by Sarah Till
'So what will happen now. You know, what will happen to you?'
She laughs again, a cackle that lets me know her chest is bad.
'Nothing. Get a charge. Come here. Talk to busy knickers in there. Go to court. Get a fine. Arrange to pay it over the next forty years. Get a charge, come back.'
'How did you end up here? Has something happened to you?'
'Well I'm not mental if that's what you mean. How do any of us get here? Last chance saloon, isn't it? I had a life once, I was a typist. Not a very good one, but a bloody typist. I was never the brightest button in the box but I wasn't behind the door. I were never going to be a brain surgeon, and when I got to sixteen I wanted to leave home. My best bet was to get a rich husband. Not bad looking. Then, obviously. So I got a job in a little office and married the boss as soon as I was eighteen. Then I realised that he wasn't a really nice person and he expected me to shag all his friends while he watched. Then it got worse. He moved another girl in, younger than me, and told me I had to sleep with men for money.'
I breathe in quickly.
'Bloody hell. So you left?'
'No. I worked as a prostitute for ten years. Our house was a knocking shop. Then he realised I was getting on a bit and he threw me out with no money or belongings. I tried to get jobs but I hadn't realised how haggard I got. How pasty and thin. So I went to a hostel and I've been living in and out of them since. See, if I would have looked the part I could have got a job. But it's all about how you look. Even this. You look good now, but by the time you get to court you'll be back to stinking the place out. Been there, done that, found the t-shirt in a skip, as they say.'
I think back to what Joanne said about help.
'So have they offered you any help? They told me that there's help out there.'
She pops another mint into her mouth.
'Oh yes. They gave me a flat. Problem was, it was on the thirteenth floor and someone broke in and took all my things they gave me to set me up. So I had to leave. But then they said it was my fault and that I'd run up rent arrears. That flat was damp and people were dealing drugs from the flat next door. So I ended up on the streets again. There was no way I could have stayed. People took exception to just the sight of me and got up a petition. When I was younger they said I was a prossie. Now they say I'm a bag lady. You know the rest. You must do or you wouldn't be sitting here. But if they offer you a nice flat, believe me, you'll end up in somewhere no one else wants in the back of beyond. Where they hide people like us. Fucking bastards.'
People like us. I think of Jer and hope I haven't missed his visit.
'So what happens in there?'
I point to the door.
'Oh, her? She looks through her little book and finds a convenient sticker to tell everybody that the reason you're walking round with a load of bags is because you're mentally ill. Nothing to do with freedom, or not wanting to live indoors. Nothing to do with having no friends and no one to help you or being left destitute by your bastard husband. You must be mad to live like this. You must be. Then they can file you in a little box where they don't have to look at you, until you turn up here again.' She moves up to the seat next to me. She smells like old, dirty socks and I can barely stand it. 'What's it like in Tintagel, then? Plenty of money? Lots of hippies feeling sorry for you? Seven years and it's your first offence, eh? Might try it myself.'
I feel my face contort and she laughs louder.
'I don't think you'd be welcome there. Any more welcome than me, anyway.'
She nudges me hard, a bony elbow in the ribs.
'Only kidding, kid. I know the rules. Keep to your own territory. Don't upset the locals. Don't worry, I'm not done with Penzance yet. Plenty of competition there, lots of invisible women there. All don't what they have to do to stay alive.'
I look at her. She's laughing to herself, some private little joke that she's so lonely she can't share with someone else. If I would have met her ten years ago, and she was laughing to herself and talking to herself, I would have definitely thought she was mentally ill. I would have avoided her, been a little bit afraid of her. Now, though, I see her as a yardstick, a kind of baseline. I turn to her and touch her shoulder.
'Are we?'
She looks into my eyes.
'Are we what?'
'Mentally ill? Are we mad and we don't know? They say people who are really depressed or traumatised don't realise how far they have slipped.'
Her face changes and suddenly she looks younger, more serious.
'Slipped from whose marker, eh? Who's keeping count? Other people? Counsellors like her? The police? Who's telling us what's normal and what isn't? Seems to me that the nearer you get to not surviving, the more doolally you are. I'm just stayin' alive, and it's all I can do. No money, no house, no love, no life. Just day to day on my own, surviving. So in a lot of ways, I'm less mental than the next man, because I'm still here, aren't I?'
The door opposite opens.
'Lizzie. Lizzie Nelson.'
A young woman stands in the doorway wearing a white coat. For some reason I'd expected her to be wearing a floaty caftan and a headband. I moan all the time about people stereotyping me, but now I was doing it with her. I get up and walk over slowly. The bag lady shouts after me.
'Aye, love, don't forget. Next time you're here, have a trip down to Penzance and see me, Celia's the name.'
I close the door behind me and hear her singing Stayin' Alive loudly. I open the door slightly and I see her dancing around the waiting area.
CHAPTER 18
I shut the door and turn to face her.
'I'm Jean, Lizzie. I'm here to make and initial assessment today. We'll be doing some general health checks and then I'll write a report for the court. OK?'
I nod.
'So what'll you be assessing?'
She stops writing and looks up.
'Well, for a start, why you're living live this. And how you got here.'
I snigger.
'Not rocket science.'
She pauses again.
'Maybe not, but there's clearly something amiss and I'm here to help you sort it out.'
'So you've judged me before you've even spoken to me?'
Jean has finished her notes now and she opens my file.
'OK then. So you live in Tintagel. At Coombes Cottage. Which you own?'
I nod.
'Yes.'
And you have a social security payment every week paid into your bank?'
'Yes.'
'And that pays your bills and leaves you with money for food?'
'No. I don't have enough money for food, usually. I have to pay a fiver to get into Padstow every week to sign on. So no money for food or clothes of anything really, after all the bills.'
She taps her pen on the table and it starts to irritate me.
'So you've been sleeping rough?'
'No, I haven't. And I didn't steal the purse, either.'
She leans over the table.
'OK. I see lots of homeless people, who are referred because they have nothing and they're sleeping on the streets. It seems that you are not one of these people. You own a house and have an income. So why are you living like this?'
I fold my arms.
'Like what?'
'It says in your file you wander around Tintagel with a shopping trolley, unwashed and wearing rags, with your hair unbrushed. And that you eat from the supermarket skip. And leftovers that people have abandoned. That you lie on the grassland in the rain.'
I smile.
'Yes. And correct me if I'm wrong, but there isn't a law against any of those things. Nothing in there about me murdering people? That's something else Julia is accusing me of.'
She shakes her head.
'No. That would have to be proven first, wouldn't it?'
'Yes it would. But no one has proven that I stole Julia's purse either, and that's on the file.'
'OK Lizzie. So you're angry about the charges. Lets' start with your
lifestyle. It's not normal behaviour, is it, Lizzie?'
Bingo. Here we are at normal.
'OK. So you tell me what I should be doing. What's normal?'
She's fidgeting with her file and trying to find something.
'Ah, here we are. Well, you could keep yourself cleaner, and leave the shopping trolley at home.'
'It's to carry my shopping.'
'OK. You could perhaps consider what other people have to endure. Personal hygiene, perhaps. We have a course, if you'd like me to book you on.'
I stand up. This is pointless.
'Can I go now?'
'Well you can if you want, but I really wanted to discuss what the problem is with your son.'
I drop back down in the seat, knowing that it's a mistake and that I should really leave.
'Andrew.'
'Mmm. Andrew. Says here he won't acknowledge you. Is that not a good enough reason to tidy up?'
I can feel my cheeks begin to burn.
'Oh, my problems with Andrew started long before this did. In fact, long before he was born.'
She nods.
'I guessed as much.'
'I did my best and, for some reason, he doesn't think it's good enough.'
She nods.
'And was it?'
'Yes. Yes it was. I did everything I could. I might not have been perfect, but who is?'
'So now?'
She's got me. Very clever. Her face is soft now, and I'm starting to want to tell her what happened.
'So now it's hardly worth bothering, is it? Everything went wrong and I'm defeated. This isn't a choice, you know, it's what I've become.'
She smiles.
'Yes, Lizzie. I understand. I can see why you think all is lost with your son. And how that would make you feel upset. But I can't quite make the connection between that and why you eat out of a skip or can't wash. You're clearly depressed, and we can help you with that, but I need to find out a little bit more first.'
I see her hand move underneath the file, and the sheltered housing application form is upside down in front of me. So that's it. She wants to put me in a nice little flat where she can keep an eye on me. Where the police know where I am. I think about the garden and the shed, the tall vines running up the wall and my birds. The sunflowers and the vegetables, and how I sit in the corner and sun myself. It's hard in the winter, but I'll take my chances.
'Yes. I expect I am a little bit depressed over Andrew. But I'm all right at Coombes Cottage. I'm not leaving Tintagel. I'm staying where I am.'
She sighs.
'You could sell your house, you know.'
Could I? Could I really sell a house that is as dishevelled as I am? Who would buy a mausoleum to my life, a place where the stories of King Arthur and Morgana whirr around in perpetual conflict?
'I'm staying at Coombes Cottage. I've got the garden nice.'
She nods and changes tack.
'Looking at the report again, there have been a few statements about you spending a lot of time up at the headland. Is that a special place, Lizzie?' I look away. 'So it is. Do you want to tell me a bit about it?'
I swallow hard. I could tell her now and it would all be over. I wouldn't have to live in fear any more. She's watching me carefully and I can feel a twitch develop at the side of my eye.
'It's nothing really. Nothing special. Just some stories that my father told us when we were younger. We used to come to Tintagel every year and, well, you know, you get attached.'
'So attached that you came to live here? Did something happen in Tintagel, Lizzie?'
My stomach knots up and I feel sick. My heart is beating very fast, and she watches my breath come quickly.
'Top Secret.'
'Top Secret. What does that mean? Did somebody hurt you?'
'Me. No Not really. Nobody hurt me.'
We sit in silence for a while. She's pushed the housing application back underneath the file, and she's writing some notes. After a while I try to explain.
'The thing is, Jean, did no one ever tell you stories when you were younger? About fairies, or Mickey Mouse? And did you think they were real, and that's how life was?'
She nods.
'Well most of us have stories as children, Lizzie. So yes, I did.'
'My dad used to tell us stories. But we didn't have nursery rhymes, or Disney. We have King Arthur. All kinds of different stories about him and the knights.'
She smiles.
'Well, that's good, isn't it? Because weren't they moral stories, about good deeds. And the Holy Grail? Isn't that the search for good?'
I laugh.
'You'd think so, wouldn't you? But it isn't. Not really. Not for me, anyway. My friend Jer says that the Holy Grail is the search for yourself, the good and moral parts of yourself. But what if you've done something bad and there aren't any good parts of you left? What happens then, Jean?' I can feel the tears coming now and I get up to go. 'What happens if you can't find them, no matter what, and you just have to wing it, Eh? Then someone comes back for what they think is theirs, something you took a long time ago and hid in the depths of your soul. What then? You end up like me. People like us. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Not normal. So that's what's wrong with me.'
Jean looks at me for a moment longer.
'What did you do?'
I look out of the window. A willow tree is swaying in the breeze. A MacDonald's milkshake carton is cart-wheeling down the road, towards a group of teenagers who stamp on it. Cars drive up and down, and policemen stand around chatting. What did I do? Oh my God. What did I do?
I walk towards the door and Jean gets up.
'OK. I think you're depressed. I'll put a diagnosis of depression on your file and send it to court. Go and see your GP in Tintagel, Dr Davison, and he'll prescribe you antidepressants. I'll send my notes to him. In the meantime, I'll see you in three weeks and we'll continue where we left off. Stay out of trouble Lizzie, and I hope it goes well in court for you.'
She smiles and I leave. Celia is outside. She hoots with laughter.
'What did you get? Psychosis? Neurosis? Personality disorder?'
I face her.
'Depression.'
She does a little dance.
'Ah, depression. Piece of piss. You'll easy get off with whatever it is. Make sure you get whatever they prescribe. Otherwise they'll start to think you're not mad at all.'
She winks at me and goes into Jean's office.
Out on the pavement, the sun is shining and the world is busy. I walk to the bus station and ask about a bus to Tintagel.
'You want the 561 then the 564, love. Get a daily ticket, it's cheaper.'
The woman in the booth doesn't look too shocked at my appearance and I wonder what I can do to keep clean until the court case. Did Joanne say it was next week? I'm more worried about it than I was before, mainly because, like Celia says, they are building up the evidence against me. What if they send me to prison? What if I can't pay the fine and I have to keep going to court. It all seems like a downward spiral, and I get on the bus, pushing my bags under the seat so no one taunts me. I'm feeling fragile enough without anyone starting today.
I hum more quietly than usual and get off the bus at Padstow. It's exactly five o'clock as I walk through the town to pass the time until the Tintagel bus. I wander off towards Andrew's offices and sit on the wall opposite. Someone had left a half-eaten Mars bar and I realise I haven't eaten since this morning. Suddenly he's there, in the window, looking at me. I can feel him staring and decide it would be foolish to stay here now. He'll probably call the police if I stay here a minute longer, so I rush around the corner. I see him come out of his office and look for me, all angry. I duck behind the news stand as they pass and then hurry over to the bus stop. In five minutes I'm on my way out of town, thinking I've had a lucky escape.
Will I never be able to see Andrew again? Is that the end of my contact with my son? Wednesdays will have shrunk to a visit to the Job Centre to sign on, with no si
tting by the fountain, waiting for Andrew to go on his lunch break, a fleeting precious glimpse. It's too risky now. I stare out of the windows at the passing corn fields. The wildflowers are just starting to colour up the sides of the fields and I'll have to make do with my birds for company. I've no one left now; the only people I know are those who are trying to lock me away somewhere I don't belong. And Jer, who is the only person who understands, but for that very reason cannot stay with me. People like us.
I arrive in Tintagel just as the sun is setting. I push my bags behind a hedge and take the coastal path, the seagulls screeching above me. The sea, blue today, is lapping the shore gently, but farther out I can see the breakers crashing into each other. I walk until I reach the castle, imposing even in its ruins. It's out of bounds these days, but as children we would dash through the ruins, playing tag over the broken walls. As I stand on the opposite cliff I wonder if the stories were true? Was a King conceived here, and even if it were true, was the magic just another of life's manipulations, a way to explain something so horrible that it's without reason?
Underneath the castle, the waves crash in and out of the caves. The Devil's Arsehole, as my father called it. Or the vagina of the earth. There's something soothing about the water draining out of the hole, drawing back ready for another rush. It's dramatic and beautiful and invokes feelings of worth in me; if I am part of nature, and if nature can do this, what am I capable of? I take another look down there, back to the rocks outside the cave, washed now, yet I can still see the blood. It washes over the rocks, staining the sea forever; after all, only the sea and I know how this happened. I turn and run, back into the village and up to the headland, where I stand behind the tree and watch as the sun sets in a golden haze.
The kestrels sit above me, and I'm not alone. I never feel alone here, it's the only place I have the clarity to see what I need to do next. My heart is breaking over Andrew, and my last chance to make it right has gone. I'll never see my grandchildren again. I half expect the police to be waiting for me at the house, responding to a call from Andrew's office. I know that next time it won't be a caution. Everyone seems less concerned with why he would deny his mother than with what I have done to upset him. I laugh to myself, quietly this time and remember that the word 'mother' is a loaded gun. It's as if everything in the world is piled onto the word, including unconditional love. As if us mothers have a massive expectation attached to us, one that it's almost impossible to be unless we completely sacrifice ourselves to other people. Then who are we?