‘Oh yes. Only it’s gone on too long.’
‘And do you ever feel guilty?’
‘About what? Not about my Fall, I’ve had a far more interesting life than I would have had up there. Goodness is so – obvious. I suppose I was pretty brutal during the first few centuries, but most people were in those days, including popes.’
‘How many deaths do you think you have been responsible for, Leo?’
‘Statistics are so boring.’
‘Haven’t you ever asked yourself?’
‘Never. You see it’s so hard to calculate. I’ve lived so many lives in so many places I really don’t know the answer. I’ve forgotten so much that happened to me. I wish now I’d kept a journal. I only started to be aware of myself in this century. And, as Dostoevsky said, “To be conscious is an illness – a real thoroughgoing illness.”’
‘And what is the cure?’
‘For everybody else, death.’
‘Would you die, if you could?’
‘Oh yes. Most willingly. I’ve done everything, been everywhere. I only want to be human, and the great privilege they have – although, of course, they don’t see it like that – is the option to die. A life without end is like the idyll I was expelled from: monotonous, exhausting, repetitive. These transition periods like the one I’m going through now … I can’t go through this again.’
‘You are right, it isn’t easy to live for ever.’
‘Of course, I forgot. You’re in the same situation. Yet you seem so calm.’
‘You don’t get to be a sibyl if you are manic depressive.’
‘Of course not. But – forgive my curiosity – how did it happen? Am I allowed to ask you questions?’
‘Strictly speaking, no. But I will share my experience with you because I like you. No, not like that, I know I’m too old for you. I was born in Greece, in what they call the Golden Age, before immortals were sterilized. In those days many of us had immortal blood, and those of us who loved life and passionately wanted to work, as I did, went on and on. As people became more conventional I had to pretend to die, of course, every seventy years or so. But I had great vitality and I loved people, I wanted to help them, and I found I could. I was already over a thousand years old when Tiberius Claudius came to me – even older when you stumbled into my cave.’
‘So it was you! You weren’t very nice to me. You spat at me and came up with the most impenetrable riddle.’
‘I had a few problems with men at the time.’
‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Please go on.’
‘Then the Christians came, and they were a bunch of misogynists. That was the end of the sibyls like me, the old goddesses, the Mothers. We had to go underground for many centuries. People no longer came to us with gifts and respect; our strength was despised and feared. I refused to sell myself into a submissive marriage, but it was very hard to make a living. They still came to me for advice and remedies, but then they’d accuse me of being a witch and cheat me. I was always hiding, running away, looking for a place where I could be myself without being persecuted. I met the oracle from Delphi in ninth-century Paris chained up in a filthy tent, guessing the weight of cakes.
‘I myself lived in huts, barns and often in the streets and fields. It was not so much the living conditions I minded – after all I’d lived in a cave for a thousand years – but the cruelty and ignorance all around me. I often despaired and cursed my immortality. Like you, I would have died if I’d been able to.
‘In Westphalia in the fifteenth century I was hiding in the woods outside a little town. A merchant, Cristoph, came to hang himself because he’d been swindled out of all his money and was ashamed to go home to his family. I talked him out of it, talked him back into life and gave him some advice.
‘When he took it and prospered he was grateful to me and even gave me a room in his house. My rage and bitterness left me as I became fond of him and of his family. They were Jews, and although they were rich they were also, like me, hated. After a year in their household I converted, thinking that I would at least share in their persecution. I didn’t have to wait long. A few months later there was an outbreak of the plague, and the people of the town said the Jews had caused it by drinking the blood of Christian children. They locked us all in a tower and set fire to it. Cristoph and his family, my only friends, were incinerated. I smelt their flesh as it crackled and roasted, and I wept as I wished I could live and die as cleanly as them. That night I walked out of the burnt tower.
‘Later the intolerance became even worse. I was burnt at the stake all over Europe, tortured, denounced as a heretic, as indeed I was. What is unique about the Christian story that gave them the right to hate all others in the name of universal love?
‘But, like you, I have an affection for this century. Here we are in a room, talking to each other, trying to understand each other without a rack or a bonfire. The old forces are coming out again, not only you and I. The religions are flowing together, and women are allowed a voice once more. Do you know what my patients say to me, those who are rushing to do it all in only one life? They say things are much worse; they used to be so much better. All around I hear it, this crazy nostalgia for a past that never was. But you and I know, don’t we, Leo, that sentimentality about history is a mug’s game. Was history sentimental about me when I was rejected and tortured and hounded for all those centuries?’
‘I agree it’s better now. I also found it a great burden, being stereotyped as bad. Incidentally, I’ve always rather liked strong women. If the Church Fathers had let a few Mothers in, the whole system would have been more humane and balanced. Well, Sibyl, where will you and I be in another hundred years? That’s what I really want to know. And don’t give me an obscure riddle.’
‘I speak in riddles because the future is ambiguous. It isn’t fixed, it isn’t a picture I can gaze into and describe to you. The past doesn’t change; it can only be reinterpreted, but what you become is clay, and your hands are moulding it. So don’t come to me like a young girl to a fortune-teller, asking if you’ll meet your lover soon. It’s not that simple, and neither are you.’
‘No. But will I?’
‘Will you see Jenny again? Ask yourself why she left you, why she took the extraordinary step of throwing away all that she had and putting her child in danger –’
‘They are still alive then?’
‘Leo, I can be some kind of friend to you, but I won’t be your detective. Now I’m afraid I have another patient coming soon.’
‘From the Metaphysical Bank? Another of the eternally rich?’
‘I never discuss my patients, whether I see them in my cave or in my consulting-room.’
‘You’re throwing me out! Just when I thought I’d found someone I could confide in.’ I stagger to my feet. ‘Back to my lonely room. I don’t suppose I’ll talk to anyone for days now, except the dog. Couldn’t you cancel your next appointment and let me stay another hour instead? I’ll pay double, triple …’
‘My God, anyone would think I was a prostitute!’
‘I’ve had plenty of sex. It’s talking I need.’
But she walks me firmly to the door, so tiny and bent that she hardly comes up to my waist. I look down in astonishment at this shrivelled creature, who scuttles like a crab and speaks with more eloquence and power than many angels I have known.
Down the Plughole
I wake up in this rickety double bed with Mum and try to believe I’m going to school. My school’s just on the other side of the park. I could walk there in half an hour and be in time for the first lesson. My teachers and friends would be pleased to see me – they like me – but the little girl they liked isn’t here any more. I can imagine as far as the door, but I can’t imagine spending a whole day just listening, chatting, playing. I’d be worried about Mum and frightened the other children would find out where I’m living and laugh at me. Then I remember it’s nearly Christmas. It’s the holidays – it’s always h
olidays now. I wonder if Grandma Molly would still like me. I think about her so much; I want to see her so much. I shake Mum. Her voice sounds young in her horrible face.
‘What’s the matter, darling?’
‘Mum, we’ve got to go and see Grandma Molly. I’ll help you downstairs and across roads. Let’s walk across the park. It’s a lovely sunny morning.’
‘But why is it so important to see her today?’ Mum hasn’t been out since my birthday six months ago.
‘I’ve just got to see Grandma. I’ll burst if I don’t.’ ‘Why do I have to come?’
‘Because I need you. My head’s splitting; my heart’s splitting. I can’t keep going out to the park on my own and pretending Daddy and Johnny and Grandma never happened.’
Then Mum realizes I’m desperate. I sort of know how she feels, how scary everything must be when you’re blind. Mum’s bones are so fragile that if she falls maybe she’ll never ever walk again. So I take her arm, and we go downstairs very slowly. I expect Eileen to stop us, but she just glares at us.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ I ask when we’re in the street.
The air feels strange, as if my skin’s been peeled off. Instead of just darkness I can see stripes of light.
‘Ow!’ she says when a car passes. Everything’s so loud it hurts. She’s really frightened, and so am I, so I keep talking to her. I hold her arm, and it feels like it might break.
‘We’re in the park now,’ I say. ‘It’s really sunny, and there are squirrels everywhere. Mind that conker. There are millions of people here, little kids and tourists and skateboarders and people walking dogs. Loads of dosh. Rosa says old ladies are magic with punters. Shall we see if we can get enough money for our taxi home?’
‘How would we do that?’
‘Begging.’
‘It’s wrong to beg,’ Mum says, and I wonder what she thinks I’ve been doing in the park.
The walk takes centuries. I can’t run, and Mum has to sit down every five minutes. In daylight her skin looks sort of green, like a crocodile, and everyone stares at us. Finally we get to Kensington High Street, where we used to go shopping and go to restaurants. All the shops are full of Christmas stuff, but Mum can’t see anything or do anything or buy anything. It’s miserable.
Molly’s home is like Sandringham House, only they’re all old and Mum says it’s really expensive. It doesn’t smell expensive. It smells of pee and pooh and disinfectant. I hope when I get old like Mum and Grandma I just die. A bossy lady tells me to sign the visitors’ book. She’s like Eileen. I’ve had enough of all that signing, so I just pretend to sign and lead Mum upstairs. You can tell which people are the visitors: they’re all smiling ’cause they’re so happy they can get out again. There are flowers and plants, but even they look old. We pass a room where all these old people sit on chairs in silence. Some of them are so tiny their feet don’t touch the ground, like ancient children. They look like they’re waiting for someone to ask them to dance. They look so sad. Suddenly I realize this is where Eileen wants to put Mum.
Grandma Molly’s wearing a dirty pink dressing-gown and blue fluffy slippers. Her knotted blue-and-green legs look horrible. I want to cover them up. Lines cut across her face like roads on a map, and there’s this sort of caked, powdery ditch between her nose and her mouth. I help Mum into a chair and run to hug Grandma.
‘It’s me, it’s Abbie.’ I bury my face in Grandma. I think I’ll die if she doesn’t recognize me. But she does. She’s happy to see me.
‘Abbie, darling – and who’s this poor old thing?’
‘That’s my mum. She sort of had an accident.’
‘Accident? Looks more like a cataclysm. You look older than God, Jenny. How old are you anyway?’ Grandma squawks at Mum. She leans forward and pokes her face.
‘Shush, Grandma, she’s blind.’
Molly laughs. She used to be sensible but now she’s talking absolute rubbish. ‘Eugenie-bloody-Manette. Ha-ha-ha. Jenny-do-anything-for-a-penny. It is you, isn’t it? You took us all in pretending to be young and luscious. How did you do it? That’s what I want to know. Bitch! Whore!’
I didn’t know old people knew words like that. But Mum just smiles.
‘I’d say it’s good to see you, Molly, only I can’t. Not that I want to see myself now. Yes, it’s me. I often wanted to tell you. It’s like what they say about murderers. The urge to confess is almost unbearable. Endless youth is a heavy burden – anyway, it wasn’t endless, as you see.’
‘Does the child know?’ Molly asks Mum.
‘Know what? What are you talking about?’ I yell.
‘Not yet,’ Mum says.
‘So you’re older than me, and now you look it. Lost your looks. Wish I could find them.’ Molly laughs. It isn’t a very nice laugh. ‘Jenny and Abbie! Ha-ha-ha! Shabby fanny any cabby. Took us all in. And where did the little girl come from?’
‘Stop it, Grandma. I’m Abbie. I’m her daughter.’
‘Caught her? I’m not surprised.’
I don’t like all this crazy stuff. It’s scary. I want us to be a proper family again.
‘Look, Grandma, I brought you that chocolate you like.’
‘You must be very nice people to give me a present. Is it my birthday?’
‘No, not until January. You’ll be ninety-two,’ Mum says in a funny voice, like she wants Molly to be even more older than she is.
‘Will I really? I’ve never been as old as that before.’
I stare into Grandma’s beaming, dribbling face as she gobbles the big bar of chocolate. A nurse comes in to change Grandma’s nappy. In the bathroom we hear her talking to Grandma like she was Kevin. ‘Now don’t play naughty with me, Mrs Dumphry, my darling. Here is coming your granddaughter and your antique friend to visit you, isn’t it?’
When Grandma Molly comes back into the room she stares at us like she’s never seen us before. She says, ‘Lovely to see you. Who did you say you were?’
‘It’s still me, Grandma. Abbie. And my mum.’
But Grandma Molly isn’t there any more. I want her to come back, so I put my hands on her hands on the table, then I pull Mum to her feet and make her put her hands on top, the four old hands all mixed up like greenish-white claws. Grandma wears rings, but Mum has sold her jewellery. My hands are on top. Then Grandma takes her hands away and the hand mountain collapses, and Grandma stares at her telly like we’re not there.
‘We’ve got to go now, Grandma. It was lovely to see you. We’ll come again soon. I think your room’s really nice.’ I sound like a grownup, lying all the time. Then I lead Mum to the lift.
When we get back to Sandringham House we’re exhausted. Mum can hardly walk. I just want to get up to our room and sleep, but Eileen catches us.
‘You should’ve told me you was going out. I must’ve told you a million times about signing that register. Social Services has been here looking for you two. They want to talk to you about going into care – and they’re after Rosa, too. That baby needs to be properly looked after, and so does your gran.’
‘I told you. She’s my mum not my gran.’
Then Rosa comes in with Kevin, and Eileen says it all again, waving her knitting-needles, her glasses glittering. Kevin wakes up and cries as Eileen looms over him.
‘Yes, well might you cry, poor little thing. What hope is there for you with a mother like that?’
‘If I want your opinion, Eileen, I’ll pull the bloody toilet chain. Talk about Hitler, about dictation and that he had nothing on you. Well, you don’t scare me!’
I think Rosa’s really brave.
‘They’ll soon teach you to talk proper where you’re going, young lady,’ Eileen says.
Then we all go upstairs. I pretend not to be frightened, but I am. And then we all go to Room 325 and have a meeting.
‘What are we going to do?’ I ask Rosa.
‘We’ll find somewhere to go. They’re not going to take Kevin away or your granny or whatever she is neither. There�
�s places we can go, tunnels and that. I’ve heard stories.’
‘Mum?’
‘Sorry, darling, I was years away. I’m so tired.’
‘Mum. Please. We’ve got to do something quickly.’
But she just lies on the bed and shuts her eyes. ‘So this is old age. How right I was to avoid it. I’m nobody, nothing, nowhere. Less than the dust beneath your chariot wheels.’
‘Whose chariot? What are you talking about, Mum?’
‘I struggle like a fly in the syrup of my past. Once I had wings, but I’ll never fly again. All that youth, beauty, money wasted! Never mind. Old people are allowed to give up. They’ll take me away from you and give me a room and feed me and wash me and forget me like Molly. You’ll be cared for, too, my darling. You’ll go to school and be a child again with other children. Maybe it’s all for the best.’
‘Mum! Shut up! You can’t die yet.’
‘Yet? I’m not exactly a spring chicken. I’m nearly a hundred. I’ve had enough. I’m blind and poor and exhausted.’
‘No! Remember how you felt when your mother left you? I’m younger than you were then. I need you.’
‘Someone else can look after you now. Leo or the state or good old David.’
‘No! You, you said you’d always be there for me. You promised!’
Then we hug, and we’re both crying, and Kevin cries, too, and Mum says, ‘Sorry, Abbie, you’re right. I won’t ever leave you.’
Then we see two letters have been pushed under the door, one for us and one for Rosa. I open it. This is what it says: ‘Places have been found for Abigail Mankowitz in a children’s home in Ealing and for her elderly relative Jenny Mankowitz in a residential home in Peckham. Transport will be organized for them both on the morning of January 6th, and Abigail Mankowitz will start at her new school the following day.’
Rosa reads her letter. ‘Well, Eileen can stick this up her arse. Says here they put Kevin on the at-risk register. That’s a lie for a start. I never hit him, did I, my smelly angel?’
Suddenly Mum sounds younger, stronger. She says, ‘We can’t stay here. Now we’ve got to disappear, become unpersons. I’ve been one most of my life anyway. Tell me about these tunnels, Rosa.’
Loving Mephistopeles Page 27