I put the key in the door, slipped off my shoes and slumped down in my favourite armchair, surrounded by the mess of boxes and packing cases. In fact, I didn’t even take off my coat. The walk up the hill, plus the two halves of Guinness, had taken their toll. Through the uncurtained window I could still see the powerful light of the moon. Dad would have liked The Waterman’s Arms, that much I was sure of, for he regarded pubs as a place of refuge. He always used to say that they should be a sanctuary where you can be yourself and not have to watch your p’s and q’s, but this being the case you had to find a pub that fitted you. He’d remind me that they’re all different, like people, and while some bring out the good in you and open you up, others close you down and make you quiet so that you just want to sit in the corner and nurse a pint. “They’re not about drinking” was his big line, but Mum would just roll her eyes and get on with her ironing or whatever she was doing. I’d listen though. He’d insist that they’re about being yourself, and he’d stress that you had to keep looking around until you found a pub that you felt comfortable in. However, he never told me what to do if I found myself living in a place that only had the one pub. I don’t think either of us ever imagined that anything like this could ever happen.
I’ve not been in the local pub since that first night, and that was three months ago. But I see everybody all the time. The young courting couple, the yobs who were playing outside, the landlord. You can’t help it. You go for a walk, or you go to get a paper, or you wait by the bus stop, and there they all are, the cast of the village acting out their assigned roles. Those of us from Stoneleigh, the small group of extras who live up the hill, have yet to be given our parts. We’re still strangers to each other, let alone to the other villagers. The somewhat undernourished coloured man in the small bungalow next door is the only one I see regularly. He’s the caretaker for all the houses; if anybody needs a lock fixing, or a door rehanging, or the plumbing seeing to, then he’s the man to call. Apparently, there were so many complaints when the bungalows were finished that some owners in both culs-de-sac threatened to sue the developers unless they did something about it. I must have been lucky for everything’s fine with my place, but it turns out that I’m the exception. So, in order to keep everybody happy, they built a small bungalow for a handyman-cum-night-watchman and Solomon moved in. I can see him now, behind his blinds. He never pulls them fully closed, as though he always needs to have a little light coming into his place. Either that, or he’s not sure how to make them work.
His car is parked out front in its proper place. It’s clearly second-hand, but it’s always carefully washed and clean. The other day I saw him take a cloth to it and go at the bodywork as though he was buffing up a piece of brass. I’ve thought about asking him why he takes so much trouble over a car, but there’s no point because it fits in with how he behaves about everything. The way he dresses, or cuts the lawn, or combs his hair with that sharp razor parting. Everything is done with such precision. Like most of the folks up here, he keeps himself to himself, but unlike most of the folks up here, he lives by himself. Like me, he’s a lone bird. There’s me, there’s him, and there’s a man in the other cul-de-sac who has let it be known that he used to be something in the London jazz scene. He claims to have known all sorts of famous people, and played all the clubs, but he talks too much which, of course, makes me think that he’s making the whole thing up. But Solomon is different. He’ll be over in ten minutes. I know his routine by now, and I’ll have to be ready for him so that he can drive me into town to see Dr. Williams. In fact, I’m nearly ready. All I have to do is find my referral card and pull on my coat and I’ll be ready to go. Dr. Williams is not a proper doctor, more of a specialist. In psychological pressures. My old GP recommended him to me a few months ago, just after Sheila died. He thought it would do me good to talk with somebody, but after all this time I’ve still not been getting any real sleep, and so I asked Dr. Williams to give me some tests, which he did. Today I expect him to give me the results.
As I wait for Solomon I glance at the mantelpiece. I recognise my sister’s handwriting on the envelope. The lines are weaker, the shapes less aggressive. Strange, really, for it never occurred to me that handwriting can age, but it does. When I first saw the letter on the door-mat I looked at it and felt afraid to touch it. Finally, I picked it up and then propped it on the mantelpiece where I could see it, but I knew that I’d have to be stronger before I could tackle it. I remember laughing. It’s not a rugby-playing bloke, I thought, it’s a letter. I don’t have to tackle it, and so I left it where it was, but every day I find myself glancing at the handwriting. Weak or otherwise, it’s still her handwriting. After all these years of silence my sister can still do this to me. And then I hear Solomon knocking at the door.
I like the way he corners the car. He always holds the wheel in two hands and he pushes and pulls it gently, as though he’s making something, rather than spinning it around as though he’s gambling. He also wears driving gloves, which I like. Not the tacky type with the Velcro backing; his gloves have studs which you push to and they snap into place, all snug. I like this about his driving. It’s neat and careful, and it makes me feel safe.
“Will the doctor be giving you the results today?”
He asks the question, but Solomon does so without taking his eyes from the road. When he first did this I thought it was rude, however I now realise that it’s just his way of being careful. It’s simply a matter of safety first, that’s all. Because I have not replied to his question, he continues.
“I hope you do not mind my enquiry?”
This time he throws a quick glance in my direction. He’s a handsome man, which makes me feel uncomfortable. I’ve never asked him, but I’d guess he’s in his early thirties, although it’s difficult for me to tell. He returns his attention to the road.
“Of course I don’t mind your asking.” I pause. “The doctor said that he’d tell me today.” Again I pause, unsure as to whether I should be volunteering any more information. But I trust this man. He doesn’t expect me to be perfect.
Again he glances at me. It’s a worried glance which says, “Is there something that you are not telling me?” I say nothing as he slows down now, and then he turns into the hospital car park. There is, of course, one thing that I’ve been meaning to tell him, but I haven’t found the right opportunity. It’s about all this washing of his car. I want to tell him that in England you have to become a part of the neighbourhood. Say hello to people. Go to church. Introduce your kids to their new school. You can’t just turn up and start washing your car. People will consider you to be ignorant and stand-offish. But I’ve yet to find the proper moment to talk to Solomon about the way he flaunts himself in his driveway with that bucket of soapy water and his shammy.
Dr. Williams is a balding man of about forty. He’s at that place where men either tumble rapidly down the slope towards irreversible middle-age spread, or they start to exercise and take care of themselves in an attempt to hold on to some of their youth. My guess is that Dr. Williams isn’t sure what to do with himself. He asks me to please take a seat, but he doesn’t get up from behind his desk. I sit down and place my handbag in my lap, and then I realise that I probably look like a Sunday School teacher. Sadly, it’s too late. I’ve got butterflies in my tummy, but any change of position will suggest to him that I’m nervous, and I don’t want to give out this impression.
“I have your results, Miss Jones, and everything seems fine.” He looks me full in the face and he tries to put on that stupid little doctor smile that they all have. “But my nurse has passed on your messages, and if you say that you’re still having problems sleeping, then perhaps we should talk.” He gives me that half-sad, half-cheerful chin-up thing that they all do, and then he opens my file and takes his pen from the top pocket of his white overcoat. He clicks the knob of the pen with his thumb, then he uses the pen as some kind of a marker as he traces his way through the unbound pages.
&
nbsp; “You’ve been through a lot recently, haven’t you?”
I look at him and wonder if he’s really asking me, or if he’s just telling me.
“Early retirement can be a problem, but you’re still teaching music, aren’t you? The piano. I mean privately.”
Why is he asking me this? It was his idea that I advertise myself in that vulgar way. Desperate woman available for music lessons.
“I’m trying to talk to you, Miss Jones. Staring at the wall isn’t going to help either of us, now is it?”
I look at his chubby face and decide that it’s my turn to give him the stupid smile.
“The death of your parents, your divorce, the death of your sister, early retirement, and then moving home, that’s a lot of pressure for anybody to have to deal with in a short space of time.” He pauses to give me an opportunity to comment, but I have nothing further to say to him. “You have to start planning a new life, Dorothy. Your sister has gone, but you’re still a relatively young woman, and there’s nothing wrong with you physically. You’ve still got a significant expanse of life ahead of you, and you must start to plan and reach out and take it. Am I making myself clear?”
Solomon and I usually have lunch in town before going back to Stoneleigh. While I’m at the hospital he tends to do a bit of shopping, although he never tells me what he buys. Mind you, I never ask him either. He’ll come back to the hospital with whatever he’s bought safely stashed in the boot of his car. Sometimes I’m already out and waiting under the green Outpatients awning, while other times I know that I’ve kept him waiting, but he never complains. He’s a volunteer driver, and the village nurse will probably have told him that he has to be tolerant if he’s going to be driving folks who are ill. Because I used to live and teach in the town, it’s usually up to me to choose the place for lunch. Once upon a time I chose the Somalian and Mediterranean Food Hall and it now seems to have become our regular, although they could keep the place a little cleaner. Still, he seems to like it.
He glances up from his lamb kebab and looks at me with his big eyes, as though I’ve somehow betrayed him.
“You have not told me about your results.”
“Inconclusive,” I say, but I continue to eat. I stuff some pitta bread into my mouth so that it is momentarily impossible for me to continue.
“I see.” He waits until I have finished chewing. “Will there be more tests?”
“I don’t think the doctor knows what he’s doing.”
“He still cannot diagnose the problem?”
“So he says.”
“This is very troubling.” He pauses for a moment and continues to stare at me. “And your sister. Did you reply to her letter?”
I put down my fork, but before the words come out of my mouth I realise that I’m about to say too much to this man.
“I haven’t read the letter yet.”
“You have not read it?” He now puts down his own fork and he looks across the table at me. “But she is all that you have now that your parents have passed on. And you say that she lives only one hour away on the coast. I have told you, I am prepared to drive you there.”
This strange man. The caretaker at Stoneleigh. The estate handyman in his free bungalow. Solomon and his second-hand car. Not even a dog. Just him alone, hiding behind those blinds, waiting for a piece of guttering that needs fixing or a door handle that has to be replaced. At nights I see him out on patrol with his torch. The Irish nurse told me that if I didn’t want to take the bus into town there were two volunteer drivers. And then one afternoon, of all people, he came and knocked on my door. My knight in shining armour with his polished chariot. And now Solomon wants to drive me to the coast so that I can spend some time with Sheila, and all I’m thinking is why doesn’t he finish his lamb kebab? There’s people in the world who are starving to death and who would do anything for a bit of lamb kebab.
In the evening I stare again at the letter on the mantelpiece. Before I open it I feel as though I ought to go and visit my parents’ grave and ask their permission. At my age I shouldn’t feel compelled to ask for their approval, but Sheila didn’t treat them well and I don’t want them to think that by reading Sheila’s letter I’m betraying them. I pour a glass of white wine and look out of the window. After a few minutes it occurs to me that it’s not so much their permission that I’m seeking, it’s more that I’m simply informing them of what’s going on. I suppose that’s it. I just want to let them know what’s what and I hope that they’ll understand. The light is beginning to fade from the sky. One of the things I like most about this house are the evenings, for you can see the sun setting on the horizon from up here. To the west there is a clear uninterrupted view straight out to where the old railway viaduct marches across the valley on its strong stone legs. A train hasn’t passed across it for over fifty years or so, and it’s some kind of a monument now. Every evening the sun sets behind this viaduct, which means that I can sit at this window with a glass of wine and watch the day come to a peaceful conclusion.
I’ve not been up long before I hear the banging on the door. It’s all right because I’m already washed and presentable. I’ve even had time to brush out my hair, before tucking it back up into its familiar bun. I long ago forswore the vanity of trying to disguise the grey, and leaving it natural saves me stacks of time. Even though I no longer have to be at school at eight in the morning, I’ve kept the habit of being an early riser. I’ve generally had a bowl of cereal and some orange juice by the time the cars are pulling out of the driveways and the kids are running off to catch the school bus. Again I hear the intemperate banging on the door, as though whoever it is has decided that I’m asleep and is determined to wake me up. I’m not altogether happy about this, for it suggests bad manners. I go to the door and Mrs. Lawson is there, but without Carla. The two-piece navy linen suit, and the matching pale-blue scarf around her neck, tells me that she is on her way to work.
“I’m sorry for coming by so early, but I wanted to catch you before I went off.”
Well, I’d guessed that much, and from the way she was standing it was clear that she’d not come over to borrow a cup of sugar. Two days earlier, at her last piano lesson, Carla had refused to do her final lot of scales. Again I reminded her that sitting at the piano without any sense of propriety, her feet dangling uselessly above the pedals, was an insult to both teacher and instrument. I gently covered her hands with mine and asked her to feel it in her chest. To let it rise up from her body and out through the top of her head. I squeezed her hands, telling her that she must forget them, for they should be like lettuce, limp and useless. Then again, I reminded her that it all begins in the chest and that her performance must always be strong and passionate, but the girl was clearly unimpressed. In the end I snapped at her, and asked her if she thought that her mother was paying all this money out so that she could sit and stare into mid-air and give cheek. But this only made things worse. Carla began to snipe back, and then she banged the lid of the piano down, pushed back her chair and stood up. As she snatched her bag, she shouted, “I’m going to tell my mother about you,” and then she bolted from the house without closing the door behind her. I looked at the book of exercises that stood discarded on the piano, the corners carefully upended to make it easier to turn the page, and decided that enough was enough with this girl. I had half-expected to see Carla’s mother within the hour, but when she didn’t appear I wasn’t surprised. In fact, when the mother had first answered my handwritten advert in the newsagent’s window, which somewhat immodestly advertised my skills as a “firstclass” piano teacher, I was sure that Mrs. Lawson was simply looking for the most convenient way of keeping her daughter out of trouble. She told me that she was the clerical manager at the big supermarket in town and that she often worked late. Apparently, she and Carla’s father were separated, so most of the time the poor girl was left to her own devices. However, predictably enough, Carla soon became bored by both me and the piano, and it was inevitable tha
t in the long run she would become obstreperous. And now the mother has shown up. I look blankly at the woman.
“It’s about Carla,” she says.
“I’m sorry.” I blink and try to refocus on the woman. “Please come in. Would you like some tea?”
A Distant Shore Page 2