by Ann Bennett
She looks down at her fragile body under the brown knitted jumper and grey woollen skirt, her frail legs with their knobbly veins, the left one bandaged to the knee and resting on a footstool. What a contrast to the agile, fit girl she once was. In those days, she could walk miles without tiring, work in the orphanage garden digging weeds or tending vegetables for hours without any aches and pains. Time has done strange things to her body.
The door squeaks and one of the carers comes into the room. It’s Erica, the Ukrainian girl with the bleached frizzy hair and tight jeans under her overall.
‘How are we today, Connie my dear?’
Connie notices a streak of lipstick on Erica’s teeth as she smiles. She purses her lips. Why do they always say ‘we’ and speak as if she’s a child or an imbecile?
‘Could you pull the curtains shut please Erica?’
The girl goes to the window. ‘But it isn’t getting dark yet,’ Erica says. ‘Don’t you want to see the sunset? It’s always very lovely from this window.’
Of course she doesn’t want to see the sunset! That’s why she asked for the curtains to be closed. Has the girl got no sense?
When Connie doesn’t reply, Erica whips the beige curtains across the window and switches on a lamp.
‘You want the TV up louder, Connie? It is very quiet.’
‘You can switch it off if you like,’ Connie huffs.
Erica’s hand hovers over the button. She frowns, her blue eyes searching Connie’s face. ‘You are quite sure? Won’t you be bored?’
Connie shakes her head emphatically. How can she be bored with all the things she must think about? All the past events she needs to go over, to fix in her mind. She has to get them straight now because for years she’s buried them and not spoken about them, even though they’ve terrorised her thoughts and dreams. At least she can think about them properly now that she’s away from Cedar Lodge. The past was such a force in that house that it used to frighten her to step over the brink and go back there to that terrible time.
‘I’ll put your tea down here,’ Erica says.
‘Thank you,’ she murmurs, hardly noticing Erica move about the room, tidying quietly, moving magazines, clearing a dirty cup from beside the bed. Although Connie doesn’t want to admit it, Erica’s gentle movements are soothing, comforting even. Her eyelids are soon drooping. It’s very hot in the room and not meaning to sleep just now, she rests her eyes, letting them close for a few seconds.
Soon she is drifting off. She needs to understand why she acted as she did. She needs to forgive herself for being weak when she knew she should have been strong. All those hours and days, years even, reading the Bible with Evie in the evenings in front of the gas fire, kneeling before bed to pray to God for deliverance, couldn’t make up for her weakness. It was like putting a plaster on a dirty wound without cleaning it first. One day the plaster would peel off and the wound would be worse than ever; swollen and angry and oozing with pus.
Would Father ever forgive her for leaving the house? For leaving all his things in the office? She’s the only one left to guard his memories, to guard the past and all the secrets and lies. It’s up to her now, she knows that. She twists her hands anxiously. She also knows that she’s failing in her duty.
Connie senses that Erica has stopped tidying and is standing beside her. She can feel the girl’s eyes on her face. Connie screws her own eyes tighter, fearing what’s coming next.
‘It will soon be supper time, Connie. Are you going to come down to the dining room tonight?’
Connie remains silent, but she knows Erica won’t be fooled. Erica has leaned even closer now, Connie can feel her hot breath on her face, smell her stale perfume.
‘Connie! You are not asleep. I know it,’ the girl says, half teasing, half admonishing. ‘Do you want me to help you along to the dining room when you’ve finished your tea?’
Connie opens her eyes. ‘What did you say, dear?’ she asks, trying to sound vague.
‘I asked if you’d like help getting to the dining room. You did so well with the Zimmer frame yesterday.’
‘Not tonight. I’m tired tonight.’
‘Oh, but Connie! You had such a lovely time yesterday. You made so many friends.’
Connie’s heart quickens. She can feel the tension in her body radiating out from her heart, reaching her limbs, making her arms quiver and her palms sweat. She shakes her head and meets Erica’s gaze.
‘I can’t,’ she whispers, her mouth dry. ‘Please don’t make me.’
She sees the concern in Erica’s eyes. ‘Oh, but they will be so disappointed, Connie. The other ladies. They love to see a new face.’
The tears start welling before Connie can stop them. She lets them fall.
‘I’m so sorry Connie, I didn’t mean to upset you,’ Erica hands her a tissue. ‘Whatever is the matter?’
Connie shakes her head and screws the tissue into a ball in her fist. Why can’t the girl just leave her alone?
‘Well, if you really don’t want to go today, I’ll bring your supper in on a tray. But you looked as though you were having such a nice time yesterday.’
The panic begins to subside. It’s true, she had been having a nice time, for a while at least. Erica and Matron had helped her along the passage to the dining hall. It had felt strange, being out of her room after so long. She hadn’t wanted to go. It was a long time since she’d had to meet new people. She could barely remember having a proper conversation with anyone other than Evie. It had just been the two of them together in that old house for years. They hardly went out in the end, only across the road to the shops to buy food.
But Matron had insisted, and Matron was a formidable force.
‘It will do you good, Connie. Help you to get better. Now come on. I won’t take no for an answer.’
Connie’s bones and muscles had felt weak, and even though she’d had the walking frame to lean on, progress was very slow. It had taken an age to get all the way along the corridor.
Connie had wanted to turn round and go straight back to her room when she’d seen how many people were in there. The noise of conversation and the clatter of pots and pans had suddenly felt overwhelming.
She’d wished she was back at Cedar Lodge, hidden away behind those tall hedges, guarding her silence and isolation. But Matron had given her no choice. She’d found her a place at the nearest table next to an old lady with white hair.
‘Elsie? Elsie, dear, this is Connie. Could she sit with you? You’ll look after her, won’t you dear?’
Elsie moved aside so Connie could sit down. She held out a frail hand.
‘Pleased to meet you, Connie.’
Connie eased herself into the seat between Elsie and another woman, stouter and with steel grey hair who introduced herself as Marjory.
One of the kitchen staff brought Connie a plate of ham salad and a glass of water.
Elsie smiled, her false teeth even and white. ‘Looks healthy, but a bit boring, doesn’t it, my love? You’re new to Fairlawns, aren’t you?’
‘I’ve been here a little while… but I haven’t been well,’ Connie muttered.
‘Oh, I see. I didn’t think I’d seen you before. I’ve been in this place far too long. I know everyone here.’
She introduced Connie to the others around the table. Connie smiled shyly at them as they either raised their glasses of water or gave her a wave and a smile. She tried her best to keep up, but as soon as Elsie had finished introducing everyone, she’d forgotten all the names apart from Elsie and Marjory and a pale woman on the opposite side of the table; Dorothy.
‘It’s nice to see a new face,’ said Elsie. ‘Some of us on this table were born and bred in Weirfield. The Weirfield lovelies we call ourselves.’ The other ladies chuckled.
‘Marjory and I were at school together. Back in the day.’
Marjory smiled. ‘You were always the talkative one, even then, Elsie.’
‘Dorothy over there is a newcomer,’ El
sie said. ‘She’s only lived in Weirfield since the nineteen-thirties.’
‘Yes. I come all the way from Henley originally. I was in service in one of them big houses in the market square,’ said the third woman. ‘I remember Weirfield when it was just a sleepy little place. A couple of streets of houses. Not like it is now. All built up. We were just talking about it when you came in, weren’t we, Marjory?’
‘Oh yes. I was just saying how I used to come into the market on Wednesdays with my dad on the front of his cart. We lived on a farm, you see. A couple of miles out of town. There were hardly any cars about in them days.’
‘And what about you, Connie? You’re not from round here, are you?’ asked Elsie.
Connie hesitated, her early confidence deserting her. She hadn’t had time to prepare herself for this. What would they remember from back then? What should she tell them? She couldn’t lie about who she was or where she came from. She swallowed and took a deep breath.
‘I come from Weirfield too,’ she said in a thin voice. The three others stared at her. They were waiting for her to go on.
‘Cedar Hall. That’s where I grew up,’ she said, staring down at the tablecloth.
‘Cedar Hall?’ asked Marjory. ‘The orphanage? Oh, Connie. You poor lamb. You must have lost your parents then?’
Words hovered on Connie’s lips. But what words? What should she say? She looked up and her eyes darted nervously from face to face. Father’s voice was inside her head now. Go on, tell them, Connie. There’s nothing to fear. As long as you’re careful what you say.
‘No, no. I wasn’t an orphan,’ she explained. ‘My father was the superintendent there. We lived in the house in the grounds. Cedar Lodge.’
She looked round anxiously at the others, at their puzzled frowns. She watched their expressions changing as thoughts came to them down the years, as their recollections gradually surfaced.
Elsie was the first to speak, ‘So you must be Miss Burroughs!’
Connie nodded, her cheeks flaming now.
‘Your father was the Reverend Ezra Burroughs?’
‘Yes,’ Connie said in a whisper.
‘Really?’ said Elsie. ‘Well, I do remember Reverend Burroughs. He was quite someone about town, wasn’t he?’
Connie remained silent. Where was this going? What would they remember? Her heart was beating so fast that she didn’t trust herself to speak.
‘Oh yes,’ chimed Marjory, ‘I remember the Reverend Burroughs too. I remember him giving prizes away at the summer fete once. He was quite dashing in those days, wasn’t he? Tall. Lovely hair. Always dressed pukka. A real gentleman.’
Connie permitted herself a smile this time. Perhaps it was going to be alright after all.
‘Didn’t he have two daughters? You’ve got a sister, haven’t you?’ asked Dorothy.
‘My sister Evie, yes. She died a few months ago.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry my dear,’ said Elsie, reaching out and squeezing her hand. So unaccustomed was she to kindness and sympathy, Connie had to focus all her efforts into suppressing tears.
‘Well I remember Cedar Hall too,’ piped up Dorothy. ‘Huge place it was. Went to wrack and ruin before they knocked it down. But I remember when it was full of children. They always looked so well turned out, didn’t they? I used to see them on Sundays, in their white pinafores, walking in a great long crocodile down the High Street towards the Baptist church.’
‘So they did!’ said Marjory. ‘And your father was a saint to them, wasn’t he? So popular. Do you know, it sounds a bit strange, but when I was small I remember thinking how nice it would be to live at the orphanage. To have so many friends. I was an only child you see.’
‘Your father had a beautiful car, didn’t he, in those days?’ remembered Elsie. ‘Like Dorothy said, there weren’t many cars about in Weirfield then. We used to stand on the pavement and watch it pass. What a wonderful childhood you must have had, my dear!’
Connie nodded, relaxing a little. Perhaps there was nothing to fear from these ladies after all. All they seemed to know about were the good things. Father’s secrets were still where they should be; where he had told her to keep them, sealed away in Cedar Lodge.
‘We didn’t have a car on the farm until 1955. But Dad did buy a tractor just after the war,’ said Marjory.
The conversation moved on. Soon Connie felt relaxed enough to start eating her salad. She chewed the ham with care, careful not to let the bits slip between her teeth.
Elsie, Dorothy and Marjory chatted away. When they’d exhausted the subject of the first car they’d owned, or been driven in, they began telling Connie about the other residents. They gave her a snippet of their life history, an interesting tit-bit about each one. They didn’t seem to expect Connie to reply, and Connie was glad of that. She didn’t have anything much to say, she was so out of the habit of conversation. But as she listened to their harmless anecdotes she gradually realised that Matron had been right. For a full ten minutes she had forgotten all about the pain in her leg. She had even stopped worrying about Cedar Lodge and about Father.
When she’d finished her food, she pushed her plate aside and dusted the crumbs from her lap. The tables were being cleared now.
‘Would you like to come and play cards with us, Connie? We usually play a round of rummy before bed.’
Connie’s heart fluttered. She had no idea how to play rummy. What would Evie have said? Or Mother for that matter? She could feel their scandalised eyes on her face.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ she replied, ‘but I think I’ll go back to my room now.’ She hoped her new friends weren’t offended.
‘I expect you’re tired,’ Elsie said with an understanding smile. ‘Do you need help getting back to your room? I’ll go and find Matron.’
Elsie pushed back her chair and got up from the table. Connie watched her move between the tables towards the door.
Other residents were getting up too and making their way out of the dining room. Connie watched them leave in pairs and small groups. Everyone here seemed to have made friends. It struck her that none of them looked as she felt; solitary and awkward. A wave of panic washed through her. Would it be possible to learn how to be sociable at her age? After a lifetime of living within the constraints that she had? Did she even want to? It was much easier just to be alone.
Her eyes followed a group of old gentlemen passing her table, laughing and joking as they went. One of them, a tall man in the centre of the group, walked with a stick. He was almost bald with the remnants of white wispy hair floating on top of his head. She couldn’t see his face but something about the set of his shoulders and the way he moved, even with his stick, stirred something deep inside Connie’s subconscious. Her heart stood still. She was aware of the whole room blurring out of focus, the clatter of plates and the voices of the residents becoming distorted. She gripped the edge of the table.
‘Connie, are you all right?’ Marjory asked. ‘You’ve gone a bit pale.’
Connie couldn’t tear her eyes away from the man. It couldn’t it possibly be him, could it? Surely not. It was definitely someone else. Someone who moved a bit like him. But on the other hand, if it was him, how on God’s earth could it be?
‘Connie?’
Matron was standing beside her.
‘Let’s get you back to your room now, shall we?’
Matron’s capable hands were helping her up, manoeuvring her off the chair, holding her steady in front of the Zimmer frame. Elsie, Marjory and Dorothy were standing up now, watching her with kindly smiles.
‘See you tomorrow, Connie,’ they were saying. She tried to smile back at them but she couldn’t reply with words. Her voice had deserted her. She couldn’t speak to Matron either, all the way back to the room or when Matron helped her back into her chair and tucked the blanket back around her knees. Matron hadn’t understood. She’d been impatient and had scolded Connie for her silence. In the end, Matron had left Connie alone with a despai
ring frown and a shake of the head.
Connie shudders now as she thinks about it. She looks up at Erica who is still waiting for a reply.
‘I’ll have supper in my room tonight, Erica,’ she says weakly.
She hardly hears Erica leave. She’s drifting off again, her mind wandering as it always does, back to that time she tried for years to bury. Tonight, against her will, it takes her to a place that she has trained herself never to visit. But there is no stopping it now. The memories rush to the surface like bubbles in a bottle of champagne when the cork is popped.
It’s 1940 and she’s walking along the towpath beside the River Thames. It is spring. The hedgerows are coming into bloom, dusted with powdery white hawthorn flowers. Drifts of yellow primroses sprinkle the bank. She’s not alone. Her arm is tucked inside his. She can feel the smooth cotton of his shirt against her skin. His body is strong and warm next to her, a comforting shield between her and the river. She knows she should feel guilty, she should feel bad about this, but she doesn’t. She can imagine the shock and recriminations that would follow if Mother or Evie were to find out; their wide eyes, their outraged faces, their wagging fingers.
She shakes her head, trying to banish the memory. She can feel the tears welling again, aware that they’re tears of self-pity and of mourning for what might have been. She rubs them away with the tissue Erica gave her. This must stop. There’s no use crying over spilt milk. It’s Mother’s voice inside her head this time.
With difficulty, she heaves herself out of the chair and, holding onto the furniture, hobbles across the room to her sewing box, the exquisite walnut cabinet on legs that Father had given her on her fourteenth birthday.
Her hand hovers over the lid. She needs courage for this, but seeing that old man with the white hair and the stick has given her a jolt. She needs to confront the past. She’s running out of time. She pulls the lid open, takes out the trays of thread, boxes of buttons, folded squares of material. With trembling fingers, she reaches deep into the box and pulls up the velvet lining. She fumbles in the bottom for a few seconds and then her hand closes over it.