Her Living Image

by Jane Rogers

  Most of the conversation at meal times made little sense to her. She was content to let it wash over her, occasionally noticing, like someone with a different first language, the way they laughed at things she didn’t see the humour of, were made angry by perfectly innocent-sounding newspaper articles, discussed people she had never heard of as if they were better known than the Royal Family. She was still concentrating on surviving, each day presenting its own series of obstacles; she was content simply not to appear too odd or ignorant.

  She began to piece together what it was that Clare did. There was a house somewhere near, where women who had been beaten up by their husbands stayed. There was a “Refuge Rota” pinned by the house telephone, with six different names filled in for different times in the week. Clare’s and Bryony’s names were on it, and they were at home at those times (unless the phone rang for them). Otherwise, Clare was mainly out. Carolyn gathered that she spent a lot of time at the Refuge. She always looked in on Carolyn, when she came home; gradually Carolyn came to realize how kind this was, and how many other claims Clare had on her time. Clare was the only one she wasn’t nervous of. She liked the way Clare called her “Caro”. She began to ask questions, about the other two women, the Refuge, even some of the mysterious topics she had picked up from meal times. Half jokingly, Clare assumed the role of teacher-guide, and fed Carolyn a steady supply of reading material on the Women’s Movement, ranging from Spare Rib magazine to the lives of suffragettes; from The Female Eunuch to pamphlets on Consciousness Raising.

  Carolyn was made glaringly aware of her own ignorance, a looming space which grew rather than diminished, as she was able to define its area by reading more. It was as if a balloon was being blown up inside her head, and the space in the balloon needed to be filled with knowledge. She was in turn confused, amused, horrified by the things she read – and sometimes had that closer reaction, recognition of something suddenly true – something she absolutely identified from her own experience, but had never put a name to. The mixture of incomprehensible lunacy and clear truth was as surreal as the life she was living; treading a thin line between the sharks in her room and Bryony, waiting for those times of distant peace, when she could watch the moving clouds through her window in simple tranquillity; descending nightly into drugged black sleep, and carefully, anxiously behaving herself as inconspicuously as possible in front of the inhabitants of the house. Once or twice when she crept down to the turn in the stairs to see if it was safe to go and get something to eat, she was scared back by the murmur of unfamiliar voices, and saw three or four bicycles parked in the hall, leaning together with their pedals tangled in each others’ spokes, forming an intricate barrier to outside.

  She could not help noticing the untidy grime of the house, and because she wanted to please the women who lived there, she began to clean. She started in the bathroom, where she washed down years of dust from walls and ceiling, scoured the toilet so that it sparkled, and dug out the thick dusty webs behind the pipes and wash-basin, disturbing a colony of frantic spiders. She scrubbed the old lino floor until it revealed a pleasant geometric pattern of tan, brown and yellow diamonds; poured bleach, then caustic soda, and then her own physical energy into the stained hideous bath, succeeding in restoring it in several places to snowy whiteness. With a nail brush she scrubbed persistently at the frosted glass of the small window, where something black (dirt? or some kind of growth?) spread all along the indented patterns on the glass. It was particularly difficult to remove from the corners.

  She took her time over it, waiting until she was sure no one wanted to use the bathroom, and going downstairs a couple of times for drinks and stories with Sylvia. The gradual transformation from squalor to cleanliness gave her satisfaction, and she was pleased to think that the others would be pleased too.

  She was nearly finished – polishing the taps – when Bryony poked her head around the half-open door.

  “Thought it was you,” she said contemptuously.

  Carolyn put down her cloth. “Sorry – d’you want to come in?”

  “No. Haven’t you got anything better to do?”

  “What?”

  “Haven’t you got anything better to do with your time?”

  “I – I mean, I thought – it was – it could do with a clean so I –”

  “Proper little housewife, aren’t we.”

  Bryony withdrew her head and shut the door sharply, leaving Carolyn bewildered. She wondered whether Bryony was offended; perhaps she thought Carolyn was criticizing them for not keeping it cleaner.

  That night Clare commented on the bathroom when she brought Carolyn her sleeping pills.

  “Looks nice. Take you long?”

  “All day, on and off.”

  Clare nodded. “Rather you than me. Cleaning’s quite therapeutic sometimes though, isn’t it? I cleaned the whole apartment when I was pregnant – Jesus, I was at it from morning till night, you could’ve eaten your breakfast off of the john.”

  “When were you pregnant?”

  Clare hesitated. “Oh – a long time ago. The kid’s six now.”

  “I – wh – I mean, where is he?”

  “He lives with his father.” Clare bit off a torn fingernail. “In Mexico.”

  “Mexico?”

  “Yeah.” She shifted impatiently. “It’s a long story. I married a Mexican guy when I was at college. He got a teaching job at the University in Monterrey – huh – and I got pregnant.” She made it sound as if the two things should have been similar.

  “I – then – what happened?”

  “It didn’t work out. I had to leave.”

  “Don’t you ever see him?”

  “Who? Juan? My son? No.” She moved to the window, looked down at the wasteland garden. “No. His Grandma looks after him. It’s better for him. More settled.” She turned abruptly, holding out her hand. “Here. I’m going to bed.”

  Carolyn took the two pills. “Why don’t you give me the bottle, instead of two-at-a-time? Don’t you trust me?”

  Clare smiled. “Yeah, I trust you. The goblins’ll eat you before you OD.” She went to the door. “Gives me an excuse to come and put you to bed, I guess. Thwarted maternal instincts, that’s what it is.” She laughed. “Now you know. Sleep well.” The door shut behind her.

  Carolyn sat on her bed and swallowed the sleeping tablets, washing each down with a mouthful of water. She did not understand Clare’s sense of humour. It was OK to clean, though. Clare didn’t mind it. Whatever Carolyn did wouldn’t please Bryony, that was plain, so she might as well get on with it.

  She tackled the TV room. It was called the TV room because all it was used for was to watch television. The kids sat in there before they had their tea, and sometimes the women went in there to watch some particular programme, for an hour on a certain night. Otherwise they used the kitchen. This made it an easy room to clean, no one would want to come in while she was working. Bryony might not even notice. It would be nice for the children when it was done, she thought. It was a bare square room with ugly yellow paint, and a sofa and three armchairs all pushed against the walls like a doctor’s waiting room. In one corner were three big cardboard boxes full of filthy old jam jars. The open grate was choked with rubbish, and on the mantelpiece stood a stack of unopened mail, election leaflets, circulars and letters for people who’d moved. Gasping at the weight, she staggered out to the dustbin with the jam jars. Then she flopped on the sofa to sort through the letters. The third one was addressed her. “Miss Carolyn Tanner.” She stared at it in confusion. Her mother’s handwriting. The address was by someone else. “It’s for me,” she said aloud. Why hadn’t they given it to her? She ripped it open and saw the date in her mother’s neat childish writing. October 31st.

  My dear Carolyn,

  Your father and I are worried sick about you. Please you must ring us up as soon as you get this to tell us if you are alright. I will be waiting by the phone. I was so upset and shocked when I came to the hospita
l and you were gone I could of died. I did not sleep a wink last night for worrying about you and if you are alright.

  I know you were down when in hospital but you will feel a different girl when you get home again, I know you will feel better. I’m sure it would be better for you to be in your own room in your own home again with your Mum and Dad who love you to look after you, than amongst strangers. Please please please my darling girl come home you are breaking your mother’s heart.

  All our love,

  Mum & Dad

  Carolyn put the letter down on the arm of the chair. What had she done? For days (was it weeks? she had no idea of the date) her mother had been worrying about her. Every time it had crept into Carolyn’s head, she had pushed it out again. Night after sleepless night, her mother had been thinking about her, while Carolyn slept deep black sleeps and tried to keep her head empty. She began to cry, both at her own guilt, and at the awful net of her mother’s concern which was coming down over her.

  “What are you playing at?” the Meg-voice in her head cried. “Living in this dirty house with weird people, with nothing to do, no plans, what are you playing at?”

  She didn’t know. But her mother’s letter introduced into her head again that debilitating pressure she had felt in hospital – the feeling which was the opposite of sitting in her watch-tower and gazing at the sky. Suddenly the door banged open, and Bryony burst in.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” she shouted. “What have you done with my jam jars? It’s incredible – you didn’t even ask me. You can fucking well go and bring them back again.”

  Keeping her head lowered, Carolyn made for the door, and hurried out to the dustbin. She picked up the first box of jars and went back to the room. Bryony was sitting on the sofa glaring at her.

  “Why are you so obsessed with cleaning?” asked Bryony. “And throwing stuff away? Don’t you ever stop to think? Why d’you think those jars’re here? Doesn’t it occur to you that they could be used again? Oh no – throw it away, never mind when the whole of the earth’s covered in rusty cars and broken glass as long as my little house is spick and span.”

  She stamped out of the room. Teeth gritted, Carolyn went and fetched the other two boxes. Then she took her letter up to her room. Bryony had effectively dried her tears.

  She stayed in her room all day, going down at quarter-past six to telephone her mother. Over the exclamations and tears at the other end she mechanically repeated her message.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your letter till today. I’m sorry, I’ve been ill. I couldn’t ring you. I’m better now Mum, I’m fine, don’t worry. I’ll come and see you on Saturday. I’ll come and see you on Saturday, Mum. I’m sorry.”

  Clare came to her room later that evening.

  “Why didn’t you come down to supper?”

  “I had a letter from my Mum.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. I found it in the TV room. It came ages ago.”

  “Oh God – oh Caro, I’m sorry – I don’t know how that could’ve happened.” She paused. “Yes I do – I guess one of the others picked it up and it was just an unfamiliar name. I’m terribly sorry. What does she want?”

  Carolyn looked down at her hands. “Me to go home.”

  There was a silence.

  “D’you want to?”

  “Bryony does.”

  “Bryony? Why?”

  “Because I threw away her jam jars.”

  Clare started to laugh. Then she said, “Well you could’ve asked her.”

  “I didn’t know anyone was saving them. They were filthy. They must have been there for years.”

  Clare nodded. “Bryony recycles them.”

  “She what?”

  “Keeps them to use again.”

  “What for?”

  “Oh – jam, or pickles, something like that.”

  “Does she make jam?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “She hates me.”

  “No she doesn’t. She’s just – maybe she’s jealous.”

  “Why?”

  “Because – I don’t know. I don’t know why. What are you going to do about your Mum? You don’t want to go, do you?”

  Carolyn got up and walked to the window. “I don’t know. I’m going to see her on Saturday.”

  Clare didn’t speak. Carolyn turned to her. “I mean – what am I doing really? I’m not doing anything here – and it’s making her upset that I don’t go home. Bryony hates me – I suppose I should go.”

  Clare shrugged. “Up to you. But you’re not going to know what to do at home any more than you do here, except for what your Mum bullies you into. And Bryony’ll come round. She’s very territorial. She’s angry because I didn’t consult her before you came.”

  There was a silence.

  “I don’t mind what you do. If you stay here, though, you eat. I’m not having an anorexic on my hands. Come down now, and feed.”

  The next morning Carolyn stayed in her room and read, dipping in and out of Clare’s books and staring out of the window, feeling surprisingly content. In the evening there seemed to be a lot of noise and excitement downstairs. Carolyn went down to tea slowly, feeling apprehensive. As she went into the kitchen it seemed to be alarmingly full of people and commotion, though when she sat down and worked them out it was only Clare, Bryony, Sue and the kids, and a strange man in a duffle coat. Sue and Bryony were busy cooking, and the kids were chasing each other round the table, squealing and pushing chairs in each other’s way. The table was pretty, with a red cloth and a pot of golden chrysanths in the middle, and all the places neatly laid. There were bowls of salad, vegetables, sauces and pickles, and things she did not recognize. Carolyn noticed that there were little green tissue-wrapped parcels by all the places too. She was confused. Was it a day she had forgotten? Not Christmas, yet – what was it? She wished she could go back upstairs.

  Clare put a glass of wine into her hand and smiled at her, opening the door to show the strange man out. Carolyn sipped it awkwardly. Sue and Bryony were carrying dishes, from the oven to the table, filling the table with steaming food. When Clare came back everyone took their places. The children started to clamour for different kinds of food. Clare was talking to Bryony about the leaflets the printer had brought (that man?).

  “Yes, you can start,” Sue told Robin. “We’ll leave the presents till after, shall we?” she appealed to Clare.

  Everyone helped themselves to food. The conversations buzzed on around Carolyn: the new worker at the Refuge, Bryony’s dealings with a woman called Margaret. Carolyn kept her face down over her plate, picking over the unfamiliar food. She recognized curry, but not the strange things which accompanied it, a pale beige paste with a dusty yet lemony flavour, and bits of cucumber chopped up in a bitter white sauce.

  In the middle of this strange house’s celebrations she felt much more of an outsider than she had done sitting on her own in her room. Sue filled her glass.

  “OK? You look a bit stunned.”

  “I’m – I didn’t – what’s this for?”

  “Oh, I thought you knew. It’s our house birthday. It’s the date Bryony and Clare moved in, but not the same year. Bryony moved in two years ago, then I came with the kids, and a year later to the day, Clare moved in. Bryony thought of a house birthday – to celebrate the household.”

  Sue filled her mouth with houmus and chewed silently for a moment. Clare and Bryony were arguing excitedly about something.

  “Caro?” Carolyn looked up at the quiet tone of Sue’s voice. “Clare said you might be thinking of leaving. If you – well, as far as I’m concerned I’d like you to stay. If you want to –” Sue turned back to give Sylvia some unnecessary help with her food.

  When everyone had finished the plates were cleared and Clare produced a big chocolate cake with two candles, sending the children wild with excitement. There was much relighting and blowing out of candles, and finally the opening of the presents. The children w
ere first. They each had a big rainbow packet of felt pens, and a Dinky car. They began to race each other around the edge of the table, making loud zooming noises. Carolyn watched Bryony pick up her green parcel and shake it. She tore the tissue paper off and held up a little polythene envelope, with two silver fist-in-a-bag ear-rings inside. Carolyn noticed that everyone was watching Bryony, and Bryony smiled and threaded the ear-rings through the holes in her ears, and they must all have a look and comment. Carolyn shrank from opening hers. Then it was Sue’s turn, and she opened up a shimmering square of silk scarf, which had been flattened to the size of an envelope and now expanded and billowed across the table like the sail of a brilliant ship. Clare unwrapped her package quickly, and three small screwdrivers fell out. She burst out laughing, and jumped up and hugged Bryony, who was laughing so much that she couldn’t catch her breath and had to be thumped on the back. The noise and excitement in the room was deafening. Carolyn’s face ached with smiling, trying to join in. Now Sylvia picked up Carolyn’s present and waved it under her nose. Carolyn took it quickly and inserted her index finger under one of the flaps of folded-over, Sellotaped paper. In her nervousness she used too much force, and her hand, released by the tearing of paper, flung out and knocked over the wine. Everyone jumped up and ran about moving things and mopping up. Carolyn was near to panic. Putting the parcel down and making herself breathe calmly, she unpeeled the paper and took out two flat paper envelopes – packets of seeds – and a little wooden block with wire on it. It was a mousetrap. She turned it over in bewilderment. Clare was laughing.