Between the Regions of Kindness

by Alice Jolly

  Rufus appears, followed by Phoebe. Just popped out for some cigarettes, he says. Phoebe has got lipstick smeared up her cheek and she’s giggling, straightening her dress. Mollie shoots her a dirty look, slams the plates down onto the table. Rufus pours more gin.

  Come on, Lara. Time for bed, Mollie says. You’ve got school in the morning.

  Lara goes into her bedroom but leaves the door ajar. As she gets undressed, she hears the accusing clank of knives on plates. Rufus’s voice is loud but she can’t hear her mother or Phoebe. Lara finds her school maths book then gets into bed. She was meant to be doing the exercises at the end of chapter four for homework. She did those as soon as she got home from school and she did chapters five, six and seven. Now she starts on chapter eight. She hasn’t done these kind of sums before but there’s always an example so it’s easy to work it out. Eight plus eight, divided by four.

  Lara, switch that light out.

  She gets out of bed and flicks the switch but then takes a torch out of the drawer. The music from the sitting room thumps in her ears. Rufus laughs, and from down the corridor the door slams, Phoebe must have left. The music shrieks, a crash comes from the sitting room, Lara hears Mollie shouting and then the sound of Rufus grunting in pain. Nine plus seven plus three. She knows that the first night when her parents met, her father pushed her mother off a roof. They tell that story often, laughing. Lara is glad that the floor-to-ceiling window in the sitting room doesn’t open.

  Fuck you, fuck you. Rufus voice is muffled by the music.

  The music is making the walls of the flat vibrate. Mollie and Rufus are screaming with laughter. Lara longs to sleep. Eighteen plus eight plus sixty-two. A heaving crash comes from the sitting room, as though a piece of furniture has fallen and the music jerks to a halt. Lara hears her parents’ waves of laughter. A moment later the music comes on again. Nine divided by five. Add ten and carry five. Lara’s head is heavy with sleep and her mouth is dry. She wants to go to the kitchen to get some water but she daren’t get up. She imagines her mother falling from a roof, her limbs spread, her hair swirling, dropping down and down. Lara’s head lolls beside the maths book. That image from earlier in the evening comes again – the back of the jacket, the glittery shoe.

  The green lawns, the white dresses, those shining angels with their arms linked, and their feet never touching the ground. She wishes that she could be there with them. She has filled the application form in carefully, writing all the words out on a piece of paper first, to check they will fit properly, before copying them onto the form. She would like to give the form to Missy Misty because then maybe she could visit that place – just once.

  Lara is awoken by a sharp banging at the door of the flat. She knows that particular bang because she’s heard it before. She swallows, gets out of bed, picks up her maths book and puts it away. From down the corridor she can hear voices and the crackling of a walkie-talkie. Footsteps advance towards the sitting room. Lara gets out of bed and moves towards the bedroom door. Through the crack she can see the back of a black wool jacket, black trousers, silver buttons at the shoulders and cuffs. She goes back to bed, pulls the covers up over her head. Her parents’ voices sound like slammed doors. She knows that soon the police will go away because they don’t understand. Lara curls herself up tight into a ball and waits. The voices die away, the front door bangs shut. Silence follows. Lara waits. Her head is foggy with tiredness but every muscle is tight.

  The door opens and the bedroom light goes on. Lara feels the eiderdown pulled away from her. Have you been talking to her? Mollie says. Have you been telling her things? What lies have you been telling her?

  I haven’t, Lara says.

  Yes, you have, Mollie shrieks. Yes, you have. How many times have I told you to mind your own business? Little Miss Busybody. Little Miss Do-Good.

  Mollie, Mollie. Rufus catches hold of Mollie and starts to pull her away. Mollie fights back but Rufus is far stronger and has Mollie gripped tightly by both arms. Tomorrow Mollie’s arms will be bruised, Lara thinks.

  Come on, love, Rufus says. Come on.

  He drags Mollie out of the bedroom. Lara jumps out of bed, slams the door, stands behind it shaking. Grabbing a chair, she wedges the back of it under the door handle. Then she switches out the light and gets into bed, hides her head under the covers. Of course, it’s all her fault, she knows that. She shouldn’t have told lies to Missy Misty, she shouldn’t have said anything at all.

  Next door the noises begin. Laughter first, and an occasional squeak, then a rhythmic banging. Then shrieks of pain, louder bangs, and crying. Lara pulls herself down further under the blankets, kicks her foot against the wall, smashing her toenail against the plaster again and again. What will happen tomorrow? Impossible to know. Mollie might stay in bed and cry for days – or she might wake up with a loving smile and say she’s sorry, get some money from Rufus, take Lara out and buy her a new dress. With grown-ups it can be hard to keep up. Lara shuts her eyes tightly and dreams of angels.

  25

  NOW

  Jemmy – Brighton, March 2003

  Good morning, Jemmy speaking, how may I help you? As Jemmy takes the call, she shifts in her seat, straightening her back, easing her weight onto one hip.

  Her desk is far from any windows and the dry air-conditioned atmosphere of the office makes it impossible to tell what the weather might be. But when Jemmy went out to get a sandwich at lunch the sun had been suddenly alight – the first sun in months – so that now she wants to get outside again.

  Her mobile phone beeps with a message from Bill. Since she moved out, he’s called her every day, just as he always did. And last week they met for a drink after work, at a bar down at the seafront, then walked towards Hove and sat on a bench, doing nothing in particular. Meanwhile, she tried to decide whether to tell him about the pregnancy or not. When she went for the sixteen-week scan she took care not to look at the screen. Best to wear a loose cardigan and say nothing. She can cope with this for herself but not for him. Later Bill asked when she would come home. And she said, Soon probably. But then the evening grew darker and she said goodnight, kissed him on the cheek, went back to Mollie and the Guest House.

  Last night she’d been going to take Mollie to the Spiritualist Church but then a cat had had kittens and so they’d stayed in to look after her, made a bed for her in the back kitchen. Later Mollie had listened to Robin Cook’s resignation speech on the radio. We cannot now pretend that getting a second resolution was of no importance. No support from NATO, the European Union or the Security Council. When the speech was over Mollie had joined the cheering heard from the House of Commons. He’s absolutely right. The only one that’s got any principles. A clear and present danger, my foot. If Saddam’s so weak he can be defeated in a few days then why is he such a threat? They can’t have it both ways.

  Jemmy agreed, started work on the new curtains. An absolute bargain that material, Mollie said. Five pounds a metre, can you believe it? The fabric is bright blue with red flowers – a bold sixties-type pattern on good-quality, heavyweight cotton which will hang well.

  As she takes another call, Jemmy thinks of Mollie. There she is – so bold and brazen with her fishnet tights and her feather boas. And it doesn’t matter that her car breaks down, that she owes the tax man thousands of pounds, that her husband has gone. Mollie always navigates the rapids with consummate skill, rides the levels. Once Jemmy asked her, Why do you love the theatre so much? And Mollie had replied, Because it’s real.

  Mollie is so very different from the people in Jemmy’s childhood. There everything was about fear. Fear of the unexpected, of the unconventional, of the big uncontrollable world out there. So that Jemmy herself felt large and ungainly and uncontrollable – although she was really none of those things. Just a person who liked colour and light and wanted to study textiles. To her parents everything she might do was a waste of time. But it wasn’t clear what time was being saved for – except to watch more televisio
n and check and double check the window locks, the padlock on the garden shed, the car doors.

  Jemmy loves Mollie’s lightness. The fact that she believes everything she reads in the newspapers, empathises with everyone’s story, repeats the views of the last person she’s been talking to with fervent conviction, believes in rubbish to do with the crucifixion and resurrection. When Jemmy is with Mollie she feels the great stretch of time and how it renders almost everything irrelevant. All will pass. And Jemmy loves the fact that for Mollie physical objects are human. She talks to sheets and blankets, the wobbly leg of a chair that she is screwing back into place. Come on, love, we’ll get you fixed up. Seen better days. Well, haven’t we all. We are none of us what we once were.

  Jemmy does love Mollie – but she isn’t entirely fooled. Mollie is frightened that her husband won’t come back, although she does her best to hide it. And she’s worried sick about Jay, as everyone is. And she’s sad as well, despite all that forced cheerfulness. Late at night it all comes out, after they’ve finished watching the news. Or the lack of news. Mollie drinks too much then and talks in a confused way about her mother and the Blitz. The names seem to change all the time, so Jemmy can’t help wondering if some of it is made up. Mollie says she remembers seeing burnt and blackened buildings in Coventry from her pram – but does anyone remember being in a pram? And then there’s the lost birth certificate and a man called Ludo who she loved once.

  Jemmy knows that Mollie wants to look after her but really it’s Mollie who needs looking after and Jemmy has already started on that – not only the curtains but clearing up the kitchen, cooking, washing sheets. Mollie has shown her a copy of Jay’s letter and Jemmy remembers his words – can’t keep on discussing whether we should have salmon or lamb for supper, whether we should go on holiday to Italy or Spain. But in this period of waiting, this no-man’s land, trivia is comforting. Pansies. When the weather is better they’re going to plant some in those bizarre wellington boots, full of earth, which clog up the front steps. And at the weekend Jemmy is going to take down that torn and dirty rainbow flag and wash it. Perhaps she’ll forget to put it back up. Jemmy has learnt at the Support Group that the line between the helper and the helped is sometimes so thin that it fades into nothing at all.

  Hello, Jemmy speaking. How can I help you?

  Jemmy deals with the call and then heads to the loo. And it’s there that she finds blood. Not very much of it, only a drop or two. But it makes her head disappear down into her shoulders, her spine curve as though waiting for a further blow. Of course, many women bleed in pregnancy. It’s a relatively common thing. And pains in your back don’t mean anything much – except this isn’t the dull ache of a strained muscle, instead it’s a sharp stab of pain which comes every ten minutes or so. Only one or two drops. But that’s how it begins. Then blood, pain, endless visits to the hospital and the days spent lying on the sofa, waiting. She knew, of course, she always knew that it would happen again.

  Sixteen weeks. That’s far too early. That’s what they said at the hospital last time – far too early. She knows that nothing she does and nothing the hospital do will make any difference so she’ll wait a few days before she goes to the hospital, she wants a few more days. While she doesn’t go to the hospital, she can pretend that maybe there isn’t a problem. She steps out of the loo, feeling blurred. Mrs Jarvis is sailing across the office towards her wearing an electric-blue suit. Her varicose-veined legs are contained in orange tights, her feet overflow from court shoes. Her bleached blonde hair is scraped back into a chignon and her face appears scraped back as well. Jemima, could I have a word with you, please?

  As Jemmy follows Mrs Jarvis to her office, she spreads the loose material of her blouse over her tiny bump. Of course, she hasn’t told anyone in the office she’s pregnant again. Mrs Jarvis’s office has a low ceiling and a large window which looks out onto a wall and a ventilation shaft. She talks about targets, numbers of calls, the department being under pressure. Jemmy prepares herself for being sacked. If she were still living with Bill, then it wouldn’t matter too much. But now she’s pregnant she needs to save money and she’s got the rent to find. Mollie says, Oh to hell with it, love, it’s only money. But Jemmy pushes the cash into the knife drawer when Mollie isn’t around.

  Jemima, I’m concerned about the time you’re spending on certain calls.

  Jemmy feels the muscles in the bottom of her back contract and shifts in her chair. Mrs Jarvis produces sheets of figures. This is what is expected of staff. A target of so many calls per hour, and the figures are affected if even one person fails to meet their target. Jemmy has heard all this many times before.

  I’m not saying that your figures are bad, Mrs Jarvis says. They’re not. But over the last two months you appear to have spent a total of nearly four hours talking to just one client – a Mrs Joyce Waldron.

  No. Not Mrs Waldron.

  Yes, Jemima. That’s what the printout shows.

  Yes, but Mrs Waldron is dead.

  Oh. OK. Fine. So you’re talking to the person who represents her estate?

  Her husband. Mr George Waldron.

  Yes, fine. Well, the point is—

  Mr Waldron is elderly, Jemmy says. And he’s had some difficulties getting the address right, and filling out the form, and he has arthritis in his fingers and so the form had to be sent back a number of times and I’m just trying to help him because he’s a client and he does have a right to make a claim.

  Jemmy has Laurie’s power, she’s invincible. If his death didn’t kill her then nothing will. No matter what happens, it’ll never be as bad as that. Fear has put an end to fear. Of course, what Mrs Jarvis is saying is true. Mr Waldron does say the same things again and again and it can get dull but Jemmy also knows that it’s normal. It’s how people grieve. They’re like that at the Support Group as well, telling the same stories again and again, as though trying to make themselves believe. Just to see is something. I don’t know what good it does but it does do something.

  Yes, I’m aware of all of that, Mrs Jarvis says. But four hours?

  Yes, but he’s in a bad state. And he’s all on his own.

  That’s not your business, dear. No need for you to become involved in his personal affairs. Just say you’re sorry and move on.

  But who, Jemmy wonders, will become involved? Everyone thinks it isn’t their business.

  Have you tried to sell him another policy, Jemima? He might have needs which you don’t know about yet. I don’t see any evidence that you’ve sent out any brochures or discussed a new policy with him.

  But I don’t think that’s what he needs. I mean – why would he insure his own life when he’s certain to be dead in a few years anyway?

  Listen, Jemima, Mrs Jarvis says. We’re all part of a team here. I know that things have been difficult for you recently.

  Jemmy feels a sharp pain fire in the bottom of her back. Everything is beginning to break apart. She’s spent too much time over the last five months being polite to people. Why isn’t Mrs Jarvis listening to her? Why doesn’t anyone care about Mr Waldron? There he is, struggling on his own, with the emptiness of the house all around him, and the silence, and no one to talk to him, or make him feel as though he’s significant, as though what happened to him matters. Jemmy winces as pain strikes again in the small of her back.

  Perhaps you should try and get out a bit more, Mrs Jarvis suggests. The girls in the office will look after you. They’re a friendly group.

  Mrs Jarvis has got targets to meet, a business to run.

  Yes, Jemmy says. Yes. But what about Mr George Waldron? Who is going to take care of him?

  Jemima, I’ve just said.

  Yes, but who does look after the Mr and Mrs George Waldrons? Jemmy hears her voice shake as she speaks. And it isn’t only him. Hundreds of people are like that. Like the lady I live with who is elderly, and her husband has left her, and her grandson is in Iraq, and her daughter will hardly speak to her because s
he blames her. That’s what I don’t understand. Who deals with all the soaked pillows, the damp handkerchiefs, the quiet desperation and the days when you just think you might chuck yourself under a train, or into the sea, and have done with it? It’s none of your business, I know. But it doesn’t seem to be anyone’s business. If they can’t keep up in the Great Race then leave them weeping beside the track. Jemmy gasps for breath.

  Mrs Jarvis’s face is solid as a brick wall. Jemmy knows that she wants to say, Listen, my dear. Ideally we try not to employ people with strange ethnic clothes and degrees in textile design. So take your dead baby away and don’t come bothering me with it. And don’t involve me with the likes of Mr George Waldron with his arthritic fingers and unfinished cross-stitch. Just sell him a life-insurance policy and get him off the phone.

  Well, it’s a question worth asking, isn’t it? Jemmy says into the silence.

  Jemima, I think we’ve said all there is to be said. Please ensure that you keep your calls short and meet your targets. Now please go back to your desk and get on with your work.

  Jemmy keeps her eyes fixed on Mrs Jarvis but stands up to go. Another sharp pain rises up her spine as the muscles contract. She’s aware that she’s upset Mrs Jarvis and she’s glad. She strides out of the office, and heads back to her desk. All eyes are turned on her. In some fantasy world she imagines Tiffany or Monica offering her a tissue or a cup of tea. But of course that isn’t going to happen. They think she’s been sacked. In a few days she probably will be sacked but what does it matter? All these insurance policies. All they do is feed on fear, try to persuade people that they have some control over their lives when they don’t. No amount of life-insurance policies would have done anything for Laurie.

  It’s only quarter past five but enough is enough. Somewhere outside – through those distant plate-glass windows – the sun is out and Jemmy needs it now. She picks up her bag and heads out of the office, feeling those pitiless eyes following her. Why bother? Mrs Jarvis may have been momentarily unnerved but she didn’t really listen. Jemmy feels punctured, despairing. She thought that if she spoke her mind to Mrs Jarvis then she would feel better and she did – for five minutes. But she’s not going to give up on Mr George Waldron – or on Mollie. She’s sure of that. She has Mr Waldron’s number keyed into her phone so she can call him any time.