by Diana Finley
Barry supports me as I weep, holding me upright, his own face set rigid and grim, his hand gripping my elbow like a vice. Anaïs cries softly too. Her hand is a more gentle caress, stroking my arm, reminding me of her love. I worry that I am embarrassing them, especially Barry – making an exhibition of myself in public – but I can’t help myself.
After such a long life, only a handful of Erna’s very elderly friends are still living, and remain fit enough to be able to stand with us at her graveside. Sylvia is with us, of course, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief. I tremble uncontrollably, in part with the cold, in part for my overwhelming sorrow and distress. I can hardly believe I’ll never see her again, my beloved friend, never talk to her, laugh with her. It’s unreal; it cannot be.
As the coffin is lowered, I picture Erna’s kind, expressive face inside it, now motionless and cold, and I feel suddenly that I can’t bear to be parted from her. I reach my hand shakily towards the coffin, trying somehow to connect with her. Barry pulls my arm back and gives a sigh of irritation. Anaïs’s arm encircles my waist gently. Dear girl, thank goodness for her support and understanding.
***
For the next two weeks I scarcely leave the house. I wander without purpose from one room to another, like a ghost, unable to settle. Some nights, I lie on Erna’s bed, hugging her pillows to me, as if cuddling a baby; wrapping myself in her duvet, and breathing in the delicate, woody, sandalwood scent of the cologne that she favoured, and which lingers there still.
I am quite bereft, and find it hard to carry out the simplest, normal day-to-day activities like washing or eating, which makes me deeply ashamed. Sure, hadn’t Erna herself suffered a much, much more profound loss all those years ago, I chastise myself. And yet hadn’t she carried on bravely? She had never given in to her grief, never.
I dread having to turn my mind to moving from this house in which I have lived so happily for the last quarter of a century. I don’t even think about money; what does it matter? In any case, I suppose I’m confident that Erna will have arranged to leave me a small bequest. She’d always assured me I’d be well looked after, that I shouldn’t worry, and so I don’t. Whatever that bequest might be, however small, together with my now regular earnings from dressmaking – most of which I have saved – it will surely be enough to put down a deposit on a modest house or flat, or to pay a reasonable rent for somewhere small but decent? I won’t think about all of that until I have to.
***
Six weeks after Erna’s funeral, Erna’s solicitor, Mr Adams, calls me and Barry into his office to read the will.
‘First of all, Mr Tully, Ms Tully,’ he says, ‘may I extend my most sincere condolences to you both for your sad loss. I know you and Mrs Goldstein have been very close friends and companions for many years. She was a most admirable person.’
‘Thank you, Mr Adams, it’s kind of you to say that.’
It is only then, as Mr Adams begins to clarify the will, that I discover what the future holds for me. I learn that there is not to be the expected ‘small bequest’.
Far from it. It takes me a while to absorb this news. I can scarcely make sense of what Mr Adams is saying, so unexpected is it, so totally unreal.
What emerges is, that apart from a number of generous charitable donations, and a bequest of £10,000 for Barry and his family, I am the only beneficiary of Erna’s will. Apparently, the large, valuable house in Blackheath, and a considerable amount of capital, are now entirely mine. It hardly seems possible to me. Overnight, I’ve become a rich woman.
Chapter 24
2002
Marie
One thing that’s caused difficulty over all these years, is that Barry has seemed somehow to sense my love, my longing, for Donal. It’s not as though the strength of my feelings for Donal ever diminished my love for him – for Barry – in the slightest. Yet even as a tiny child, somehow he seemed to know when I was distracted or distressed by my thoughts of his brother. I always had to try to conceal my feelings from him, for fear of throwing him into a violent rage. Now that he’s a grown man, now more than ever, he seems to hate me talking about his brother, or even thinking about him.
Barry has had so much that’s good and positive in his life, yet he can’t seem to appreciate it. His needs are like a bottomless pit, like a deep, deep well. No matter how much good, clear water is poured in at the top, the well never remains full; it seems to leak away, to need more, always more.
One of Barry’s over-riding needs – and one that really bothers me – is money. He’s obsessed with the stuff; always wanting more, never satisfied with what he’s got – and he’s got plenty! He’s ridiculously jealous of those who have even more than him (like me, since Erna died), and mean with what he himself has. It isn’t as if he even enjoys spending it. He isn’t a man for fancy meals out, the theatre, expensive holidays, or extravagantly posh clothes. Mind you, he does believe in ‘quality’ for himself, like his top-quality suits, and his car is his pride and joy. I suppose he reckons it sends a message to the world – ‘Look at me; I’m successful’ – and he likes that.
I wouldn’t mind that so much if money gave him any real pleasure, but it doesn’t appear to. What saddens me most is that he never buys Anaïs or Nina nice things. No beautiful jewellery or pretty dresses, no lovely weekends away in the country, or holidays in the sun. Not even special flowers or chocolates once in a while. I only wish that he would; small gestures make such a difference, send a positive message, show affection and caring. I feel they deserve to be treated sometimes, and heaven knows, he can afford it.
Barry certainly did exceptionally well in his studies, I know that, and he must be doing well in his job too; he’s been promoted several times. He’s now in a senior position at a top City bank. God knows exactly what he does; he never talks about his work, and I’ve stopped asking. Barry and Anaïs have bought a lovely house about ten minutes from me, where they and Nina live. He earns an absolute bomb – no exaggeration. Yet money was the start of many a row between him and his wife. Not that she’s a spendthrift – far from it – but he criticises almost anything she buys for herself, or Nina, or for the house.
I couldn’t ask for a better daughter-in-law. I’m very fond of her. She’s a lovely girl: gentle, kind, affectionate, funny – and a good mother to Nina. Barry can be so hard on her – and the child – always nagging them about something or other. Anaïs has lost that sparkle she once had. She looks so sad much of the time. I hate to see it.
Over time, I start to notice how wary Anaïs, and even little Nina, have become of Barry. That’s been the start of serious worries about their relationship. They look downright scared of him at times. On a couple of occasions recently, I see Anaïs has bruises on her face or arms.
One time when they come to visit me, I notice she has the remains of a black eye. It’s starting to turn that yellowy colour. She’s rubbed foundation on it to try to disguise it, but I can see.
While Barry is sorting drinks in the kitchen, I ask Anaïs about it. She gets that look of a frightened rabbit on her face, glancing round quickly to see if Barry is in the room. Then she says she walked into a doorframe, that she wasn’t looking where she was going. But that doesn’t fool me, not for a minute. Nina has developed a permanent guarded look too. She’s watchful, especially if Barry approaches her mother, as if she’s expecting an attack at any moment, poor mite. Something is going on, something bad, and I don’t like it. I can’t bear it.
While Barry’s out of the room, I go and sit next to Anaïs on the sofa. I hug her and speak softly to her. Tears well up in her eyes. She stares at her feet. She shakes her head … she won’t tell me. A fierce rage grips my heart. I leave her and Nina in the sitting room, walk into the kitchen and shut the door. Barry is opening a bottle on the table. I storm up to him, grab his arm with all my strength and pull him round to face me. He looks surprised, really shocked – and a bit scared himself!
‘Barry Tully! Don’t you dare ever,
ever, ever raise your hand to your lovely wife – or your child – ever again!’ I spit the words straight into his face like bullets. I’m right ferocious, even though he towers over me.
‘If you do, you can be sure you’ll get nothing from me, nothing. I’ll write you straight out of my will for ever. They’ll get the lot! Do you hear me? Do you understand?!’
Well, he doesn’t like that. He’s furious. His face goes white and he stands over me like he’s going to hit me, and all. He’s shaking with rage, using all his self-control not to punch me – I can see.
***
I know Barry was already very angry with me before this. Not long ago, I’d asked him round to show him my will, which the solicitor had updated for me recently, according to my instructions. The main change in it is that I’d decided to put one or two conditions in there. I’d also added in a couple of special bequests. The first is for £10,000 to go to Sylvia, as my special friend, if she’s still alive at my death. I don’t suppose Barry is too worried about that one; after all, Sylvia’s more than eighteen years older than me.
I told Barry I’d made a substantial sum of money – £20,000 – available to go direct to Anaïs immediately. It’s to give her some freedom, some security, and, I’m sorry to have to say it, some independence from Barry, for all he’s my son. Without making some legal arrangements, I can’t trust him to do right by his wife or his young daughter, and that’s a great sadness for me.
My darling little Nina will get a similar lump sum when she’s eighteen, to help her with whatever she wants to do – whether to further her education or training at university or college, to develop her career, to set up a business, to buy her own flat, or whatever else she wants it for. I know she’ll use it well, she’s such a sensible girl already. Maybe it doesn’t sound that much in the circumstances, what with today’s prices, but I’m sure Anaïs will always help her out if need be – and besides, this will be an advance; she’ll be getting more from my will in the long run.
I’ve already helped my dear, loyal friend Elsie and her family whenever I could over the years, and she’ll get another £10,000 now, for a special holiday, home improvements, or a few little luxuries – whatever they want in fact. A further £20,000 in my will is for Elsie to set up and run a small charitable trust to help impoverished unmarried mothers – in a desperate situation like we two girls had been – so they can keep their babies, and have somewhere safe to live. Of course, Barry doesn’t approve of that idea, not at all, but it means a huge lot to me, and Elsie’s always wanted to do it if only she had the money. If there’d been help like that for us and some of the other girls all those years ago, maybe I’d never have had to give up my precious Donal.
Apart from the special bequests, at my death this figure will be divided equally between Barry, Anaïs, and of course, Donal too, if he is ever found. The one condition I imposed on Barry for him to receive his own share, is that he should search for and find his brother. If – God forbid – through his search Barry finds that Donal has passed away, that share will be re-divided equally between himself and Anaïs.
Barry is furious that Anaïs is given equal financial status to his own in my will. Yet, to give him his due, although he hates the conditions I placed on him, he has devoted a lot of time and effort into trying to track his brother down. I suppose the thought of the extra money is a major motivation for him – which is exactly what I hoped it would be – but I admit I’m impressed by the determination he’s shown. In the process of searching for his brother, Barry frequently comes up against frustrating dead ends, but he’s never given up.
***
Maybe all the stress is partly to blame, or maybe it’s just an unfortunate coincidence, but back in spring, a routine breast screening examination reveals abnormal tissue at the back of my left breast, requiring further investigation.
Sylvia accompanies me to my hospital appointments. A scan shows a significant lump, and a subsequent biopsy confirms that it’s cancerous. The oncologist, Mr Bassington, is an amiable, fatherly man in his late fifties.
‘This is a sizeable growth, Ms Tully,’ he tells me, as Sylvia, sitting beside me, squeezes my hand. ‘Had it been in a more prominent position, you might have noticed it much sooner. As it is, I’m afraid it may have been there some time, and therefore there is a chance that it will have spread.’
I hear Sylvia’s sharp intake of breath. She’s crushing my hand in hers.
Mr Bassington pauses to allow me to absorb this information.
‘I think the best thing is for you to have an MRI scan to ascertain the exact extent of the tumour, and then for us to operate as soon as possible. I’m afraid you will almost certainly need a mastectomy, so that we can remove as much as possible of any cancerous tissue. That will be followed by a period of chemotherapy, which will aim to target any rogue cells that may have spread. In time, you may want to consider an implant. They’re very successful these days.’
I find it difficult to take in all he is saying. I try to picture the ‘rogue’ cells: wicked little creatures with cruel, snarling faces, attacking my vulnerable, helpless flesh. Implant, he says. There’s something else to picture.
‘Sure, and why would I want such a thing, Doctor? Here I am nearly fifty and never married. I don’t think I’ll be wanting a perfect bosom to attract a husband after all these years without one – and never missing one, if the truth be known.’
Mr Bassington smiles. ‘Perhaps not, Ms Tully, but it’s something to think about in due course. Many women simply want to be restored to their former … er … symmetry. Not necessarily for a husband or partner, but perhaps for themselves …’
‘Oh, I’m quite symmetrical enough, I think, what with having an arm and a leg each side. That’ll do me. But, will I live, do you think, Doctor? That’s what I need to know. Or should I be after saying “Mister” to you, being a consultant and all?’
‘“Doctor” will do just fine. I think we have a good chance of treating you successfully, but I’m afraid nothing is absolutely certain. Cancer is a serious disease.’
Sylvia gasps and blows her nose noisily.
‘Yes, yes, I know,’ I say. ‘And I know you doctors don’t like to be pinned down to exact figures, but tell me now, at a guess, what would you say are my chances?’
‘You’re right, Ms Tully, we don’t find it very helpful to put an exact figure on these things, but I’d say a fit lady like you has a very good chance of surviving, for many years yet.’
‘Fifty-fifty would you say?’
Mr Bassington smiles again. ‘Yes, perhaps … even better odds than that I’d say. Maybe sixty-forty, at least – in your favour.’
‘Oh well, sure, that would be worth putting a bet on! That’ll have to do for now. Come on, Sylvia, stop snivelling, for God’s sake – let’s go home.’
***
How could I possibly have got through the last years without Sylvia? No way at all. She’s been everything a good, loyal and kind friend can be, and I’ll never stop loving her for it. I often think about how I could demonstrate to her just how important she is to me.
When Erna was alive she always welcomed Sylvia into her home. She often said how much she liked Sylvia, what a good and ‘special’ person she was, but I think Sylvia felt a bit self-conscious in her presence.
‘She’s so refined,’ Sylvia would say, ‘and so intellectual. I mean, it’s not that she’s snobbish in the least, I’m not saying that, but I sometimes feel like a proper Cockney with her, rough and common!’
‘Erna would never judge you in that way,’ I often assure her. ‘She likes people for who they are, not for how they speak or what kind of a family they come from. She always says she suffered enough because of people’s prejudices in the past, to ever hold such views herself. She likes you very much. She admires you for being such a good friend to me, as I do too.’
When Sylvia and I first met and I was only eighteen, she’d seemed much, much older; she’d seemed grown-up
to me. I thought of her as a mature woman, although in fact she’d only been thirty-six. Thirty-six seems unbelievably young to me now that I’m so much older than that myself! Sylvia had spontaneously befriended me in such a warm and motherly way, that I’d thought of her as middle-aged, even elderly, at the time. How our perception of age changes as we move through life, and the so-called milestone birthdays go by!
***
I always loved Erna Goldstein’s big, old house, and I’d been very happy there. Yet, since she died, I find I don’t want to stay there on my own – but neither do I want to move to a completely different area. I’m so used to Blackheath after all these years. It’s all I know of London, and I feel at home here. So, in time, the fine old house is sold – for what I regard as an enormous amount of money. I find a smaller, more modern one not too far away. It’s in a quiet street and has a pretty, sunny garden at the back, just the right size for me. I make an offer and move in within three months.
By this time, Sylvia is sixty-eight – but just as she’d seemed older than her years when I first met her – now she actually seems younger, or perhaps ageless. She’s just Sylvia. Even though we’re both getting older, it’s as if I’m catching her up in age! Since I moved to the new house, my friendship with Sylvia has really taken off again, but in a different sort of way. We’re both on our own and know how lonely that can be.
The baker’s shop has been taken over by a chain, and they want a younger person to serve in it. Sylvia is asked – well, told – to retire. She has a modest pension, and the bakery, having valued her long service, give her a small lump sum by way of compensation for being required to stop working before she had wanted, and also to make up for her having to leave the little flat above the bakery, where she’s lived for so many years.