Bone Lines

by Stephanie Bretherton

  Eloise was guided to sit down and she gave herself up to an unfamiliar armchair as if she had been seeking its particular form of solace all her life. Mrs Templeton (Iris? Was it Iris? She didn’t have the energy to ask) came back with the tea. Not in chintzy china cups, as Eloise had expected, not even in a teapot, but in tall, elegant white mugs.

  ‘I’m so sorry, dear. Really, I am. He was such a delightful old thing. I shall miss him. Eleven o’clock sharp every day, in he came for his saucer of milk. I know I shouldn’t have but it was only a drop and always semi-skimmed. I knew he wasn’t well but I could only hope.’

  Eloise could not be angry with her, even though this unhealthy treat would hardly have helped his digestive problems. Unlike his namesake, Newton liked company.

  ‘I know. Don’t worry,’ Eloise absolved her neighbour, ‘I’ll miss him too.’

  Mrs Templeton put down her tea, weaved her gnarled yet beautifully manicured hands together and inclined her neatly coiffed head.

  ‘Of course you will, my dear. Of course. You must allow yourself to grieve, you know, you really must. You must find ways to face the pain. Without falling down the rabbit hole, of course. It really doesn’t do to dwell. It will always be with you, yes, but even though each loss changes us a little, we can learn to carry them. But we must never bury them, my dear, or deny them. You have to keep busy, you see. That’s the key. You have to stay open to life, to joy, no matter how much death has taken from you. My mother always used to say that “industry is the best cure for melancholy” and she was right, you know. I have learned that only too well. I have lost so many people.’

  Eloise had nothing to offer in return for this information. So she simply nodded and sipped her tea. She nestled into the winged-back velvet of the armchair and looked around. Framed photographs everywhere, faces old and young, many in uniform. Colour, black-and-white and sepia.

  Mrs Templeton noticed this silent study of her life.

  ‘Yes, dear, there on the table beside you, those are my men. My grandfather, killed at the Somme. I never knew him, though I think we would have got along famously. They all said that I took after him. My elder brother, lost in a Lancaster over Libya. Only twenty-one. My father, next to him, he died in a POW camp in Malaya courtesy of the Japanese. My mother and I got out of Singapore just in time, but he stayed on. “Duty”, don’t you know. He starved to death. Or maybe it was malaria.’

  Eloise felt the loss of all those precious men, each the bearer of an important nose and a defined brow. The same features that this lovely old lady wore with pride, despite the loosening effects of a long and full life.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Eloise, ‘So many terrible things were done in those wars. In all wars.’

  ‘Yes, but life goes on, eh? We might forgive, we might trade with our former enemies, but we don’t forget. You know, my daughter adores it, but I have never been able to contemplate eating sushi.’

  Eloise couldn’t help herself, she laughed. Had to spit back some of her tea.

  ‘Yes, dear. That’s right. Life is a marvellously mad comedy, after all.’

  Mrs Templeton had the kind of smile that surely would have fascinated the suitors of her day. Eloise indulged a vision of a happy young woman, floating in taffeta about some gilded ballroom, laughing and flirting – but never cruelly, never simply for the sake of it. Such a young woman would have been tempted by many but would have chosen wisely.

  ‘And this one?’ Eloise reached over and picked up a slender frame with the image of a youth in a bright-red uniform, a bearskin swamping his handsome head. Coldstream or Grenadiers? She knew little of regimental distinctions but understood that this uniform carried prestige.

  ‘My grandson. George. He’s in Afghanistan, or Iraq perhaps. Some such place. Not sure. Not sure it’s official at all, actually. He’s a crack shot apparently. One of the best.’

  ‘Oh god.’

  ‘Yes. One worries, can’t help it. Especially with our family history. Still, he signed up, a career soldier. In the blood, I suspect. Do you suppose that luck can be inherited, dear, passed down?’

  Eloise was halted by the question, a random conjunction of the esoteric with her own field of expertise. She paused, wondering how best to answer without giving offence.

  ‘Oh… Well, no. I don’t think so. Certainly not in any sense that I can comment on. Actually, I’m not sure I believe in luck at all, as such. My father had the odd pertinent saying too, you know. He used to say that “luck is just opportunity meeting preparedness”. But I suppose that applies only to the good variety. Bad luck? I don’t know… a series of chance circumstances colliding with unsuspecting choices, probably? Maybe there’s some element of the subconscious involved in getting us into certain situations. Was his father in the forces? I mean, were there any strong influences encouraging him to join up?’

  ‘Good Lord, no,’ Mrs Templeton insisted. ‘It came completely out of the blue. It was the last thing we wanted. My daughter is a bit of a leftie, you see, and she married another teacher, so, no, he was hardly encouraged.’

  ‘I see.’ Eloise searched for the most comforting, least patronising response, but then wondered whether Mrs T (yes she decided, that was what she would call her from now on) was aware of her medical specialism. Why would she be? Nonetheless, she decided to make an offering of her professional opinion.

  ‘Well, it might be that his inclination for things military could be somehow inherited, there’s still so much we don’t know about how certain genes, or their chemical “epigenetic” tags may affect behaviour or tendencies – or react to them. It has been seen, though, that certain epigenetic changes related to responses to trauma, for example, can be passed down and can affect the next generation. But perhaps your grandson’s choice was more about a desire to be of service in some way? I mean, that does seem to be a part of his background. Perhaps that was a subtle influence? Anyway, it’s an interesting idea. I might have to look into it more, one day.’

  Eloise felt no urge to leave so she settled back and sipped some more of her tea. It was good, remarkably so. She thought she might have to consider the occasional switch from coffee.

  ‘I remember your father, you know,’ offered Mrs T, in return. ‘Very well. A fine man. Fine family. It’s no surprise that you are such a success, dear.’

  ‘Am I?’

  ‘Oh goodness, yes, dear, don’t you think so? All of our achievements must be appreciated. But we can’t have everything. Perfection is a pipe dream and expectations are born to be confounded. That’s what they all seem to have forgotten these days.’

  ‘Yes. Quite.’ Eloise was thankful for this small serving of colloquial wisdom, or for its intentions, at least. ‘You know, I’m sure he’ll be alright… your George.’

  ‘Oh yes, I think so too. Praying like mad, of course, storming heaven with all my might. And I know that he has enough old warhorses watching out for him up there.’

  Perhaps he has, thought Eloise, in a moment of wishful submission. She almost wanted to believe that it was so.

  ‘Yes. Well, thank you so much, Mrs T. For everything. But I think I’d better get home now.’

  *

  She is unsure of what to do with the snakeskin. There is no tradition for its use amongst her people. She has let it dry in the sun and now holds it to the light to examine it closely, the tiny flakes that lay over one another, its curious give and stretch. There is a beauty to its patterns, for sure, but she feels unable to measure its worth. She strokes it, but it is cool to the touch and not comforting like fur.

  There is little enough that is comforting now. Other than her caresses with the child, the soft strokes of a love whose worth too cannot be counted, but for different and better reasons. She recalls the touch of her grandmother, the steady circular passes of those leathery old hands around her back. Her mother’s touch was softer, lighter, more playful. She had seemed, in many ways, a child at heart herself. Those lovely long fingers that would rake and com
b through her hair. She recalled her father’s firm pressure on her shoulders when she had learned something well or his tight grip around her waist as he lifted her to the sky in celebration. The pats and head tousles from the others in the clan. The pinches and prods from her brothers, the linked arms and the held hands of her childhood companions.

  Companions. Sometimes she had resented them, walked away alone to keep her own company, the noises of her kind too much sometimes, too crowding. But she had always been glad to return. What sort of woman might her own child become without such connections, without other voices, without the touch of others? She is growing fast, reaching out to grab and pull and stroke and shake. Rolling and crawling now when her mother feels it may be safe. Trying so enchantingly to mimic her mother’s words of love. But her mother’s love is all this little one has. For how long will they be alone, for how long will her daughter be alone, if the girl lives long and strong enough to see her mother die?

  This snake too had been alone. Had it ever loved – could it love? Was it this lack that made the creature so cold to the touch, so hated, so feared? So free.

  Before beginning the climb into the rocky high ground, and now revived on its roasted flesh, she wraps and tucks its skin tightly around her wrist. She will keep it a while longer and try to understand the source of its strength.

  15

  Eloise carried in the little shroud and placed it near the back door. She would bury Newton in the morning. She had spoken to Anna while at the vet’s, waiting, hoping for the right decision to come. But now she wanted to call someone else. She tried another old friend before remembering that she was off traveling with Médecins Sans Frontières, as her voicemail confirmed. Who else might be available?

  KC? No. They were getting along well enough and their working styles had a pleasing balance and compatibility, she thought they might be forming that friendship after all – but calling him now would be too weird, too needy. Besides, he hadn’t known Newton, it could mean little to him. She thought for a moment about KC, his family. (Did they have pets?) This didn’t help.

  Then she tried to focus on the work and thought of Sarah, hoping it would distract her, trying to picture her. How would she have coped with grief? Death would have been so commonplace, so visible, so unremarkable, a daily occurrence of one form or another. She would have had the closeness of her tribe and all their traditions to mollify against loss. If they had allowed themselves to feel much of that at all? Surely Sarah would have felt no sentimentality over the death of an animal?

  But this detour was only sharpening her sense of separation and could do little to pin back her pain. Eloise needed to call on her own tribe now, her own traditions. She thought of John. What was his number? No, he had too many other people to care for. Besides, there was a good chance he was on one of his regular visits to Pentonville prison tonight.

  She rummaged around in the storehouse of her consolations, looking for an alternative, for something or someone who could lessen her pain, or at least appreciate and commiserate with it. Who else had known or loved Newton? And who had Newton loved in return?

  Oh no, she thought, here we go. She had resisted the rush of remembering him, the young lover she had once been so passionate about, but she was too raw, too enfeebled to keep fighting it. As she lost all resolve, he swam upwards from his padlocked chamber to surface into her consciousness and she acknowledged that he was the only living person that she wanted now, the only one who might offer the comfort that she needed. But as quickly and as willingly as he might have come (in person and not mere memory) even after all these years, she had put him beyond her own reach. Where he must stay. It was for the best, yes, she still believed that to be so. He, like John, had others to care for now. At least she hoped that was the case, otherwise what would all that wrenching apart have been worth?

  What else could she do? If she opened a bottle now she would finish it too thirstily. Then she would sleep, yes, but badly. And she knew enough about hangovers to know that one the next morning would only exacerbate her mood. When ambling through the middle ground of life Eloise was more than comfortable with her own company, even craving it, whether in a relationship or not. It was only at the extremes of good or bad that it became difficult to be alone. Eloise had never felt the house so empty.

  She wondered how Mrs T coped with her own solitude, surrounded by her family photographs, her reminders of those lost. They seemed to give her succour. Eloise could not remember where all the old Kluft family albums were kept, perhaps in the camphorwood chest up in the attic along with the Thai silk and the Indian cashmere? She decided to go and search for them, at last finding them in a cobwebbed and battered metallic trunk, the kind the family had once used for long sea voyages. This one was still wearing its scratched and fading stickers announcing a series of exotic destinations.

  The covers of some of the albums were torn, the satin or leather binding beginning to wither, the paper card yellowed, the glue that had once bound each photographic print to the page no longer sufficient to the task. But here, held within, was her history. She flicked through them, not ready to linger yet, wanting only to skim the surface of her childhood and to feel its unspecific warmth. Oh, look, yes, there they are at Borobudur in Java – a monkey on her skinny shoulders and a gap between her teeth. Now they are leaning on the rails of a P&O liner as it cruises through the Suez Canal, next she is hand-feeding a llama in the Peruvian Andes, and here they are standing beneath the golden dome of the mosque on Temple Mount.

  Then an image that still shocks her, still floods her with the abrupt confusion of her first encounter with injustice, her first confrontation with the brutalising power of poverty. It is Bombay (as it was then known) sometime in the 70s, and behind the cosy huddle of the Kluft family looms large the decorative façade of the Taj Mahal hotel (and what horrors that grand old institution has suffered since, Eloise regretted to think). They had been strolling along the high-smelling waterfront, having recently arrived in India. Eloise remembered the odd sensation of jet-lag, as if her head was in a balloon, as she had attempted to describe it to her mother.

  To the left of them in the photograph there is a beggar and he holds something aloft, balancing it precariously in the palm of his hand. It is a long bamboo pole and something sits above it. Oh god, yes, of course… Eloise remembered less the sight of the tiny toddler strapped into a chair atop this pole and more the sound of her cries. That child did not want to be there. That child was not enjoying the experience. Young Eloise had not understood how the girl’s father – how any father – could do such a thing.

  It took some considerable explaining by her mother to help her see that this man had little choice. That this action was his misguided way, perhaps, of loving the child and it was so that he might feed her. The fact that a father might not be able to feed his child other than by frightening and endangering her was something quite beyond Eloise’s six-year-old comprehension. She had come to understand the ever-present reality of deprivation all too well since then, but wondered now whether she had become too used to it, too inured to its harsh truth. Eloise worried again whether she did enough, or gave enough. Perhaps she should sponsor another child?

  She chose to park all the unpleasantness of the outside world for the moment and continued to flick through the precious legacy she had uncovered in that old metal trunk. Digging further, she found some of her parents’ own family albums, generations both English and Norwegian, captive in black and white, solemn and unsmiling as they sat through the laborious photographic process – until the happy advent of Instamatic, Kodacolor and a developer on every high street. Eventually Eloise came upon an album that she’d thought was long gone, donated to the Royal Anthropological Institute along with the rest of her mother’s academic photography.

  Within its first page was carefully preserved an old cover of National Geographic, a photographic study of the Padaung, those colourful women of the hill tribes of Burma with their ringed and elo
ngated necks. She looked at the date on the magazine – that particular expedition had come well before she was born, before her parents had married, at a time when the young Frances Fletcher would have been freer to travel, to risk and to commit to the work.

  As she turned the pages, Eloise came upon the Pueblos of New Mexico. A series of polaroid snapshots seemed to focus more on art, jewellery and pottery than on faces, though there were some scenes of the Buffalo dancers, and a few bashful smiles. Oh, yes, Eloise remembered now, that exquisite turquoise and silver inlaid neckpiece that had been gifted to her mother in acknowledgment of her sympathetic treatment of the camera-shy Kewa culture. They’d had a story that needed telling, but they had not wished to trade their souls for it.

  Then Eloise came across a series of pictures from Papua New Guinea. Of course, she thought, the de rigueur re-assessment (for any anthropologist of her mother’s era trying to make their mark) of Margaret Mead’s work on gender and culture. She remembered now how her mother liked to ‘quote’ her heroine, offering Mead’s apocryphal encouragement to her daughter whenever she felt dispirited by human frailty to ‘never doubt that a small group of thoughtful citizens can change this world. It is the only thing that ever has.’

  The pictures in this collection were both candid and insightful. Her mother had loathed any kind of cultural exploitation, her mission had always been one of understanding and then sharing that knowledge, but she had rarely been sentimental. Nevertheless, in all these images there was a certain intimacy, a relationship between the subject and the woman behind the lens. These seemed to be more photographs of friends than dispassionate observations. Perhaps this was why her father had held back this particular album?