What the Eye Doesn't See

by Alice Jolly

  Why in God’s name didn’t she call me before? I’d have paid for all the specialists in Harley Street. But she’s always been too stubborn to ask me for anything. And now it’s too late. Yellow flesh hangs slack over the bones of her face. Under the bedclothes there’s hardly a ridge to mark where her body lies. At the base of her throat there’s a flutter of breath. God spare me this.

  I force my eyes to her face. Her hair is loose, twisted, stiff as a creeper. Her cheekbones are hollow, and her temples. Pale lips pressed together. Her eyes held shut by a yellow crust. There was always another day to come and see her. I’ve never understood what she wanted from me. I remember the day I told her I’d been asked to be a Junior Minister. She was in the kitchen, feeding Bullseye. Hacking open a tin of dog food with that old-fashioned stabbing tin opener she has. I wanted her to be pleased. Is that what you want, Max? That’s all she said.

  Now I cannot look at her face. My mind does not accept this. It comes too soon. I am unprepared.

  I go to Theodora. She sits like royalty in her room. How can she be so calm? Selfish old bitch. On top of her head those devilish twists of red hair nod. Her green eyes look me up and down. Her hand is propped on top of an ivory-headed walking stick. When I was a child Theodora did not like me much. And I didn’t like her. She frightened me. She wanted Mother all for herself.

  ‘Why didn’t you call me sooner?’

  Theodora raises a finger to her lips, shakes her head. Then she takes off her glasses, rubs a hand across her forehead. When she looks at me her eyes scorch my flesh. ‘You could have come at any time.’

  I turn to the telephone. ‘I’m going to call a doctor. Do you know the local doctor’s number, or should I call an ambulance?’

  ‘Don’t do either, Max, she doesn’t want that.’

  ‘If she goes to hospital now, they might be able to do something.’

  ‘Of course they can’t do anything. It’s stomach cancer. She’s had it for months. She doesn’t want to go to hospital. She wants to die outside.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  Theodora snaps her teeth together. ‘We do not wish to behave well about this. I will not let her be moved from here. We do not want your help. Let her die as she wants to die. That’s all she asks of you.’

  This is how it’s always been. They never see sense, never do anything the easy way. I turn away from Theodora, go back to Mother. Her head is turning from side to side. It’s as though she’s saying no again and again. Then her eyes peel open, blink at the ceiling.

  ‘Mother?’

  She turns her head. As her lips part in a smile I expect to be able to see through to the pillow. ‘Max?’ Her voice rattles out with her breath. I clench my teeth, squeeze my eyes together. God spare me this.

  Her eyeballs swim in pools of opaque yellow. Filled with incomprehension, disbelief. I can’t bear this. I want more time. Don’t let her die. I slide her hand out from under the bedclothes, gently, and rest it in my own. It’s curved now. An animal’s paw. Nothing more than a knot of veins covered by speckled flesh.

  ‘Maggie?’ she says.

  ‘She’s on her way.’

  But, in truth, I don’t know about Maggie. Theodora rang her at six this morning but there was no answer. I tried to reach her at the office. Phone rang and rang. I’ve left a message on her answer machine. That’s all I can do. Was it only last night? I shouldn’t have said it to her, whatever it was I said. Can’t exactly remember. Her dress, that ragged forlorn dress with the red roses. How my sins pile up.

  From outside there’s a bang like a gun firing, far away. Then crackling. A sound like rushing wind. Mother’s head turns on the pillow but she doesn’t open her eyes. These sounds are no louder than her breathing but she’s heard. ‘Burning the stubble. Do you remember?’

  Of course I remember. The air wavering in the dense heat, and the black smoke choking my throat. Now I cannot think of it. Images of that other fire flicker in my head. ‘I could ask them to wait? Just for a day or two.’

  Her breath comes in a tortured rush, and a cough. She squeezes her face together. ‘No, no. It’s time for it. They must do it while the weather’s dry.’ Her eyelids flicker as they droop down over her eyes. Her hand is quite still in mine, and cold. I rub her fingers, wonder how long it is since I last held her hand.

  Clichéd regrets crowd in on me. I rest my forehead against the palm of my hand. I want new words for this but there are none. I have left undone those things I ought to have done … All the times I didn’t visit. All the times I didn’t call. There was always another day. I turn away from her. It hurts to look. For a moment I’m envious of her. Surely there will be silence in the grave. So much has gone from my life, so little is left. All the people I should have loved, I’ve disappointed. Everything is at zero for me. Systems shut down.

  Her breath comes in a snort, her hand flaps up and down in mine. ‘Oh really, Max.’ I realise she’s laughing. Trying to jolly me along.

  ‘Sorry.’ My nose is beginning to run, and because I’m holding her hand with both of mine, I can only sniff.

  I get up and go to the window. In the far distance there’s the sound of a van or a tractor. A shout from across the fields. When I look out it’s bright. Black spots dance across my vision. I see the field, shaved of corn. Stripes of gold and yellow dip and fold with the shape of the land. Down the field a van is parked. Men in overalls are silhouetted against the bright field. Pitchforks, rakes and shovels swing in their hands. They move apart and together again, raising their arms, pointing and planning. Illegal, of course. But still they do it here.

  Later those men will come across the field expecting to have tea here as they always do. Theodora will have to tell them that there will be no tea today. She will tell them why. I imagine how they will stand on the path, their caps in their hands. Dazed by the loss. As though a part of the landscape is dying and will not return again in the spring.

  ‘Mother,’ I say. She doesn’t open her eyes. Her lips move like a baby, sucking in its sleep. She turns her head up slightly, as though reaching up towards light or air.

  ‘Mother, there’s something I want to say.’ I sit down beside her. Still she doesn’t move. I don’t know whether she can hear me, whether she’ll understand. I stop, wipe a hand across my face. God, I need a cigarette, a drink, both.

  Mother turns her stiff neck to look at me and smiles. She’s always had a beautiful smile. Still she has a beautiful smile. ‘Max,’ she says. ‘If anyone is going to make last-minute speeches, I’ll do it.’ A laugh creaks through her empty chest. I start to laugh as well.

  I nod my head. ‘No, I was just going to tell you. Rosa is pregnant.’

  Mother smiles and shuts her eyes. ‘You should look after her, Max. You know children should have fathers.’

  I bend down towards her, breathe in her bitter smell. Put out my hand to the transparent skin of her forehead. My nose is running, I let out a horrid bubbling sniff. She laughs again and with her hand on the back of my neck she pulls me towards her. Her skin is soft as it rests against my face. I stay like that for a long time, hearing my own breath against her cheek. When she speaks her voice is so close that I feel the vibration of it. ‘There’s something I want you to do for me. I’ve got pills from the doctor. In the middle drawer of the desk. There’s a white bottle.’

  I step over piles of books, push past a sunken armchair. Desk drawer full to the brim with junk. A red-ribboned medal I won in an egg and spoon race, scraps of material, a thimble, reels of cotton, a flea collar. A commemorative coin in a plastic holder. To one side there’s a white bottle, I take it to her. A jug of water stands on the table beside the bed.

  There are two pills in the bottle. I lean down to her, put them one by one into her mouth. Her gums are red, her grey tongue folds the pills into her mouth. I pour a glass of water, slide my hand round the back of her head. Her hair is stiff and greasy.

  ‘Mother, will you please let me call the doctor?’ />
  ‘Perhaps. Just an hour or two. Leave it that long.’

  I lift her head so she can drink. When she’s finished I keep my hand behind her lolling head. A dribble of water runs down between my hand and her cheek. I wait like that, quite still, watching.

  She opens her eyes. ‘I don’t think I’ll see Maggie.’

  I lay my wet hand on her cheek. Outside the door Theodora’s footsteps approach, stop, then retreat. From the fields there’s a shout, the clatter of a shovel, the distant trample of feet in the lane. Mother is sleeping. I wait for each breath. I want her to live. I want her to live.

  When I look up at the window there’s black smoke covering the fields. The air above is blurred by the heat of the flames. I watch a man in cap and gloves reach down, then stand back as a tongue of flame wavers, flares, and then licks a red path across the field.

  Maggie

  It came with all the shock of long-expected news.

  When Dad telephoned I went straight to the station. He had been round to the flat to look for me but I was already at work.

  The journey home is long. Stiff-necked, my head rattles against the vibrating window of the train. Belgium, France, Kent. I’m wrapped up inside myself. Scalding tea from a polystyrene cup spills, burns my fingers, tastes of paper. Slough, Reading, Swindon. I-want-to-get-home. I-want-to-get-home. The train rattles and judders over uneven track. Outside, the sky is translucent and the land pale. I bounce the toe of one foot. I-want-to-get-home. I-want-to-get-home. I can still feel Javier between my legs and I tingle with shame. Fields, factories, churches slide across the window. If I’d answered the phone this morning, I’d have been home hours ago.

  Dad said – Nanda is dying. But still I’m sure when I reach Thwaite Cottages she’ll scurry down the path, with a black scarf wrapped around her shock of grey hair, and her razor eyes searching me all over, curious and critical. My head lolls back against the window of the train. My teeth rattle. I doze and wake to the vague recollection that something terrible is happening. I must ring Nanda, I think. She’ll know what to do, but then I remember that that is the whole point …

  As the taxi turns across Frampton Edge I see the wind turbine. It stands up proud, its white wings turning. And they’ve been burning the stubble. The taxi rocks over ruts of mud, burnt solid by the summer heat. A bitter, charred smell rises from the scorched fields where a few blackened stalks of corn still stand. The crooked roof of the cottages stands out against the white sky. Shreds of ash are blown across acres of nothing. I stand at the gate. No smoke from the chimneys and silence except for the wind and my heart throbbing in my ears. The front doors are shut and in an upstairs window the curtains are drawn. It feels as though I’ve been away for a century. As I carry my bag down the path to Theodora’s front door the wind slaps at my face and birds rise screaming from the trees below the Edge.

  As I stand in the hall, the sound of my bag scraping against the wall is as loud as a landslide and from the sitting room there’s the feverish ticking of the grandfather clock. I know that Nanda isn’t dead, because a pile of her library books is on the hall table. I push open the door, and Dad is there, sitting slumped in a chair, a cigarette trailing from his hand. Freddy is with him, knitting, on an upright chair by the door. I know that the situation is bad because everyone is calm. People only panic in minor crises.

  Dad looks at me with hollow eyes. ‘Sorry, Maggie. Sorry. I didn’t hear you come.’ He sits forward in his chair and digs for a handkerchief in his pocket. He’s withered like a plant that hasn’t been watered for a long time. I’m not the only person who’s come too late.

  ‘Sorry. Sorry I took so long.’

  Freddy’s knitting needles click in the silence.

  ‘So how are you?’ Dad asks.

  ‘Fine, fine.’ A ridiculous conversation but we’re in unknown territory and familiar customs must be preserved. Freddy looks up and nods her head. I have an urge to shout, but I stand silent, still holding my bag. Dad looks down and then back up at my face. He’s still wearing the shirt with my lipstick on it. This conspiracy of calm has to be maintained, if one person cracks it will all go.

  ‘She’s dead?’ I whisper the words.

  ‘Not exactly,’ Dad says.

  ‘No, no,’ Freddy says. ‘She’ll be all right.’ She lays aside her knitting and, getting up, she takes my bag from me and puts it down beside the sofa. She’s bent up and her slack chin is quivering. ‘Just sit down, dear.’

  ‘I want to see her.’ I say this too loudly.

  Dad struggles up from his low chair, and tips on his feet from heel to toe, as though trying them out for the first time. ‘Maggie, it would be better to wait.’

  ‘Why?’

  His head moves back and forwards slowly and he stretches out a hand to me. He seems to be made of lead and he blinks again and again. He lays a hand over one eye. ‘Please wait.’

  I go to the door of Nanda’s cottage and my hand slides on the brass door handle. In Nanda’s sitting room Theodora is standing facing me, filling the room. There’s no electric light and the evening shadows gather in corners. Part of the orange sofa has been moved and there’s a gap where it used to be. ‘Maggie,’ Theodora says. She raises her arms and the sleeves of her cardigan spread wide but her arms aren’t stretched out for me, they’re raised in a gesture of hopelessness.

  ‘I’m sorry I was so long.’ I walk past Theodora, which seems to take hours. The room smells of dust from the stove and dead flowers. The patchwork blanket which used to be on my bed is laid across the end of the sofa. Nanda’s hair is loose and knotted but her face is turned into the pillow. Her arm is stretched across where her body should be – a stick arm with a knot of elbow in the middle. Her hand is gripped round the back of the chair beside the bed.

  ‘But I was here three weeks ago.’

  The bed they’ve made for her is by the window. I want to see her face. I want to turn her eyes so she can see out over the fields. I reach out to her and touch the hand gripping the chair. ‘Nanda.’ I try to unlock her fingers but they’re brittle and cold. Someone has taken off her wristwatch and it lies on the table beside her. The second hand continues its solid, even tick. I remember the toast I threw in the bin. I wanted to talk to her, just for one last time. I knew she’d die but I never thought she really would.

  She’s wearing a nightdress she’s had for years. It’s pink satin, with a trim of lace around the short sleeves, and it has fallen back to reveal the underside of her arm where the skin is pale and translucent. I think of last night and Javier. How I looked down at our flesh together, the thin pencil line running down from his navel, his hand resting on my ribs, my bottom lip trapped in his kisses.

  Nanda twists and a slow moan comes from her skin. I wrap my head in my hands. ‘I don’t understand why she’s like this.’

  From behind me, I feel Theodora’s arms lock around me.

  ‘Shouldn’t we call a doctor?’

  ‘No, dear, she didn’t want that. This is a private matter.’

  ‘She’s in pain.’

  ‘Sometimes death isn’t very tidy.’

  ‘But I want to talk to her.’

  ‘I know, dear, but I’m not sure she’ll wake again now.’

  I can’t cry – the horror is beyond that. I lean my back against Theodora and feel her solid and upright. I open my eyes and see the mess of Nanda’s grey hair and that twisted arm. I want time to move on. Cancel this moment, move on to the funeral and flowers and friends making tea. I don’t want her lying there mangled. I don’t want the strange animal sounds which come from behind her twisted hair. I didn’t know that death would be ugly and indecent. I turn round and bury my face against Theodora.

  For a long time I’m like that, tight inside, my face pressed against the silk of Theodora’s blouse. I feel her chest rise and fall and breathe her smell of woodsmoke and eau de Cologne. Her hand runs through my hair. When I look at her face the end of her nose is red but her green eyes are steady. I
realise that if she can bear this, then I must.

  ‘I should have come before.’

  ‘No, Maggie, you were busy living.’

  Theodora pulls a chair forward and sits me down. Then she puts her chair beside me. I look at the knitted squares of the blanket because I don’t want to look at Nanda. Her pain is pulling every muscle in my body tight. It’s my body which is screaming to be released. My hand strokes the torn pink sheet. Through all the unfolding years I’ll be without her. If I marry Adam she won’t be there. If I have children she’ll never see them. The lights have gone out on the future. There’s nowhere to go home to any more.

  Theodora and Dad are arguing about pills, their voices grinding together. I stroke the pink sheet. Nanda stirs and twists, her hands still gripped around the chair.

  ‘Pills, what pills?’ Theodora says.

  ‘She had some pills,’ Dad says.

  ‘I didn’t know she had pills.’

  ‘Well, she asked me to give them to her.’

  I leave Nanda and go next door. Dad’s arm is stretched out, holding a tiny white bottle. It was so light in my hand, that bottle, and with no label on it, only instructions on the top about how to open it.

  ‘I got the pills for her.’

  ‘These pills.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did you get them?’

  ‘Amsterdam.’

  I look at Theodora but she says nothing. Dad looks out of the window. Freddy has stopped knitting. Outside it’s getting dark and I can hear the wind rising, whistling through the trees below the Edge. Dad’s arm is still stretched out, stiff, holding the bottle. The ticks of the grandfather clock are short and sharp. A gust of wind moves the timbers of the cottage.