Attend

by West Camel

  She sat down and they both stared at the mime on the TV screen. The bond between them had been frayed to a fragile thread long ago – by time, by Mel, by Anne’s habit – and the slightest tension could snap it; so Anne remained mute and motionless, waiting.

  Kathleen picked up the catalogue from the floor and turned a page. ‘Nice dresses. Can’t remember the last time I saw you in one, Anne. Or me either, since … you know.’ They drank simultaneously, Kathleen gulping more than sipping. ‘We used to wear them, though, didn’t we? I can remember the one you were wearing when you pulled Mel.’

  Anne flushed – and told herself it was the alcohol. ‘Can you?’

  ‘Oh yeah, very slinky it was; red. Not something I could’ve worn. Busting out all over, I’d have been. But you looked great in it.’

  Anne did remember, and also remembered the heat of Mel’s hand through the material. She fingered the remote control.

  ‘Watch if you want to – don’t let me interrupt.’ Kathleen had finished her drink already.

  ‘No, no, I was just fiddling.’ Anne turned the TV off.

  Kathleen put her glass down. ‘Fatty and skinny Mel used to call us, remember? That used to drive me mad.’

  ‘You weren’t fat, Kath – you had a lovely figure.’

  ‘I did, you’re right. Child-bearing hips, our dad used to say. Funny that it was you who had the baby in the end, and not me.’

  There was an edge in her voice. Did she want Anne to apologise for having Julie? And for being unable and unwilling to care for her, while the only thing that had grown in Kathleen’s womb was a disease? And then it struck her that Kathleen had said ‘baby’. She had forgotten the first one; the lost one.

  Anne took the catalogue out of Kathleen’s hands. ‘I was just looking to get something for the christening. I want to make an effort for Julie, you know.’

  ‘Well, you weren’t around when little Tom was born, so I suppose you should.’

  Anne, cowed, fixed her eyes on an iron-haired pensioner in a trouser suit, smiling out of a window at a peaceful sea on which sailed a white cruise liner.

  ‘You been over to see them much?’ Kathleen asked.

  ‘A few times.’ Anne turned the page away from the glamorous old woman. ‘Not as much as I thought I would, though. Now I’m here, they just don’t seem that close, if you see what I mean.’

  Kathleen hummed and nodded. She picked up her empty glass and drained the minute drip from the bottom, tipping her head back so Anne saw the length of her scrawny neck. Little pricks of guilt made Anne pick up her own glass. She shouldn’t have been so suspicious – why wouldn’t Kathleen visit her old mate, with her time so suddenly near?

  ‘Seeing any of your old crowd?’ Kathleen’s words were crisp and clear, but she didn’t look at Anne as she spoke.

  The mouthful of drink Anne had just taken nearly slipped into her lungs – but with a quick cough she recovered herself and said, ‘No, none of that lot. No!’ then worried that her denial was too vigorous, that Kathleen would now think there was someone lurking in the bedroom with a syringe and a burned teaspoon.

  But Kathleen stayed calm, ‘That’s good. Too easy to fall back into, isn’t it? I expect your mum’s pleased. And Mel.’

  ‘Mum’s not said much. And, well, I’ve not seen Mel at all since I’ve been back.’ Anne was beginning to sense the real reason for Kathleen’s visit. She turned to face her – each of them twisted towards the other now, with just a small space between them.

  Kathleen tipped her empty glass around; if there had been anything in it, it would have spilled into her lap. ‘The thing is, Anne, I’ve got a favour to ask.’

  Anne felt resistance spring up within her – she wanted to take a strong stance, her feet placed wide apart, like the women in the catalogue. ‘What is it?’ But she knew what it was, she just could not understand why. She needed time; ‘You want another drink?’

  ‘Yeah, go on.’

  Anne got up and went to the kitchen, skimming through possible scenarios. Surely Kathleen wasn’t using? Maybe she needed money? But she could ask Mel for that. Maybe she just needed to escape for a few hours each day – this Anne could appreciate. She picked up the bottle and hurried back into the living room.

  As Anne dropped backwards into her seat, Kathleen said into her empty glass, ‘You’ve got to get me some stuff, Anne. I can’t bear having to go through it all again.’

  Anne held the bottle out, crooked at an angle that kept the drink in, and trying not to tremble while she waited for Kathleen to raise her glass. Kathleen held it up and stared at the liquid as Anne poured.

  ‘I’ve never felt so bad in my life, Anne. The injections, the scans, the not knowing. While I thought it was doing me good, I could take the side effects, the sickness and all that. But then they said that it hadn’t worked … that the cancer will come back. It’s coming back now. I can’t go through it all again, Anne.’

  Anne put the bottle down by her side. She must be drunk off just one measure – she couldn’t order her thoughts at all. Was Kathleen really asking this? ‘What stuff do you want? You’ve never been into anything stronger than a drink and a puff on a spliff.’

  Kathleen gulped all of her drink down in one swallow, closing her eyes and shivering slightly at its strength. ‘It’s not to get high, Anne.’

  Here it was: the bond, formed when they were just girls, pulled taut with a jerk.

  ‘I don’t know how long I’ve got,’ Kathleen went on, almost casually. ‘Weeks, months – it’s all up in the air. They can’t seem to tell me anything definite – it’s all “If you respond to this, we can try again” or “Some people have done well on this drug” or “Let’s look at what we can do to make your life better right now”. But I don’t want all the fucking around. I want to know when the end will be, you know? I want to decide it.’

  Anne couldn’t speak; she was aware that she was sitting back with her mouth open, staring at Kathleen. In her drawn features Anne saw hunger – and she remembered withdrawal: the waiting, waiting, waiting for sleep, but the twisting, unravelling nonsense that came instead; the exhaustion of waking; the stretches of nasty day and nasty night; the simple desire for an end.

  She realised that she needed to respond and scrabbled some words together. ‘Kath, I know it must be awful – but they’ve not given up hope completely, the doctors and them. They haven’t said you’re going tomorrow, have they? You hear about people getting better.’

  Kathleen flicked her words away. ‘Miracle cures? I’m being realistic here, Anne, I’m dying. Do you get it? I won’t be here this time next year.’ She banged the sofa with her brittle hand.

  Anne felt the thudding vibration and was panicked. She had received the news of Kathleen like a letter from somewhere distant; she had been sad, but contained. Now it was here and immediate.

  She tried again, ‘I do know what you’re saying, Kath. But, like you say, you might have a year – you can do stuff. You’re not too sick right now, are you? You got here to see me, you’re drinking well – putting away the Southern Comfort, aren’t you?’ She tried a laugh, but it came out as if she were reading ‘ha’ off a page.

  Kathleen held out her glass. ‘I need this, Anne. I know you’re off the stuff, but you must know someone. I’m sure you can get hold of something. It’s just if it gets too much. I’ll stick around while I’m like this – while I can come and visit my old mates.’ Kathleen’s false smile was tight and hideous. ‘I’ll keep it at home and then when it’s time, I can just, like, slip away, without having to go through all the shit again.’

  Anne poured a large measure for Kathleen this time, then slumped into her corner of the sofa, looking away. She hadn’t got any curtains for the balcony windows yet and the lamps and patches of light in the room were reflected in the glass, merging with the lights from the opposite block and from unidentified places across the creek, across the river. The pattern was the only decoration in the otherwise plain, clean room. />
  She pulled at her hair and finished her drink. Kathleen’s request was close and concrete – she was shaken by the blunt truth of it. But her fast-beating heart, her inability to know whether she was too hot or too cold, the flutter in her fingers, were familiar, exciting.

  In years past, at this time of night, she would have been retreating into a warm stupor; or roaming around, searching for the fix. And in just the same way, Kathleen had hunted her out – made a longing little journey. Anne knew she could make it happen – call some people, pop into some pubs, knock on a few flats. The door was open just the slightest crack and her hand was raised, either to swing it wide, or to slam it shut.

  She saw her own face reflected in the balcony window and behind it the drawn face of the woman with her, waiting for an answer. Who were they out there in the night? It was not the Kathleen that she knew, that she had known. This was someone desperate, her vision darkened by a thickening veil. But Anne, clear-sighted now, could rip it.

  She turned around. ‘I can’t do it, Kath. I won’t. I know you’re desperate and you think there’s only one way out, but there’s more – honestly love, I know how it feels…’

  ‘It’s not about you, Anne, it’s about me.’ Kathleen’s face stretched – her nostrils flared and her lips pulled back from her teeth. ‘It’s about making me happy, it’s about helping me choose how to end it.’

  She was upright, loud and threatening, and Anne was scared. She wanted to defend her Kathleen against this monster. She wanted to defend herself against her own greedy beast – awake now, its wet tongue darting from its mouth.

  ‘I’m not doing it for you, Kath. I’m not a scaghead anymore. A scaghead would kill her own mother for a fix. Not me; not now. Not my best mate.’ She was startled by the conviction in her voice.

  Kathleen leaped up, shaking and swaying, ‘Fuck you, Anne. Fuck you. You don’t fucking know a thing. We were mates, and you chose the junk over me, over Mel, over your own fucking daughter, for fuck’s sake. Now you could pay all that back by helping me. But you can’t even do that.’

  Her empty glass teetered on the side of the sofa. Anne put her hand up as if to protect her face. ‘Kath, listen—’

  ‘No Anne, why the fuck should I listen to you? You’ve always been a selfish cunt. Mel says it, your own mum says it. This would’ve been about the only thing you could do for another person, and you can’t even be bothered.’ Her voice rose into a screech. ‘Well, fuck you, you selfish bitch.’

  She grabbed her coat and left the room, bashing hard into the door post.

  Anne remained stuck to her seat – each heartbeat pulsing through her, making her whole body throb.

  She heard Kathleen struggling with the front door, banging it, then shouting, ‘Fucking let me out!’

  Anne hurried into the hall and, with a twist and a lift, she opened the door. Kathleen pushed past her and rushed away along the balcony with short, quick footsteps and hunched shoulders. Anne stood in the open doorway and watched her cross the courtyard and enter the dark street. She didn’t shout after her to call her back; she had no voice left to do it.

  Chapter 12: Sam

  Sam and Derek kissed hard and long in the silver light from the frosted window above the tall street door.

  ‘See you at eight tonight?’ said Derek.

  ‘Thirteen hours,’ Sam replied.

  Outside they waved to one another, each turned away from the direction he was going in.

  Derek disappeared into Albury Street, where his car was parked, while Sam, turning his head, almost walked into Deborah, who was standing outside the shop next door. He jumped and grunted.

  ‘Good morning, Sam.’ She smiled widely.

  ‘I didn’t expect to see you here. It’s so early.’

  ‘I’m up all night sometimes. You can please yourself when you’re as old as me.’

  She was standing right in his path.

  Sam collected himself. ‘Well, I’m in a rush for the bus. I can’t be late for work. I’ll see you.’ He walked around her and had to suppress a sigh when she fell into step with him, saying, ‘Of course, of course.’

  A horn sounded and Derek’s car passed slowly; he leaned over the wheel and winked. Sam lengthened his gait, trying to draw away from Deborah without her realising it; but she kept up, although her breath came in gasps.

  Sam’s bus crossed the junction ahead and Derek pulled out behind it. That was it – he was going to be late. He slowed down, defeated.

  ‘Sorry – I was trying to catch that bus.’

  But Deborah replied, ‘You know that man in the car?’

  Sam hesitated, caught out. Deborah’s cheeks were pink and she clutched her bag tightly, waiting for his answer.

  ‘Yes, I do. I met him last week, actually, after I left your place.’

  ‘Ah.’ She turned away from him. ‘Well, you need to get to work.’

  Surely she wasn’t jealous? It seemed ridiculous.

  She turned back having put on a smile. ‘Would you like to come for tea later – after work?’

  He looked up the road towards Rotherhithe – Derek was probably halfway home by now.

  ‘I’m busy this evening, but I can pop in for a cup of tea before.’

  Deborah’s face relaxed and she let her bag swing down to her side; he had said the right thing.

  ‘I finish work around three-thirty, so I’ll probably be with you just after four, OK?’

  ‘That’s sounds just right. You know, it’s so good to have friends. It’s been such a long time since I’ve had anyone visit. Not since Mr Mellor, I suppose.’

  Sam nodded, but something like a whizzing gnat told him friendship wasn’t all she was looking for.

  Another bus appeared from Church Street, and soon he was on it. Walking towards the rear as it pulled forwards, for a moment he remained level with Deborah as she stood alone amid the crowd around the bus stop. Now she thought he couldn’t see her, some great need was written across her features, like a child who desperately wants something, but dares not ask. He took the nearest seat. Perhaps he shouldn’t have wanted to get away from her so badly, but he was sure now that she had been watching for him this morning. And if he had looked across the road when he and Derek had arrived home the previous night, maybe he would have seen her, crouched down on a doorstep, knitting or sewing.

  When Sam reached Deborah’s house, the door was open and she was sitting at the kitchen table. She was staring, unfocused, at a piece of tissue paper lying in front of her, and when she looked up it seemed to take a moment for her to recognise him.

  ‘Ah, Sam, you’re here. I thought maybe you weren’t coming.’

  ‘Sorry. Terrible traffic.’

  She smiled; her relief was clear.

  ‘Here,’ Sam swung the bag onto the table. ‘Something for you.’

  Deborah’s hand darted at the piece of tissue paper, pulling it out of the way. It was folded, and inside was a slip of fabric.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Sam. ‘Now, I thought you could do something with this.’ And, with a smile and what he thought was a magician’s flourish, he pulled a piece of orange cloth out of the bag. It was an offcut he’d found under one of the cutting machines at the fabric warehouse during the end-of-the-day clean-up. He’d thought it a scrap. But now, in Deborah’s kitchen, it seemed much bigger.

  Deborah reached out a hand, the other still covering the piece of material in its paper, and caught the swaying edge of the orange fabric.

  ‘Oh, that’s lovely.’ She held the piece in both hands now and took in its alarming colour, the orange-red reflecting onto the skin of her face. Sam was about to tell her how he had saved it, when she opened it out fully, so that her scrap of material slipped from its fold of paper and fell to the floor. Deborah let out an uncharacteristic little scream and leaned over to rescue it; but somehow her hands wouldn’t put Sam’s present down.

  Sam was already stooping to the strip of stitching where it lay on the grey flagstone. ‘I’
ve got it.’ He placed it back on the table in its paper. ‘Another piece of tapestry you found? Small, isn’t it?’ But the sight of Deborah’s open mouth and twisted brows made him withdraw his hand.

  ‘It might be small, but it’s important.’

  There was something different about her now from the previous times, when she had stood or sat upright and told him stories; there was a weariness in the slope of her shoulders and the angle of her neck. For a second, he thought something had happened to her. Then, with a break of sweat, he realised that what had happened had happened to him. He had been with Derek almost every day for the past week. Had she been watching them, and Sam had not seen her? Standing in shop doorways, stock-still on street corners, wrapped up in her camouflage of grey wool, she may as well have been a bollard or a steel dustbin; had Sam walked straight past without noticing her, just like everyone else did?

  She looked at the creek outside the open door, back down at the thick orange, at Sam and then at the little piece of stitching that now peeped from its protective paper. He wanted to apologise; he knew what it was like to be alone. He thought of all those long evenings he’d spent flicking through profiles online – finally meeting someone for a few rough minutes before returning home to his parents’ mute and questioning stares.

  She took a breath in. ‘I’ve been sitting here waiting for you, trying to decide whether to tell you about it or not; or to leave it for another time.’