Isobel on the Way to the Corner Shop

by Amy Witting

  In spite of the blackness and bleakness, she was relieved. They were safety. Better to lose now than to be always anxious, waiting for the blow to fall. Robbie was safe, too. Imagine Robbie’s cheerful, direct gaze reaching into that black desert.

  She couldn’t finish the pie after all. She threw it into the gutter and walked on until light and the sound of known voices drew her through the open door of a pub lounge.

  She bought a beer at the bar though her gorge rose at the smell of it. The lounge was a small room, nearly empty. Seven guests from the aborted party at the McIvors’ were sitting round two small tables pushed together.

  In spite of the empty spaces, two withered, brightly coloured old women were sitting sipping gin close by, as if they needed and got some comfort from the crowding.

  She wanted after all to sit alone, but the group was moving chairs to let her in. They acknowledged her with brief smiles, then went back to the talk about Liza.

  Was this a genuine breakdown, or a way of telling Duncan she was overworked? Why not both? Wasn’t a breakdown always a way of telling somebody something?

  ‘I feel so guilty,’ said one of the women.

  Perhaps Liza had had that in mind, too.

  ‘But it was the standard she set,’ said another. ‘I never dared to offer help. It was Liza the perfect cook, Liza the perfect hostess.’

  Isobel drank her beer. It was not too bad. At least it wasn’t going to make her sick. Indeed, she was beginning to think that it was very good. It tasted of things as they were, strong, bitter, melancholy.

  ‘But why hadn’t Liza told Duncan, for heaven’s sake, that the work was too much for her?’

  ‘Perhaps she had, and he hadn’t listened, so she was driven to this form of communication.’

  Liza, Liza! Isobel was sick of the sound of her name.

  ‘Well, perhaps it was a way of communicating, but not a very sane way, surely.’

  If they knew what it was like to be mad…

  ‘If you knew what it was like to be mad,’ said a loud, angry voice that brought sudden silence. ‘If you knew what it was like, not being able to say, “I am I.” Being taken over, that’s it. The other, the secret thing using your mouth to speak through.’

  ‘I say, calm down,’ said a voice beside her.

  She knew then that it was herself speaking but she didn’t care. Let them find out. What joy, what marvellous relief it was to say the words.

  ‘It’s no help to set your teeth and fight it. It’s smarter than you. Bigger and stronger. And it’s everything you hate. But you’re there. That’s what they don’t see, that you’re there. You’re watching and you can’t do anything. A fly on the wall, that’s what you are.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

  ‘And the rest of it, the muddle. Walls around you that aren’t walls, and what you think is a door is all the wall there is.’

  She was proud of that, and was hurt when the man beside her said, ‘I don’t follow you. How about letting it go for the moment?’

  She tried again, speaking to him particularly.

  ‘It’s being a situation, do you see? Not a live person, but a live situation that uses you—whatever you are—no, a morality play. A morality play, you see, that uses everything that comes to act itself out. That you can’t get away from by saying I, no use saying that.’

  He opened his mouth and closed it again. The others had vanished into a sunken background from which voices came across an invisible barrier. A haha. That was just the name for it.

  Oh, my God…what on earth…can’t somebody?

  She raised her voice at them, coldly.

  ‘It’s no use trying to beat madness with reason, either. Madness is reason, reason gone wild.’

  The man beside her was nodding as if he was hypnotised.

  ‘Now listen,’ she said to him, and had to giggle, because it was like saying to a large, pale praying mantis, ‘Now be eaten.’

  ‘Now listen. I know you are alive like me. But it’s a bab…It’s abstract. I know by eye. I see you. I know by ear.’

  ‘So do we know by ear. Do we ever!’

  Trouble in the haha. She quelled it with a glance.

  Now they were all visible, all staring. The two old women at the next table were staring too.

  She must have fresh air at once.

  Graciously, she said, ‘Will you excuse me? I’m afraid…’

  She did not stop to tell them what it was she feared. Outside in the cool air, the world swung heavily through a small arc and settled back into place.

  An arm went round her and held her unpleasantly tight. She struggled against it.

  A harsh voice said, ‘Now then, lovey. You stick with me. Don’t want to get yourself run over, do you?’

  Whatever gave her that idea?

  Protesting was too much trouble. She allowed herself to be led across the street to the park.

  As soon as they had halted, the world swung again.

  She leaned out of the woman’s arms and vomited.

  The woman thought that a clever, praiseworthy thing to do.

  ‘That’s right, lovey. You bring it up, my darling. Come on, that’s it.’

  She tried to get away, to plunge into the security of the grass.

  The arms tightened.

  ‘Not there, love. Come on, my little darling. My own little girl, you come and sit with me and hold your dear little head up. Now wait. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  She did not have enough energy to escape.

  The woman came back with a wet handkerchief, wiped her mouth with it and held it against her forehead.

  ‘There. You’ll be right in a minute, love.’

  Christ. This must be the comic hit of the evening. Miss Isobel Callaghan with unknown admirer.

  She put the hand with the wet handkerchief away from her, saying coldly, ‘I think you must be thinking of somebody else.’

  The hand vanished.

  The woman uttered a shocked, discordant laugh, then said bitterly, ‘Who isn’t, I should like to know?’ She added stiffly, ‘Sorry, I’m sure.’

  Isobel said, ‘Is that right?’

  There was no answer.

  ‘Thinking about somebody else—is that right?’

  Again, there was no answer. Did she deserve one?

  They sat on the bench silent and apart, birds of a feather.

  The woman said at last, seeming casual, ‘It’s more your stomach than your head, I think. What did you have for tea? You didn’t have anything much to bring up.’

  ‘Half a bunch of roses.’

  She wasn’t as drunk as all that, not any more. She was trying to pass off that insult as a piece of drunken nonsense.

  ‘You and your roses!’

  The woman’s voice was easier.

  ‘Thank you very much. I’ll be all right now.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ The woman hesitated, but she was eager to escape. ‘You’re not going to go to sleep here?’

  ‘No. I’ll start walking to the tram stop in a minute.’

  She got up and stood steady.

  ‘Well, if you’re sure. I’ll be off then.’

  ‘And thanks a lot.’

  ‘Don’t mention it.’

  As she watched the woman walk away, Isobel said to herself in astonishment, ‘I know the words now. I know the words.’

  She woke early next morning feeling well.

  After all, she hadn’t had so very much to drink. It had been the empty stomach and that last fatal beer that had caused the trouble. After she had got rid of the beer in the park, she had recovered fairly quickly.

  It was a pity about that scene in the pub, but she need never see those people again, and she could not bring herself to regret the outburst. Whatever she had said seemed to have cleared her mind. It had been like the bursting of a boil and the resultant stream of nasty matter. Pity about the spectators. Grandma used to say, ‘Well, we all have to eat our peck of dirt.’ That was part of theirs
and she wished them better luck in future.

  Meanwhile she had work to do.

  She got up, had hurried recourse to the slop bucket and the washbasin, took her topcoat off the bed where it had been serving as an extra blanket, put it on over her nightdress and rolled a sheet of paper into the typewriter.

  She began to type.

  The other woman had moved away. Anna was standing alone. It was now or never for George. He took up the plate of sandwiches and crossed the room to stand before her.

  ‘Anna,’ he said, bowing with some formality, ‘will you accept a sandwich as a token of my sincere devotion?’

  Anna looked at him thoughtfully.

  ‘What’s in them?’

  ‘Ham and cheese, I think.’ He added boldly, ‘I wish it could be larks’ tongues.’

  Anna’s gaze had not wavered.

  She said clearly and firmly, ‘I am prepared to settle for what is there.’

  ‘Well,’ said George, ‘that’s that, then.’

  They were both smiling wide, foolish smiles.

  ‘Don’t you think you’d better take a sandwich? I mean, as well as everything else.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Of course.’

  She took one, nodding and laughing.

  ‘I’d better offer them round. But I’ll be back,’ said George.

  And that was that.

  That was that for George and Anna. Anna knew how. Anna was no Isobel.

  In that dead centre there was after all a little movement, a stirring of breath like a sigh.

  I

  BUS STOP TO SAINT URSULA’S

  On the third day of what she must now call the illness, she woke to the immediate knowledge of her problem.

  She had no food left. Last night she had crumbled the last slice of bread into the last bowl of soup. At some time today, she had to get to that corner shop. No food left and no-one to send on an errand.

  A difficult situation.

  She was quite alone. How, in this world full of people, did one get to be quite alone? It wasn’t a natural state of affairs. One had to work at it. She had been working at it for some time, it seemed, shutting doors behind her, one after another.

  Slammed doors, panic flights, rejections…

  One couldn’t blame Aunt Noelene. Since the death of Mrs Callaghan, Aunt Noelene had given support, had paid her fees at Business College, helped her with money, meals and hand-me-down clothes. It could not be welcome news that she had left Lingards and meant to work part-time and try her hand at writing.

  ‘You’re no better than the rest of them,’ she had said with contempt and disgust. ‘Don’t come running to me when you’re in trouble, that’s all.’

  Well, this was trouble and she mustn’t go running to Aunt Noelene. She wasn’t going back until she had something to show for it, like a book with her name on the cover.

  Certainly she had never meant to shut the door on Margaret. They had got on well enough, better than a lot of sisters, being too different ever to clash. It had been the wedding invitation, the impersonal printed invitation card to Margaret’s wedding that had done the damage. Isobel had not even known that it was an insult until Aunt Noelene had told her so, reading it aloud and fuming:

  ‘Mr and Mrs W.J. Campbell of

  Whitefields, Melville Plains

  have pleasure in announcing

  the marriage of their niece

  Margaret Anne

  —not even Callaghan! Not even Callaghan! That shows you where we stand! And you ought to be a bridesmaid. Her only sister and you’re not even invited to stay in the house!’

  ‘A sister who isn’t a bridesmaid would be a bit of an embarrassment staying in the house,’ Isobel had said. ‘And you know, it wouldn’t have been practical. I couldn’t afford the time off work, let alone the dress. Margaret would know that.’

  ‘It wouldn’t have hurt Yvonne to give you the dress.’ An odd turn of phrase, for Aunt Noelene knew that such an outlay would cause her sister considerable pain. ‘But that’s Yvonne for you. Spends money wherever it shows, and as mean as cat’s meat everywhere else. And this is the first you’ve heard, even of Margaret being engaged?’

  ‘Of course I’d have told you if I’d known. But I was the one who stopped writing, you know. There never seemed to be anything to say.’

  Nothing to say in answer to Margaret’s reports of her wonderful new life with Aunt Yvonne—tennis parties, picnics, dances, evening dresses, boyfriends…

  ‘Not true,’ she had added. ‘I was plain damned jealous.’

  Not so much jealous as conscious of an unhealthy hunger for a way of life she mustn’t long for. She didn’t think she grudged it to Margaret.

  Aunt Noelene had said, with a heavy sigh, ‘I know the feeling. It’s winner take all, isn’t it? Well, I’ll send a cheque and you can just return the compliment. Send a card. Inability to accept. Tit for tat!’

  So Isobel had sent the card and almost at once had regretted it. She could have written to Margaret and wished her well, she could even have packed up a heavy cut lead crystal flat cake plate, bought at staff discount from Lingard Brothers, and sent that with her best wishes. It would have been the correct response, even if the snub had been deliberate, as Isobel was sure it was not. There was no malice in Margaret. Finding the correct response at the correct moment was the problem. Too late Isobel understood that she and Margaret were being drawn into the long quarrel of their elders.

  She hadn’t expected to miss the people in the office so much, Frank and Olive, Nell and Sandra, the new girl. Isobel had found an unexpected satisfaction in being no longer the latest comer. She and Olive had become almost friends, and Frank had been a protector as well as an amusing companion. Of course they had thought her odd, translating German and reading poetry at lunch time, but they had accepted her with all her peculiarities. And now she understood the importance of being expected, having somewhere to go every day. Daily bread. It meant a little more than food for the belly.

  She had slammed the door on that familiar world. She would be too embarrassed ever to go back.

  It was no use appealing to Mrs Foster. Mrs Foster had a loyalty to misery which Isobel admired, but she never counted Isobel among its victims.

  What about Mr Lynch? Could she crawl down and knock at his door and cry for help?

  The thought would have made her laugh if laughter didn’t hurt her head so much.

  She had almost had her own lover. It had come close.

  That was worse than a slammed door. A slammed door leaves live people behind it. She would write a poem one day, in Robbie’s honour, though he would not know of it: An elegy for lovelight.

  Oh, for God’s sake! You’ve got no food and there you lie, thinking about writing a poem. You have to get up, and wash and dress, and what’s more, there’s that bucket to empty.

  She hadn’t emptied the bucket for two days. It would be too heavy to carry. That would mean a very careful operation, transferring urine from bucket to po to lighten the load, emptying bucket, returning to transfer urine from po to bucket…

  She raised her head and hastily lowered it again to her pillow.

  Aspirin. She did have aspirin. Within reach, in her handbag by the bed.

  She groped, found the packet, swallowed two tablets dry, and waited.

  She had read about an old Marquise who had starved to death in a garret in the Palace of Versailles. Nobody knew she was there.

  Three old ladies locked in the lavatory…they were there from Monday to Saturday…The tune droned through her head.

  Fear got her to her feet. Not so bad. Never so bad once you got to your feet.

  She pulled on pants and sweater and tried to lift the bucket. It was, as she had expected, too heavy to lift. She assembled po, enamel mug and the cloth to cover her nose and mouth against the ammoniac stench, and set to work, moving with care. There was plenty of time. Even after that long lie-in and the retrospective, which had done little to cheer her, it was still on
ly half past eight. Now the po was full and the bucket was manageable. She carried it down to the lavatory, used the lavatory and raised the seat to pour away the contents of the bucket, retching a little because she hadn’t of course worn the protective cloth. Then back to the room, urine from po to bucket—that was the tricky bit, take it easy, plenty of time. Second trip done. Rest a bit.

  Rinse bucket and po with water in mug from tap. We’re getting there.

  She decided she couldn’t make it to the bathroom. Heat water on gas ring. Soap and washer job at the sink, do the worst spots, armpits, crotch and feet. Pants and sweater again. Shoes.

  She was ready to go.

  Just down three and a half flights of stairs, then a block and a half to the corner shop. Food, then back to hole up until she was better.

  She sat on the edge of the bed for a while, practising minimal existence. This was a technique she had been using to gather the strength to get out of bed: perfectly still, breathing slow and shallow, not thinking, she waited for the moment. It came, she stood up and went out. When she locked the door behind her, she felt that she was at the end of the ordeal, not at its beginning.

  The stairs were all right. She held the handrail and descended slowly to the hall.

  She paused there. Come on, it was only a block and a half.

  As soon as she got into the street, she knew that a block and a half was an impossible distance. There was the bus stop, just a few yards in the other direction. She could make that, working her way along the front of the buildings—without support, she reeled like a drunk—and sit on the seat practising minimal living until she had gathered sufficient reserves to make the journey.

  She sidled along to the bus-stop shelter and sat down.

  Strength was returning. Soon she would get up and move.

  Then a bus came and she got on the bus. She got on the bus because that is what people do at bus stops. She seemed to have forgotten her purpose in being there.

  The conductor as he took her fare said, ‘Are you all right, love?’