by Liz Byrski
No, his life is here in London, in close proximity to Europe. Others may retire but he doesn’t have to, he just needs to reinvent himself a bit, get a new edge on some of his earlier work, emerge in shiny new colours. And as for Polly, well, they will just have to renegotiate things. Once she’s been here, experienced his life, she will doubtless see that this is a far better way to live. She can sell that poky cottage and get a nice place, somewhere not too near and not too far away.
So, Leo, he tells himself, plan of action: two problems to deal with here. Number one, hanging on to the professional relevance – it is possible but you just have to work out how, come up with something new. Number two, organising something with Polly in a way that doesn’t mess up other arrangements. This is the more complex problem
*
Since Leo left Polly has devoted all her energy to gathering information on possible long term solutions for Stella’s future, and the first step is an assessment by an aged care team. For this she needs to get Stella to the doctor. It is the first step on her list of awful things she’ll have to do. One more thing to occupy her mind and fuel her anxiety, the other being Leo.
His obvious unease outside his own environment is entirely at odds with her first impressions of him in Edinburgh. But it’s helped her to understand him better. On top of his public commitments he does, he’d explained, have significant family responsibilities, so he is always under pressure. But she has also discovered how inflexible he is. His sense of himself seems to depend entirely on maintaining the status quo of his public, professional life. The only change he’s interested in is making her a part of that, but he can’t explain how this will work from different sides of the world.
‘We’ll sort it out,’ he’d said airily. ‘Don’t worry about it, we’ll get there.’
But Polly wonders how, at what cost and to whom.
And she had so hoped that Stella would like him – that the two of them would like each other. But Stella’s total silence on the subject has been remarkable. Has Stella simply forgotten that Leo was here at all?
As she sips the remains of a cup of tea Polly longs for the voice of the old Stella. Listen to yourself, Polly, she’d have said, you’re growing old too, you have a brother whose condition is as bad or worse as Leo’s sister’s, you too have unreliable sources of work and have lived with that for years. And frankly, you are far less prepared financially for old age than he is. Work out what you want and need for yourself, and hold to that. Don’t try to find solutions for Leo at your own expense. You’ve swum this river before and this time you will have to swim more strongly than ever against the current.
Once again Polly rationalises the situation by ascribing it to the tyranny of distance, and the need for time together to move the relationship to a different level. She sits for a while, thinking carefully about her own commitments, about when it would be possible to take a longish break to go to England. Christmas is good, assuming Stella is okay, because both Joyce and Mac will be here, Ben and Vanessa and their girls will be around too, and if she starts talking to Stella about this now she can probably also organise a carer. Someone to come in regularly, get the shopping, clean the house, take Stella out sometimes. And she writes a note to remind herself to chase this up tomorrow. Then she picks up the phone and dials Leo’s number.
‘Hi,’ he says, ‘I was just about to pop out.’
‘It’s early for you,’ she says, ‘where are you off to?’
‘Following up with someone about a possible joint publication, so I don’t have long.’
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘I just want to run something past you. I feel we need to spend more time together soon . . .’
‘Sure do,’ he says, impatiently. ‘Let’s work on that.’
He sounds as though he is ready to hang up, but Polly is determined. ‘I already have,’ she says. ‘I think I’ll fly over in mid-December, we can have Christmas and New Year together. I’ll probably stay for a month, perhaps a bit more depending on how Stella is at the time.’
There is a small but perceptible pause at the other end of the line.
‘I see,’ he says. ‘The thing is, I actually have plans for Christmas. I need to spend some time in Cornwall . . .’ he seems to hesitate. ‘And there are other family issues I have to deal with. ’
‘Oh . . .’ Polly pauses, disappointed, ‘well, couldn’t I come with you? I’d love to meet your sister and her friend and the rest of your family too.’
‘Of course,’ he says. ‘Of course, but it seems a bit soon. I haven’t told Judith about us yet, I’d like to tell her when I’m with her, so I’ll do that at Christmas, then she won’t . . .’
‘Won’t what?’
‘Well . . . it won’t take her by surprise.’
Polly hesitated. ‘Well I don’t really understand why you haven’t told her already. Do you think she’ll mind that you have someone in your life? Wouldn’t she want you to be happy?’
‘Of course, but she’s a bit fragile around . . . well, around change, I suppose. I’d rather tell her in person. Look, it’s all fixed now; besides, the pre-Christmas airfares will be ridiculous, and it’s always freezing here at Christmas.’ He gives a little laugh. ‘I remember how you hated the cold in Edinburgh.’
Polly’s pleasure at having decided on something positive is evaporating; she feels hurt and offended that her presence in Leo’s life seems to involve embarrassment and explanation; he seems to be closing her off from his family, but she fears sounding needy and petulant.
‘Didn’t you say you had to go back to Paris?’ he says in a much more positive tone. ‘Why don’t we meet up in Paris in the early spring and then come back to London together? Wouldn’t that be fun? Paris, hot chocolate, marvellous food and wine, the Louvre, the Seine . . . all that, wouldn’t it be lovely?’
Polly senses that her inner Stella is dying to tell her something, but she pushes it aside. ‘It would,’ she says. ‘It would be wonderful, but that’s months away.’ His response has hurt her, but to pursue it would make her seem needy, and maybe he’s right anyway; Christmas is often a difficult emotional time in families. Maybe meeting Judith and the rest of them in the spring is a better plan. And so the conversation drifts to its end leaving her disappointed and slightly ashamed that she hadn’t managed to negotiate her own preferred solution with him.
Several hours later Polly sits at her computer and clicks Alistair’s Skype icon. He answers almost immediately.
‘Of course you can come for Christmas, darling,’ he says, ‘that would be wonderful. Stevo,’ he calls, turning away from the screen, ‘the mad tart from Fremantle wants to come for Christmas – okay with you?’
Steve appears behind him. ‘More than okay,’ he’d said. ‘Do come, Polly, then I won’t have to spend Christmas in solitary confinement with this old fart.’
They talk for a while and when they hang up Polly checks the flights, makes her booking then, closing the computer, she lets herself out of the front door and walks up to talk to Joyce.
*
Joyce is sitting in her study reorganising a lesson plan. Setting up a course is, it seems, a matter of trial and error. She has got off to a cautious start with seven students, all women, three of whom are mothers with children, twin sisters aged nineteen from Sri Lanka, and a woman in her late fifties who has arrived here from Somalia with her daughter and a nine-year-old granddaughter, having lost the rest of their family on the journey. It was strange at first, having so many strangers in her home, but after the first couple of classes it began to feel good. The big dining table in the kitchen is ideal; they had bought it donkey’s years ago, when they had renovated, in fact almost completely rebuilt, the back of the house. She had spotted it in a second-hand shop.
‘Look,’ she’d said, dragging Mac over to see it. ‘It’s just what we need, bit knocked around but you could clean it up couldn’t you?�
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The table was fine old teak and Mac and Dennis together had cleaned, sanded and varnished it to perfection. Their two families had eaten at it more times than Joyce could remember, ten of them, sometimes twelve at a push if the kids had friends with them. Joyce runs her hand over the smooth weathered surface thinking how well it lends itself to this new purpose.
After two classes a week for three weeks everyone’s progress is obvious, and the energy and pleasure of the shared time seems to fill the whole house. The front doorbell rings and Joyce sighs irritably and puts down her pen. How grumpy I’m getting, she thinks, I never want to be disturbed these days, and she stops dead as she crosses the kitchen, the memory of the last time she saw Helen hitting her like a bullet in the chest. She takes a deep breath and walks on out and up to the door, determined to treat whoever it is with patience and courtesy, however annoying they are.
‘Oh, Polly – it’s you, thank goodness,’ she says. ‘That’s a relief, come on in. Why didn’t you come through the back gardens?’
‘Because I didn’t want Stella to see me and decide to join us,’ Polly says. ‘And why is it a relief?’
‘Because my tolerance for time wasters is decreasing with age, but seeing you always does me good. Is it time for a glass of wine?’
‘Overdue, I think,’ Polly says, holding out a chilled bottle of Semillon. ‘I came prepared.’
Joyce gets glasses from the cupboard. ‘How’s Leo?’
‘Fine, busy of course.’
Joyce raises her eyebrows and clinks her glass against Polly’s. ‘Cheers,’ she says. ‘Isn’t he always?’
‘I think he’s frightened of not being busy,’ Polly says. ‘Can’t or doesn’t want to imagine how life could be otherwise! And scared of being displaced by a new upcoming generation of equally smart arses.’
Joyce smiles. ‘Mac had to cope with that,’ she says. ‘He hung on for a long time because of it. And when he did go they got him back quite a few times for some projects so I suppose that helped to ease him out of it.’
‘Mmm, I remember that,’ Polly says. ‘But I must say that this preciousness about ageing pisses me off a bit. If we’re lucky enough to get old I feel we should make the most of it. But actually it was Stella I came to talk about, and this is where I’m being more than a bit precious. I’ve never been responsible for anyone’s wellbeing before and I really don’t have a clue. It seems an enormous responsibility.’
‘It is a big thing,’ Joyce agrees, ‘but we’ll help you. And at least now she’s sold the car. Essential, really, in view of the visit to the cemetery.’
Polly raises her eyebrows. ‘I don’t know about that. But when we got back and she told me she’d sold the car to Dennis I was hugely relieved. So what about the cemetery?’
She listens as Joyce explains. ‘Poor Stella,’ she says. ‘That must have been terrible for her. Thank goodness for Mac, he must have hated taking the keys away. But look, I have organised an appointment with her doctor. I’m taking her next week.’
Joyce nods. ‘Good, I just hope that she gets to spend Christmas with us and in her own home. Will you be here or are you going to stay with Leo?’
Polly shakes her head. ‘With Alistair and Steve, just over the actual holiday, and I’m thinking I’ll get a carer for Stella. I’d like to get this started straight away, get her used to the idea of having someone else to help; someone who can also be a friend, take her to places, help her shop and so on.’
Joyce nods. ‘That’s a really good move. If you can get the right person and introduce her slowly it would be ideal.’
They pour more wine and talk on and it is after nine when Polly gets up to leave.
‘I’ll walk out with you,’ Joyce says, and the two of them stroll back down the road, past Stella’s house, where the lights are still on and music is drifting softly out into the street.
‘She’s listening to South Pacific,’ Polly says. ‘She plays it a lot. She was in it years ago, played the lead.’
They stand there for a moment in the shadows and Polly turns to Joyce again.
‘Thanks for always being there.’
Joyce reaches out and hugs her. ‘Honestly, I’m glad you came. I needed to know what was happening. We’ll work things out for Stella, and you will eventually sort things out with Leo. One day at a time, that’s all we can do.’
She waits on the pavement until Polly has closed her door behind her, turns then stops again outside Stella’s house. She is playing something different now, and Joyce opens the gate, walks quietly up the path to the door and stands there, listening. Stella is singing along with . . . who is it? . . . Bing Crosby perhaps, or maybe Sinatra. Joyce hums softly trying to recall the song, something about being bewildered, about being like a child again, confused . . . she shakes her head in irritation unable to conjure up the lyrics. I’m getting as forgetful as Stella, she murmurs. And then she remembers, Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered, that’s what it’s called. Tears well in her eyes, what was in Stella’s mind when she chose that song? And she wanders slowly down the path and out of Stella’s gate looking beyond her own house to the darkened shapes of the houses that occupy the block next door. Years ago there was always a light in Helen and Dennis’s place, always a feeling that it would be fine to knock on the door or slip through the gate in the fence. But for so long now there has been no one there. So many changes, she thinks. Some creep up slowly, others hit us like a ton of bricks. How lucky we’ve been with our neighbours, such special memories. She pauses, remembering a day, years ago, when Helen had turned up at the back door, hammering furiously on the locked flyscreen.
‘Why?’ she had shouted at Joyce through the mesh. ‘Why does it have to be me? Just as my kids have left home . . . just as I stop caring for the young ones, I have to start again caring for the old people.’
Joyce remembers fumbling with the latch to let her in and how Helen, her face contorted with frustration, had stormed into the kitchen, shaking her head.
‘I never wanted to look after people,’ she’d said. ‘I wanted a career, I wanted to do something impressive, to be someone, and here I am, in my fifties, still spending every day feeding, cleaning, shopping, washing, being an unpaid nursemaid, driver, secretary and god knows what else for other people. When is it going to be my turn, Joyce? When will it be my turn to do something for me?’ And yet she had done it conscientiously and largely with good grace, and neither her own mother nor Dennis’s parents would ever have known what it cost her. And when Helen’s time for herself had come, when she finally saw time and space stretching out in front of her, she had lacked the energy or perhaps the imagination to work out what she really wanted. ‘I miss you, Helen,’ Joyce whispers now. ‘I really miss you. And I’m so sorry I allowed myself to forget the person you used to be.’ And slowly she walks back up her own front path, through the open front door, and closes it behind her.
Chapter Twenty-four
‘I really don’t think this is necessary,’ Stella says, getting into the front seat of Polly’s car. ‘Derek will think it’s a waste of time.’
‘Derek has been your doctor for years and as you know, Stella, he thinks everyone over sixty should have regular check-ups. When did you last have one?’
Stella snaps the seatbelt into place. She’s been finding Polly very irritating lately, and not just Polly, Joyce and Mac too. They seem to think she’s incapable of managing her own life. ‘Well I’ve no idea when it was,’ she says. ‘But there’s certainly nothing wrong with me.’
‘You’ve been concerned about your memory for some time,’ Polly says.
Stella sighs. ‘No I haven’t. There’s nothing wrong with my memory. And frankly, Polly, I find this business of you coming with me a bit insulting. I know you mean well, but I am perfectly capable of going to the doctor alone. And I don’t know why you were so insistent we go in your car, I would have pr
eferred to drive myself.’ She sees Polly take a deep breath and peer sideways out of the driver’s window, waiting for a car to pass before pulling out. ‘I’m not a fool, you know – I’ve managed to look after myself for seventy years, and I can do it now.’
‘It’s eighty years,’ Polly says. ‘You turned eighty earlier in the year, and Joyce made you that amazing Tim Tam cake.’
‘I remember that cake. I didn’t know it was my birthday. Someone should have told me.’
‘We did,’ Polly says. ‘We all sang happy birthday and you blew out the candles in one go.’
‘Well there can’t be much wrong with me then,’ Stella says, sensing that she has won this round. Polly is so argumentative these days too, she never used to be like that.
This doctor’s appointment is all her idea. Stella has managed to get it postponed three times so far and now it’s November, and she’d thought Polly had given up but no such luck. Oh well, better get it over and done with and then perhaps the nagging will stop.
‘I expect it’s that man’s fault,’ Stella says. ‘The one who was hanging around your house recently.’
‘Leo, you mean?’
‘That’s him. I didn’t like him.’
‘I know,’ Polly says. ‘And what do you think is his fault?’
‘Um . . . well, this doctor business, this bee you’ve got in your bonnet.’
‘Why do you think that’s Leo’s fault?’
‘Because he didn’t like me, he made that quite clear. He said, “Shut up, you old bag, or I’ll punch you in the face”.’
Polly laughs out loud. ‘Stella, Leo did not say that. You’re thinking of the man who was bullying the bank teller. Last year, he was shouting at the teller and you were in the queue and you went over to him and told him not to be so rude. Remember? He shook his fist at you and the security guard came over and took him out of the bank. That was last year, before I even knew Leo.’