Trio

by Geraldine Wooller

  It was very close to New Year and as usual she was thinking these thoughts in bed, and also remembering other New Year’s Eves. With fewer people around you, indeed almost no one left as we get older (if we get older) to celebrate it with, she wondered if New Year was meaningless in itself.

  There were people she could hear, not far from her front door, being optimistic, joyous, a little drunk, waiting for the fireworks, but will they be expecting the world to be a better place, or pitting their faith into becoming a better person, when the historical evidence shows that as far as wisdom goes we are not gaining any ground at all? Trying to make the future legitimate is the role of youth always, just as the old and dying have to take a part that is plagued by doubts. This was rather dispiriting to the aged, hearing time-worn sentiments brought out and dusted down, the speakers thinking they were coming up with freshly minted notions.

  Nevertheless she believed that the world was still invested with a lot of meaning because Celia for one would be here to look at the sky, grow passionate and tearful at music, grieve at the death of her cat. You can’t dismiss the world by any means just because you yourself no longer have the strength or capacity to enjoy it.

  She dozed a little finally, then sank into sleep for a couple of hours. Waking up but still half-buried in memory of Celia, the other day, who had broached the subject of Marcia’s thinness. Was there something seriously wrong with her? Celia wanted to know. Well there: it was the perfect opening for Marcia yet she made little of it, saying that there was a problem, and they were going to carry out some more tests on her lungs. The Celia of old would have looked straight at her and asked six pertinent questions, but seeing Marcia quickly, slightly impatiently perhaps, change the subject she honoured the silence. So alas, she didn’t give Celia the opportunity to say: Let me know about the tests; tell me what I can do.

  It was possible her old friend was being exquisitely tactful. Or fearful, because Celia had said nothing since. Marcia ran her hands over her once lovely body. The swellings were more evident as the disease gained ground. She had learned a few years ago, to her astonishment, that there was a place in the United States – Minnesota? – that had never repealed its earlier-established Ugly Laws: people deemed so unattractive as to cause distress to others were not allowed on the streets. This still holds, she believed. You’d be in your rights, in Minnesota, to have charged a person with cerebral palsy or facial port-wine birthmarks, for cluttering the public thoroughfares and forcing you to notice them. Perhaps even those with a crooked eye or a gammy leg were suspect. People who were quite stupid were OK, so long as they were personable. Good luck to them; very thick folk were despised enough by the bright, Marcia thought.

  And what is intelligence, in any case? Not the learning of facts and storing them neatly in your head. Such people are so often the most dimwitted: unaware of the possibilities in front of their very eyes. She remembered once in a restaurant with a group of people where a medico, to his cost, at the dessert stage, gave Celia an unsolicited explanation of the meaning of tira mi su. Celia had remarked, tucking into the delectable pudding, that yes, she spoke fluent Italian and would explain about tonsillectomies to him later on.

  She smiled to herself, lying in bed, thinking of old Cele. So uncompromising on the one hand, so tender and oversensitive on the other. Well, at least and at last they had met up again. She’d call Celia soon and suggest a long walk around the inner city, arm in arm like sisters, as in the old days.

  It would have been easy to have fallen in love with Celia and she didn’t know why she hadn’t, thinking of that rapturous look on her friend’s face when they listened to Puccini together. That is the very moment when we do fall in love, and perhaps the fact that Marcia remembered it so vividly proved that she had indeed always loved her friend, more than sexually. Sex had become irrelevant, and once long ago she never thought she’d think that! What remains, what one recalls, was the instant of knowing a moment like that: someone turning her head, or reaching forward to help someone – and we were lost again.

  Outside the window, as she proceeded to drag herself out of bed, a young lad suddenly cried out: ‘It’s not fair!’ – one of humankind’s two principal plaints, the other being ‘You don’t love me anymore!’ As for the latter she now knows that when love ends one goes down and through one plateau, and then another. She knows how it is, could write one of those smug little do-it-yourself books on Grief and Loss – several people already have. First there is the trough of misery where you have to hose down your ever-rising hope that one day things will be good again; following this is the not quite so bleak but still self-pitying period, the Why? stage. But then it occurs that one no longer has to listen to the whining reproaches of others. Or witness questionable personal habits. And eventually, in Marcia’s scheme, comes resignation, overwhelming relief and gradual rearrangement of the life that’s left.

  Some days later, early in the morning, Marcia gave her friend the news. Celia was asleep when the phone rang.

  ‘Hello?’ Celia’s voice was furry and deep.

  It was Marcia. The bumpity-bump buoyancy of her talk, up and down a scale with the ease of an actor. And of someone who has been up for some time. Sorry to wake you up at this ungodly hour on a weekend, Cele dear. You can’t be taught this kind of speech skill, thought Celia sleepily but wallowing in the pleasure of it.

  But what was this unfurling on the other end? Within seconds she was listening in dread, like a character in a classic suspense film, as though there was a fiend at the end of the line. And it was a fiend, via Marcia, though uttering worse than obscenities.

  ‘Thought I’d get you early, darling.’ Her friend now wearing her brisk voice. ‘To let you know it is quite serious apparently. I’ve had the tests done as I told you, and as the doctor feared, they are positive.’

  ‘The doctor feared – quite serious?’ scrambling around for her wits. ‘Hang on. You …’

  ‘Well, I feared too, more than he did of course,’ and the trace of that indrawn light laugh, but just a trace. The pause that followed seemed endless, and at the same time brief.

  ‘Oh Marse, oh Marcia, dear. Don’t die on me.’ There, it was out.

  ‘I have to, sweetie.’

  This is the worst thing about mortality. The selfish living who need to be consoled by the moribund, to be buoyed with phrases.

  ‘I’m just ringing James, no one else. Thought I’d get it over with early before you can object too much.’

  ‘But Marcia, I want to see you!’

  ‘You can see me, whenever you want to.’ She even sounded amused.

  Then they both hung up, each with her own concerns. Celia lay back and stared at her white ceiling that had witnessed not a few tears and fears. And there was her friend, being quite British about it, calling her when she hadn’t had time to arise from slumber, making the news-breaking even worse for the recipient, easier for the caller. Celia looked out of the bedroom window at a sullen sky, gathering its forces for a horrible day.

  Celia stood at the foot of the bed and thought that there was nothing but people having done with it lately. ‘What are you doing there, smiling?’ she said accusingly to the patient.

  ‘What one does. Laying past ghosts, paying my dues.’ Marcia holding her old friend’s gaze.

  Could it be possible that Marcia had brought this on herself, the hastening of her own death by an act of will? She had never liked to keep people waiting. Celia wanted to know exactly what she was feeling and Marcia simply looked at her because the energy it would take to tell her was no longer there. If she could, she’d tell her that it was a weariness of the kind that could only have come out of Hamlet. She would tell her that it was a mind-registering pain that was never obliterated and barely relieved by injections of morphine that numbed her into a worse state of nausea and darkness peppered by shadows, by malodorous and swift-moving spirits that meant she was hallucinating, or had in fact already gone to Hades along with the worst beings
on earth, and surely she hadn’t merited such an end, her dull mind tried to reason?

  Marcia opened her eyes and gave the remnant of that terrific smile of hers. Celia, gratitude rushing through her, moved forward but Marcia murmured, not wanting to be embraced:

  ‘No darling, please don’t come near. Not the time. I don’t think I smell very nice.’ Dear God, dear Celia, in the old days clumping around saying she had no one to love, too dense to see that Marcia couldn’t have loved anyone more, even though they never touched, other than in friendship. She sighed. With an effort she said, ‘Let’s talk of fine and funny things, darling. It’s too easy to be sad.’ Then lapsed into silence while Celia was allowed to at least hold her hand.

  But Celia can only feel spine-chilling sorrow as she gazes upon the sheet that covers her friend’s body, which she knows is distended all over like a pregnancy gone wrong, which indeed had occurred, once, many years ago. That was bumbling Mickey, not taking enough care of her. Celia had collected her from the clinic and taken her home as they both wept. ‘I think it’s murder, I don’t care what they say,’ said Marcia, and Celia had made her a cup of tea, knelt at her feet like the Magdalene. Celia had soaked Marcia’s feet in warm water and cut her toenails, tender ministrations, because her friend at that time was unable to bend down to attend to it herself.

  Marcia’s shoulders rose with the effort of trying to say something. When had the best times been? James’s parties: his inspiration in giving the music his all and their heartfelt response, faces shining – the quite elderly woman one year with, unforeseen, the strong, sweet voice of an angel. And what else? Italy of course, and not for the trumpet player: did Celia have the same memories of that holiday as she did? Summer flowers: poppies and broom and others whose names she didn’t know, and the country smells, raw, organic and fresh. Sandrina’s dog pattering up to meet the strangers – no guard dog this – as if he’d been sent with a message but when he reached them couldn’t remember what it was but wagged his tail just the same.

  Marcia standing at the window, already dressed, was looking out onto the Calabrian landscape, misty with summer rain, the weather finally cooling. ‘It’s a beautiful cold morning,’ she’d said to Celia, murmuring it almost to herself, words of approbation for the mystery of life, the unfolding day.

  She looked up, now. ‘The bank in Rome,’ she murmured. Celia smiled nodded, then grinned.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ said Marcia, closing her eyes.

  They had tried entering a bank which must have been the first in the land, in the world! with the latest top tech security installations. The lackadaisical guard roused himself from leaning on the wall outside and sauntered over to them, amiable enough, and showed them how to work the door to enter the bank. Once inside, there was another narrow revolving door which issued mechanical farting noises along with a red light which also bleeped, telling them they didn’t have access. Yet there were people inside, making transactions with staff. The guard who had taken up his position on the pavement opposite, propping up a low wall, spotted their dilemma after their third attempt. He re-entered the bank and pointed to the small safes with keys where they were meant to stow their bags and valuables (and guns and dynamite) before gaining entry to the inner sanctum. Thankfully they laughed their gratitude.

  After divesting themselves of potential danger to the bank, they tumbled finally through the revolving door and into the marble spaces of the bank proper and began an hour of negotiation with the teller. Strictly speaking, the officer at the Banca del Popolo explained to them, these travellers’ cheques were meant to be cashed in at an exchange, at a cambio, rather than at this bank. Just the same, they were prepared to help, he added miserably.

  Once the calculation was accomplished Marcia was given her lire. But it was only half of the money she needed and she now politely tendered the other half, which was in fact cash owing to Celia, from Marcia and Mickey, brought from England, The sorrowful teller hadn’t realised there would be two lots to be done, but he sighed and went through the whole process again. Celia gave it a cursory look and saw that it was wrong; it was mistakenly short-changed. She pointed it out to them and the teller looked at the money and the receipt with such consternation that the error must have been genuine. At this point Celia was all for giving up: ‘Let’s go, it’s not really right but I don’t mind; let’s get out of here,’ but Marcia calmly persisted, saying ‘No, it’s not right; they’ve given us considerably too little,’ and with no Italian at all Marcia smiled and smiled and shook her head charmingly at the teller and pointed to the figures he’d done correctly for herself, and those for her second transaction. The mistake was self-evident.

  Had there ever been in the Western world so many conversations between tellers and supervisors, so many explanations, gesticulations, remonstrations, in order to get these very few hundreds of dollars changed? But eventually it was accomplished and they were able to quit the bank by reversing their entering procedure and stumbling out, bent over laughing, into the sunlight.

  They each respectively saw now scenes like this, the minutiae of their lives which are, after all, the important bits: the merry times, small mercies that we recall at the end of youth, the tiny manageable pieces. Marcia tried to smile and Celia’s eyes glistened, clasping her friend’s hand, which had the texture of paper. If only she knew how much this wrings me out, thought Marcia, even smiling, holding Celia’s gaze. She finally looked away, went into a reverie that placed her in the Italian countryside where the birds do more than whistle and tweet; she and Celia had finally heard the birdsong, the fabled nightingale that was real after all, doing something in three-quarter time, showing off its considerable repertoire.

  And Celia, also still in Italy in her mind, registered the young Marcia – a travelling companion par excellence for the volatile Celia – untroubled by anyone else, unemphatic, living inside herself, even when surrounded by people. Marcia, reading a book in a still attitude, attending to her smalls or just sitting in the sunshine, was wholly herself. At night on that holiday they sat like any two spinsters, reading their books companionably. Computers were in early stages, there was no television, no radio, no traffic noise, no telephone. They were turned in upon their own resources of conversation and reading and walking. It was the most unforced and memorable holiday Celia had ever known.

  The dwelling that was Sandrina’s house, where they stayed before moving into the village, was large and comfortable, but the road to it was made of clay, more of a wide pathway than a road, with ruts and potholes. They would visit Sandrina’s by bus from the village every so often. The nearest farm just a couple of kilometres away had chooks and white cows and their dog. Whenever the foreign women passed by, the owners gave a brief salute of good morning and went about their tasks, country style. The day had its rhythms and they had to be met. A neighbouring child with her cat and the dog all paid their respects each day.

  But Marcia is by now going back further than Italy. What more can we ever expect of life than love, when you’re working like a demon and thinking you’re getting somewhere? There is a space inside her – is it in her head or in her soul? – where she is in momentary relief from pain, to the extent that she can think quite clearly. It must be just at that moment when the morphine takes effect, verging on the delicious. So she is able to be curious for a second or two as to when she’ll slip away. Oh death, where is thy sting? Grave where is thy victory? Was it Alexander Pope or Saint Paul who said that? Possibly both. But she gets their drift. Too many of us see him as the enemy, the reaper in black with his sickle so sharp … well, so deadly. She is inclined to see him now as sensible poets did, e.g. Christina Rosetti: Sweet life, but sweeter death that passeth by. One should think of the advantages: No more listening to newsreaders putting stress on the wrong syllable; no more having to hear people slurping from bottles of water in the cinema; no more being woken up by the leaf-blower nearby – aural irritations, all. On the other hand, no more watching Celi
a’s strict demeanour turning into a smile again, no more talking and drinking red wine with her, and here comes the blackness, the dark of a London theatre and the lights are down at the end of the play. Then they came up again and she, the star for once, emerges from behind the curtain, to step downstage. Take another bow, make it gracious, oh do, but so exhausted she can barely smile at the audience who are now on their feet applauding. Well for heaven’s sake, what’s come over them: she’s done better than that before without this fuss. She hardly feels able to acknowledge it, but does another slow deep bow, then steps aside to hold out a welcoming arm for support cast to join her.

  The chapel was too small. Mrs Thompson came, invited or not, and got the last seat in the back row. Some students and an older woman – perhaps a parent – came late, breathlessly, and the woman went to sit on the floor. James immediately got to his feet and offered his seat. He didn’t even know why he was here when all these younger people were dying. Luke came too, though no one knew who he was. He arrived late, having set off early but lost his way and he stood with his back to the wall, with others. A chap who looked remarkably like Mickey, though of course it couldn’t have been, arrived in motley as though he were on his way to the circus – patched multi-coloured pants and his hair spiky and bleached white. Was he at the wrong funeral? He sat with his head bowed. Do people attend funerals looking like that because they’re being defiant? Celia asked James later. She knew that Marcia would have said that they came like that because they thought they looked splendid, and you had to admit, he did. Someone in a wheelchair she had never seen before came. Bouncy music that sounded like Raindrops Keep Falling on my Head came through the system. James moved about on his chair and scratched his neck at this, but Marcia would have approved, indeed it was she who’d staged it ah-ah-ah: a secular ceremony. Humanity was at the heart of it, represented by the best in humankind with poetry, music and a few lofty aspirations, but no god-bothering.