by Janice Brown
For the first couple of miles he had company, an older guy and his girlfriend, but after that he was on his own. It had occurred to him earlier that he might phone his married sister, but he’d been sick once in their car. A loving father would have been handy.
There were no photographs of his father in the house at all. Both of his sisters remembered him, but neither they nor his mother ever mentioned him or why he’d gone, months after Ryan’s birth. It was pathetic, not knowing what your own father had looked like. Not his hair colour, or his eyes, not whether you looked anything like him, nothing.
He turned into a doorway for a moment, to let a couple of mental-looking guys go past. The wind seemed colder now. Everyone on the street felt like a potential hazard. Kids in groups hailed him; he called back. Cars passed, there were lit windows, and now and then bursts of music. He wasn’t exactly alone. No, he was always alone, that was the truth of it. This is how I am, he thought sadly, this is my life. This is my grim journey, fighting the wind, in the dark. He felt almost heroic for a few yards, until reality thudded back. Being alone was nothing to be proud of. It was a simple fact.
On the far side of the road, inside a bus shelter, an older couple were fighting one another, mostly shouting but with raised fists. The woman had weight on her side, and a bag with a useful silver chain. On his side another small group of neds was coming closer.
Everything as usual
When Duncan came down a little after nine, Mrs Flaherty’s coat was already hanging on the rack beside the back door. His mother was still asleep, and would not descend for some time, but Mrs Flaherty had let herself in very quietly with her own backdoor key.
He looked into the front porch, irritated by the absence of post. He found himself disliking this disruption of normality more each year. Once he was back at work, there would be plenty to do: e-mails and letters that hadn’t been replied to, photocopying needing done urgently by disorganised lecturers, and all those troublesome requests with not enough information that were put to one side by less diligent members of Library staff to be dealt with ‘‘when there’s more time.’’
Not that the week would be empty. He would have to drive Mother into town. He had two book tokens and a gift voucher for Boots the Chemist, but with browsing time strictly limited and the streets and shops even more crowded than usual, he would probably end up choosing things he didn’t need or want. Once he’d bought a book he already owned, caught out by a change in jacket design. He made a mental note to buy deodorant as he had almost run out. He’d once believed that deodorant was unmanly, but had recently begun using it after hearing the female staff discuss the man who looked after the photocopier.
‘‘Good morning, Mrs Flaherty,’’ he called, giving plenty of warning as he approached the kitchen. She was a woman who responded badly to the unexpected. Not a nervous woman, exactly, but one who was happier with order. She seemed to experience profound delight when scrubbing surfaces, and although he approved of this perfectionism, it concerned him that she went through so much bleach and anti-bacterial cleanser. ‘‘Think of the oceans, Mrs Flaherty,’’ he had said, trying to introduce her to the idea of eco-friendliness, but the oceans were nothing to her compared to the satisfaction of a gleaming sink.
She straightened up from loading the dishwasher. ‘‘Oh, thank you for the picture frame, Mr Crawfurd.’’ Her red face beamed. ‘‘It was very kind of you and Mrs Crawfurd. I’ve put my grandson in it.’’
He imagined that sturdily built infant with his head stuck in the frame after the manner of the traditional child in the park railings, but merely nodded as he moved towards the coffee machine, repressing as one so frequently had to with Mrs Flaherty the urge to say something which would only confuse her.
‘‘And did your night go well, Mr Crawfurd?’’
‘‘Yes, thank you, everything went as usual.’’
This was a lie. He switched on the machine and reached into the cupboard for a fresh packet of beans.
‘‘And yourself?’’ he asked. The sealant strip seemed to resist him deliberately, breaking half way round.
‘‘Oh, just a quiet night. That wild boy of mine was out with his pals, of course. Only came in when I was getting up …’’
In the past he had made the mistake of showing interest in this Ryan, and particularly in his success in getting into Art School. Mrs Flaherty now assumed that he wanted frequent bulletins. Fortunately she seemed happy with short comments on his part, and the occasional prompt kept her going for a while.
‘‘… and to tell the truth, Mr Crawfurd, I’m glad when it’s all over. It’s getting worse every year. It all starts too early …’’
He nodded again, assuming a listening expression while the foam formed on his cappuccino. Then he reproached himself. She was right. In fact, despite being Mrs Flaherty she was often right. It was simply unfortunate that the flat nasal tone made her statements ludicrous when they were perfectly reasonable, and that her lack of mental subtlety made irony a country forever unexplored.
He dipped his tongue into the thick, warm foam. He ought to be more kind. She was hard working, honest, self-effacing and possibly the least vain woman he had ever met. A crueller man might say she had little to be vain about. If only she would wear clothes that fitted her. He glanced at the troublesome upper arms, bulging from the short sleeves of her pink nylon overalls. Was he unkind? He didn’t mean to be.
At the door he paused. ‘‘You’ll make yourself a parcel, as usual, Mrs Flaherty, won’t you?’’
‘‘If you’re sure …’’
‘‘Oh, of course. No sense in waste. Mother left out the containers for you.’’
He took his cup through to the study, closing the door so he wouldn’t hear the clearing of the previous night’s debris. Not that she was noisy. The dishwasher would be stacked and set but not switched on, nor would she approach the vacuum cleaner until Mother was up.
There was a patch of blue sky beyond the church spire on the opposite side of the village. The day might yet improve. He stood by the window, sipping his drink, relishing the contrast of the milk against the heat of the coffee beneath, the slight bitterness of the cocoa against sweetness of the chocolate dusting. In the branches of the rowan tree, a patch of reddish brown caught his eye. Erithacus rubecula. He was fond of his robin, glad to see it reappear each winter. He recited Hardy’s first lines aloud.
‘‘When up aloft
I fly and fly,
I see in pools
The shining sky’’
A sad poem, but unlike Hardy’s, his robin was in no danger of starving. There weren’t any birds at the feeder, but the level of seed had gone down since yesterday, so presumably they had come and gone. All in the garden was as it should be.
His own feathers were still ruffled. If anything he felt more aggrieved.
‘‘Why is that man here?’’ his mother had asked, sotto voce, thrusting the Reverend’s red jacket into his arms. At first he’d only half heard, troubled by the sight of Lesley drinking champagne. And not sipping either, but taking great swallows of it.
‘‘I invited him. Mother, have you noticed that …’’
‘‘I assumed that, Duncan, since as far as I know we have not placed an advertisement in the Post Office window. I’m asking you why?’’
‘‘I …’’
‘‘I cannot believe you would do this, Duncan. Without even having the grace to mention it to me?’’
He worried for the pearls, so tight was her stranglehold on them.
‘‘Well, what’s done is done. We’ll just have to keep a close eye on things. But for heaven’s sake, don’t let him get near Eunice Calvert. She can’t abide the man. I am very upset, Duncan.’’
He took the coat to the downstairs cloak room and hung it beside those of the other guests. How could he have known the man would come? The invitation had been lightly given and immediately declined. It wasn’t his fault if the fellow didn’t have the good manners to le
t them know he’d changed his mind.
He turned from the window and switched on Radio Three, but after a moment switched it off. It was a string quartet, something he could not abide. There seemed to be an unending supply of them at this time of year. Scraping the last of the foam with the teaspoon, he stared at the bookshelves. His eye lighted on a dear friend, Jonsson’s Birds of Europe. He eased the volume off the shelf and sat down.
A consultation
Miss Crosthwaite was tense, Dr Gordon thought, and perhaps a little thinner since their last meeting. How much of that night did she remember? He had tried to calm her down, assuring her of his sympathy. It must be terrible to care for someone for so long, to lose someone you loved so much.
‘‘I’m not entirely sure I loved my mother at all,’’ she’d told him, enunciating the words with great care.
Her face looked so tragic he had to fight the desire to laugh.
‘‘I see. Well, at the risk of being slick and trite, I would suggest that …’’
‘‘… that I forgive her? I can’t. She ruined my life.’’
The words slipped round his cynicism.
‘‘Then don’t let her bloody well ruin the rest of it,’’ he said.
To his astonishment she had leaned forward, lifted his hand and kissed it.
He began now as he always did. ‘‘So how are things?’’
‘‘I’m getting there, thank you.’’
He had never been sure what that meant. It reminded him of another tired lie, the one about Time being a Healer. So much depended on how much Time you were talking about. A year, a lifetime?
‘‘And what can I do for you today?’’ he asked.
No make-up of any kind brightened her complexion. The beige raincoat with its overlarge collar and tie belt did nothing for her.
‘‘I’m not sure I’m ready to go back to work. I’m getting a lot of headaches.’’
Headaches. Every doctor’s favourite symptom. Start with the usual culprits and work down the list forever.
‘‘Fair enough. Can you think of anything that might be causing them?’’
Without moving his head he glanced at his watch. He still had a couple of phone calls to make. Mrs Turner, thirty eight weeks pregnant, needed extra iron, her haemoglobin being far too low, and the Respiratory Physician who’d called about an abnormal x-ray would be on his own way home if he didn’t ring back before six thirty. He took a deep breath and relaxed back into the chair, signalling his readiness to listen to anything, no matter how esoteric or banal.
‘‘I don’t know where to start,’’ she said. She was sitting very straight, her feet tucked under the chair, well away from his size nines.
‘‘That’s all right. Start in the middle somewhere and we’ll muddle along together.’’
* Dear God, how often had he used this line? It wasn’t his being a doctor – whether they knew his occupation or not people unburdened themselves to him constantly, as if a luminous message, ‘‘Tell me your life story’’, came and went across his forehead like a film title pulsing around a cinema frontage.
‘‘I found some letters addressed to me in my mother’s bureau. I don’t know what to do about them.’’
Neither do I, he said inside his head, though as always, I am flattered when my patients assume I am the source of all wisdom.
‘‘Yes?’’
‘‘Very … important letters. She was keeping them from me.’’
‘‘I see.’’
Where was this going? Her life, he recalled, had apparently been ruined by the mother. He hadn’t known the woman. She’d been McKinnon’s patient.
‘‘I see,’’ he said again. ‘‘And you feel you ought to … to do something?’’
She was shaking. He leaned over, taking hold of her left hand. It was clammy and cold.
‘‘Deep breaths,’’ he said, feeling for her pulse. ‘‘Deep breaths. That’s it.’’
‘‘I’m all right.’’
‘‘I know. But just take a minute.’’
He pushed the box of paper handkerchiefs closer to her, in case tears came. After a while, he let the wrist go, and sat back. The heart was strong and had steadied reasonably quickly. He made his voice quiet but firm. He had a good voice. Reassuring. Patients had often told him so.
‘‘There’s no hurry. We can talk if you want to, and stop whenever you feel like stopping. You know I’m here to listen, and help if I can. Let’s just take a look at your blood pressure, anyway.’’
It was perfectly normal, and he told her so. He expected her to look relieved, but there was nothing. ‘‘These letters,’’ he said. ‘‘Were they … unpleasant … anonymous?’’
Or perhaps imaginary? There was no reference to any psychiatric problems in her scanty notes, but she was at an age when odd things often began to occur. When it became obvious that she was not going to say more, he reached for his pen. He would speak to McKinnon before he did anything much.
‘‘I don’t feel you need any medication at the moment. I think you’re tired out, that’s all. If the headaches continue, use paracetamol, not more than the stated dose of course.’’
He looked over her notes again, and suggested she make an appointment with the practice nurse, to have her blood and urine checked.
‘‘Are you feeding yourself properly?
She nodded.
‘‘And sleeping?’
Another nod.
He decided not to ask whether she was still menstruating, but made a note on her page to do so at the next visit.
‘‘Let’s make it two more weeks off, shall we? Come and see me before then. Especially if the headaches get worse. And don’t feel guilty. That’s the last thing we need. I want you to be kind to yourself.’’
Her unhappiness lingered in the room after she left it. Why had she begun if she didn’t want to talk? If she didn’t trust him, why hadn’t she asked for one of the others? He stared at what was visible of the world through the vertical window blinds. Once upon a time he had imagined that helping others would be a way of helping himself.
Would they ever get round to redecorating this room for him? The previous occupant had clearly fallen for the theory that pink walls helped patients to relax. The curtains, beige on brown, were particularly hideous, possibly left over from the seventies. His table was a mess. He checked his watch against the round chrome and white desk clock, Viagra, in blue, stamped arrogantly across its face. A pill for every bloody ill.
And what might he have offered poor Miss Crosthwaite, to whom ‘‘terrible things’’ had happened. Counselling? HRT? The simple answer was, nothing. Not until she was ready to be helped. All these middle-aged women conforming in silence, feeling guilty at the least suggestion that they might have any right to happiness. What century were they living in, for God’s sake? Would she even make a return appointment? He gathered up the urine samples to take down to Reception for the morning van.
‘‘Everything all right, Miss Kennedy?’’ He paused at the secretary’s door. He ought to go in for the usual few minutes chat, but he was tired of being nice.
‘‘I left a message for Mrs Turner to phone us tomorrow. Did you remember to phone Radiology?’’ she said.
‘‘Damn. It’ll have to wait till the morning. Can I give you a lift?’’
‘‘Oh no, Doctor. Robert’s coming for me.’’
Every week on her late night he offered her a lift and she refused. It wasn’t correct for Doctors to drive secretaries home in this part of the world.
It still surprised him how early darkness came this far north. He keyed the car. The lights flashed obediently. He flung his case onto the back seat.
I want you to be kind to yourself.
His words stayed with her. It would have helped more if he’d given some examples of what being kind might mean. She had no idea where to begin. Should she spend money? For there was plenty of money. Despite her mother’s hints over the years about this charity and that, everyt
hing had been left to her. ‘‘Completely straightforward,’’ according to her mother’s lawyer. He had been very kind.
The nurses too had been kind to her in the last days, taking care of her, telling her to go down to the WRVS tearoom, saying they didn’t expect anything sudden. They would call her if anything changed.
She was noting how her mother’s breasts had shrunk away to nothing, actually watching the rise and fall of the nightgown, when things did change. All movement ceased. She called for the nurse. The nurse came, checked her patient and took off the wedding ring, giving it to Lesley in a brown envelope. In the taxi coming home a strange anxiety gripped her. She couldn’t remember whether Mother had breathed in and not out, or breathed out, and not in again. It seemed terribly important that she should remember.
The day of the funeral was a blur in her mind, although she remembered being surprised that the room was full, having assumed that Mother had outlived all her friends. One detail only of the interment remained with her. A bird paused on the green mat beside the coffin. It flew onto the lid, then flew away, and there was a communal sound, not quite a sigh, from those around her.
We’re so sorry. When certain people said this she wanted to ask why? Why did they feel sorry? They hadn’t shown their faces in the last long weeks when her mother’s mind had deteriorated. Was that what they were apologizing for?
You were so good to her. This too was said by more than a few.