Virtual Strangers

by Lynne Barrett-Lee

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘He had a diabetic hypo, apparently. And then fractured his skull just to finish the job.’

  ‘Poor old sod.’

  She’s been drinking, obviously. It’s now eleven thirty. Fourteen hours since she waved me off, full of vicarious excitement. Fourteen hours. How many has she spent of them rewinding her life? Then I remember that Phil phoned her to find out what time to expect me. How untimely. What a shock to have to talk to Phil just as she’s dredged out his memory and dusted it off.

  ‘Look,’ I say. ‘Can I call you back in a minute? I must get poor Ben sorted.’

  But Ben’s voice rattles out from the other side of the kitchen door. He is anxious to reassert his masculine autonomy after his little cry in the car.

  ‘Mum, I’m fine,’ he mumbles through his mouthful. ‘Talk to Rose. I’m going to bed now. I really don’t need any sorting.’

  So I do, blowing kisses as he thunders up the stairs.

  ‘You okay?’ I ask Rose.

  ‘Me? What you asking me for, stupid? I’m fine. Fine and dandy. Clear, Charlie. Okay. It’s you lot I’m worried about.’

  ‘Okay? As in -’

  ‘As in no cancer. You see? Nothing to worry about.’

  ‘Oh, Rose! Thank God! You must be so relieved!’

  ‘ -ish, Charlie. Relieved-ish. It’s like it was all a dream now. Funny.’

  There is a silence. A cough.

  I wish I could wave a wand and bring her here instantly. I know what she most needs is someone to be with. But not Matt. Not right now.

  ‘Oh, Rose -’

  ‘Come on.’ She says sternly. ‘Buck up, Charlie girl. I want to know all about you.’

  ‘I’m okay,’ I say. ‘And Ben’s fine. And Dad’s got his head bandaged.

  ‘Poor old love. And diabetic. What’s with the diabetic? You never said he was diabetic. Christ, the man lives on jam!’

  ‘Quite. I didn’t know he was diabetic. I can’t believe he never got around to telling me about it. But he’s not very accepting of illness at the best of times, so I guess not discussing it is his way of dealing with it. Anyway, it’s not as bad as it sounds. It’s controlled by tablets. No insulin injections or anything. Just tablets and a careful observance of diet. Which he obviously failed to observe today.’

  ‘Careful observance. I like that. Sounds faintly fetishistic.’ She laughs. A bit wildly. I wish I was drunk. I make a mental note: must get drunk very soon.

  ‘And what about you?’ I say. ‘Are you alright really?’

  She knows what I mean. ‘For God’s sake!’ she snaps. ‘Don’t start on that again. If I thought for one instant I’d have this sort of nonsense from you, Charlie, I’d never have told you the first thing about it.’ There’s another silence, into which she’s struggling not to put sobs, then she rallies.

  ‘It’s all frothing on the surface a bit, actually. But don’t worry; it’ll subside again soon.’

  ‘Oh, Rose -’

  ‘Oh, nothing. It’s just sentimentality. It doesn’t mean anything. Just, well, you know -’

  ‘Phil ringing you like that must have been a bit -’

  ‘Tosh, Charlie Simpson, and you just stop all this right now! I phoned up to find out what it is you’ve been doing all afternoon. At least, the edited highlights. I don’t need the squishy bits. Come on. Let’s have the debrief.’

  I have as little stomach for talking about it as she has for talking about Phil. But I have to say something. But what?

  ‘Which reminds me,’ I stall her. ‘What was all that embassy stuff? I didn’t have a clue what Phil was on about.’

  ‘God, yes! I just didn’t know what to say! It was the first thing that came into my head!’

  ‘An embassy?’

  ‘The Nepalese one. A bit of inspired invention on my part, actually, now I come to think of it. You know, to go and sort out your visa or something.’

  ‘Do I need one?’

  ‘God, I don’t know! But it sounded plausible. You might do.’

  ‘I suppose. Shame I told Dad I was on a shopping spree.’

  ‘Oh, he won’t have said anything. Would he now, really?’

  ‘I suppose not.’ I wasn’t sure if she meant my Dad or Phil. Either way, I supposed it didn’t really matter. There would be no further need for deceptions such as these.

  ‘So?’ she says. ‘Well? Go on then, tell all.’

  Saturday. Bluuurrrrghhh.

  When I finished telling Rose the sorry story of my encounter with Adam, I felt so tearful and distressed again that I didn’t even dare go in and kiss Ben goodnight for fear of drowning him. Reason enough, I thought ruefully, not to do this stuff again. Ever. But he should be, I hoped fervently, already asleep.

  Instead, I stripped off and buried myself under my duvet, where a party of nocturnal bed-living insects had some sort of illegal rave disco on my face.

  At least that’s the only reasonable explanation I could come up with for the state of the face that greeted me when I woke up the next morning. To say I looked the pits would be to cast a stain on the entire South Wales coal mining heritage.

  ‘Wow, Mum, you look dreadful! Ha!’ said Ben, clearly recovered from his traumas. He chomped cheerfully on a toasted chocolate spread sandwich, shaking his head from side to side, like a masticating camel.

  ‘Why “ha!”?’ I said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘How d’you get like that anyway?’

  ‘Stress.’

  ‘Stress? What stress have you got?’

  For once I was glad of his lack of adult insight. He’d have more than enough of this sort of stress yet to come.

  ‘By the way,’ he said. ‘Dan called yesterday. He’s coming to stay next weekend if it’s okay with you.’

  Which made me feel a bit better, and needed, and focussed, and that order, of a sort, could now be restored.

  No cakes baked today, of course, but I manage to unearth four serviceable raisin flapjacks, so take those instead, wrapped in a square of tin foil. I visit Dad first, but I have been usurped, armchair-wise, by the proprietorial Hester, who is making something unidentifiable from some brown wool and a crochet hook. And rather than hover at the foot end and feel irritable, I decide I will detour to see Minnie instead.

  ‘My lovely girl!’ she greets me. I’m tempted to feel sniffy about the lack of similar gushy felicitations from my own flesh and blood father, but I am trying to nurture sufficient maturity to take it in my stride, like thread veins. Minnie looks well and fit and can now, she says, shuffle to the day room and back. She’s still barking, of course, but no less dear for that.

  ‘Minnie, look at you!’ I say. ‘Haven’t you come on!’

  ‘I’ve no truck with bed pans,’ she observes, with some acuity. ‘And you’ll not find me lacking where a bit of grit is concerned.’ She points to my package. ‘Victoria sponge?’

  ‘Flapjacks.’

  ‘Don’t eat them.’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Not since the business with the war memorial. I always said they’d be hard pushed to capture Albert. And I was right, wasn’t I? No telling, you see.’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘And not one of them found, you know. The British Museum will have something to say about it. It’s the Elgin Marbles all over again, you mark my words. So what have you been up to? Did you water my euphorbia?’

  ‘I’ve been staying at my friend’s house. She’s been poorly, like you, so I went down to help her out with her children. You know Rose. I’ve mentioned her before, Minnie. The one who moved down to Canterbury.’

  ‘And that young lad of yours?’

  ‘Ben?’

  ‘No!’ she tuts. ‘Your young chappie. Are you married yet? There’s nothing to be gained by a long courtship these days.’

  She’s been fighting with the foil so I take it and open it for her. ‘D’you know what,’ I say. ‘I’ve come to the conclusion just lately that there’s nothing to be ga
ined in courtship at all. Just grief. I’m done with it.’

  She hands me a flapjack.

  ‘Do as you would be done by and you’ll get your reward in heaven. Now, can you pick out the raisins, dear? Darned things always play merry hell with my plate.’

  As I walk back down the ward again, the sister’s voice reaches me.

  ‘Who’s that then, Minnie? A friend from the Maltings?’

  I hear Minnie chuckle.

  ‘That’s my Iris,’ she answers.

  I find myself smiling. I mean, who does that hurt?

  As Hester has also brought a box of Thornton’s diabetic selection and a copy of The People’s Friend with her, I do not feel it wise to stay long with my father. More than five minutes worth of hearing about how a shirtwaister flatters the more mature figure, and I know I’ll be weeping and wailing again. Cannot believe I’ve been crying so much. Decide, instead, that I will drive down to the Maltings for the spot of detective work I’d promised myself.

  Minnie’s room is at the end of a short carpeted corridor, with a window that looks over an expanse of flat lawn. There’s a forsythia in bloom, which will please her no end, and, in the distance, a radio mast, which will obviously not. Her two cases stand in the corner, unopened, beside a chest of drawers topped off with a small bunch of early daffodils. Despite knowing they probably have a policy on the subject, I feel a stab of irritation; given the circumstances, it seems a pity the staff didn’t bother to unpack.

  I pull the cases onto the bed and clunk them both open. A musty smell mushrooms up; more evocative than unpleasant. There is little here in the way of clothing, but what there is I transfer on to the small clutch of hangers, or fold and find homes for in the large chest of drawers. I’d taken Minnie’s washing bag and nightwear down to the hospital, and all that’s left in one case now is an old onyx soap dish, inside which is a ring and a tiny dry sliver of soap. I close the lid and push the case under the bed. In the other however, is a large shoe box full of papers; most of which date back over the last fifty odd years. I have no wish to pry, so I flick through these quickly ; it’s only references to Edward that I’m interesting in finding. There are photographs too, some of them so old they look nibbled, and pretty soon I find myself looking into the dark eyes of a little girl who I know must be Iris; her hair tumbles to her hips and she is barefoot . The picture is black and white, but I can see she’s quite tanned, and the foliage around her is tropical and lush. I put it to one side to take back to the hospital, and continue my search for the mysterious son.

  Which bears fruit before long. Inside an envelope I finally come upon the postcards; the ones the social worker had told me Edward periodically sends. She is right - they’re from a wide variety of locations. Sydney Opera House, Ayers Rock, what looks like Easter Island, and all are written in a small, round, backward-sloping hand. They’re signed Ted, although Minnie always calls him Edward. But then my father would no more call me Charlie than fly. I flick through a few of them, scanning the sentences. I’m aware again that the words are really none of my business, but there is little here bar the usual touristy stuff.

  There are a good thirty odd postcards in the envelope, and my short inspection reveals four scribbled addresses; two in Australia, one in New Zealand, and one from somewhere unpronounceable in Singapore. Any of which could be a start. And all of which I can write to. I have no dates, of course; Minnie has ripped off all the stamps, and in doing so, the top right hand chunk of each card.

  I gather up the postcards and the photo of Iris, clear the cases away and head off for home.

  Chapter 23

  Sunday.

  ‘How went the Florence Nightingale bit, then?’

  Make a mental note never again to answer a ringing phone. I will in future leave it to ring itself to exhaustion, before availing myself of the convenient 1471 facility and making a policy decision whether to pursue the conversation or otherwise. Because really don’t feel like talking to Rhys right now.

  ‘Hello,’ I say, wondering how he knows about it. Or even, in fact, which ‘it’ he refers to. He expands.

  ‘Your lad told me last week you were off down in Kent. Good time? Not too frazzling?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘Tiring. But, yes, lovely to see her.’ I can’t seem to find any conversation to use. He clears his throat.

  ‘Well,’ he says, ‘reason I called was to ask if you’d had any thoughts yet.’

  ‘Any thoughts?’

  ‘About the dinner. My invite? Week before last?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  A pause. Then, ‘Thought so. Didn’t get the message. Which would explain why you didn’t answer my email as well.’

  Email? Groan. I don’t want emails. ‘No,’ I say. ‘No. I didn’t get either. Well, certainly not an invitation. I haven’t looked to see if I had any emails last week.’ (Will eat a spider sandwich before doing that.)

  ‘Not to worry,’ he says. ‘Just that there’s a bit of a charity bash in town weekend after next and I er...wondered if you’d like to er...dust a frock down or something and, er...come along to it with me. I recall you telling me how you could do with a bit of...well, anyway, what do you think? Are we on for it? I don’t want to press, of course, but I’m off to a conference in Denver on Thursday, and I should really RSVP before I go.’

  Dinner. Hmmm. Charity dinner. Hmmm. That dinner.

  Gulp.

  ‘So what do I do, Rose? What do I do?’

  ‘Go to it.’

  ‘Bah! How can I? I’m just going to burst into tears all over the place and get myself in a complete state. Besides, it’s not fair on Rhys.’

  ‘Then don’t go.’

  ‘But I feel I should now he’s asked me. Especially as he’s been so kind. And if he’s going off on a conference now, it’s going to be a bit late for him to ask someone else, isn’t it?’

  ‘I shouldn’t flatter yourself that your going is the biggest deal in his life to date, Charlie. He’s a grown up. I’m sure he could go on his own.’

  ‘Which is all the more reason to go, come to think about it. If it’s not such a big deal then I don’t need to feel so guilty about it , do I?’

  ‘Then do go. Show Adam what you’re made of. Show him you mean what you say. Show him it’s over.’

  ‘Over? It hardly even started! Anyway, this is not supposed to be about Adam, is it? This is supposed to be about me moving on, isn’t it? So I should go with Rhys, shouldn’t I?’

  ‘I don’t know! Look, Charlie, do you actually like Rhys Hazelton?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do. We have a lot in common. And he’s a nice, friendly, intelligent, uncomplicated, single bloke.’

  But not Adam.

  Monday. Nine ten.

  First day of the rest of my life in yet another new (and, this time, more sensible) incarnation. As a person for whom the sanctity of marriage is far more important than the selfish pursuit of personal gratification without regard to the consequences. I can kid myself if I like. I am in full PMT flow. And I am also decided. Await Davina.

  But cannot believe some people. Particularly cannot believe Hugh bloody Chatsworth, as he has left a card (a nasty soft focus photo of a croissant and coffee pot) , plus a box of Bendincks Bittermints from Sainsburys on full view at the front of his desk, the card carefully angled so that the name Rutland leaps out of the mire of his cess-pit desk-top, like a malevolent enemy periscope. I pick it up and read it.

  My dear Hugh,

  Just a quick note to thank you so much for expediting the sale of our darling Ditchers. Can’t tell you what a weight it is off our minds to know that it’s going to be home to such lovely people. Hope they will know as much joy as Mr Rutland and I have. Keep in touch. And thanks again - you’ve been a treasure. Best wishes, Meredith.

  Meredith? I am tortured momentarily by an image of the Rutlands screwing on the grass in their ha ha, then reflect that a woman who is named after a biscuit and who also calls her house “Darling Ditchers” pro
bably doesn’t screw; just has daddy’s special cuddles or some such bilge. And I get it. I get it. They are complete racist bastards. Their reluctance re. Habib’s offer all falls into place. Hope it turns out that a previously unrecorded plethora of public highways is scheduled for the locale forthwith. Hope a new international airport is in consultation stage as I read. I take two Bendincks Bittermints to consume with my morning coffee. Hope the flavour doesn’t infect my psyche too much.

  Ten twenty.

  Reorganise the window display to ensure that properties on my own file are in prominent positions and properties on Hugh’s are in dim corners at base. I realise that this is an utterly pointless exercise, but feel markedly better for doing so. Decide to fill a quiet moment by telephoning Social Services to discuss the Minnie/Edward situation. Feel not the slightest smidgin of guilt about use of the company phone as I am, by rough reckoning, no small amount down on my deserved commission status, plus a zillion points up on the martyrdom scale.

  Get through to Bernice via a few bars of Finlandia, an exhortation to hang on, and only four people. The rest must be herding the current week’s jobseekers into pens.

  ‘Hello, my lovely,’ she says. ‘Funny you should call today. I was just filing the paperwork for Mrs Drinkwater’s house sale. Have you seen her?’

  ‘On Saturday. And she’s doing really well. She’s almost mobile again.’

  ‘Fair play, she’s a one!’

  She pauses for a benevolent titter. As people generally do where old mad ladies are concerned. Sometimes not even mad ones.

  ‘I was calling about Edward,’ I say. ‘I had a chat with your colleague the other week, and I thought I’d have a go at trying to track him down for her. I’ve managed to find some postcards with addresses on them, but I thought I should ring you before sending a letter, because I believe there are a couple you’ve already tried. That’s if it’s not too much trouble, of course.’

  ‘Not at all, lovely. Hold on and I’ll dig out the file.’

  I spend the five minutes while waiting for Bernice to return adding a cartoon tadpole to the logo on my Willie JJ scrap pad.

  ‘Here we are,’ she says at last.