Attend

by West Camel

  ‘Here’s the invite,’ Julie showed Anne an embossed card, ‘and here’s the list. You’ve got to tell us now if you want anyone else to come, ’cos I’m posting them Monday.’

  Anne took the list gingerly, unsure about Julie’s interest and attention. The page was full and Anne did not recognise many names; all those under the heading ‘Julie’s friends’ were strangers.

  ‘Who’s this Nigel who’s paired up with Lia?’

  ‘Some scumbag she’s going out with now,’ Julie said. ‘But Nan wants Lia there, so we have to invite him.’

  Rita shook her head. ‘I said to Lia, “You’re asking for trouble hooking up with that one. He’s a fucking shitbag, and that’s swearing.” But she won’t listen. She was pretty cut up after she split with Derek, so I don’t want to give her too much grief.’

  ‘I didn’t know Derek and Lia had split up.’

  ‘Didn’t I tell you? It’s a shame. They were a lovely couple.’

  ‘I always liked Derek.’ Anne said this almost to herself. ‘Me and Mel were always with him when we were younger. I had a lot of time for him.’

  ‘He is a nice bloke.’ Rita looked about her as if someone else was in the room. ‘But turns out he’s infertile. Went through murders they did, trying to get pregnant. In the end, the doctor said it’s him not her. There wasn’t much hope for them after that. Lia loves kids, you see.’ She bent down and grabbed Tom’s curved belly. ‘She loves you, doesn’t she?’ He let out a delighted screech.

  Anne watched, saddened by the thought of a lonely Derek. ‘I suppose he’s not coming, then?’

  ‘He’ll probably be at the party after, being Dad’s mate,’ said Julie. ‘There better not be any trouble between him and Nigel though; I heard Nigel’s been disrespecting him badly. It’ll be your fault if there’s a fight, Nan.’

  ‘Oh shut up. Anyway, your dad’ll sort it out if there is.’

  Anne looked back at the list of names, but all she could see now were loops, crosses and dots. She stared at them for a few moments then said, ‘I think you’ve got everyone.’

  ‘I said you wouldn’t want anyone else,’ said Rita.

  Julie took the list back, and she and Rita continued to tell Anne about the party after the service, arguing about the details, while she half listened, gazing at the tassels of the rug.

  ‘So you’ve got to decide what to wear, Mum.’ Anne was jarred out of her reverie. Julie didn’t call her Mum – in fact, Anne couldn’t think what she called her.

  ‘I’ll have to think about it. Not into dressing up, am I?’

  ‘You’ll have to for this, though. Everyone’s going to dress to impress.’

  ‘It’s not one of your nightclubs, Julie,’ said Rita.

  ‘Well, she’s not showing us up, looking rough.’ Julie’s voice was shrill and Tom stopped his gurgling to look at her. She turned back to Anne, trying to soften her tone, ‘Go on, you’ll look nice with something smart on, bit of make-up and your hair done.’

  Anne felt slack-limbed – an old doll dragged around by its unstitched arm. She hardly saw anything of Julie and Tom. She could wear a dress for a day, she supposed; smear her face with some colours. ‘Alright, I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Even Tom’s going to have a christening gown.’

  ‘Oh, here we go,’ said Rita witheringly, as Julie pulled a magazine out of the envelope. It was folded open at pictures of women in crisp suits and severe hair standing in front of a peach wall and cradling babies in silk and satin gowns. She held it in front of Anne.

  ‘Oh yeah, Julie, that’s lovely.’ Anne was prepared to like anything now.

  Rita snorted. ‘Don’t tell her that, they cost a fucking fortune. There’s a perfectly good one upstairs in my cupboard.’

  ‘It’s horrible though, all flowers and that.’

  ‘I bought it for her,’ Rita indicated Anne with a flick of her wrist, ‘and you had it too. Don’t see why he can’t.’

  ‘Well, Tom’s getting a new one.’

  ‘And where’ll you get the money? I certainly haven’t got it.’

  ‘Dad’ll pay for it. He says he’ll do anything for me and Tom.’

  Anne’s leg twitched. She knew too well what Mel would do for Julie. She remembered him screaming through the locked door of their flat: ‘Now look after your fucking kid.’ She had lain on the bed for hours – until her face was grooved with the wave of the chenille spread and Julie’s piercing screams had become weak bleats as she joined her in withdrawal.

  Rita had arrived after two days, soothing and cooing. Julie had stopped crying and slept. Then Rita had held Anne to her and Anne’s cheek had pressed against her father’s wedding ring, which hung from a chain between Rita’s large breasts.

  Anne’s head sank; she was as still and as silent as she could possibly be. Julie flicking petulantly through the magazine was almost unbearable. A sentence ran through Anne’s head: I can’t go to the christening if he’s there. She imagined saying it out loud. She thought again of making a dart for the door. But would Rita block her way? Her breasts even bigger and lower now in her white jumper – Dad’s ring buried in there somewhere. Would Julie catch her ankle? Would they hold her tight, Rita firmly kissing her face?

  She had strode here, feeling so strong and clean; but now she was feeble – she had to prop herself up in the corner of the sofa. Of course she would dress up and go to the christening; of course she would stand where she was told to for the photographs, alongside Mel – the happy grandparents.

  Rita spoke into the thick air: ‘Oh Anne, you don’t know about Kathleen, do you?’ She clearly wanted to sound spontaneous.

  ‘What about her?’

  ‘This is well sad,’ said Julie, without looking up.

  ‘She’s got cancer – of the ovaries.’ Rita said this in a hushed tone, rolling her lips between her teeth and widening her eyes.

  Anne was instantly pricked out of her slough. ‘Oh my God. When was this? Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘We only heard a few days ago.’ Rita seemed surprised at Anne’s reaction. ‘She kept it to herself for some reason. We hadn’t seen her for ages, and when I asked Mel why, he came out and told us.’

  Anne pushed herself upright, accidentally pressing Julie’s leg as she did so. ‘Is she in hospital? What’s happening to her?’

  ‘She’s in Guy’s, I think. But from what Mel says, it doesn’t look too hopeful. She’s had what’s-it therapy—’

  ‘Chemo,’ said Julie, still reading the magazine. ‘Made her hair fall out.’

  ‘But it’s not worked, apparently. That’s why she’s in now for a few days, having tests.’

  Anne felt a strength in her legs now – to stand, to kick the two of them; chatting inanely about invites and party food, knowing this all the time. She pushed her hair back from her face with both hands and leaned forwards. ‘I can’t believe it. I knew her long before I knew Mel. Me and her were together all the time.’

  Rita diverted Tom from the DVD player. ‘We didn’t know, love. We would have told you.’

  Anne’s sudden surge of strength was streaming away, unused. She flopped backwards. Rita picked Tom up and began clucking at him.

  Anne turned to Julie, ‘Have you visited her yet?’

  ‘No. Dad says she’ll be out soon.’ Julie’s voice was careless, ‘I’ll see her when she’s home.’

  ‘She was a nice auntie to you when you were little, you know.’ Anne surprised herself with her sharp tone and Rita blinked her big lids, putting Tom back down, so her hands were free.

  Julie twisted her finely plucked brows into an unpleasant frown. ‘Yeah, alright, I’m going to see her, aren’t I?’ She got up heavily, snatched Tom from the floor and left the room.

  ‘I’m going to see her,’ said Anne, trying to sound defiant and certain.

  Rita seemed uncomfortable. ‘I’d check with Mel first, love. He’ll be here for his lunch tomorrow, I’ll ask him.’

  ‘Tell him I’m g
oing to see her.’ But Anne felt her resolve fading; Kathleen was part of Mel’s realm.

  Rita looked away. ‘I know you were good mates, love; I remember. Your dad liked her too.’

  Anne rubbed her back teeth against each other. Kathleen’s face was easy to form in her mind, but she couldn’t envisage her hair. She searched her memory for the last time she had seen her: what was her hair like then? But she kept retrieving an image of Kathleen at seventeen, her mischievous smile, the solid curves and big green eyes she shared with Mel and Julie.

  Rita seemed to be concentrating on the TV now. Anne wanted to talk more about Kathleen, about her dad. She was even tempted to mention the lost baby; she didn’t know why. But she could see Rita was cutting herself off – making herself, Julie and Tom an isolated piece of work. Anne would have liked to pull at its frayed ends, make Rita jump. But instead she sighed and stirred. ‘Alright, I’ll think I’ll make a move.’

  Rita sprang up. ‘Sure you won’t have another tea before you go?’

  It wasn’t a real offer. ‘No thanks.’

  They shuffled into the hall.

  Putting her jacket on, Anne said, weakly, ‘You’ll ask Mel about me seeing Kathleen, then?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll ask him tomorrow and give you a ring. Bye now, love.’ Rita kissed her quickly. ‘Nice to see you.’ And then, quietly, ‘Don’t forget to sort out something nice to wear for the christening. Joo’ll be upset otherwise.’

  ‘I will. I’ve got a few ideas.’

  ‘Oh, good.’ Rita opened the door.

  Anne stepped out onto the balcony. The cool outside air was welcome. ‘Bye, Mum.’

  Rita was already closing the door. ‘Bye.’ It shut and Anne heard the lock turn on the inside.

  Finished, Anne thought, and took a few steps towards the stairs. Then she stopped and listened. She used to do this outside their house in Watergate Street, when her father had still been alive: pause as she left, to hear what was said about her. The kitchen window had always been open then; this one was open too.

  Rita was washing the cups: ‘That wasn’t too bad, was it?’

  Julie was already in the kitchen with her: ‘She didn’t have to have a go at me about Auntie Kathleen.’

  ‘I know. She’s not seen her for years herself. Here, don’t be expecting her to be all glammed up for the christening.’

  ‘She said she’d see what she could do.’

  ‘Yeah, well. You just might have to put up with not much.’

  Anne hurried away down the stairs, regretting what she had heard and not wanting to hear more.

  Chapter 5: Sam

  On Saturday night, Sam crossed the creek into Greenwich to visit the gay pub he’d found listed online. It’s my local, he said to himself, but then rubbed the short hair at the base of his skull and grimaced.

  The bar was half empty. A drag queen, towering on a minute stage in the corner, barked out a song, her voice too loud for the narrow room. When she was finished, she baited a group of lesbians at one of the tables, then scanned the room for more victims. Leaning against the warm fruit machine, Sam realised her sequinned glove was pointing at him.

  ‘Why are you standing there on your own, lover?’

  Sam couldn’t think what to say: why was he standing here on his own? Because he’d vowed never to sail again? Because he shouldn’t be one of a crew?

  ‘Ah, shame,’ the drag queen boomed into the microphone. ‘Someone buy him a drink, poor lad. All on his lonesome.’ She crooned a line of Elvis.

  Sam was glad when the lights went down and dance music filled the bar again. It took just two long strides to get to the door.

  As he rushed through the drizzle towards Creek Bridge, he saw a figure ahead of him crossing over to Deptford. He immediately recognised the rolling gait, the monochrome clothes and the swinging bag. If he kept this pace up, he would overtake her, so he slowed down, almost tempted to turn back. But it was too late; Deborah had looked around, her face startlingly white in the darkness on the middle of the bridge. She stopped, waiting for him.

  ‘Hello there, Sam.’ Her voice seemed clear and young in the damp air over the water, and he felt himself smiling at the pleasure of hearing someone say his name.

  ‘Hello, Deborah.’

  She beamed at him as he approached. ‘Have you been out?’

  ‘Just to a pub.’

  ‘Saturday nights are very busy. Like the old days again.’

  As he reached her his toe caught on something and, looking down, he saw his feet were either side of a slot that divided the bridge into two wings.

  ‘It opens,’ said Deborah, ‘for the big boats to come through. Not often these days, though.’ She stared upstream, into the wet dark.

  She’d certainly been walking away, so why did he have the impression she’d been expecting him? He shook his head; he must have got a bit drunk without realising it. They started moving towards Deptford together.

  ‘So what are you doing out?’ Sam asked. ‘Partying?’ He grinned down at her.

  ‘Oh no,’ she giggled pleasantly. ‘I just enjoy a walk of a night-time.’

  Sam remembered her daring dash across the busy road. ‘You’re kind of fearless, aren’t you?’

  She touched his arm with two fingers. ‘I’m invulnerable,’ she said, and giggled again. But in the copper street light, her pale eyes were scrutinising him, travelling over his face.

  Coming off the bridge, Deborah stopped at a junction: the main road stretched towards the centre of Deptford and a side road curled into the industrial buildings beside the creek.

  ‘Would you like to come back to my house for a cup of tea?’ Her words sounded clipped.

  Sam didn’t reply straight away; the little adventure he had hoped for that night involved going home with a man he’d picked up in the pub, not drinking tea with an old woman. He looked along the wide, straight road towards the High Street and his empty, damp room, where everything would be exactly how he had left it earlier. Then he turned back. Deborah had taken a couple of steps into the shadow of the side road. She had pulled her shawl over her head against the rain and was clasping the handles of her cloth bag. Whatever it contained was making the sides swell out. She held it up slightly, over her lower abdomen. It was just the position she had been in when he had seen her under the tree in the middle of the estate.

  He rubbed the back of his head and a spritz of droplets soaked his hand. She was waiting for his answer, her lips slightly parted. Her tiny teeth flashed.

  At last Sam shrugged his shoulders. ‘OK. That’d be nice.’

  Deborah took his arm, her grip almost a pinch. ‘This way,’ she said and tried to wheel him around into the side street. But Sam stayed put.

  ‘Don’t you live down there?’ He pointed towards the High Street with his free hand.

  ‘No, no, down here.’ She held on to him firmly.

  Sam resisted a moment longer. ‘But I saw you the other evening. From my window. I can see into that estate. The house you went into isn’t where you live, then?’ He did feel drunk now, even though he’d only had two beers.

  Deborah pushed her shawl back a little; the harsh glare of a halogen light on the building beside them made her face a smooth piece of linen.

  ‘I did live there, ever such a long time ago.’ She smiled slightly, patiently blinking at him.

  Sam let her lead him around the corner into the side street. There were no pavements here, so they walked in the middle of the road. It was much darker too, but the occasional security light flicked on as they passed locked gates.

  They were silent for a few turns, then Deborah began to speak again; an even, rounded, measured voice – one for the radio or for reading from a book.

  ‘I was seven years old when I left that house. They called it a hospital back then. Not a hospital how you’d think of one,’ she nudged him with the back of her hand and her bag knocked against his legs. It was spongy; spilling out of the top were folds of pale cloth. ‘The Ins
titute bought it as somewhere for sick children to go. There was nowhere else really in those days.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Nineteen thirteen.’

  Sam tried to calculate the years, but they wouldn’t work. She couldn’t be that old. Could she?

  Her hand slipped under his arm and she pressed her shoulder into his side. She was warm and fitted pleasantly against his ribs.

  She continued her story as they strolled, her voice weaving in with the threads of drizzle. The road meandered past new apartment blocks, then old walls. Here was a stretch of cobbles, then clean steel palings and newly laid tarmac. They must have been just a few minutes’ walk from his room, but as Deborah’s tale wound on – her hand dipping into the bag as if to retrieve the old house, the tunnel and the trapped woman from the layers of cloth – he felt they were adrift on a far-off sea.

  As she came to an end, Sam’s footsteps sounded hollow against the cobbles; was the tunnel she was talking about right under his feet? Would the cracked surface break up and pitch him into the muddy hole? But they turned a corner and he saw the solid shape of a council block, a steeply pitched roof and dimly lit balconies strung with washing lines.

  ‘Is that where you live?’ He gestured at the estate, almost disappointed.

  ‘No. I live right beside the creek. You’ll see.’ She patted his hand. ‘You live on the High Street, don’t you?’

  He didn’t reply. She seemed to know all about him, while he couldn’t guess a thing about her.

  ‘I lived there myself up until the war. Then I was bombed out.’ A light came on high above them. Deborah’s eyes were focused on something far away.

  Ahead, the railway viaduct cut through the estate. The road slipped on under it, past a mural on a wall. In the crossed street lights, Sam could not discern what it was he was looking at; it was possibly just a pattern of bricks and tiles, but it suggested something more. And as he continued to walk towards it, his arm swung empty. Deborah was gone. He stopped. All the windows in the estate on one side of the road were dark; the warehouses on the other side slept. He was completely alone. He made a small, slow circle, his breaths brief clouds in the wet air.