Attend

by West Camel

  And he realised now that he had unwittingly forced her hand – she had to declare what she wanted, while she still had at least part of his attention, before he started to ignore her completely.

  She put the big orange square down. Some of it fell into her grey lap and red-orange-red fibres attached themselves to her grey front; an orange-red thread lay in her white hair. He knew why he had given her the hot, visible fabric: he had thrown her a bright lifebuoy that everyone would see. But it was pointless – she had drifted beyond such help long ago. He pushed his chair back from the table and blinked, waiting.

  ‘It’s the motif.’ She paused, staring at the dirty little scrap. ‘The piece the woman gave me in the tunnel.’ She looked up at him, making sure he remembered, perhaps, but the orange reflecting onto her face made her expression difficult to read. ‘And I told you that I copied it. All those years at the orphanage, I learned how to make it myself. I was that pleased when I managed it. But I didn’t realise what I know now. What Mr Mellor led me to see; and I don’t think even he understood – despite all his learning and knowledge and travelling.’

  Sam lowered his head and then raised it again. He wanted her to say what she wanted to say, and then he would go. Any normal, straightforward twenty-three-year-old would have shunned her right from the start. He didn’t care about the motif. He didn’t care about any Mr Mellor. And he didn’t care about her. He wanted Derek. He wanted the kind of life he had left home for. He imagined himself springing up, knocking over his chair, and shouting abuse at her – who would know?

  Deborah put her fingers inside the fold of paper and spread it apart, tracing the texture of the stitching with her tips, as if reading Braille. Sam watched, paralysed by surprise at the strength of his anger.

  ‘I was cursing myself, Sam. This thing saved me from a bomb in the war. No one else survived but me. I’ve not had a day’s sickness since I found it. I’m as strong as a woman half my age. All my teeth are still in my head. I can see to the … to the … I don’t even know how far I can see.’ Her voice was strangled in her throat; a tear dropped onto the orange cloth and made a dark, wet mark.

  Sam’s fury collapsed; he leaned forwards, putting a hand on the table and one on her arm. He couldn’t rubbish her words; he couldn’t get up and storm out. Whatever else, her grief was real. ‘But it’s only a piece of stitching, isn’t it?’ He reached out to touch it.

  She sniffed and tried to sit more upright, removing the motif from his reach, folding it back into its paper with reverence. And, like the thin tin whistling of a rail indicating the arrival of a train, Sam thought he knew what she was about to say.

  ‘I can’t die, Sam,’ she said clearly. ‘I want to, but I can’t.’

  Chapter 13: Anne

  Rita and Julie were able to pore over a good, thick catalogue for hours at a time, scraps of paper to hand to take down item numbers and prices. Or Julie would stare at clothes on her phone, while Rita looked over her shoulder saying, ‘Tap that one, Joo’.

  Anne had tried to imitate them, fingering the catalogue for days. But the order form was intimidating and she was sure she would miss the delivery. And if she didn’t, the size and colour were bound to be wrong. In the end, she took the book to Deborah and pointed out a dress she wouldn’t exactly say she liked, but that would be good camouflage at the christening; her family would approve at least.

  Deborah studied the page for a few moments. ‘Oh yes, I think I could run that up for you. It’s quite a simple pattern.’

  Then there had been the measuring and Deborah’s careful calculations and, finally, they reached the market stall in the High Street where rolls of cloth were propped up and piled together, women touching and pulling at them, rubbing the samples between thumbs and fingers. A young man hefted out the heavy bolts, pulled out lengths with a strong tug and cut pieces off with quick carelessness.

  Deborah danced among the crowd, trying to get to the front, and Anne’s uncertainty held her back, so that Deborah had to pull at her hand to explain why she thought a plain, light-blue cotton mix would work. ‘It’s got a bit of stretch in it,’ Deborah demonstrated by grasping it in both hands. ‘I don’t know how they do it these days, but they make cotton like wool.’

  They bought several yards, and made their way through the crowds to the sewing-machine shop to buy thread, pins and tape. The shop door was stuck, and when Anne managed to release it with a forceful push, the bell attached to the inside rang madly, making the three women at the glass counter look up.

  Sewing machines lined the shelves, the same shape repeated over and over: a heavy base, substantial housing and a thick, arching arm. Anne felt an odd panic and almost heard the rumbling sound she knew they would make. She was very glad she had Deborah to help her.

  The women at the counter wore headscarves with thick, dark peaks of hair protruding from the front. And they all had long, elegant noses and dark eyes that pinned Anne to the space by the door. One seemed to be a customer – standing on Anne’s side of the counter, holding a tape measure – while the other two were behind, one with a roll of fabric, while the other had a pair of scissors, ready to cut it. They were frozen in this tableau, just as Anne was frozen in the doorway; only Deborah moved about the room, opening small boxes and examining thread, unnoticed by the women. She showed Anne a reel that matched the blue of the fabric they had bought and directly Anne moved forwards to look, the still picture returned to motion – the customer confirmed the length she wanted, one woman held the piece taut and the cloth was cut with a loud snip that made Deborah jump and turn.

  The bell jangled Anne and Deborah’s departure with a bag full of equipment, and Anne was surprised by how pleased she was that the task was progressing – that she even had a task to progress. What was more surprising, as they strolled back through the stalls, was that she was enjoying being one of the busy women laden with bags who had come to the market, pressing together in the narrow street, complaining, jostling, bumping buggies and treating themselves to cakes and pies. Several times, she thought she saw Rita and Julie ahead of her, swaying behind a pram. It would be sweet to brandish her bags at them, full of cloth, strong thread and sharp, useful pins and needles. But then there would be questions and comments: ‘What are you going to do with all that? You wouldn’t know where to start.’ And there would be laughter. And, of course, they wouldn’t pay any attention to the generous little figure beside her, who, as they meandered between the stalls and the overloaded shop fronts, took Anne’s arm and hung on to it slightly. Anyhow, they would see her in the dress at the christening. She would surprise them, looking fresh, the blue picking out her eyes, her slim legs that were never seen in her baggy everyday jeans.

  She saw a gap between two stalls through which they could escape the congestion, onto the quieter Giffin Street. She directed Deborah with a slight steer to her shoulder and, pushing past the racks of trousers, found herself looking at Mel’s green eyes and full mouth – but lower, and in a shrunken, ashen face.

  ‘Oh, Kath. Hello.’

  ‘Alright.’ Kathleen was already walking on; but Anne wanted to be heard this time, to be paid proper attention. With the bulging bags in one hand and Deborah on the other arm she felt remarkably clear-headed. She stepped into Kathleen’s path.

  ‘Kath, don’t be moody with me. I know it’s difficult for you, but I just can’t do what you want me to.’

  Kathleen stopped and looked at the bag, then into Anne’s face. ‘That’s always been your trouble, hasn’t it Anne? Everything is about you: what you can’t do, what you can do. And everyone else has to pick up the pieces.’

  Anne tucked her chin in and felt her face tighten into a scowl. Kathleen was wrong; she wasn’t at the centre with everyone circling around her – she was on the edge, looking in. But there was no point in trying to defend herself now; instead she reached out to touch Kathleen’s shoulder, her other arm still linked with Deborah’s.

  ‘But Kath, look at you – you’re u
p and about. You’re down the market. You’re not laid up in a hospital somewhere with drips or whatever in your arms.’

  Kathleen sighed and looked down. ‘How long for, though, eh? What if tomorrow I can’t get up, and they take me in and I’m lying in bed for weeks. I want the choice, Anne. I want something there that I can turn to the minute I can’t deal with this anymore.’

  Anne stepped back. Again, the escape Kathleen sought thrilled her for an instant. In the bag the needles and pins rattled in their boxes.

  They stood without speaking for a moment. The smells of sweet, hot caramel and sharp, savoury onion floated over from the food stalls on a cloud of chatter and shouts.

  ‘You’re going to the christening, I suppose?’ asked Kathleen at last.

  ‘Yeah – this Saturday.’

  ‘Probably see you there, then.’ And Kathleen vanished into the crowd.

  Deborah and Anne didn’t speak during the walk back, and only when the walls of the alley were towering above them did Deborah say, ‘Who was that woman? She doesn’t look well.’

  Anne didn’t reply immediately; she pondered the question for the length of the alley, then finally answered as they were preparing to mount the wall, one after the other – Anne now practised at where to put her hands and feet.

  ‘That’s Kathleen. She was a friend of mine years ago. And she was my sister-in-law – my ex-husband’s sister.’ This was the first time Deborah had asked her a question about herself.

  Inside the house, they busied themselves making sandwiches from the crusty bread they had bought at the bakery. Then they took them upstairs with mugs of tea and turned to the task of making the dress.

  Deborah clearly delighted in it, her assured movements similar to those she used when sailing. And Anne was pleased to have brought her the job, to provide some purpose to the endless sewing she did. But, full of the springy bread and hot tea, Anne also wanted to help. Deborah had already cut out the dress pattern on paper, and she showed Anne the careful way to pin the irregular shapes to the cloth and cut along the pinned lines. Concentrating on her work, Anne managed to discount the scene in the street with Kathleen and passed the cut pieces to Deborah, who sat at the ancient treadle sewing machine placed to one side of the bow window.

  They had worked for an hour or so when Deborah got up and said, ‘I know exactly what will go with this blue.’ And, from the chest where she kept the tapestries and her long white sheet, she took a folded square of violent orange.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Anne, alarmed by the brightness.

  ‘Just a dart of it in the skirt and bodice, piping on the cuffs and neckline – and a shoe-string belt – it will look very good. And if you don’t like it, it will be easy to take it apart and put the blue in instead – there’s plenty of material.’

  Anne had felt comfortable with the pale blue, thinking the orange would flash little warnings, making her stand out as something to be avoided or someone trying to be different; making it all about her, just as Kathleen had said.

  ‘Kathleen, the woman we saw earlier, she’s very sick. That’s why she looks like that.’ The words were out of Anne’s mouth before she’d thought about whether to say them.

  Deborah looked over, then back at her work. ‘Yes, I thought there was something wrong with her – from what the two of you were talking about. Is she dying?’

  Anne tried to cut the next piece of cloth accurately, but she couldn’t hold the shears straight.

  ‘She’s got cancer – of the ovaries. They’re trying to treat her at the hospital, but apparently it’s not going well.’

  Deborah rocked her foot on the iron treadle. ‘Cancer? Oh dear. That’s always pretty final.’

  Anne watched Deborah’s deft hands. ‘Not really, these days – there are so many new drugs and treatments. I don’t know properly what’s going on. But I do think she’s giving up too easily.’ She breathed in sharply – as if to suck her last words back in: she had gone too far. Part of the ease of being with Deborah was that she asked no questions. Simply by taking a two-minute walk down the alley Anne had been able to slip out of her everyday life. But now the two worlds were blending. She should have realised what she was doing when she asked Deborah to make the dress.

  The sewing machine rattled its syncopated rhythm and Anne tried to hold the cloth steady, so she could cut a good straight line. If she wanted to isolate Deborah from the rest of her life, she should simply remain silent. But she burned to share her dilemma; and Deborah had heard part of it, anyway. The light reflecting off the creek outside was bright on Deborah’s hands and face. The blue of the cloth was reflected in her eyes; the whites tinged with it. Anne set aside the panel she had been cutting out; the lines were not as neat as they should have been.

  ‘She’s asked me to get some drugs for her – so that she can kill herself when it all gets too much.’

  The sewing machine stopped. Deborah’s foot was stationary; one hand was flat on the seam she was creating, the other raised to hold the wheel at the side of the machine. The needle hovered in mid-air – a small inverted ‘v’ of thread stretched down from its eye into the cloth beneath, forming an almost invisible triangle.

  ‘And you told her you wouldn’t do it.’ Deborah rocked her foot again, restarting the clatter of the machine. Anne thought she detected a hint of judgement and felt herself bridle.

  ‘No, I won’t do it. You saw her – she can walk around. They discharged her from hospital. I know she looks terrible – but it’s not like she can’t make the most; you know, being with her family and all that.’

  ‘But that’s not really what she’s asking you, is it?’

  Anne didn’t reply, but lowered her head and tried to concentrate on her cutting. She wanted to tell Deborah she didn’t want the orange colour in her dress; she didn’t want this job of helping someone die. For fuck’s sake, she had never wanted the job of helping someone live. This was like being with her mother.

  ‘I can understand why she asked,’ Deborah went on, over the noise of the machine. ‘But it’s your decision if you don’t want to do it.’

  This was something Rita would not say, and Anne relaxed a little.

  ‘It’s just – why did she ask me? Why put me in that position?’ Anne was holding her hands up, cloth in one hand, shears in the other, her question directed into the clear white space of the window bay. ‘I mean, I know why she asked me. It’s obvious.’ She looked over at Deborah; it seemed almost impossible not to tell her the whole truth now, even though she wasn’t asking for it. ‘I was a drug addict – I am a drug addict.’

  Deborah barely reacted; perhaps just a blink. Did that mean she knew about Anne? Did she remember her from years before? Was this why she didn’t ask about her past?

  ‘The point is, I’m not using anymore.’

  Deborah still didn’t react.

  ‘That’s what people don’t seem to understand. They all say, “Oh good, we’re so pleased”, but they don’t believe it. I swear, half the people at this christening will be expecting me either to not turn up at all, or to be in a state, or stealing stuff and bumming off everyone.’ She was defending herself now for no real reason; but she couldn’t stop. ‘And yeah, I was like that. But not now. I’m standing on my own two feet. Look at me – I’m going to wear some dress I don’t even like. But still it’s “Anne the drug addict”. And now Kathleen wants to make it worse: “Anne the dealer” – “Anne the … the suicide assister”. What do you call it? Euthanasia.’

  She hacked a bad, ragged edge to the end of the piece she was working on and threw the shears down. Kathleen was right – it was all about her; and she was sure that Deborah was insinuating this, as she continued patiently, silently, with her work.

  At last Deborah came to the end of the long seam that formed the back of the skirt, and, removing it from the machine, she held it out; her head a silhouette behind the blue cloth as she turned with it at arm’s length. She placed it aside, came over
to the table at which Anne was working and examined the panels Anne had cut, then took them back over to the machine, checking pins and folds as she did so.

  ‘I don’t blame you at all for feeling the way you do. It’s a terrible position to be in. But I can understand Kathleen’s point of view too. She wants to be able to decide when to die – when she’s had enough.’

  Anne picked up the shears, her hackles smoothed by Deborah’s calm, small hand. The next piece of cloth to cut was one of the orange darts.

  Deborah placed a new seam under the needle, removing the pins and curling back the tissue paper template, picking away a few stray threads that obscured her work.

  ‘That’s something I’d love to be able to do too.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘I can’t die, Anne.’

  Anne let her mouth drop open; she held the gunmetal-grey shears up. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m more than one hundred years old, and look at me. There’s something keeping me alive. I’d love to have the chance to just die.’

  Deborah’s hands were holding the cloth taut and ready under the needle. She rocked her foot, the wheels moved and the needle began its journey. She pulled her mouth into a slight grimace of concentration.

  Anne shut the blades of the shears and placed them on top of the orange cloth with a muffled metallic clunk. She made her hands into fists and rested her forehead on them, looking down, but the orange of the cloth was too strong for her eyes, so she twisted her head to watch Deborah at the machine again.

  Deborah turned the curving seam skilfully under the needle and pulled it out. ‘I told you about the woman in the tunnel giving me the motif.’

  She stood and came over to Anne’s table with the finished pieces. Anne was tall and Deborah short, but Anne felt she was craning her neck as Deborah stared down intently into her face, her knuckles leaning on the table.