy sofa with the sheet tangled around my leg. My cut knee throbbed. The DVD player displayed 3.04. A shadow. A man. The bushy-haired man in the room. My heart hammered. No, Fern. Just Fern at my feet, her face green in the digital glow. Relief. I wondered if I was still dreaming.

  ‘You were crying.’ She touched my cheek and I wiped it roughly. ‘What were you dreaming about?’

  ‘Can’t remember.’

  She scrutinised me. ‘Bad calls today?’

  ‘Are you alone?’ I asked, closing my eyes.

  ‘Yes. No crazy men tonight.’

  ‘Good,’ I said.

  ‘Do you want me to sit here until you fall asleep?’ she asked.

  I whispered that I’d be fine and she should go back to bed. I don’t know if she went or if she stayed, but I like to think she sat with me until I faded away again.

  11

  Girl in a red dress

  John, the head workman rebuilding my house, pulled plaster off the Marilyn wall and looked satisfied when her nose crumbled and hit the remaining floorboards.

  Marilyn was my Virgin Mary. When John ruined her face all I could see were the shattered pieces of blue porcelain on Nanny Eve’s hallway floor. I wanted to kneel and gather up the pieces of plaster, as I had the porcelain back then. I found it quite easy to recall the bad things, like knocked-over statues. So perhaps my ninth year had been a good one. Perhaps no single unpleasant event distinguished it from the others. Perhaps I had nothing to remember.

  ‘It’s worse than we thought,’ said John. ‘You’ll need a full rewire, a new boiler and the copper pipes ripping out before we start renovating. I guess this isn’t what you want to hear.’

  It wasn’t, and on my birthday. The annual celebration was bad enough without finding out the one thing I’d invested my father’s inheritance in had been completely wrecked by the floods. Having to get up at eight on my day off hadn’t helped my mood either, and my hands were so itchy today, I’d drawn blood between the fingers.

  ‘Would you stop doing that?’ I frowned as John picked at the remains of Marilyn’s forehead.

  He stopped, but dead skin fell anyway; fleshy brick snow.

  ‘Whoever did your house originally was a cowboy,’ John added with relish. ‘Even without the flood this place was on its last legs. Not seen wiring this old since they condemned my grandmother’s place after she croaked last year.’

  His trusty sidekick loitered where the fireplace had once been, one foot on a rare floorboard and the other against the wall. Fern would probably think John’s apprentice nice, but his boyish face irr
itated rather than interested me. An aggressive woman had probably never yanked his floppy hair. He took a pack of cigarettes from his overall pocket and lit one.

  ‘Do you mind?’ I said.

  ‘Oh, you want one?’

  ‘No! Put it out. I know this place has no walls but it is my home.’

  He stubbed it out on the brick.

  I explained to them that the insurance company was paying the rent on my flat, but I didn’t know how long for. ‘So do you have any idea how long the rebuild will take?’

  ‘You’re looking at another eight weeks,’ John said.

  ‘The end of January?’ I couldn’t believe it. I’d imagined being home for Christmas. ‘Can we arrange a date?’

  John laughed. ‘I’m married, love,’ he said. ‘But matey-boy here is single.’

  Matey-boy – or, as I saw him, Robin to John’s Batman – raised his eyebrows. When I didn’t laugh or agree to a date, John suggested they’d start a week on Tuesday and said their plumber, Brian, would give me a call to arrange things.

  I picked up the letters where they lay near the front door and waited for the two men to leave before locking up. Matey-boy Robin lit a cigarette by the gate and flicked ash into my front garden, not meeting my challenging eyes.

  A green car pulled up at the muddy verge as they departed and my neighbour Sally got out with an armful of kitchen brochures.

  ‘Catherine.’ She locked the car. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Oh, you know. Where have you been? I haven’t seen you since…’

  We both knew since what. I was sure she pictured the day of the flood as often as I did. I hadn’t seen her since I’d helped carry their huge plasma TV upstairs and we’d sat on her bed drinking juice because there was no electricity for coffee. We’d stared out of the window in silence, unable to do any more than save our items and wait for the rain to stop.

  Now Sally admitted she’d not been to the house in five months. She didn’t want to go in today. Her husband, Rick, returned weekly for the post and other necessities but was sick today, so she had no choice but to step inside her shell of a home. She asked if mine was dry.