by Mia Farlane
May stopped once more. She crossed out that sentence. She decided she’d write a letter she wouldn’t send. Or maybe she would send it.
Chère Francine,
I don’t know what you meant by ‘more open’…
May stared at her beginning. Perhaps she wouldn’t write to her at all. Silence would be stronger. It would show she had nothing to be defensive about. And how could she defend herself against Francine, anyway? ‘That’s right. Invent excuses for yourself ’: Francine didn’t believe her, but it was more difficult in French; May couldn’t express herself as clearly in French as she could do in English. She decided she’d write the letter in English first, and do a translation later:
Dear Francine
A note appeared under the door. May tiptoed over, and picked it up:
Dear May,
I can see you’re not feeling great. When you want to come out we can talk.
Love you,
Jansen
PS What about going out to a café for brunch?
May was touched. She was also hungry. She opened the door, and went out to the sitting room. Jansen was on the sofa, with her knees tucked up to her chin, waiting for her. She looked over to May, who stood in the doorway, staring back. Jansen placed her feet on the floor, creating a lap for May, who went over. A few minutes later, she slid off Jansen’s lap, onto the sofa.
‘I’m hungry,’ she said.
‘Let’s go out for a walk together, and get some food.’
May scrunched up her face. ‘I’m exhausted!’ She collapsed herself over Jansen in a Sarah Bernhardt swoon.
‘Come on.’ Jansen heaved her slowly back into the sitting position, and got off the sofa.
May lay down again, keeping her eyes closed, even though her audience seemed to have just left. She was tired: breathless. She opened her eyes: Jansen had left the room. May got up, and found her in the kitchen, getting money out of the kitty tin in the cupboard. ‘I was asleep just then,’ May announced. She slid herself down the wall onto the floor, and slumped there, drooping her arms and head.
‘Do you want to come with me? Come on. It’ll do you good.’ Jansen pulled her up.
31
Some More Space
The waitress had just brought them tea, a cappuccino and scones. May, like a restaurant columnist preparing a report, made her initial appraisal of the place:
‘It would be a lot more pleasant if they turned off the loud radio. Do they really think they’re adding to the atmosphere, bombarding us with this popular junk?’ she began. ‘The music’s blasting my ear-drums,’ she went on. ‘Could anyone like this? It really lowers the tone of the place. A bit of gentle classical music,’ she offered her suggestions, ‘and the kitchen closed off from the rest of the café, would improve the atmosphere. It’s really not relaxing.’ She looked around at the other tables. People were struggling to be heard above the music and advertisements; they were more or less shouting at each other; some of them were smiling or laughing, stupidly oblivious to the noise. ‘We could ask them to turn it down?’ May turned to Jansen.
‘We could? You can, if you’d like to, yes.’
‘Why me? Why should I do it?’
‘Because it’s a problem for you.’
‘So, you don’t mind the noise? You don’t mind,’ May lowered her voice, speaking just too softly for Jansen to be able to hear, ‘the fact that, if I talk normally, you’re going to miss everything I say.’
Jansen pulled a book out of her bag: Fever Pitch – another Hornby.
‘I thought we were coming here to talk.’ May took out her books. She took out her mobile: no messages.
Jansen poured herself some tea. May had a sip of her cappuccino; at least it was as she’d asked for it: ‘Very, very hot and weak, please.’ May looked up. Jansen had gestured to the waitress, who was now coming over to their table.
‘Excuse me. We’re finding it hard to hear each other. Would you mind turning down the music?’
‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ said the waitress. ‘I’ll turn it down.’
‘Thanks.’ Jansen smiled at the woman, and then she went back to her book. She was going to continue ignoring May.
Fine. In that case, May would continue ignoring Jansen.
When they first used to go to cafés, they never used to ignore each other. The first time they went to a café together, they went to the National Portrait Café; it was expensive, and it was Jansen’s suggestion and she had paid. They talked and talked, and they both smiled a lot, they couldn’t stop smiling. May said to Jansen (because she was living in an army camp), ‘I think you need a teddy bear’; which was quite forward of her – they hadn’t even slept together at that point. ‘Are you offering to buy me one?’ Jansen asked her. ‘I could do, if you like,’ May had replied; she’d meant it, too. And then Jansen said, ‘May, that’s a lovely idea. Thank you. But I’ve already got one.’ And May felt embarrassed; she thought maybe Jansen was kindly rejecting her. It was awful.
And then it wasn’t: because Jansen said, ‘Perhaps you’d like to come and meet him some time, at the army camp?’ And a couple of weeks later, May had received a proper invitation by mail, and a tiny pewter bear – who was now lost somewhere in a small back garden in Pimlico.
The music had been turned down; May called Elizabeth and left her a message: ‘I just wanted to say that I am sorry about your sculpture – but that I am not worried about you, so please don’t think that I am worried about you. Because I am not worried. Thank you.’
Jansen looked up from her book.
‘What?’ May asked.
Jansen raised her eyebrows and gave a hint of a smile, then returned to her book.
‘What?’ May asked again, and then she received a text message from Elizabeth:
Am at Mark’s, so u can stop not worrying. Ex
‘She’s at Mark’s,’ May said.
‘Hm,’ Jansen said. ‘Good. I’m glad she sent you a message.’
‘Did you know she was at Mark’s?’
Jansen sighed. ‘I didn’t know she was at Mark’s. Although I did say that’s where I thought she would be.’
Dear Francine
Jansen and May were back at the flat again. Jansen was in the sitting room and May was in the bedroom. She looked at her letter so far:
Dear Francine
May didn’t know what to write next. She sat there, staring at her beginning for a while. She added:
How are you? I hope you are well.
She crossed out the greetings, and started again:
Dear Francine,
I am writing to explain why I have deferred, and why
No, she couldn’t write that, because then she would have lied in writing. In which case, she couldn’t write anything. She threw the piece of paper into the waste-paper basket.
There was a tap at the door. Jansen pushed it open, passed the phone to May, and left.
‘Hello?’
‘So, you haven’t been worrying about me.’ It was Elizabeth.
‘Of course, I’ve been worrying about you.’
‘Well, thank you. That’s very sisterly of you,’ Elizabeth said.
May nodded. ‘Mm.’
‘I haven’t told Mark about the flying vulva, by the way – just to reassure you.’
Was that another dig? May pulled herself up in bed. ‘I am very sorry,’ she said, ‘that I dropped your sculpture. And about criticizing you. I don’t think you’re a user.’
Elizabeth inhaled heavily on her cigarette.
‘We invited you,’ May went on.
Elizabeth exhaled.
‘Sorry,’ May repeated.
‘No problemo.’
‘What did you do with the vulva?’
‘Yeah I took it with me. I’ve turned the wings into an oyster shell. I’ll show it to you some time – once I’ve had it safely fired perhaps.’
‘I want you to know that you’re very welcome to come back and stay,’ May said. ‘If you want.’
>
‘Sure. Okay. I’ll be back Saturday week then.’
‘Good. Well, I’ll look forward to seeing you.’
May went to the sitting room. Jansen looked up, and shut the book she was reading.
‘Elizabeth will be back next Saturday,’ May announced. ‘I have just invited her back. Why did I do that?’
‘Yes, why did you?’
‘Because! Because I’m a criminal. Because she’s my hopeless sister. Because she’s doing nothing with her life and she makes me feel guilty. I am responsible.’
‘Did you set a time limit?’
‘No, I didn’t set a time limit!’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I didn’t. I didn’t think to. Okay?’ May sat down on the sofa. ‘I would just like to get on with my PhD, if I was allowed! We’ve got a week without her, and then she’s back again. Do we have a life together? Or are we just the owners of a free –’
Jansen made a dramatic stop sign with her hand, as if she were helping someone manoeuvre out of a tight parking space. ‘I would like to say something.’ She marked a pause. ‘I would like you to know – that I have been finding this situation impossible, and I have been very seriously considering moving out for a bit.’
‘Oh, great. I’m having a difficult time, so you think you’ll move out just when it’s all at its worst. I think you should move out right now. I think you should go and stay at the YMCA with Tamsin. I guess you’ve already spoken to her about it, how awful I am to live with.’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘You haven’t spoken to her?’
‘No, but I did think of moving in with her for a while, though. She’s got a new flat with a spare bedroom –’
‘Oh, well that’s perfect then. I wouldn’t hesitate.’
Jansen let May finish, then left a little space of silence, before she continued, ‘And she was even looking for a lodger, so then I thought –’
‘Perfect! Perfect!’
‘I thought Elizabeth might be interested, so I asked Tamsin about it, and she said she had decided against getting in a lodger for the time being.’
May didn’t speak.
Neither did Jansen.
‘May, I understand you want to help your sister – she is your sister – but I would like you to tell her that she can’t keep on staying with us indefinitely. It’s already been over a month; that’s far too long. I could tell her myself, but I would prefer it if you would tell her; she is your sister.’
‘You find her annoying, too?’ May asked; she was pleased – as well as still being upset. Her stomach hurt, and she felt a bit weepy.
‘I like Elizabeth,’ Jansen said. ‘I enjoy her company. She’s very likeable. And yes, I am beginning to find it slightly annoying not being able to use the sitting room, it can be frustrating that she’s in the bathroom when I want to get in there, but most of all, May, I am sick of you going on and on about her.’
‘Well, you can ask her to move, then,’ May said.
‘I have just asked you to do it. I would like you to do it. And now, I would like some time on my own, so please decide which room you want to be in.’
‘Are you planning on leaving me?’ May said.
‘I am not planning on leaving you.’
‘You’re not?’ May verified.
‘I need some space,’ Jansen said. ‘Right now I need some space.’
‘You mean as in “a few minutes, or an hour”?’ May asked.
‘Please give me some space,’ Jansen said.
‘How long for?’ May asked.
Jansen didn’t answer.
32
Scones and Jam
May baked scones the next morning – she had had the idea at about three o’clock in the morning when she wasn’t sleeping. She sneaked out of bed early, at six thirty, and quietly made cinnamon scones, with half a sachet of sugar in them and a coating of egg white to make them go golden. And then she went back to wake up Jansen.
‘What’s the time?’
‘It’s seven o’clock,’ May whispered in the bedroom darkness.
‘I’m not going to work today.’
‘You’re not working? Why? What are you doing?’ Jansen was going to spend the day packing her things; May scared her stomach, picturing it.
Jansen reached for the clock.
‘I’ve made you scones.’
‘… Thank you.’ Jansen put the clock back on the stool.
‘Do you want to go back to sleep then?’ May wanted her to stay awake with her, and eat the peace offerings and reassure her that she wasn’t moving out. ‘I could bring you tea and scones in bed if you like… I thought you were working today: that’s why I woke you up.’
‘It’s okay – thank you; I’ve decided to take the day off.’ Jansen pulled herself up in bed, and clicked on the light. ‘And I need to call someone now anyway, to let them know. Could you pass me the phone?’
May got the phone from the chest of drawers and handed it to her. ‘So we can spend the day together?’ She was starting to feel a bit happier. Nothing drastic was happening after all.
‘We could spend the day together if you want.’ Jansen was dialling her work.
‘Yay!’ Everything was fine again between them. May smiled as she listened to Jansen making her call, and then she took the phone back and put it on the chest of drawers. ‘Perhaps we could go somewhere interesting in the car? We could go to a teashop in the countryside somewhere, or we could go for a walk in a forest. We could take a picnic.’
‘I’m not up to driving, May. That’s why I’ve taken the day off.’
‘We could go on the train somewhere then. We could go to Windsor Castle.’ May felt like doing something exciting. ‘Or Brighton.’ Jansen loved the sea.
‘Maybe another day.’
‘I’ll make tea.’ May went to switch on the kettle. They would have a boring day, but it didn’t matter. Everything was back to normal again; and that was good enough. No one was leaving anyone; Jansen wasn’t moving out, and Elizabeth was moving back. And May was going to try to be more relaxed and pleasant to be around.
‘It looks sort of rococo, doesn’t it?’ Elizabeth lifted up a corner of the cloth to give May a last look at the reconstructed vulva in its pre-fired state. It was Saturday morning, she had just moved back, and Jansen was driving her to the pottery shop in Vauxhall. ‘We’ll see you in a bit.’
Which could mean anything. May decided to clean the flat; that would make Jansen happy. She would tidy up the place instead of writing to Francine; she didn’t know what to write in any case, and she was so tired of Francine always being angry with her.
One day – she took the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard in the kitchen – she would be interviewed about Francine by someone writing a biography; May would be among a group of people who had known Francine in some way. She wouldn’t be able to say she had known her well; she’d nevertheless give a few factual details about her personality, her behaviour and what her working space looked like. What might be May’s exact words? (She was vacuuming the bathroom now. Elizabeth had left a wet towel on the floor; May picked it up.) ‘Francine Brion… made of ambition a moral issue; to fall short of self-fulfilment, for her, was’ – May went to the sitting room and flung a few of Elizabeth’s belongings, a plastic bag of her paintings or something, onto the sofa – ‘criminal.’ Or it might be what she ate that would be of interest: ‘radishes with salt’. Would May have to be ‘someone’ in order to be asked about Francine though? ‘I was a disappointment to her in the end.’ She plugged in the vacuum cleaner next to the sofa. Even if she’d only known Francine for a year and then had a falling out, what she had to say would be of interest. Because Francine would perhaps only be a blip in May’s life. It was not a friendship that could last; it wasn’t a friendship, in fact. What was it?
May unplugged the vacuum cleaner and took it to the bedroom. She wouldn’t be interviewed of course, because she wasn’t someone; she wasn’t doing an
ything. If she did the PhD or something more than teaching nine-year-olds that ‘is’ is a verb, she could be interviewed; but otherwise (unless they found her letters to Francine with her embarrassing notes on a non-existent PhD) they, or ‘she’ rather (the biographer), wouldn’t – May put Jansen’s leather bag onto the bed – know where to find her.
Elizabeth and Jansen returned about three hours later.
‘Borough Market,’ Elizabeth explained, coming through the front door past May. ‘Expensive, but delicious.’ She set various bags on the table, a flat square box and a couple of bottles in brown paper bags. ‘Chocolate pie,’ she announced. ‘Organic apple juice’ – she pulled a bottle out of one bag – ‘and vino!’ She took the other bottle out of its bag. ‘We sampled everything: olives, wines, dips,’ she continued unpacking jars and little plastic tubs, ‘fudge, chutney, jams… I’m not hungry any more. Who’s getting the plates?’ She looked at May.
‘Where’s Jansen?’ May asked.
‘She’s parking the car.’ There was a knock at the door. ‘Oh there she is! I’ll get it.’
‘Bread!’ Jansen came into the sitting room with Elizabeth.
‘And lots of cheese.’ Elizabeth took a plastic bag from Jansen, and placed it on the table; she drew out various cheeses: Camembert, a wedge of Brie, some blue vein… ‘We’re gonna have enough left over for a picnic! Hey, that’s a great idea: we should go on a picnic! Are you working tomorrow?’ she asked Jansen. ‘What about driving us down to Brighton?’
‘A picnic…’ Jansen considered the proposition.
‘We could get up really early and go down for the day,’ Elizabeth elaborated on her plan. ‘And make our way back up to London some time around four or five. Whadd’ya think? Fun?’
‘The traffic will be bad on a Sunday evening,’ May said. ‘There’s probably no worse time to think about coming into London.’
‘The traffic would be okay if we left a bit later, around about seven,’ Jansen said. ‘We should probably allow three hours, but if we’re lucky the traffic won’t be that bad.’