‘Rob.’
‘Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter a fish’s tit. Now listen. And no bloody tape recorder.’
Two nurses chattered past the window, their hair snarling and tugging in the wind. One carried a sharp-edged guitar, white and gold and spiky. She stopped suddenly, roared ‘Eeelaine’ into the wind and hurried on.
‘I’m not going to cark or anything,’ snapped Wil as though it had been Rob’s idea and a useless one at that. ‘It’s not that. Funny you know. I never felt, all that time we were charging backwards and forwards across the desert, after Minguar Qaim, at Alamein even. Mates, good cobbers, men I’d known all my life being scuppered all round me and the Brits as well, fried alive in their tanks often enough. And never, not once, not at any moment of any day or night did I think I’d cop it. It just didn’t occur to me.’ His brow was furrowed. He didn’t want his listener to get the wrong impression. ‘Not courage. It wasn’t that. I just knew I’d come home and I did, and Dorrie’d gone like I said.’ He paused. Wil’s surprised acknowledgement of the prospect of his own mortality filled the room.
Rob watched the pale blue curtains stirring above the old-fashioned radiator as the old man hunted up the words. He had time to note similar ones tracking between the beds for privacy, and a cardboard urinal to hand.
‘That’s why,’ said Wil finally, ‘that’s why it knocked the stuffing out of me. I don’t mean Bess kicking me in the gut or wherever, that goes without saying. Ever been kicked by a horse? Don’t bother. A bugger like I said but it was later, when they’d had a look and said I’d probably be OK, that I thought about things. It wasn’t till then that I thought Jeeze I could’ve gone, and I’m not getting any younger either. I don’t mind telling you, it made me think. So I told young Shara to get on to you and tell you to come.’ He reached for a glass of water. Rob, like all sickbed visitors, leaped to help and was dismissed. Wil leaned back. ‘Where was I?’
‘Telling me to come.’
‘And you came.’
They grinned at each other, the slow accepting grin of men with time to talk. Presumably it might all make sense eventually. All Robin could do was wait. The tea-wagon, manned by a diminutive tea-person in a pink gauze headdress and sheepskin boots, rumbled to a halt at the end of the bed. ‘Tea dear? Milk and sugar was it? All on our owny-oh today are we? Never mind, you’ve got a visitor, that’s something. Good as gold then.’ She retreated, backing and filling the clumsy wooden crate out the door with the precision of a truckie in a tight alley, then waved through glass.
Wil nodded. ‘That’s Betty, got a daughter married next week. They’re all nice here. Two men even. But someone’s always popping at you to do this, do that, get on a pan or wash or eat or whatever. Well, they have to, it’s their job. But more than that. If you’re not watching the bloody telly or listening to the radio or talking your head off they think Christ the poor old geezer’s all on his own, better pop in. Why do they do that?’
‘They think you’re lonely.’
‘On your own’s not lonely.’
‘Not if you mean to be.’
‘That’s right. You’ve got it, you’ve got it in one.’ Wil, overcome with excitement at anyone understanding what he was on about, moved too quickly and winced with pain. ‘Can’t move. Hard to remember that.’
Rob stowed the empty cup on the locker behind the urinal. ‘What did you want to see me about, Wil?’
‘I told you, this cock-up’s got me thinking. All those years ago when Alice asked me and I promised her I would—and I meant it. Of course I meant it. But I hated that bitch so much I thought I’ll leave it hoping she’d die and then I wouldn’t have to deal with her. And now she has and I still haven’t done anything.’ Wil turned his head, his face puzzled. ‘You ever hated anyone? Personally I mean.’
There is always this compulsion towards truth. Not virtue, there is no virtue in fussing about shades of meaning; nevertheless he did not hate Murray, he merely despised the man. He preferred to be where Murray was not. Murray brought him out in a rash. ‘No,’ he said.
‘No. Me neither till her. Not even the Jerries. Not like that I mean. You have to when you’re killing them of course. But personally. And I’ve never even seen the woman.’ Wil rubbed a button on his striped pyjamas, examined it thoughtfully. ‘You know curses?’ he said suddenly.
‘Curses?’
‘Real curses. Damn your eyes. Rot in hell. What if there was one and they did? Think about it.’ Wil was silent; the skin stretched tight across the beak of his nose gleamed yellow and waxy. The eyes were far away, the hands clenched. ‘I hope there is. I hope there is for that one.’ His voice was fierce and strong. ‘Rot in hell,’ he said.
God in heaven. Candida Bowman?
Wil leaned his head back on pillows, his eyes now on the pegboard acoustic tiles of the ceiling. ‘I want you to contact Alice’s girl for me,’ he said. ‘I can’t leave it any longer.’
The skin on the back of his neck was crawling, his heart still. ‘Alice’s girl?’
‘Yes.’
How in the world, the whole flaming world, had he not guessed?
‘What’s her name?’
The head did not move. ‘Emmeline. Emmeline O’Malley she called her. The bitch wouldn’t even let the child keep Alice’s name. What’s the difference between O’Leary and O’Malley? Six of one and half a dozen of the other but that was the point, to my mind. It was nothing but spite. That’s the difference. Sinful, vicious spite, another way to break Alice, and by Christ it damn near did when she found out. Not at first, I don’t mean, when Candida said she’d mind the child. Alice was grateful then. Grateful beyond words. She said so. Told me night after night as we lay together. What else could she have done at the time except kill herself and Micks were funny about that then. And besides there was the child.’
It was a long story. It went on for a long time with diversions and rethinks and thoughts of no relevance at all. The Western Desert reappeared, a ferry trip when he was a boy, the celebration in the back of the local butcher’s shop the night he and Ivy heard about the Rehab farm ballot and how the hams had dripped fat when things hotted up. Both Ivy and Doris, Rob learned, were buried in the Ranfurly cemetery but fortunately there was no plot reserved for him and what did it matter anyhow.
The meal trolley was clanking down the corridor smelling of fish pie and hot metal when Rob walked out to the empty car park and the cold blaze of the stars.
He refused to go back that night. ‘There’s all day tomorrow,’ he said, avoiding any mention of possible exhaustion.
The story rolled on next day, shunting into byways or steaming ahead until darkness. There were few names to remember and Robin did not miss the tape recorder.
Alice Amy O’Leary was born near Woodstock in Vermont in one of those villages you see pictures of in the autumn with sugar maples and clapboard houses and that and bloody cold in the winter with barns built for snow to fall off. Houses are built right in the woods with no fences seemingly, but then the trees are deciduous over there and it’s blazing hot in the summer.
She was an only child, Alice, only child of—names’ve gone, doesn’t matter. Her father ran a general store, one of those country stores with everything, you see pictures of them now as if it was history, but I can remember the same round here. Wood floors, all wood, clothes, longjohns, boots, dry goods, drench, stuff for miles. Lots in bulk then, all weighing and wrapping and tying up. People took a pride in it. Huge roll of brown paper, string, knots; quick-fingered you had to be then.
He died young, her father. I don’t know when, but Alice and her Mum carried on running the store. Alice’d be good at it too. She was quick with sums, checked her change quick as a flash. Well you have to if you’ve any sense, but lots don’t, they haven’t the head for it. But she did and ran the farm books for me later and what a joy that was. I’ll show you a photo of her then when I get home. All in white with her hair tied back. Long hair. That’d be the forties. Her mother was widowed
by then. And the men were away, lots of them at the end, and soon after this Edwin Calder came home again. He was some sort of war hero from the Normandy landings and he was well-heeled as well. That made it harder for her later. There was this feeling about that she’d done pretty well for herself. She was twenty-five by then and a quiet girl and a country store didn’t add up the same as Calder and Calder who’d been attorneys since the Mayflower, to hear them talk.
His mother wasn’t keen, Alice said, but again that wasn’t all. There was another reason why Alice felt it was her fault. She felt she hadn’t loved him enough. Not the old gut-slammer, the ball-squeezer, know what I mean? But it was a long time ago. In those days if you didn’t get married in Vermont by the time you were thirty you had to go and hide under the bed for the rest of your life she said. She was funny too about cheerleaders. She said she could kick high enough and her face was OK but her fanny lacked oomph. She told me see, she told me everything. Everything about her I wanted to know, and the same with her and me.
So she married Edwin Calder when he qualified and joined his father and his dead grandfather and Calder and Calder was motoring again. Seen a photo of him? Yes, well you see what I mean, and it was worse when he started drinking. One of the few things about the man was his war record. I’ve seen that round here. Everywhere. It’s understandable mind, some returned man takes to booze and the wife feels that she wasn’t there and how would she know and the poor devil’s having nightmares and trying to bayonet the enemy in bed night after night. All that and not loving him enough. If she had she could have helped him, that’s what she felt anyway. Don’t ask me why.
And it got worse. We all know boozers, seen the poor buggers at it, who hasn’t. And it got worse, of course it got worse. They had some grand wedding presents, glass bowls and crystal and that, and one night he came back blind and biffed the lot at a wall and asked her next morning what she’d done to them.
And then there was the business of no children and him roaring and screaming about the bloody House of Calder or whatever and her having every test under the sun. And finally the doctor said he couldn’t do any more until Edwin was tested and that went down like a lead balloon as you can imagine, but he was and it was his fault all right and that finished him she said. Mind you he wouldn’t admit it, and he’d be buggered if he was going to stand with his balls in cold water like the quack suggested, and he certainly wouldn’t take on another man’s bastard by adopting and by this time Alice could see that it was no place for a child anyhow.
Why did she stay? Yes well. Why do they? It was being sorry for him almost if you like, grieving for the man. For his nerve which had gone and his dry balls and his rage which had stayed. But I agree. Why? Why the bloody hell do they? Pride as well of course. The only person she told was that woman, her best friend—kicked the bottom of each other’s cots out they had, that sort of friendship which had gone on for ever. So she told Candida Bowman who said leave him immediately, and so she should have. I’ll give the bitch that. Alice never told her mother. She couldn’t tell the poor old lady who was a real mess by now, what with arthritis and heart. Why worry her? What could she do? No one could do anything but Alice herself and she knew it.
Before that, well before that, long before she was married, she’d published those poems and he’d never once mentioned them so she knew he wasn’t exactly interested. So she kept it secret when she started up with the stories. She sat beside him night after night with him coming back more and more glassy-eyed every time he pretended to go to the toilet which was often, until finally he fell asleep with his mouth open, drunk as a skunk and she could creep off to bed praying he wouldn’t follow her. She told me; the watching and waiting, how it destroys you. Not the body, the mind. Fear is like ants, she said. Carting your will away grain by grain like ants with a dead moth. So what she did, or what she tried to do rather, was to sign off and write things in her head. Poetry was too hard she said. But she could think about her people, get them moving in her head. She’d sit there quiet as a brown mouse waiting for him to flake out, and in the morning when he’d gone she’d get them down on paper, or try to.
Her stories would never have been published mind, if it hadn’t been for Emmeline’s father—though he wasn’t that then, of course. This’d be more like the mid-fifties and Emmeline wasn’t born till sixty. Stephen Gilchrist was his name. He’s dead now, long gone, but he was a decent enough man she said, though Christ, I think that’s pushing it. Younger than Alice, just a kid, but married already; one of those rush jobs and two kids already and a pathetic little bunch of a wife. He was a law clerk in Calder and bloody Calder and wrote poetry in his spare time. Though what spare time he’d had in that set-up God knows, let alone at home. But they used to talk together at office dos about poetry and stuff, not that they had the chance often in that outfit, which was mean as cat shit. Alice said it was just loneliness at first, and probably would have stayed that way, them both being so trapped and so sort of defeated. But then Edwin went to New York for some law deal and Alice and Stephen became lovers and Stephen sent the stories off and they were accepted.
And then she found she was pregnant. Ask yourself. At first she didn’t tell Stephen. Well you can guess why, and yes you’re right. Because she knew what he’d do. She knew he would panic and by God he did, though mind you he was in a mess, I’ll say that, two kids and a third on the way and the junior partner’s wife in trouble in a firm like that in the fifties. They’d have eaten him raw so he scarpered. Took to his heels and ran and sent for his wife and kids later. And all this time Alice went on writing. Bitter stuff, as you can see, and why not? How she did it at all God knows, but then again we’re all different and she said otherwise she would have gone completely flyblown. She got that one from me. I’m not proud of it mind, especially when you’ve seen the real thing. The Maoris have a better word for mental illness—porangi—in the dark. Benighted. But she liked it. The tougher, the more basic the word was, the more she seemed to like it for herself, know what I mean?
‘Yes.’
It was different when she knew she was pregnant. Then she said it was survival. Survival for her child and herself and she turned to Candida Bowman.
Of course she would never have got away with it if Edwin hadn’t packed up in London that time like I told you, and been away for so long. I think maybe she’d got sort of punch drunk by then. One foot in front of the other waiting for whatever was going to happen. And one thing was certain and that soon. She’d got past panicking. She moved in with the Bowman woman and lived in a sort of dream and walking for miles. All this she told me. Ever read the second one? That tells you something. The Hand of Time. Yes. It’s grim but you can see that one’s more … well hopeful. It’s the only one to my mind that gets better towards the end. Ends better. She said Candida minded her, cared for her, couldn’t have been kinder, she said. And then one day she handed Alice a piece of paper all typed out neat as a pin, and left for work. She ran a specialist plant nursery. Carnations, I think it was. Here, this is what I told you about yesterday. Shara brought it in last night. You can see how old it is.
THINK ABOUT IT.
1. The baby is due next month.
2. Either Edwin will be
a) Home
b) Coming soon
c) Dead
There are no other alternatives.
3. In a), b) you cannot keep this child, and you can’t bank on c).
THINK ABOUT IT.
SO 4. Possible alternatives after the birth:
a) The child is put up for adoption.
b) The child goes into a state home.
c) You run away with your illegitimate child.
5. a) and b) are self-explanatory.
c) requires clarification.
How can you support a child? You have No money, No qualifications and No home.
6. What other alternatives are there?
THINK ABOUT IT.
Someone has to.
Alice told me she sat reading and rereading the piece of paper till the words blurred. She could remember the pattern the words made, the gaps between the lines. She was in shock or something. All this, all this she told me, and more.
So Bowman came back from work happy as a clam, all smiles and pink about the edges and asked Alice what she had thought of the document. And Alice said she had found it interesting and had Candida any suggestions to make herself, because if not she thought it was one of the most vicious things she had ever seen, and the fact that every word was true did not alter that in any way whatsoever.
So Bowman takes off her boots and curls up and tells Alice that 4a was the only possible option and she has given the matter a lot of thought and it was no use Alice sitting around like a stranded whale with its eyes shut. She, Candida, would take the child after it was born and bring it up and when Edwin died, as he must soon by all accounts, Alice could move in and they would all live together.
Alice said No. She said No for a month. She went on and on and on saying no till the bitch wore her down. She had the power see. There’s always one that’s got the power, say what you like, and this time it was Bowman. She made promises. She wouldn’t bring the child up as her own. She promised that. She would never pretend it was hers. She would be a foster parent, a foster aunt. What sort of life would the child have otherwise, she said, an illegitimate, a byblow trailing around after a New England vagrant? Who would mind it while Alice worked? What would she work at? What was she qualified for? All that. You can imagine and still Alice said No. And then she gave in. Quite suddenly, and later even when she lay with the child in her arms she still knew she had to. They didn’t know then, all this stuff they go on about now how even a half-dead mess of a mother is better for the child than anyone else, and if you ask me there’s a lot of muddled thinking going on there too, but how would I know? So Alice gave in. Candida had a bit of money coming from her grandmother, her garden business was doing OK and she would put in a manager for a while. Alice could see the child, though not too much as it would be unsettling and when Edwin died they would all live together, and that couldn’t be long the way he was killing himself, like I said.
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