Between the Regions of Kindness

by Alice Jolly

  And initially Rose had been sure that Mollie remembered nothing. But then as a teenager Mollie became wild, uncontrollable. Perhaps the child did remember something? She’d always been a jealous child, always been determined to ruin herself. Mentally unstable, having sex with older men. It’d all been too upsetting. Beyond what anyone could understand. Rose had judged it best to let her go. Now she shakes herself back into the present, stands in front of the mirror above the mantelpiece to adjust her hair, finishes her coffee. Do nothing, say nothing. Except that the newspaper article presents an opportunity. She imagines a figure slipping from a roof, head and knees banging against the tiles and then the clean drop, unbroken.

  She sets off up the stairs. Bertie is still in bed. The pain in his back is such that he often doesn’t settle well, and so sleeps late. She opens the door, watches him. The room smells of trapped air, sickness. Bertie is collapsed against a pillow in striped pyjamas which might make him look ten years old, if it weren’t for the wisps of grey hair, the bald patch, the rise of his paunch under the bedclothes. She hears his breath whistle and stutter. When they married she’d never thought that by sixty-five he’d be immobile. She finds his illness boring. He does still go to parties with her but he always wants to come home early.

  Darling, she says. I’m so sorry. There’s been some awful news. It’s in the newspaper. About Mollie.

  Mollie? Mollie?

  Oh Bertie, I’m so sorry. How can I say it? Dead. In an accident, on a roof.

  What? What?

  She feels herself to be in a scene from an amateur theatre production – but then her conversations with Bertie often feel like this. As yet, she’s not playing her part with conviction but her confidence will build as she presses on. Bertie is struggling to sit up, waves a weak arm. Phlegm rattles in his chest as he stutters endless questions. Where is her body? What about the funeral? Can they not go? Should they not ring the police? On this point he’s insistent. She must call the police, she must get more information.

  His opposition increases her conviction. She resists him with gentle certainty, with words of comfort. But he’s stubborn, continues to insist on the police. For a moment, she wonders if she’s made a mistake. Why does he have to keep asking so many questions? Why does it matter now that she’s gone? But finally Violet knows that she’ll be victorious. He’s immobile, in her power, will soon yield to her. It’s important that he doesn’t become agitated as that increases the pain. She goes to the bathroom to fetch painkillers and a glass of water. Two is the maximum dose but she gives him three. Sitting beside him, she holds his hand, kisses his forehead. It’s so hard for him. He loved Mollie so much, perhaps more than he’s ever loved her, and she’s always been such a disappointment to him.

  She leaves him then, goes back down to the sitting room, feels suddenly weightless, energetic. Could this be happiness? How would she know? Moving to the window, she stares out over the garden. The world may be slipping away from them but they are securely moored. Finally, after all these years, stable, stationary. The roof tiles are secure, the beams will not bend or buckle. She considers the future, sees it as a corridor, a vista, stretching out before her. She and Bertie travelling through light, happiness. They have always been contented but now they’re safe as well. Their moment has come.

  Of course, Bertie may not live much longer, she knows that. But he will leave her the house and she’ll be free to do as she chooses. She could easily find another man, has always had many admirers. The merry widow. She could finally move out of this house, go abroad. She imagines the joy of packing up, selling the furniture, escaping. The future is all there – bright and spacious, bursting with bougainvillea, hotel rooms high above foreign ports, dinners eaten on vine-clad terraces, walks through narrow streets of ancient houses.

  Soon. Soon. But even today contains new possibilities. Once Bertie has had a rest, she will suggest lunch out somewhere. And in the meantime find some flowers for his room, tidy things up while he sleeps. She goes back upstairs, hesitates for a moment at the door. A sound comes from inside – a splutter and a groan. She sighs, thinks for a moment of that other man who cried. She wonders why her life has been spent protecting men who are weaker than she is.

  She walks up to the floor above, stands outside the room that once belonged to Mollie, hesitates, comes back down. It’s so silly of Bertie. She feels too tired now to think of tidying, lunch. Her mind moves back to Coventry, the war. All that political passion. And now, living in this house, she has embraced the world she once wanted to destroy. How expectations lower with the passing years.

  The house in Coventry, that morning. She had suffered several different deaths there. Is that excuse enough? Perhaps – but the world is not interested in excuses. She never found the road back. She could have continued to be Rose Mayeford and merely used Violet’s name. Instead she had become stuck in a performance of the life that Violet might have had. And now she might weep for Rose Mayeford, for the person she lost, but if she starts she’ll never stop.

  Memories – Frank and the real Violet, as they were, together. That’s how they should have stayed, undivided. She wonders now which of them she loved more, if she had ever loved either of them. She had done, surely. But she had been so young, unaware of the feelings she might provoke. It’s dangerous not to be able to love but worse perhaps not to notice the love you have inspired. Then the business of mere survival had intervened and she had won that game. Except the victory soon revealed itself to be a diamond made of paste. For they – Frank and Violet – went out in splendour, in their different loves. And she is left to grow old, to remember. One cannot mourn for those who are dead but are not buried.

  The brilliant vista of the future has narrowed, dimmed. She can never take what Violet is not able to have. What was it that killed her? Stanley’s death? Or a bomb blast? Or had she died sometime before? At the moment when she lost Frank, her best friend Rose? Violet, darling, rest easy, do not worry. You know I am beside you in that salmon satin bed and I’ll stay with you as you sleep. Stay with you for all the long journey, always.

  In truth, there will be no new man, no foreign travel. She’ll never leave this house. For although she’s never loved Bertie, yet when he goes, she’ll follow him. In the lobby of the Feathers Hotel, the bargain was brokered and can never be renegotiated. She feels certain of that, considers it without bitterness or fear. Her life has already been long, very long. But still she’s glad that things are sorted out, that she is safe. A straight run for home now. Not long to go.

  49

  NOW

  Oliver – Brighton, May 2003

  The noise is quiet at first. Tap, tap, tap. It could be water dripping or a twig touching against a window. Oliver sits at the desk in his room, listening. Another sound follows, a whisper, no louder than the sweeping of a broom. He stands up and turns out the lights. There’s no logic to this action but he wants to make himself invisible, to hide. The tapping continues, grows a little louder. Occasionally it’s accompanied by that soft sweep. Oliver stands up, moves to the side of the window, tries to look out without making himself visible to whoever might be outside. Although the two noises are faint, he knows they have significance. The Dying are close, looking for him.

  The tapping grows louder. He pins himself against the wall. A rustling sweep. The noises are coming from below, possibly at the back of the church itself, or in the corridor near the Community Centre. He draws in a deep breath and waits. He wonders if someone has broken into the church. This has happened often enough before. The door to the Community Centre is made of security glass and has a strong lock but it would be possible for someone to force one of the windows in the women’s loos. He’ll have to go down and look. The tapping is growing louder again, the sweep, sweep, sweep is continuous now. He feels the weight of those who rely on him. The vicar, the peace protesters, members of the congregation, all of the hundreds of people who use the hall, who visit the café. And Lara, of course. Lara and Jay.


  He can’t let these people down. The webs which hold the world together are infinitely fragile. If even one strand breaks, then all may go. Still pressed against the wall, he knows himself to be entirely alone. The tapping has changed to a banging, the sweeping has become the swish of a scythe. He puts his hands over his ears, crumples into himself. But this will not do. He must go down, he has no choice. So instead he steps forward boldly, walks to the door of his room, pulls it open, switches on the light. He stamps down the stairs, trampling out his own fear. But as he reaches the bottom step the light goes out. This has happened so many times but surely it’s not mere coincidence that it should happen now?

  He stands on the bottom step and listens. Bang, bang, bang. He swallows and steps towards the door that leads into the hall, tugs it open. He sees a glitter of red light, knows the dog is there, hears its hiss and growl. His knees turn to liquid, his head dives like vertigo and he crumples against the wall, hears a door crash, a shout. The dog. The dog. He can’t see it but feels its hair rise in a ridge along its back. He presses his hands into his eyes, the images start.

  A sand-coloured country, low rise, blurred in the heat. A market crowded with people – some in black robes, some in football shirts, trainers or formal suits. Stalls sell piles of fruit and electronic equipment – cameras, radios, clocks. Rolls of cloth are propped against a wall and chickens squawk in baskets. A stall of meat buzzes with flies. Women poke at vegetables, dig into their purses to pay for purchases, gold bangles rattling on their arms. Old men sit at a table, chatting and drinking tea from glasses. Exhaust fumes pump from passing cars and trucks. The carcass of an animal turns on a smoking spit. Shadows are short, the air is thirsty, the sun murderous.

  The boy is in the market, dusty and dirty, his curls sagging against his head. He wears trainers and no socks, pyjama trousers, a black baggy T-shirt with a picture of the Empire State Building and the words – New York, New York. A camera hangs around his neck and a canvas bag is looped over his shoulder. His arms and face are burnt red. He stares around him, his face innocent as a full moon. Two small boys kick a football between the crowded stalls.

  A grey van is being parked outside a café – windows thick with dust, rear bumper hanging down crookedly. Two men turn to watch the van, gesticulate. A shout comes – slashing through the fabric of the air. Everyone looks around. A man runs, tripping over a stall, sending melons cascading down. Someone is keening like an injured animal, their screams writhing in the enclosing heat. People point – here, there. A woman’s head swivels as she gathers her children. The boy stops still, watches, wide open, raw as an undressed wound. The earth jolts, white light rolls in, breaks like a wave.

  Oliver forces his eyes open, topples back against the wall, slides down it until he is crouched on the floor. Pain hits him in the chest and his mouth snatches for breath. Then quietness comes. The air soothes, the dim lights of the hall are kindly. The dog has gone. Oliver peers through the darkness but can see nothing. The boy is somewhere close. Oliver could reach out and touch him, guide him into the café, put the lights on, make him a cup of coffee. And they could sit and talk, as they had done once before. But it doesn’t matter, actually, does it? Any of it, I mean. The boy lived at the extremes, at the edges, where there is only hope or despair. Where can he find the middle ground?

  50

  NOW

  Lara – Brighton, May 2003

  Where will Jay stay when he comes home? Lara has done her best to organise the flat but maybe he’ll want to go to the Guest House instead? She still hasn’t had a firm confirmation from Greg that Jay will be on the flight tomorrow yet she's sure he will be home by the weekend. Surely. Surely. Although no one can be certain until he’s actually on the plane, as the road to the airport is one of the most dangerous places in Baghdad. Is Rufus back? Has Mollie organised a room for Jay? Lara has tried to ring but as usual no one answers so she decides to walk round and see. She’s only worrying about these details as a way of keeping calm and passing the time – why not?

  She turns the key in the lock and steps into the yellow hall. The usual smell of cat is overlaid now by the sharp tang of disinfectant. The stairs have been hoovered, a pile of boxes has been replaced by a potted palm. Lara has heard that Rufus isn’t back yet although still she feels his presence like a question mark at the end of a sentence. She heads down to the kitchen. Something has been spilt on the floor. It lies in pools near the sink and then leads in splatters towards the table. Blood? Lara’s never seen blood like this before, never seen so much in one place. Parts of it are still bright red but some has turned to the colour of wine. In her mind, two worlds begin to clash. In Iraq there’s blood, not here.

  Mum! she shouts. What’s happened? Are you all right?

  As she heads out of the kitchen, up the stairs, a figure appears, outlined against the yellow light above. Oh, yes. The girl. The pregnant girl, the curtain maker, the owner of the thongs drying on the rack. She’s moving down the stairs like an old woman, holding on to the stair rail, wearing a white cotton skirt with a pattern of large red roses – material which must surely have been cut from a curtain. And because of the dim evening light, and the red-rose pattern, it takes Lara a moment to understand that part of the skirt is soaked in blood. Her feet and jewelled sandals are stained as well.

  Are you all right? Lara says. What happened?

  The girl shrugs. Sorry. I was just in the kitchen and it started.

  You need to sit down, Lara says. I’m going to call an ambulance.

  She pulls a chair out from the table, grabs the phone but thinks, I don’t have time for this. This girl’s problems don’t have anything to do with me. I’ll wait for the ambulance and they’ll deal with the rest. After all, what can I actually do to help?

  I don’t think you need to call, Jemmy says. They said at the hospital there’s no point unless the bleeding gets bad.

  It is bad, Lara says.

  Do you think so?

  Lara picks up the phone and dials 999. Police, fire or ambulance? Hold the line. A voice asks what’s happened and she explains. There will be a twenty-minute wait for an ambulance. The voice suggests that it might be better for Lara to bring the patient to the hospital herself. Lara swears, slams the phone down, calls a cab company which she’s used often before. The William Tell Overture thumps while she waits.

  Thanking you very much for your call, madam. No, madam. No. All cars fully air-conditioned and driver most highly trained. Yes. No. Not for one half an hour.

  Lara puts the phone down carefully, making an effort not to panic. It isn’t fair of this girl to start losing buckets of blood right now. She wonders if she might pick up a cab on the main street. Jemmy is at the sink, wringing out a dishcloth.

  No, Lara says. No. You sit down.

  The girl turns, her black hair falls down over her shoulder, and she pushes it out of the way. And suddenly Lara is back on that January morning, a world away, when she was waiting for a taxi and the doorbell rang. This is the girl, the same girl. Lara remembers her feet – tanned, bony and bare. That long, mournful face. She wore square glasses then and a purple wool coat stitched with flowers. Lara’s mobile rings and she pulls it out of her bag. The line crackles and she waits. Greg. She recognises the strange wind-howling moan that the satellite phone makes. His voice is faint.

  Look, I can’t find him. Right now I can’t find him. And I need to speak to him because we may have to leave very early. We have to go when there’s a military convoy. Again that strange moaning noise. Lara imagines the wind rising, the sand swirling. The phone line goes dead. She presses the button to ring back but she knows it’s hopeless. Placing a hand on the table, she takes a grip on herself. Whatever happens is what is meant to happen. Lara thinks of Rufus, on the beach, shouting at her to get Jay home.

  Jay? the girl asks.

  Yes.

  The girl is watching her with dark eyes which suck her in. Lara attempts a smile. She understands it all now
. Back in January, she didn’t help this girl, she was brusque, judgemental. Now she’s being offered the opportunity to put that right. That’s the reason why she’s stepped over the threshold of this small tragedy. And if she puts things right then Jay will get on that plane and come home safely. She tries the phone one more time but it only beeps flatly.

  Yes, he’s coming home tomorrow.

  The girl nods, smiles. Lara tries to clear her mind. She mustn’t think about Jay, she must concentrate on this girl, in this kitchen, now. The girl is carrying a baby and the baby is probably dying, or dead. That’s the situation. She spots Mollie’s car keys lying in the fruit bowl.

  I’m going to take you in the car. But first you need some clean clothes.

  Jemmy picks up a clean skirt from the back of a chair. The blood-stained roses fall to the ground and she steps out of their circle. Then she stands on one leg to step into the clean skirt. Lara is uncertain whether she should try to help her but Jemmy seems quite stable. The metallic smell of blood surrounds them. How much is there? Two pints perhaps? It’s impossible to know. Surely the baby must be dead? Lara tries to remember the things one should do in a crisis.

  Don’t worry. We’ll get you to hospital straight away. Try not to be frightened.

  Her words sound hollow and when she looks at Jemmy’s face she finds no fear there. She herself is fluttering in some unseen breeze, fumbling, her fingers tying together in knots. The baby could be dying now. This minute. She pulls one of Mollie’s cardigans from the back of a chair and wraps it around the girl.

  We need to clear up the blood, Jemmy says.

  No, it doesn’t matter.

  Yes it does. Otherwise your mum will be upset.

  It’s clear that Jemmy isn’t going to leave the house until the blood has been wiped up and so Lara runs the tap, mops hurriedly, spreads far too much water on the floor, then grabs her keys and bags. Why hasn’t Greg called back? Don’t think of it. Don’t think at all. She feels as though she should help Jemmy up the stairs but the girl seems perfectly capable of walking on her own.