The Writing on the Wall and Other Stories

by Penny Edwards

  She walked through the streets somewhat adrift, bereft of company and familiar language, yet strangely heartened by the fact that no one she passed knew anything about her relatively new status of widow. In that sense, and this did make her smile slightly, it would truly be a break. Normality, after all, could be horribly claustrophobic with its pressure to behave within the perimeters of what’s considered acceptable grieving behaviour.

  She sat at an outside table of a café that seemed as good as any and ordered a pizza. It had probably been a very hot day because the evening air felt as if it was slightly relieved and was breathing out a sigh of gratitude that the sun was finally waving goodbye. This country, she thought, had a familiarity about it like no other, even though she’d never been here before. It felt as if it was inside her somehow, part of who she was through listening to parents and grandparents and through the experiences, not of those she knew particularly, but of their relatives, people who knew people who knew people. The war, the war before that and a cold war that used to give her mother a shudder whenever the very name Russia was mentioned. She couldn’t remember exactly how old she was when she first became aware of what was always referred to as the last war, which, in her young mind, she initially interpreted as the last war that was ever going to happen and if that was the case, she supposed she could see why it was so talked about. But she could, without much effort, conjure up the remembrance services she used to have to attend at primary school. It was always an icy day and there was invariably a slight fog. They would all stand, frozen, around the memorial in the churchyard, their poppies pinned firmly to their coats, and listened to the last post, although they didn’t really know it as that then; it was just someone playing an instrument, though it was very sad. They were just a few yards from school, but the warmth of the classroom felt a world away as they remained still, not daring to move. Her mother stood a little behind her. Fay was opposite. Her long plaits, as ever in place, and her German mother, Mrs Harris, was next to Fay, firm and proud, her blonde hair long for mothers then and her bright blue eyes staring into the distance. The ceremony ended and she remembered on this particular day people started talking more quickly, perhaps because they were frozen and thought speech might help, though no one spoke to Mrs Harris. When nearly everyone had gone, Mrs Harris approached her mother.

  “We didn’t know,” she said, but she didn’t think her mother, who’d heard this before, ever quite believed Mrs Harris. “Where did they think everyone was going?” she used to say, though it was a few years before Helen registered who the everyone were her mother was talking about. Back then, she probably just picked up that her mother didn’t always quite believe what was said to her.

  She looked around the café and wondered who the grandparents and great-grandparents were of those sitting around her. What had they done, what had been their responsibilities during the war? She’d heard of others doing something similar when visiting countries that were former adversaries, but she hated herself. It was none of her business and why should people be scarred who weren’t alive then? Nevertheless, she couldn’t help herself and her mind began transporting their features to another time.

  “Could I have the bill, please?” she asked of the waiter, whose features she left firmly in the here and now and whose service had been impeccable. She was feeling very tired, suddenly, as her long day was finally catching up with her, but, as she walked back to the flat, the warm air helped keep her attention and a gradual excitement started to envelope her at the prospect of the next three weeks in Berlin.

  The flat was as cool as a sea breeze when she got in and she lay on the bed and basked in the welcome climate. She had no doubt in her mind that she was going to like it here and she got up and opened the curtains slightly that she’d closed before leaving to get a glimpse of life outside again. It was something she often did at home just before she went to bed as it just reminded her that, though she was alone in a building, there was still plenty of life to be had out there. She looked across to the hotel opposite her with its large, completely transparent windows that were more reminiscent of a department store. It seemed to be showing off its opulence, inviting guests to an experience that went beyond average comfort, one for which two hours at the very least should be put aside for using the restaurant. People walked discreetly into the foyer, singly or in couples, and a suited member of staff waltzed elegantly and purposefully towards or away from the desk, according to what was required. Everything, apart from the building itself, had the appearance of recent renovation and new decoration. It was the result, she mused, of a Western make-over, a before and after, where after is always supposed better, even though, presumably, it could be enjoyed by only a few.

  She closed the curtains again, which fell from the ceiling to the floor and were so light and delicate they danced across the entire front of the flat, past the front door and as they reached her, she noticed a note on the ground she hadn’t previously seen. She picked it up and saw almost immediately that it was from Herr Bayer. She read the perfect English.

  “Dear Mrs Thompson, I’m sorry I had to leave so suddenly. I hope you don’t think me rude. I hope also that everything in the flat is as you wish and that you’ve settled in OK. If you’d like to have a cup of coffee with us sometime during your stay, you’d be very welcome. Please don’t hesitate to knock on our door, best wishes, Peter Bayer.”

  She smiled. It was a very sweet note, though she was slightly surprised at his need to write it, and surprised, too, at the invitation for coffee. She put it down on the table by the sofa. It reminded her that she should ring Margot first thing in the morning to let them know she’d arrived and was it still OK for next Tuesday?

  3

  The last thing Helen said to Stephen was, “Can you get some matches?” It was their daughter Emma’s eighteenth birthday the following day. Nearly a year ago. She’d arranged for the cake to be made weeks before by a woman recommended by a friend whose praise of the caterer seemed to know no bounds. The woman had asked for photos of Emma and a list of her interests. When Helen collected the cake she saw an edible model of Emma sitting on top of a large iced sponge cake, watching TV, even Friends transcribed on the screen, with a phone in her hand, surrounded by clothes and books. She journeyed home with this work of art in the boot of her car, convinced all the while that someone would run into the back of her. They didn’t and, after showing it to Stephen, she hid it in a cupboard she knew Emma never visited. The candles were already in place, but there wasn’t one match in the house.

  The first thing she said to him was, “Hello, are you Stephen Thompson?”

  He graciously replied, “Yes, I am,” during which moment she read “Stephen Thompson” on a label on his shirt. It had often been her dubious blessing in life that she spoke before putting in the research. They were both at a legal conference and she was looking for a new secretarial post, following the early retirement of her old boss who’d taken this path quite unexpectedly after a holiday romance in Spain where he was off to live. One of the other partner’s secretaries said she’d heard something about Thompson and Partners needing a new secretary and maybe she should seek them out at that conference she was going to. She told Stephen she was looking for work. He didn’t need anyone, but he knew one of his partners soon would. He went over to a nearby table and brought her a glass of wine. She forgot to say thank you.

  The last time she spoke to him, the day of the candles, she forgot to say please, relying on well-established intimacy as an excuse for omitting a politeness that’s just standard practice elsewhere.

  Their getting together was a long while coming during which time they routinely crossed paths, enjoyed jokes at office parties and were introduced to one another’s dates. It was because she’d made a mess of an urgent document and was working late re-typing it that they accidentally, really, ended up having a drink together. The Dog and Duck near Leicester Square. That was one
hell of an evening.

  She woke unusually refreshed. Her first thought was Stephen. It always was. Her second was her children and her third, how comfy the bed was. She got out of bed and made her way to the kitchen area. She’d brought some tea bags with her and some powdered milk. Not perfect, but it would do till she got to the shops. Herr Bayer had given her directions to the nearest ones.

  Her phone buzzed. It was a text from her daughter, Emma, thanking her for the text she’d sent last night saying she’d arrived safely.

  “Hav a gr8 time.” It ended, “Ur gonna b ok.”

  They lived over a hundred miles apart and before Stephen died, they’d seen her about once a month and his death hadn’t altered anything particularly, apart from the first couple of months when she thought Emma had perhaps felt an obligation to see her a bit more, but the trouble was neither knew what to say to the other face to face. She thought it came down to the fact they were both frightened of seeing each other’s tears, which was odd because they did plenty of crying on the phone. It was as if watching the tears made both of them feel a burden of expectation that was too heavy to bear and was one that could easily end in failure. But it was also the nature of their relationship. In less grave times, they had always got on better on the phone. They were a funny lot. She mostly heard what her son, James, was up to through Emma. And she didn’t want to do Facebook. She was too old, with what now seemed like very old-fashioned views of privacy. Emails were her limit.

  She sipped her tea. How English.

  “Hello. Is that Margot? Hi Margot, it’s Helen… Yes, I’m fine, thanks. Got here about six last night… No, no, that’s very kind, but I went out and had a pizza. It was good getting some fresh air after all the travelling. I was just ringing about Tuesday. Is that OK still?”

  She laughed at Margot’s enthusiasm. Of course it was OK, more than OK, they’d had it on the calendar for months. What was she going to do in the next couple of days? Did she want to come round before then? Well, she must make sure she goes to the Reichstag and the Tiergarten; they would be lovely on a day like today.

  She gave Helen the same instructions as she’d emailed and said that Hans would be at the bus stop, and just to let them know when she thought she’d get there. Was she still sure she didn’t want Hans to come and collect her? Well, he’ll obviously take her home. She was really looking forward to Tuesday.

  She tried to make herself another cup of tea, but the kettle didn’t seem to be doing anything. She went to the bathroom and switched on the light, which also did nothing. Bugger. And everything was going so well. She tried a few more things, which were equally uncooperative. She’d have to ring Herr Bayer’s door after all. It was something Stephen would’ve done and she’d have carried on getting ready.

  4

  It was very annoying, what had happened to Mrs Thompson, Herr Bayer thought. Luckily, she’d been a lot calmer than the couple from Hanover who’d threatened no payment for the whole week. The electrician had mumbled something about a poor job having been done last time but seemed to quickly forget this when Herr Bayer reminded him it was his firm who’d done it and the bill presented was roughly the same as last time. Herr Bayer could have quibbled, but Elsa had woken up and it was all too much of a bother to make a fuss. Still, by the time he’d seen to Elsa and gone round with the money to Mrs Thompson, fatigue had mingled with relief to successfully blot out any remaining irritation he felt towards the electric company.

  He started to look for a book he seemed to have mislaid when the doorbell rang. He tried not to leap straight to despair at the thought of possibly more trouble. He remained a little disconcerted when it was Mrs Thompson’s face he saw, but she was smiling.

  “Hello, Herr Bayer, sorry to bother you, but I thought you might like these.” She gave him a bottle of wine and some chocolates. He was slightly stunned as she continued. “Just to say thank you for sorting things out so quickly. You know, you really shouldn’t have given me that money. I don’t need any compensation.”

  At last he found his voice. “No, no, Mrs Thompson. It was an inconvenience for you.”

  “Well, very kind of you, even so.”

  He took his gift and thanked her, saying what a lovely surprise it was and how much he would enjoy both. Gently tapping the chocolates, he said, “Why don’t I open these now and we could have some with a coffee?”

  Mrs Thompson looked at her watch. “Well, I…”

  “It won’t take long to make,” he reassured.

  “Ok, well yes, thank you, that would be nice.”

  Mrs Thompson seemed a bit reluctant and he hoped he hadn’t pushed her into staying. He stretched out his left arm slightly, directing her towards the living room where Elsa would, as usual, be staring out of the window. Introducing her had become easier over time and necessary, really, if he weren’t to become completely isolated from the outside world.

  “Elsa, wir haben Besuch.” Elsa looked confused and a bit cross. Herr Bayer turned to his guest. “You’ll have to excuse me while I explain things to Elsa. I’m afraid she doesn’t know English.” Mrs Thompson smiled. “It’s Helen, isn’t it? I just know from the paperwork for the flat. Do you mind me calling you Helen? I’m Peter and this is Elsa.”

  His wife was still confused. “Wir wollen kein Besuch.”

  Peter couldn’t disguise the tone of anger in Elsa’s voice, but he didn’t have to tell his guest that she’d said she didn’t want visitors for it wasn’t true of him. “I’m sorry, Mrs… Helen. Elsa, she has dementia. She gets very cross these days, I’m sorry. This isn’t my wife, she’s not like this; she’s the most sweet-natured…”

  Helen felt she’d done completely the wrong thing in coming here and fervently wished she could just get herself out of the flat as quickly as possible. She’d intruded on something very personal and something that had nothing to do with her. The invitation for coffee was just one of those things people say and her coming here had obviously caused problems. It was like the moments, and to be fair they weren’t that often but they were always the most memorable, when giving a client a beauty treatment or a therapy, she’d asked one question too far or got the wrong end of a particular stick and she was very grateful when they’d handed over the money and walked out of the room. Like the time when she’d said to a client that she hoped her new puppy would settle down soon only to be told they didn’t have a dog but they did have a baby daughter. She’d unfortunately lost her concentration halfway through giving the poor woman a foot massage, but honestly, who does call their child Princess?

  “It’s OK,” was all she could think of saying. “Please don’t apologise.”

  He had his back to Helen and was trying to help Elsa calm down. She’d been aimlessly circling around the living room and now she was sitting down, worn out with it all and crying. He leant over and reached for her hanky, which was just behind a cushion where she’d left it about an hour or so earlier. He dried her face with it and then wiped her nose. He could have given up but instead turned to Helen.

  “How do you take your coffee?” he asked.

  Though she wanted to run, Helen had rarely felt such an urge to oblige.

  “Just milk, thank you.”

  He nodded and put the television on for Elsa.

  “Maybe you’d like to follow me into the—”

  At which point Elsa stamped her feet.

  “Ich gehe gerade in die Küche mit Helen.” He looked at the TV. “Schau mal, du magst diese Sendung.” Elsa smiled into his eyes. He held her hands tightly, asking for release. She withdrew hers and gently patted his knuckles. “You can imagine, Helen, how confusing another language is for her. Maybe you’d like to join me in the kitchen.” He was tired and needed to make coffee as much for himself as his visitor.

  “How long have you lived here?”

  He listened to her question while thin
king how long it had been since he’d heard someone talk in his house. Like a song you haven’t heard for some time, it had a strange yet welcome resonance and took him back to times that seemed a lot easier.

  “We’re a bit boring, I’m afraid. In ten weeks we’ll have lived here thirty-four years – 30th November 1972.” He smiled. “It was mainly because I’d got a teaching job at the school down the road. Have you seen it?”

  “Oh, the one by the supermarket?”

  “Yes.”

  She seemed genuinely interested. An immaculate woman who obviously took time with her appearance, he wagered she was a businesswoman or lawyer.

  “What did you teach?”

  He laughed. “English.”

  “Wasn’t it a bit close for comfort, living so nearby?”

  “Yes, that was a consideration initially, but we just loved the house. I bet you find that hard to believe.”

  “No, it’s…”

  “Not what it was. Please, you don’t have to be polite.” He poured the coffee for both of them. “Elsa’s just had a drink. I have to be there with her, she likes warm chocolate.” He swallowed some coffee and found himself struggling with this more than he’d imagined. It was a long time since he’d been in the position of talking to someone new and the experience was difficult because he’d almost forgotten the rules. When it was the doctor or Inge or a neighbour or such, he already knew them well and the conversation, more often than not, was about Elsa, how she was, how he was coping, and they’d look at him sympathetically while all the time he knew they were thinking, Thank heavens that’s not me. And they’d walk away feeling relieved and he, well, he’d just feel flat. But here there were things to be found out and he was interested in the answers, though he didn’t want to appear too inquisitive.