Living In Perhaps

by Julia Widdows

  This is what I wished I had: Mattie's picture of their house, executed in thin lines with a hard pencil – 2H not 4B – a technician's, not an artist's pencil.

  Patrick's sketches of me. His paintings – sitting, standing, in my jeans and naked, staring hard at him, bold as Manet's Olympia, as if to say, 'What the hell is it to you?'

  My photo-booth picture of Tom, ugly as it is.

  The dictionary and thesaurus that Uncle Bob gave me.

  My fluffy pyjama case.

  That's probably all.

  Not much to ask, is it?

  Lorna has surprised me, appearing in my room. She has never been in here since that first day. She stands by the window and picks up my copy of Little Women between her finger and thumb, like someone picking up an item of someone else's dirty underwear. A shred of evidence. I'm sure she isn't supposed to be here. She is supposed to see me in the room off the entrance hall, with the dinky picture. She is overstepping the mark again. Out of desperation, I like to think.

  'You're very privileged to be here, you know, Cora.' If she had an ounce of sensitivity, even an eighth of an ounce, she wouldn't call me by that name.

  'Cora.' I must have muttered it. I didn't mean to.

  'What's in a name?' says Lorna in a sing-song voice. 'A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.'

  I look at her blankly.

  She's in a good mood today. 'Romeo and Juliet,' she says, with a smile.

  Oh. I never read that one.

  She runs a fingertip along the window sill, almost flirtatiously. Not looking for dust.

  'While you're here, you have the possibility of taking advantage of all that we can offer.'

  She was talking about Group and Activity, I suppose. Making the most of Mike's long shins and Moira's pointy toes. Learning how to make snowmen and penguins out of clay. And finding out just how badly off other people could be, people like the Old Crone and the Young Crone and Rose.

  'Benefiting from our expertise. While you're here.'

  There seems to be some veiled threat in those last words. She continues to look out of the window at the sunny fields. Her voice is light, as light as a bit of thistledown bowling over the flower beds, wafting over the grass. Of course, what an innocent piece of thistledown is doing in the circumstances is letting the wind cast it where it will so that it can land and in no time at all send up a thistle.

  Lorna remains at the window. There's more she wants to say.

  'I know you don't think much of us here, Cora. I know you try very hard to despise us.' She pauses, maybe to let it sink in. 'I can understand that.' Her voice is reasonable, so very reasonable. Shockingly reasonable. 'It's not so strange. You need to think that we don't know what we're doing, that we can't succeed. That we're never going to get to the bottom of things. That you're cleverer than us.' Another pause, like a lead weight in the air. 'Don't you, Cora?' Nothing. 'Don't you?'

  She takes a turn around the room, light on her feet, like someone just dropping in to see what the place is like. As if she's never bothered to visit these upper rooms before. Just curious. She gets back to where she started, facing me.

  'And you are very clever, Cora. You are. I'm impressed.'

  Oh no. Please, no. Please don't let Lorna be the only person to spot my special talents, pick me out from the anonymous crowd. Please don't let her be the one.

  She looks down at her empty hands. 'Such a pity, Cora. Such a pity.'

  After another long silent minute between us, she asks, 'Do you want to know what I think we've got here?' I am sure she is not allowed to do this.

  'No. I don't. No, I don't, thank you,' I say. We are so well brought up. Always say please and thank you. Never put our elbows on the table because that would be bad manners; never put our shoes on the table – even for cleaning – because that would be bad luck. Always mind our Ps and Qs, not that I have ever known what they were supposed to stand for. Probably something in Latin, which was not on my curriculum. I am thinking all these things rather hard, and rather loud, in order not to hear what Lorna is saying, to shut her out. To shut her up.

  It's July, and hot outside. Lorna is wearing her lemon lacy-knit top and – hooray – not the brown check skirt but a new one in fawn cotton. It's hot indoors too, and I'm sitting here in my jeans and my washed-out mauve T-shirt, which was once a blazing purple but is now the exact faded colour of a Parma Violet pastille. Fugitive, that's what they call these colours that can't last, won't last, run away.

  It's hot, and through Lorna's peek-a-boo jumper I can make out a salmon-coloured undergarment with a panel of lace insertion which does not coincide with the lacy panels worked in lemon wool. Here is someone patently unprepared to deal with life, telling me I must deal with mine.

  'I'm sure you do, really. I'm convinced of it. It will be such a relief to get it out into the open, won't it? Finally unravel all those made-up stories, get to the bottom of what's real and what's not. And then we can begin working on that.'

  She gives me a look, a sincere kind of look, as if to say We both know what I'm talking about, don't we? Only I don't, I haven't a clue what she's going to say. But I'm sure she is overstepping some mark, and that this is a deliberate strategy, the latest move in her campaign against me. I wonder if I should report her to the authorities? Except that she is the authorities.

  She sits down beside me on the bed, in that prissy way of hers, knees and ankles together, hands clasped in her lap.

  'So here's what I think happened, Cora. You tell me if I'm wrong ...'

  I will be forced to put my hands over my ears, which is probably safer in the circumstances than putting my hands over Lorna's mouth. Or round her throat. The last thing I want to hear is her professional opinion.

  So I turn the sound off. I sit here and watch her, and her mouth moves. She is a frog, an alien, one of those puppets on TV whose rictus mouth moves in no synchronization whatsoever with what the human voice overlaid is saying. Lorna speaks and I listen, but I can't hear her and I can't see the shape of the words her lips are forming.

  I sit here and I am a still life, a dead nature.

  44

  Desert Island

  Stella came to visit me again. Mike was on duty this time. He showed me into the same featureless room as before. The window-blind was up. Outside I could see a small enclosed garden, a bench-seat and a climbing rose. It was a pity we couldn't sit out there. But summer rain was dripping off the leaves, making them vibrate. A yellow rose petal dropped on to the wet paving stones as I watched.

  Stella and I sat with the coffee table between us. She had laid out her cigarettes and lighter next to the ashtray, all ready.

  'How is everyone?' I asked. I hadn't dared to say anything last time. I'd been shocked to see Stella here at all, didn't want to frighten her away with importunate questions.

  She leaned forward, broke the cigarettes out of their cellophane, and lit one quickly. 'You know Bettina's pregnant again?'

  I didn't. How would I? Everyone had been doing things while I wasn't looking.

  'Little Lisa's not a year old yet. She swears it was planned but I don't think so. That girl never planned a thing in her life.'

  I tried to sound casual. 'And what's Mandy up to these days? Now she's a big sister?'

  Stella exhaled smoke sideways and made a face. 'Don't ask.'

  The silence stretched out. I could hear a blackbird outside, singing as sweetly as if it wasn't raining.

  'How are Ted and Edie?' I couldn't bring myself to call them Mum and Dad. Stella looked stunned for a moment, then rallied.

  'They've moved. Well, they couldn't stay in that house. They've bought a flat in Colchester.' So, no more garden; no more straight edges, or clicking of shears on summer nights. 'Your – she's gone back to bookkeeping, and he's got a job with the Parks Department.'

  That should keep him happy, I thought. In a manner of speaking. It would take his mind off his problems. Miles of municipal edges to keep in shape. Perhaps t
hey'd let him have a go with the ride-on mower, too. Colchester would soon be famous for its impeccably striped public lawns.

  'And Brian?'

  There was a tapping at the door. I looked round. I could see Mike through the glass panel, holding two plastic cups on a tray.

  'Good,' said Stella in a heartfelt voice. 'I could do with a drink.'

  Mike helped us transfer the cups, along with two plastic spoons and several sachets of sugar, to the table. 'No biscuits, I'm afraid,' he said, 'I wasn't quick enough.' He looked from me to Stella but I wouldn't meet his eye.

  'What's he on about?' she asked, as soon as he was behind the door again. I shrugged. I wasn't about to describe the domestic arrangements to her. I wasn't going to give anything away, if I could help it.

  Stella lifted her cup and took a sip. 'Is this tea or coffee?'

  I shrugged again. 'You were going to tell me about Brian.'

  She put the cup down and said, 'Brian – Brian's got a social worker. He has to go to some centre or other, couple of times a week.'

  That will go down well. A Supervision Order and a social worker. No wonder they'd moved to Colchester.

  Stella was glancing round again, appraising the decor. 'But it's not bad here, is it, Carol? They let you have a bit of privacy. Give you tea – or coffee! Not like prison visiting, is it? Not that I know first-hand, but you see it on TV, don't you? Will they let you out, you know, for little trips and that?'

  'I don't know.'

  Hanny would know. Hanny would know all the ins and outs of the rehabilitation programme. Except that it was too late for me to ask, and it didn't do her any good: knowing. You can have all the information – jolly good information, too – but if you don't use it, it's no help. If you don't know how to use it, or if you don't choose to.

  I think I let out a great big sigh, because Stella leaned forward and squeezed my fingers with her large, warm hand. We weren't a family that touched a lot, and I found myself feeling unutterably grateful for that spontaneous human contact. No one ever touched me any more. My eyes were hot and watery.

  'It's all right, Carol,' Stella said. 'All right?' Though she had no idea what she was talking about.

  'I haven't told anyone I'm coming here,' she went on. 'It's none of their business what I do or don't do.' She threw her head back and gave a quick laugh. 'It never was. Not that they thought that way.'

  'You always were the subject of gossip,' I told her.

  'The subject of gossip.' She seemed to relish that phrase, and lit a fresh cigarette in a leisurely way, and sat there smiling for another moment or two.

  'And now it's me, instead,' I said. That wiped the smile away.

  'No, they don't talk about you. They don't mention you at all.'

  'Not even Gloria?'

  Stella shook her head. Today she was wearing white linen slacks, and she brushed a speck of cigarette ash off her spotless knee.

  'Do you still work at the fish-and-chip shop?' I asked.

  She grinned. 'No, course not. Haven't for months. I'm a housewife now, aren't I? I should think it'd be bloody boring if you hadn't slaved your guts out behind a counter for most of your life, but I like it. Bit of washing-up, bit of dusting. Lord and master's tea on the table in time for when he comes home. It's a piece of cake.'

  'What, the lord and master's tea?'

  Stella giggled. She tapped the back of my knuckles with one peach-painted nail. 'You're doing all right, Carol. You'll be all right, you will.'

  I should have wept and fallen on her neck, but we didn't do that kind of thing. Not in our family.

  She gave me an earnest look. 'You've just got to get yourself sorted out, Carol. They'll get you sorted out, and then we'll see ...'

  This was all too much, too close to the bone. I gave the garden a fierce examination, and Stella busied herself by rummaging in her bag.

  'I got you a book, like you asked,' she said. 'You said you wanted a thick one. I hope it's all right. You know I'm not a great book-lover.'

  She pushed a big book over the table at me. It was almost as thick as it was wide.

  'First I thought of bringing the Bible, but then I thought you'd probably read most of that, in that Sunday school she sent you to. So I got this instead.'

  I could read the title upside down.

  Stella shot me a hopeful smile. 'Like they say on Desert Island Discs: the Bible, and Shakespeare.'

  My eyes felt hot again. If you had to choose a fairy godmother, Stella in this latest manifestation would certainly do.

  Mike was rapping gently on the door. He poked his head inside and said, 'Time's almost up, ladies.' Like a cheerful barman.

  'I'll come again, after Spain,' Stella said. 'Promise.'

  I felt bruised. I'm not used to anyone being nice. As Mike escorted me back to the lounge I looked at my fingers where Stella had touched me and felt them burning, like a saint's stigmata.

  *

  Once I attempted a peace treaty with Brian. We were both over sixteen, we were both adopted – there had to be some common ground. Act like grown-ups, start again.

  So, up the steep red-carpeted stairs. Brian was working at his desk, leaning over a notepad. Whatever he was writing or drawing, he covered it up with his arm as I stepped into the room. He expected me to say, 'Your tea's on the table,' or, 'Mum wants you.' The windows were open. I inhaled deeply, drew the summer evening air into my lungs: top notes of freshly mown lawns and night-scented stocks, cut with a dash of petrol from the main road. Stay-at-homes and getaways. Nostalgia for that week, that single week of nights spent up here, washed through me. I shut my eyes and rocked gently on the balls of my feet.

  'What d'you want?' Brian asked grumpily, because I hadn't spoken.

  I said, 'Do you remember, in junior school, that first time I ever bunked off and you helped me by taking a note to my teacher? A forged note?'

  I recalled that feeling that I had back then, the joy of bending him to my will.

  He gave me a mean look, as if to ask why I was bringing that up. His eyebrows had thickened to ridiculous levels, wayward hedges themselves now, above the rims of his glasses.

  'You do, don't you?'

  He took off his glasses and rubbed the lenses with a corner of his handkerchief.

  'Ye-es.'

  A monosyllable that conveyed 'Maybe I do,' and 'What's it worth?' and 'Where's all this leading to?' I know I've said he's not an expressive sort of boy, but sometimes he can pull the rabbit out of the hat. Or at least coax it to peep over the edge.

  'You remember the International Spy Kit that Uncle Bob gave you?'

  Now he couldn't help it: his mouth creaked into a semi-grin.

  'The keys were crap,' he said.

  'The plastic skeleton keys! I wonder what happened to them?'

  But he turned his back to me and bent over the notepad again, crooking his arm around his pen. He clearly wasn't one for nostalgia.

  'And that kid with the trike?' I tried. 'We put rocks in the back, remember?'

  Nothing, not even a grunt, this time.

  'See, we used to have fun together,' I insisted. 'Way back when. Think how much we both hated Mandy. Those plans we always made to steal her sweets.'

  'Carol?' His voice was head-down, blurry.

  'What?'

  'I'm busy. Get out of my room.'

  I took one step backwards. 'I'm just saying that we did.'

  He looked up again, his eyes heavy-lidded with boredom. 'I know how to have fun,' he said. 'Just not your way.' And then his head went down again, over his secret work.

  I was going to leave, I was halfway out the door, but I stopped. 'I know about your fun,' I said. 'I know about you.'

  Nothing moved – not a finger, not a hair – but I was sure he'd heard me. People go still like that when they're listening, when they're really listening.

  Tom didn't come back at all that Easter. Tom Rose did. Tom Rose was a good boy, a loving son, and came home to see his mother. He dropped into t
he dry cleaner's one afternoon and asked if I would come for a drink. 'OK,' I said, with the brilliant sparkling enthusiasm of one who has nothing else to do.

  In the pub that evening Tom Rose said, 'What d'you think of Tom's place, then?'

  Tom Rose was big, broad, most convincing. His hands around the pint glass looked as if they could mend a car or chop down a tree. He sat with his legs apart in that male fashion, as if their testicles are just too amazingly enormous to be housed comfortably in the space of an ordinary chair. The seams of his trousers strained around his thigh muscles. It was just like being out with a real grown-up.

  'Tom's place?'

  'His flat? What did you think of it?'

  What could I think? A place only visited in my imagination. At an address I hadn't been vouchsafed.

  'When were you there?'

  'In February. Just for the weekend.'

  'Oh, yes.' I nodded, as if I'd known all about it. 'Not bad.'

  'It's such a tip. A dump. I don't know why he didn't stay in hall, or lodge with his well-off friends. I would.'

  'Well, so would I. But you know Tom.'

  We paused, considering our knowledge of Tom. I moved my glass – martini and lemonade – in circles on the wet table top. I'd never really got a taste for alcoholic drinks and tended to choose something sweet and innocuous.

  'You know, when we used to play Monopoly,' I was moved to ask, 'did you sometimes cheat? About buying the stations, I mean. And the electric light company.'

  Tom Rose laughed, his old snickering laugh, though deeper now.

  'Oh, always.'

  'No wonder I couldn't win.'

  'No wonder.'

  I didn't like the way he laughed. It was always as if he knew something that other people didn't.

  I slept with Tom Rose, all through those Easter holidays, when his mum was at work at the dairy products factory out near Bossey Down. His bedroom curtains were thin and the daylight came in. He had some characteristics that my Tom never had, making me feel, during those very minutes, those slow, short minutes when nothing much else existed, that this was what it was all about. The future, and fun, and love. In some ways I hated to do it, but it was all information, and some of it was good information.