A particular matter by Julie Box

† Julie Box 24-4-1954 4-8-2014

Julie Box

A particular matter and other short stories

Roosendaal | 2014

Contents A particular matter 7 A Sudden Stitch 23 Jean and David Little grey mouse 35 Blue baby 41 The white coffin 49 The red and the blue 59

A particular matter

t was a bright spring morning when Lucy Teague left the house. She pulled the gate shut and jumped down the step to the pavement. She didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t turn back to see if her Mum was waving from the sitting room window, she was too old for that now. At 14 she thought herself very grown up, aware of her childhood and those cotton print dresses being now a thing in the past. She was bright but not clever and she thought too much. At least, thatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s what her mother told her, repeatedly. Lucyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s understanding of the world around her was just beginning to blossom. Now that they had television, world events seemed to be invading the family sitting room on a daily basis. Lucy, having made the transition from girl to young woman somehow sensed the seriousness of the changes taking place within her. Yet her new-found awareness still needed to be changed into experience. As she walked up the road on the way to her Saturday job she noticed the daffodils in the front gardens on the left. Yellow was her favourite colour, bananas and lemon soap on a rope. The left side of the road was a bit posher than the right side where she lived. The terraced houses opposite had steps going up to the front door and by the side of the steps were little front gardens. Most of them were tidy and planted up well and Lucy did little competitions in her head awarding them points of merit and choosing a winner. Lucy had been working in the chemist shop at the top of Pit7

ley Road for a few weeks. It took her about five minutes to walk there, up her road, past the church, turn left then up the hill and round the corner until the row of shops emerged. Bradley’s the chemist was the third shop in the row, sandwiched in between the drapers and the fishmongers. She had been lucky to get the job because they didn’t usually take on such young girls. But she had explained to the manager that she would be fifteen in a month’s time and she was going to go into nursing so she needed to get some related experience. At that meeting, where Lucy had first been introduced to Mr Durndle the manager, he had seemed impressed by her reasoning. “Well Lucy, you seem to be thinking about your future, that’s always good.” He relaxed a little as he said this and then said. “You should know, however, Lucy, that if you come to work here I like things done in a particular way.” Lucy noticed the extra emphasis that had been placed on the second syllable of particular. “Yes’, of course,” she said trying to avoid looking either at Mr Durndle’s face or indeed at his spotless white overall and his obviously manicured nails. He seemed a bit strange to her but she couldn’t put her finger on what exactly was strange. You could hardly say he was ugly, his eyes were rather large and blue and his blonde hair was more Scandanavian than English. She supposed for the time being that it was just his cleanliness she found off-putting, her father certainly never looked that clean unless he was going out for the evening. “Your main job, of course, would be washing bottles, it’s not very exciting but we all have to start somewhere.” Lucy wondered if Mr Durndle had started his career washing bottles but she didn’t say anything. “And it has to be done particularly 8

well.” Again that ‘tic’ in the middle of the word. “I don’t mind what I do.” Lucy said, but at the same time thinking to herself that she hoped customers would be involved at some point. She was eager to serve, to help people, it seemed to be one of her current aims in life. Today would be her fourth Saturday at Bradley’s and she hoped there wouldn’t be quite so many bottles to wash today. She had already washed an enormous amount. Mr Durndle had praised her for her concentration on the task and her eagerness to work quickly. She had gone quite red in the face when he said that. She was not used to getting compliments and had no idea how to deal with them. When she entered the shop that morning, Lucy breathed in the array of smells that met her. All mixed up together she detected perfume, disinfectant and that earthy smell that reminded her of the antibiotics she had had to take when she was ten. She walked round the back of the counter and parted the multi-coloured plastic ribbon curtain hanging over the door entrance. This was always the moment when she felt excited, as if she was entering another world. Up until four weeks ago, Bradley’s had consisted just of the shop itself, a small oval shaped room packed full to the ceiling with all kinds of products. Now that she was an employee – albeit just a Saturday girl – she had access to a whole new world of rooms that she hadn’t even known existed. Firstly, there was ‘in the back’ where the prescriptions were made up; this was the room immediately behind the shop. It was in here that most of the action took place. This was where Lucy would stand in front of the sink in the corner with her box of used prescription bottles on the counter to the right. But it was also the room where the pills were counted, the ointments mixed, 9

the elixirs shaken and where Mr Durndle would look through the secret window into the shop to make sure nobody was stealing anything while he was busy. There was also a small area assigned for tea and coffee making. This was thankfully not yet Lucy’s job (for she had never made coffee) but one assigned to Susan, the permanent full-time shop assistant. Susan was a nice young lady but Lucy was still a bit scared of her. Susan was 19, had a steady boyfriend and lived in a flat down town. She had beautiful long hair which she wore perched up precariously on the top of her head and backcombed beyond belief. Lucy never backcombed her shoulder length hair for she would never get it sorted out again. Susan wore high heels which she carefully took off as if she was peeling them from her feet when she changed into something comfortable for work. The changing took place ‘out the back’ which was the room behind ‘in the back’. It was very long and housed all kinds of containers, boxes of orthopaedic shoes and other things labelled ‘incontinence pads’ which Lucy was sometimes asked to fetch for a customer but had no idea what they were. She had been curious about this room because of those mysterious contents but also because it seemed to go on forever. If you walked right down the end there was a door that led into a tiny yard that backed on to the houses in Minton Street. There was not much time to spare on Saturdays for daydreaming, but on a couple of occasions Lucy had gone into quite a trance in that back room imagining herself as Alice, small in a big world of unknown things. There was so much she still had to learn and experience about the world. She knew about some of the ‘big’ things like death and love because they had already done some Shakespeare and Dickens at school, but 10

she was nowhere near to understanding them even though she was good at English. Sometimes everything seemed so marvellous to Lucy, interesting and exciting but she often had the feeling that at some point she would have to do things she didn’t want to do. She had started to collect poetry and learn some lines by heart – There was a roaring in the wind all night; The rain came heavily and fell in floods; so she practised them now as she took off her duffel coat and exchanged it for a pale blue overall. Mr Durndle had explained on her first day that he was the only person in the shop allowed to wear a white overall. After all, he was the dispensing chemist and had to be recognized as such. Just like a doctor, he had said. Then he had continued “You will notice Lucy, that customers are particularly pleased to be able to speak to an authority in a white coat.” Lucy had looked at him whilst harbouring a strange feeling in her tummy, she didn’t know where it came from. “Yes, Mr. Durndle, I’m sure they are.” she had replied. Later that day when she had got home and her mother had asked her how she had got on, she found herself saying, ‘the manager’s a bit weird Mum, I can’t explain it.’ But her mother had taken no notice, ‘he probably thinks you’re a bit weird too,’ and she had laughed it off. But Lucy had thought about that feeling she’d had in her tummy for a long time. “Lucy, it’s one minute to nine!” she heard Mr Durndle calling. “You should be at your post now, there’s plenty to do here, come along.” Lucy brushed her fingers down the polyester overall, and saw Susan smiling at her from in front of the mirror outside the toilet. “Seems like you’re in the army now luv,” Susan said. “Don’t take any notice of him, he’s alright really.” 11

“Thanks,” Lucy replied, hurrying through the doorway to her sink and the unwashed bottles. Mr Durndle glanced at her, a trace of a smile on his face which disappeared as Susan entered. “It could be busy today Lucy, there are a lot of prescriptions to be collected. So I want you to carry on just like the last three weeks with the bottles. After the break, which we will have today at precisely 10.30 until 10.45, I want you to do a small job for me in the stock room upstairs. It’s nothing to worry about, I’ll show you what to do. So, Susan, that will be at about 11.00 I should think. You will have to mind the shop while I’m showing Lucy around upstairs.” “Of course, Mr Durndle, you know you can count on me, as always. I won’t let you down.” Susan was adept in dealing with her boss. “Good, well that’s that then.” He turned round and proceeded to count some red and green capsules with the help of a pill counter tray. Lucy filled the sink with warm water and put the kettle on for some extra hot to add to the bubbles. She noticed there was only a small tray of about fifty bottles to wash, that wouldn’t take her an hour and a half, she thought. She would have to go a bit slower today. The shop bell rang, once, twice, sharply and then the sound of the shop door closing. Susan was already in the shop and now talking to the customer; Lucy wondered if it was someone she knew. Then it rang again and Mr Durndle sprang into action, skipping down the two steps from the back room into the shop. He was certainly light on his feet, but then he wasn’t a very big man after all. Now that she was alone, Lucy could strain her head so that she could see into the shop itself. Susan was having a conversation with an old lady and 12

showing her some talc powder and Mr Durndle was talking to a young man who was pointing to something on the counter. She couldn’t hear what they were saying but it sounded as if Mr Durndle was whispering to the young man – quite earnestly. The young man looked as if he was in a hurry, his eyes shifting about all over the place. Lucy felt something wet on her left foot and suddenly realised that she was dripping suds and water all over the place. Oh my goodness! she thought, I’ve been daydreaming again. I’ll have to clear this up quick before Mr Durndle sees it. After the coffee break there was a sudden change of plan as Mr Durndle had to see to some urgent prescriptions for an old man who had just come out of hospital. So it was Susan who took Lucy upstairs to the stock room to show her what to do. All she had to do was to unpack some boxes of toiletries and stack the items onto shelves neatly. “He doesn’t like it all haphazard,” Susan said, pointing her chin downwards and her eyes up. She wasn’t exactly smiling but Lucy could tell she was taking the Mick. “So, mind you keep it all neat and tidy, that’s how he likes things to be, even though it is only a blooming stock room.” “Okay”, Lucy replied, “do the bars of soap have to go here as well?” “Yes, just keep everything all together. And make sure you keep yourself together as well.” Susan hurried back down the wooden stairs mumbling something that Lucy couldn’t quite catch. She thought it sounded like ‘if he comes up ere that is’ but she didn’t dwell on it – there was a task at hand. This was the first time Lucy had been up to the stock room and she was totally amazed at the labyrinth of tiny rooms that seemed to spread out over a large area, much larger than that of the shop 13

itself. She could smell fish at one point and realised that she must be standing in a room over the fishmonger. After she had unpacked the first box she took a little tour through the rooms, looking at things on shelves and gazing out of the tiny windows at the front of the shop. She saw Mr Short a neighbour from her road on the zebra crossing and she giggled because she knew he couldn’t see her watching him. What a wonderful place this is, she thought to herself, dreaming right into the deepest thoughts in her mind. She was trying to remember how the next line of that poem went, something about calm and bright but she couldn’t think how it started. It was a difficult one to memorise. Then suddenly she heard footsteps, heavy footsteps on the stairs and got a bit worried because she wasn’t where she was supposed to be. Oh my God! It must be Mr Durndle, she thought, but there was no time to get back to the room with the unpacked boxes. “Lucy, how are you getting on? Did Susan explain everything alright?” Mr Durndle was calling out from behind one of the partition walls, he obviously couldn’t see her. Lucy was now in a part of the front stock room between the outside wall and a huge metal shelf system which went right up to the ceiling and was packed with all kinds of goods. There was no way she could get back to where she should be without passing Mr Durndle on the way. “I’m here, Mr Durndle,” she said brightly and as he came through to where she was standing she added, “I thought I heard something fall, so I came to have a look. But it must have just been a mouse or something.” “Oh, there you are Lucy. I wouldn’t want to think there are any mice up here. Not with it being a chemist’s stock room, that just would not be right. They are vermin, you know Lucy, 14

associated with all things dirty. My shop is not dirty!” “I didn’t mean to say that… I mean, I didn’t, well I don’t think that at all, it’s just that I thought I heard something and, well, it’s an old building and all that.” Lucy was not a good liar. She never had been and she probably never would be. And right now she was beginning to feel very uncomfortable, worried about what was going to come next. “Well, let’s forget about that for now shall we. I wanted to see how you were getting on and I wanted to have a little chat with you.” “Yes, Mr Durndle, of course. And I’m getting on fine with the boxes, shall I show you what I’ve done?” “In a minute, Lucy, all in due course. I have a particular matter to attend to right now.” Lucy thought that the way he sometimes spoke sounded like something out of the nineteenth century, straight out of a Dickens book. As she was thinking this, she noticed Mr Durndle take something out of his pocket, a small packet of something that he held between his thumb and forefinger, the little finger sticking right out above the rest of his hand. He took a half step towards her, there was hardly any space as it was and Lucy was beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic. She didn’t like small spaces at the best of times. She moved her left foot forward a bit to give herself some leeway but she was already in a tight spot with her back against a fixed shelf on the outside wall. “Now Lucy, there are some things you need to know about working in a chemist shop. This has to do with some of the things we sell.” Mr Durndle proudly held up the packet of condoms so that it was right in front of Lucy’s face. Then he put them down again and stared quite intently into her eyes. 15

Lucy had a sinking feeling in her gut. With it came a wave of radiant heat starting at her forehead which she knew was a brilliant crimson blush. “Later on, if all goes well Lucy, you may be helping out in the shop, serving customers. Of course, you know what most things are because they are well labelled, and if you can’t find something you can just ask me or Susan. But sometimes Lucy, sometimes, somebody may ask for something in a roundabout way. What I mean is that the thing they want to buy may be an embarrassing kind of thing. For example, Lucy, it just so happens that a young gentleman came into the shop this morning and wanted to buy a packet of these condoms.” Lucy was beginning to feel a bit queasy, it was hot in the stock room and she didn’t like where this conversation was going at all. But what could she say? She could hardly tell Mr Durndle that she knew all about condoms, if she did that he might ask her to tell him all she knew. No, there was nothing she could do. If only she could blot out the sound of his voice she may be able to stop herself hearing what was inevitably going to come next. “But he didn’t ask for condoms Lucy, he asked for a packet of three. That’s just another name for them because people don’t like to ask for condoms, they find that embarrassing. There are three in a packet you see. But he may also have asked for rubber johnnies, which is another name they’re known by. It’s slang, of course, and I wouldn’t normally use such language in the presence of a young lady, but this is an educational exercise and I’m afraid it’s something you need to know and remember. Now, when somebody asks for this item in the shop there is absolutely no reason for you to be embarrassed about selling them. It’s part of the job of a good 16

chemist shop assistant to never show any kind of emotion or embarrassment about what is being sold or asked for.” Mr Durndle paused for just a second to see if Lucy was listening to him. She was certainly staring at him but he thought her eyes looked just a bit too vacant. He wasn’t sure she was really paying attention. He continued. “The reason why men need to buy condoms is because they are planning to have sex with their girlfriend. Of course, there is nothing wrong with that at all. In fact, it is a healthy part of a man’s life. The mechanics of sex, Lucy, are such that if a man does not wear protection there is a risk that his girlfriend may become pregnant. This is because when the man puts his penis into a girl and ejaculates into her, the seed of life is passed from the man to the girl. Of course, to prevent this from happening, the protection, that is the condom has to be put onto the penis when it is hard and erect... Lucy was completely cornered and her back was pushing into the shelf on the wall. The feeling of queasiness had not passed and she was feeling sick now as well. She had tried her very hardest to shut out the voice, shut out the nastiness she was being forced to listen to, but it hadn’t worked. And now, twice in succession, the ‘p’ word. The very word that was never uttered by Lucy or her friends. In fact, the only time she had ever heard it uttered before was in a biology lesson. “Lucy, are you listening? It’s important that you understand the mechanics of what happens. Now, as I was saying, when the man is about to put the condom on his penis he has…” Lucy looked at him with no expression in her face at all. Did this man have no inhibition whatsoever? Was he going to demonstrate how to use a condom himself? Oh help! Lucy cried out inside. A sudden vision of something she didn’t want to 17

imagine. Then she passed out falling into a floppy heap on the stockroom floor. Mr Durndle noticed Lucy’s eyes rolling round and round rather fast just before she passed out. Oh heavens, he thought, whatever’s happened to the girl? And for one moment he panicked. Not wanting to actually touch Lucy in this position (for her legs had splayed out) he ran to the top of the stairs and shouted very loudly, “Susan! Susan! can you come up here please, QUICKLY! Lucy is not well.” He went back to Lucy who looked very pale indeed. In fact she was as white as a hospital sheet. Noticing a very old bottle of smelling salts on the shelf to his left, Mr Durndle took quick action and unscrewed the cap placing the bottle under Lucy’s nose. Thankfully, at that point he heard Susan running up the stairs. “Whatever happened? Mr Durndle” “I don’t know Susan, it’s most strange. I was just explaining some things to her and she collapsed.” “Well, I expect she’s just fainted, it’s ever so hot up here. You get down to the shop, I’ll look after her. Would you bring me up a glass of cold water for her please.” “Yes, of course. Those smelling salts seem to have done the trick anyway. You can’t beat the old remedies can you Susan.” “A glass of water, Mr Durndle, please.” Then turning to Lucy, who was by now coming round, Susan said gently, “don’t worry luv, you’ll be just fine in a minute or two.” She put an arm round her shoulder and lifted her forward. Then she gave Lucy’s skirt a tug downwards as it had risen right up her legs presenting a most unladylike teenager. Lucy’s eyes fluttered a few times and then she saw Susan bending over her with a look of great concern on her face. 18

Mr Durndle returned with the glass of water and disappeared again just as quick. A couple of minutes passed, Lucy felt all nice and safe sitting there in Susan’s arms. Safe, yes that had been the reason, she thought, for the fainting, she hadn’t felt safe with him. “So what happened then Lucy? Did you just take a turn for the worse?” Suddenly Lucy saw a friend in Susan, not like a school friend or a best friend but more a kind of ally. “Well, I’m not sure I… it doesn’t matter.” Susan looked right into Lucy’s eyes. “It might matter a lot later on. You can tell me you know. You can trust me with any secret.” “Well, it was the ‘p’ word that did it. I don’t like hearing that word. It’s not nice. He said it was necessary to explain everything in detail, you know, part of my educational training here. But he kept saying stuff, talking about IT in great detail and he kept saying the ‘p’ word.” Susan’s face turned into fury. “Did he now? Did he indeed? Now don’t you worry luv, you’ll be fine in a minute. And you listen to me carefully. If you ever get stuck with him up here again, then I want you to promise me that you will scream the place down as if there’s no tomorrow. Do you promise? Look at me Lucy! promise?” “Yes, I promise. I didn’t know if it was okay or not, he said it was the training.” “And another thing, I’ll sort him out alright, you just leave it up to me. And, Lucy, don’t tell anyone, there’d be a terrific fuss. It’s not worth it luv.” “No, I won’t. I want to forget it now.” “That’s a good girl. Let’s go down in the back and have a cup 19

of tea. I’ll make us all one.” Mugs in hand, Lucy and Susan listened to Mr Durndle prattle on about the church social he was going to that evening. It promised to be great fun, he said, and the people at his church were all so nice. Nathalie, his French wife was going to wear her new dress and jacket; it was pale blue and perfect for this time of year. She was so looking forward to it. Well, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, Lucy thought. What a strange man, as if nothing at all had happened, he just stood there going on and on. At that moment the shop bell rang as a customer came in. “No, girls, leave this to me. You stay here and finish your tea, I’ve already drunk mine.” And off he shot down the steps. Lucy saw Susan smiling, she thought a bit mischievously. She smiled back. “He probably won’t be going anywhere tonight.” Susan said to Lucy who was puzzled now. “He can forget about that social or whatever he calls it, and his church lot. Seeing as how he was so concerned about bodily things, I thought I’d help him out a bit.” Susan put her hand into her overall pocket and pulled out an open packet of strong laxative. The two of them stood there and broke into a laugh but Susan hushed them both holding her finger up to her mouth. “Oh Susan, you didn’t!” “I most certainly did. But now, I’m just going out the back to get rid of this packet before he sees it.” It was then that Lucy remembered the line that had eluded her: But now the sun is rising calm and bright; Oh, thank heavens, she thought, no harm done really.

 20

A Sudden Stitch

Loud were they, lo! when they rode over the hill, Resolute were they when they rode over the land, Fend thyself now, that thou mayest survive this violence! Out, little spear, if herein thou be!

t is said that the appearance of a comet, apparently motionless yet full of symbolic movement, brilliantly streaÂŹking across the darkness of a night sky is the cause of great unrest. Be careful then, if you find yourself in one of those places where long ago the pagans chanted their metrical charms and carved hillside figures in the chalk, for it is in such places that the spirits are affected by the serene yet ominous sign of the comet and are urged to rise and dance around the dewponds such as the one on East Dean Hill. Loud is their song and spritely their movements as they dance over the bones of the dead. Restless and in search of mischief, they arm themselves with spears and descend to the valley below to seek out those humans who, in turn are searching for a meaning to life. It was a starless and darker than usual April night when our story takes place and six people walked slowly accross the village green from the pub to the restaurant. All of them gazed up into the sky to marvel at the comet but one of them stared just a fraction of a second too long and became the perfect prey for a game of mischief. In the distance, an elfish call resounded, resolute as they rode over the land. They did 23

not make a choice with any sense of purpose but chose him at random from the six. Though, it is true to say, he was the easiest target, being the tallest and the weakest in character. They seemed like a nice enough family on the outside. It was Reg's seventieth birthday celebration and they entered the restaurant in a festive mood. Reg had the face of a good and honest man. His once dark hair was now more white than black and his complexion was ruddy, years of Sussex sun having eaten its way into his skin. All six were duly dressed for the occasion, you know, the kind of dinner party clothes that are dragged out of the cupboard at the last minute. Reg sat centre table with Vera his wife on the left and his son John on the right. Opposite were his two daughters Susan and Jane and daughter-in-law Mandy. 'I think I'll have the soup.' Susan said, 'What a pity the nettle soup is crossed off the menu, I suppose it's too early in the year. You should have changed your birthday to May Dad.' 'Oh look, Reg, they've got home-made pĂ˘tĂŠ on the menu, you'll have that won't you?' He didn't reply for a while. Susan was thinking to herself: 'shut up Mum, let him have what he wants.' 'Wine, Dad, which wine do you want?' 'Oh I'll leave that up to you John. You know it all tastes the same to me.' 'Well I'm going to have the mushrooms, that sounds delicious, baked in a creamy sauce.' Jane said, seconded by Mandy. "No, that sounds much too rich for me, I'll have the prawn cocktail I think.' 'Oh Mum, be daring for a change, have something different. You always have prawn cocktail.' 'Well Jane, I like prawn cocktail, it's my favourite and I've 24

heard it's very good here. Dot was here last week, you know, with Dave, they had a lovely meal.' 'Might as well have the Bordeaux, everyone likes that. Start off with one bottle of each. Bit pricey in here, it's a rip off if you ask me. It's only four pound ninety-nine a bottle in Safeways.' 'Don't worry about that John, It's your father's birthday treat. He doesn't want anyone looking at the prices of things. Do you dear?' She looked across the table, her mouth curved with one of those motherly smiles. 'Alright Susan love?' Susan nodded. 'No, that's right, well said Vera, I don't. Now you all choose exactly what you want to eat as well. I don't want any one of you looking at the prices and choosing the cheapest dish.' Oh what a lovely man he was. With those cheeks and that white hair he would have looked perfect dressed up as Father Christmas. Susan looked up towards the picture hanging on the wall. It was a ghastly brightly-coloured amateur painting, hanging against a backdrop of wallpaper with large red roses all over it. 'Who was Grimaldi Mum? Wasn't he a famous clown or something? Must be Italian with a name like that I suppose.' 'To tell you the truth, I don't know. It's an awful picture isn't it. Apparently, it's a good restuarant but the decorations are diabolical aren't they? Mind you, the table flowers are nice. I like the way they put wild flowers in little vases like that. It's awfully early for Feverfew to be in flower, but they do look nice don't they? I wonder what's behind that curtain.' 'That's the gents toilet Mum, it's out the back. Oh good here's the wine.' John's answer was succinct, needless to say he was more interested in the wine than in the conversation. 25

'The eyes are awful, aren't they? I mean in the picture. They almost look as if they're alive.' 'Oh no, Susan, we're not going to have one of your 'arty' lectures are we?' John said. He had always been jealous of her. Not only was she exceptionally pretty but she had academic achievements and confidence. The only kind of study he was good at involved money or alcoholic percentages. 'No, you're not. It was only a comment that's all.' Susan bickered back at her brother. 'Don't start you two,' Jane said violently. 'Shut up Jane, I'm not starting anything. Well, cheers Dad, let's drink to another seventy years.' The glasses were raised. 'Well there's plenty left me in me yet, but I have a suspicion that I won't live to be a hundred and forty.' 'I hope not Reg, and if you do, then I hope I'm not around to take care of you.' Vera chuckled in an attempt to limit the conversation to smalltalk. It worked. 'This wine's lovely, good choice John.' Jane leant across the table to look at her brother. Unlike her sister, she was unexceptionally pretty and had less brains to go with it as well. 'Well who's ready for a top-up.' he replied. 'Not yet John, take it easy now, we haven't got the starters yet.' Vera, the mighty female voice in the shape of wisdom spoke. 'Ooh, what was that?' and after a short pause, 'Out.' John put his hand down to touch his left side. 'What was what, you've gone awfully white John, are you alright?' his mother inquired, a little concerned. 'Yes, of course I'm alright and you're not going to start are you Mum, about the wine and stuff. I'm not in the mood for a dose 26

of your nagging tonight.' He leant back against the chair and sniggered. The other five pretended not to notice but an uncomfortable silence passed over them. Mandy, John's wife had been silent up until now. She looked bored to tears, but was obliged to at least make an effort. 'I saw a programme on the tele the other night. They reckon that that comet can change course at any time. If it comes straight for us then we'll all be gone in a flash.' 'Oh Mandy, that's not going to happen, it's all speculation. Commercialism, that's what it is, they want the viewing figures up that's all.' Vera replied, she didn't look in the least bit worried, but then she was nearing the age of tranquility and satisfaction. 'Well, you never can tell,' Mandy went on, 'they said in the paper that apparently some bloke in California, a scientist or something reckons that it could just change course at any time.' "You don't actually believe that rubbish do you Mandy?' Susan asked from the other end of the table. 'I suppose it was printed in The Daily Star?' 'Ha, ha, Susan, very funny, but why shouldn't I believe it? They had pictures and everything.' 'Because science doesn't work like that, I mean, well it doesn't matter I suppose.' 'No, it doesn't matter Susan but if it changes course I reckon it's going to come in through that back door and you're sitting right in the line of fire.' John took another swig of wine, laughing heartily. He loved making his sister feel small in company. Time for another shot. 'Oh, what is that? Dad, did you poke me again?' John put his 27

hand down to his left side again. 'Leave it out Dad, it's nothing to do with you. Bloody interfering sister of mine with her smart comments. If Mandy wants to believe in what she reads she can. Oh, there it is again.' 'John, stop mucking about, here's the starters.' Oh what a spread was put upon the table, but John looked as though he had lost his appetite completely. 'Come on John, my glass is empty, it's not like you to be mingy with the wine.' Jane addressed her brother with venom in her voice, she wasn't a drinker but she knew how to get back at him alright and she had had plenty of practice at playing the middle man between her elder brother and sister. 'Bloody hell, Jane, shut up won't you, give us your glass then.' His face was quite pale, the marks of pain stitching through his creased forehead. 'Well, let's raise our glasses now and toast your father properly,' Vera began, the crystal dish of prawns and lettuce soaked in mayonnaise awaiting her fork in front of her. 'To your health, dear, and very many happy returns of the day.' She smiled at him, he smiled back, contented, the family was complete. There might not have been an atmosphere of complete harmony but then he knew that that was impossible to achieve as far as his children were concerned. 'You know that house on the green here,' Reg started: 'it's just been sold apparently for one and a half million. Not an Englishman of course, I mean where would we get that kind of money.' 'Oh really, who's bought it then?' John managed to reply. 'Apparently, it's some Scandavian bloke, a big chap, comes from the outbacks of Norway. It was in the paper.' 'Wasn't that the old blacksmiths in days gone by?' Vera asked. 28

'I don't know, was it?' 'Do you remember what the chap's name was?' 'Something weird like Weyland, with an e instead of an a for the way bit. He's a knife maker apparently.' 'Well he might add some new blood to the craft fair then.' Susan said sarcastically, inadvertently offending her mother's feelings. Jane added, intending to tease her brother. 'I'll bet he spends more time in the pub than he does making knives. You know, with him coming from Scandanavia. You'll have to put up with a foreigner being one of the local's John.'' She was right. he perked up a bit, 'Yeah, can't get a drink over there can you anyway? I remember that time I went with Graham to Stockholm, bloody awful it was, had to queue for hours to get a bottle in.' 'Oh John, that's all you think of, there are other things in life you know.' Vera was looking a little perturbed. The prawn cocktail was delicious but her mind was on the harmony of the family and it didn't seem to be what it should. 'Not as far as I'm concerned there aint.' 'Ooh, are you poking me Dad or what? Leave it out will ye!' John put his hand down to his left side again.' 'Out little,' John, stop mucking about, what are you talking about?' Susan was getting annoyed both with her brother's behaviour and his language. 'I don't know, it feels as if I don't know what I'm saying. Bloody stitch in my side. How can I have a stitch when I'm sitting down having a meal. Mandy glared at him, extremely annoyed. 29

'John, go easy on the wine will you? You promised.' 'Don't know what you're saying brother? after only three glasses of wine. What's up then John can't hold your drink all of a sudden?' Susan teased her brother only too willingly. Vera glared at her, mouthing something. She would have to cool it, it was Dad's day after all, not hers or her brother's. Reg had nearly finished his pĂ˘tĂŠ and Vera's crystal dish of prawn cocktail was nearing the last mouthful. Mandy and Janes' mushrooms were devoured and Susan's soup all slurped up. But John's Parma ham and melon was untouched on the fluted plate. Not only was his face growing paler with every passing second but the traces of pain stitching accross his forehead were now inextricably visible. 'Well, that was very enjoyable.' Vera said, and after a quick glance round the table, 'John, you haven't touched your starters. I hope there's nothing wrong with it. Your father doesn't want anything to go wrong tonight you know.' 'Spear..' 'Oh John, really, how can you want a beer when you've got wine in your glass. You really are the limit you know. Behave yourself now.' 'I'm just going out the back dear.' Reg got up from his chair. He could feel a sense of impending doom in the air. 'I didn't say beer, you old cow, I said Spear!' John's face was a mixture of colours, ranging from scarlet to ashen. 'Can't you understand plain English you silly old nag. I bet that sister of mine can. Stupid academic good-for-nothing that she is. Ouch! I've bloody had enough now all of you. Where's Dad for God's sake? I don't feel well. I think, I don't feel well at all.' 30

The seeds of panic had been sown. Reg came back from the toilet, smiling. He had composed himself and was ready for the next course. He wasn't however, ready for what met him at the table. John was slouched in his chair, he was making uncontrollable twitching movements with his lanky arms and the glass in his hand was tilted to one side, the red wine dribbling out onto his lap all over his best suit trousers. 'Take that glass out of his hand won't you for heavens sake?' Mandy addressed her father-in-law agitated. 'Whatever's the matter with him? Why is he moving all funny like that? My God, he looks awful and what was he going on about just now, all that nonsense about out and spear. Oh dear, I don't like the look of him at all.' 'Typical my brother if you ask me. Just getting what he asks for.' Jane leant back in her chair, unconcerned. 'Jane, this is no time to get your own back. Now go out to the bar and see if they can phone for a doctor or something.' Vera was extremely worried, the look of horror on her face. 'I'll do it Mum,' Susan said and got up quickly from the table. Somehow she sensed the seriousness of the situation. John by this time was only just sitting on the chair. His lengthy posture made it impossible for the rest of the family to support him. Suddenly he let out one last cry: "WITCH" and then he collapsed in a stupour onto the floor. The ambulance arrived and John was taken away on a stretcher, unconscious. Mandy, crying hysterically, accompanied him to the hospital and the other four, feeling unable to continue their meal under these circumstances called for the taxi to come early and take them home. 31

'Well, that was a turn out for the books. I hope he's going to be alright.' Reg said to the three women in the living room. 'Don't worry now Dad.' Jane said, 'It's probably his liver playing up at last. I mean he really should try and cut down on the alcohol.' 'Yes dear, you're probably right.' Vera replied for her husband. 'No she isn't Mum,' Susan added, 'the liver's on the right, he was complaining of pain on his left side.' 'Oh, I see. Well we'll phone the hospital first thing in the morning.' John recovered consciousness during the night but suffered repeated spasms of sharp pain and contractions in his left side for another day. He was released from hospital three days later. The diagnosis was Tetanus and with modern drugs the treatment was simple. The only thing that bothered them all was how on earth he had acquired that wound in his left thigh. The doctors said that it looked like a festering stab wound with traces of rust in it but seeing as John had not been stabbed it remained a mystery. One week after these events, Susan was sitting in her parents' conservatory reading the local newspaper when she suddenly poked her head further into the print and began to read avidly. Ten students from Sussex University were arrested last Saturday evening on East Dean hill in connection with suspicious behaviour. The students, all between the ages of 18 and 21 were chanting what is thought to be magic spells dating back to the Anglo-Saxon period. At the time of the arrest, three of the students were mixing a potion which is thought to consist of the rare red nettle which only grows in a 2 mile radius of East Dean dewpond. When questioned, the students said that 32

they had discovered the nettle growing through the walls of an ancient ruin. Believing the plant to have some connection with an ancient metrical charm, they said that they intended to try out an experiment to test the potency of the charm. If it worked, then one of them would be stabbed as a result of the invocation of spirits and the rest would then apply the potion to heal him. The students explained that the experiment had failed and that they regretted having caused any alarm to the public. One of them added that their rashness was most probably due to a dose of comet fever. The students were not charged and were later released from police custody. 'Did you see this Mum? in the paper about those students who were arrested last Saturday.' 'No dear, what.' 'Oh, it doesn't matter, nothing to worry about.'

ď Ś

Jean and David

Little grey mouse

t was raining heavily now. She looked out of the window down onto the town spread out below. Grey slate roofs, grey slab houses, grey, grey, grey day. The water was running in the adjoin¬ing bathroom. She heard her husband’s voice singing the song they had sung together at their wedding feast. But it wasn’t a beautiful morning. “I thought we might go and have a look at those caves Hun” he shouted from out of the dampness. She heard him but didn’t answer. Look at that rain, would you believe it now, it’s been just fine all week. The steam started to travel, a long trail of vapour threading its way from the moist room to the safety of her view. Like cigarette smoke; oh I would give anything for a cigarette now. To be alone, with a cigarette and this view, and no thoughts. Where did it come from? all this grey. Better to have black, funerals, thunderstorms, the dark middle ages. But grey, grey is nothing, nondescript, grey is the colour of my hair which used to be described as ‘mousy’, a little grey mouse that’s me. I’m waiting for the trap to fall. Chop! ashes to ashes, the grey cells of my brain, not dying with each passing minute, not dying with each passing glance out of this window but dead in one fair swoop. “Everything’s goin my way!” she heard the voice but she wasn’t listening. “Hey, Hun, I said, I thought we might go and have a look at 35

those caves. Only about thirty kilometres from here.” Caves, yes, I could hide in there. Like a mousehole. Hide away with myself. The cavities of my mind inside a greater cavity. Maybe I could get stranded, deviate from the path, avoid the guide, and him, and stay there in the darkness of the labyrinth. “Yes, good idea, I’d like that. Do you mind if I close the bathroom door, it’s getting awfully steamed up in here.” Shut it out, his voice, his presence, his being. Go back to yourself. Go back to the view first and then go back to yourself. Remember your Mantra, retrieve it from the back of your mind, go on, remember it, chant it, empty your mind. The river winds its course, a snake slithering through the Ardennes, poisonous, darting its tongue out left and right. Godfrey of Bouillon started his Crusade from here. I am Jean, and I’m starting my Crusade now, here in this room, I proclaim myself a Crusader, out to conquer whatever there is to conquer. My name has connotations with Joan of Arc doesn’t it? Someone wrote a thesis on her, I remember. They said she wasn’t a woman, only half a woman. Maybe I am only half a woman too. Will anyone write a thesis on me? ‘The descriptiveness of a nondescript mousy woman called Jean.’ I could write it for them, I suppose. I know enough about myself. But where would it end? I’d have to die first and then I couldn’t write it, could I? “Aren’t you going to get dressed?” “Yes, just waiting for you to finish so that I can do my ablutions.” Boring, boring conversation, no, it isn’t even a conversation, it’s talk we’ve had one thousand or one million times before. 36

It’s talk, speech, the uttering of words that are meaningless. ‘Did you get the milk in?, Did you take my jacket to the dry cleaners? I’m home Hun, How was your day? Oh I saw Margaret today, she’s got a new car.’ “Don’t take too long Hun, they’ve already started serving breakfast.” I wouldn’t be too long, never let him down. The dutiful wife. He’s good to me, always so good to me. He loves me, I love him, we love each other. We are the perfect married couple. “Give us a hug Jean. You were so good last night. I love you you know.” Oh no, please don’t thank me for making love to you. It’s what normal couples do isn’t it? I liked it too, but women are supposed not to like it. My mother told me on the morning of my wedding: ‘When David does the act dear, never admit to liking it too much. He’ll only want more then and you need your rest once the bairns come.’ I want to stay by the window, I want to look out at the grey day and savour its melancholy. “And I love you too. Darling.” I say, reaching out my arms towards him, to catch him. “Come here then, come into my burrow.” Do I love him? or is that a habit too? Why do I want to hide away in a cave? His arms are round me, cradling me, so gentle, I am thankful for that. It must be awful to have a husband who knocks you around. “Why did you say that Hun? about the burrow, it’s very Freudian.” “Is it? I didn’t mean anything by it. I don’t know, it just came out, that’s all.” “You seem a bit sad.” “No, not sad, it’s just the weather, I’ve been looking forward 37

to this for ages. And now it’s raining.” “It’ll clear up later, you’ll see - we are going to have a marvellous day together. And it starts with a hearty breakfast. Don’t be long now.” He’s a born optimist, always looking on the bright side of things. I only pretend to. I’m good at pretending. Faking an orgasm. He never notices the difference between real and faked. He’s hungry, I can feel it. His grip is loosening, ready to let go. I hate it when he pats my bottom like that. I don’t want to be patronised in that way. “David, I’ve never said this before, but please don’t do that ever again, I hate it, I’m not your pet.” “Sorry Hun, I never realised.” He’s hurt now. I’ve hurt his feelings, I didn’t mean to but something has got to come out of me. I have to get rid of the mouse. I wash while he’s pondering over what I said. He’s thinking about our relationship. Not worrying about it, just wondering why I said that hurtful thing and why I never said it before. He’s not singing any more. Maybe he’ll never sing again. Oh don’t be ridiculous Jean, it wasn’t that bad, like ‘you fucking bastard.’ My goodness, where did those words come from. I can’t believe I even thought those words. Too much television, too many films, too much alcohol, too many late nights. “I’m nearly ready, Darling.” “Good, that’s my girl.” “You’re not cross with me are you? for saying that just now.” His eyes look sad. He’s staring down at the grey slate roofs and the grey slabbed buildings. “Cross with you? How could I be cross with the most beautiful woman in the world?” 38

“Well let’s go and have that breakfast then.” It’s dark on the stairs, he goes first to lead the way. My knight of the Crusades. “Well I never! Did you see that Hun? Well, I never, and in a hotel with this reputation.” A little grey mouse scampered across the bottom stair with a piece of cheese in his mouth. He was gone before you could blink. I followed his path and saw that in the corner of the vestibule behind the Aspidistra was a trap. It sprung, Chop! but too late. “He got away David. Did you see that, he got away. “



Jean and David

Blue baby

ean and David sat in the waiting room. They were not alone though both of them felt the loneliness. They were worried beyond description, left to their own means in this hostile environment. Outside it was raining, yet both were unaware of this fact. The hospital lights were bright and unfriendly and the lino floor was cold, uninviting. The chairs were hard. They had been sat on by hundreds of worried parents before Jean and David, yet they had not softened. “I’m going for a breath of fresh air.” David got up. He smoothed the back of his trousers, squeezed Jean’s hand and walked silently out of the room. Jean attempted a smile at the woman sitting opposite. She recog¬nised her from the hospital corridors. ‘Her little boy’s only in for tonsils.’ She said to herself. ‘Nothing could go wrong for her. No need for her to look so anxious. Just a straightforward tonsillectomy. I wouldn’t mind swapping places with her.’ Jean wriggled on the seat. She stood up, moved to the table, picked up a magazine from the pile. It was three months old. She’d read them all already. She studied a knitting pattern for a perfect twin-set. The couple opposite were whispering to each other. ‘Don’t you know it’s rude to whisper? My God, these patterns are out of the Ark! It’s what my mother was wearing when I was in nappies. Jesus, if this is all the advancement that women’s magazines have made, how on earth can I have 41

faith in this country’s heart surgeons?’ She looked across the room towards the window. A vacant stare. Part of the hem of the orange curtain had come undone and was hanging limply on the sill. Jean noticed that it was raining outside. ‘Why are there always orange curtains in hospitals? Orange curtains and toilet-green paint. It’s enough to make anyone feel sick! Oh where has David got to? I can’t stand much more of this waiting. Oh my poor, poor baby. My poor darling. Think of him lying there on that cold metal table with somebody else’s hands inside his chest. The man with the golden hands. That’s what that woman told me. She said; Try not to worry too much, dear. He’s in the best hands. That’s just it though. Now he really is in someone else’s hands. Your life in their hands: I used to love that programme when we just had television. Mummy said I wasn’t to watch it. Funny isn’t it how you remember some things and not others. There was a doctor, and he said to this woman: “I believe you’ve been losing a lot of blood over the past few months?” and I thought to myself: ‘She must have cut herself very deeply to have lost so much blood.’ Oh the innocence of a child! It was all black and white then. I remember living in that black and white world. That black and white world before the blood came. Outside the house there was colour, but inside, it was all black and white – until the blood came. Dad had grey suits, table cloths were white and starched, the newspaper print was only black, then the television – black and white again and merging into grey. Were our lives really as grey as I remember them? It rained all the time didn’t it? There were always umbrellas in the street and my mackintosh was always too small. We made trips to Edinburgh to buy new ones and within no time, they 42

would be too small again. Oh come on Jean! It can’t have been that bad. No, of course it wasn’t. It’s just that I’m not in the mood for remembering colourful things at the moment, except for orange, maybe, and toilet-green. But there’s blue as well. Now I think of blue, only blue. That dull, cyanotic blue is mixed up with the crispness of white. Pure, white cotton sheets hiding the red and soon to be traced with blue. “Mrs Norton, how are you feeling?” I pulled the sheet up over my heavy breasts. It was too heavy. Funny that, how a sheet can be heavy. The doctor looked at me very seriously. David was standing behind him; he knew whatever there was to know before I did. I wanted to feel elated, excited, over the moon, surely that was what a woman felt after childbirth? But I didn’t, instead I felt a sense of impending doom. There had been a lot of frantic chatter when they rushed the baby out of the room. A voice then spoke, it came from the doctor’s mouth. “Mrs Norton, there is something wrong with your baby.” It was a statement, like something in an academic paper. It would have been placed in the Results section. “He has a heart defect; transposition of the great arteries. It’s quite serious, I’m afraid. In layman’s terms he’s what you call a blue baby.” The sheet was becoming heavier. I’m not a layman, I thought, I nearly got my degree didn’t I? Why did he treat me like an idiot? If he’d only tried to explain it there and then, maybe it wouldn’t have been so confusing afterwards. I can’t believe that was three months ago! God, I’m tired! All those nights of creeping back and forth across the landing, trying not to wake David. He’s got his thesis to finish. How will he ever do it with a wife like me to tie him down, and a sick baby? I should have gone home to Scotland, left David to get on with his life. I’m a stone round his 43

neck now and Richard’s a little stone round his neck. That’s what we called him you see, Richard. It was David who chose it; it had been his grandfather’s name. Going back in time I thought, that’s okay but we can’t go back now, can we? We can never go back into time, there’s only a path forward.’ Jean looked at her watch. Five minutes had passed since the last time she had looked. “Where has he got to?” She said out loud, not intentionally. “Are you alright dear?” The ‘tonsil’ woman asked. “Yes, thank you for asking. Sorry, I’m a bit nervous, you see. It’s a long wait.” “Of course, don’t worry. I mean about being nervous. I think we all are.” The door opened. Four heads turned to watch whoever would be coming in. Jean’s heart thumped. She felt it beneath her jumper. It was going to pound out across the room. It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! “Oh, David, thank heavens, you’re alright. You’re all wet, what have you been doing walking round in the rain?” David, embarrassed, sat down beside Jean. She reached out for his hand. He kept it on his lap. The woman and the other couple stared at them from the other side of the room. They should just be lovers living in student quarters on a university campus. Sipping cheap red wine, listening to Van Morrison records, neglecting lectures and going to bed too late. Instead, they were grown-ups, husband and wife, parents, with too little sleep and too much responsibility. The door opened, a nurse came in. “Mrs Norton, Mr Norton, you can come through now. They’ve just finished.” She had a nice face that nurse. She had one of those frilly 44

caps on her head that looked like a lacy pair of Marks and Spencer knickers. It was held in place by white Kirby grips. Jean and David followed her out of the room. “Is he alright? Did everything go according to plan?” Jean was very anxious, annoyingly so. “Mr Blackwell will tell you everything when he sees you.” She paused, trying to smile at Jean but immediately realising that smiling was not the thing to do. “But we’ve been waiting for over four hours! Surely you can tell me if he’s alright?” “Jean, don’t.” David’s voice was firm. He touched her arm gently. “Mr Blackwell will tell us soon.” They were led to another room where another young nurse stubbed her cigarette out and left quickly without saying anything. She was about the same age as Jean. They sat down again. Jean’s eyes wandered to the notice board on the wall. It was full of charts, heavy black lines on white paper depicting the days and months of the year. The tiny spaces of white were covered with E’s and D’s and N’s. David’s eyes followed Jean’s. “What do you think they mean?” She asked him. But David was not in the mood for her questioning, her obvious anxiety bordering on something more serious. “I haven’t a clue, and I really don’t care.” He answered, curtly. “David, please don’t be horrible to me. I couldn’t bear it today.” Jean looked away, towards the door. “Ah, Mrs Norton, Mr Norton.” Mr Blackwell stepped into the room taking off his green paper cap as he did so. His dark hair was sticking up all over the place. Jean noticed he had a few grey hairs appearing. 45

“I will get straight to the point. It was not an easy operation. We had some difficulty placing the graft on the aorta....” Jean heard the words but they were strung together like meaningless syntactic structures. “However, for the time being Richard seems to be stable. I am sure that you would like to see him now. I’ll just get the nurse and she’ll take you in to the unit and explain everything to you.” Mr Blackwell had been quite succinct and Jean had noticed how tired he looked. She almost felt guilty or perhaps just ashamed that she had inadvertently been the cause. The nurse, Judith on her name badge, came into the room and said she would take them through. They stood up and followed her into the intensive care unit. It was busy, noisy, bright and intimidating. Peeps and beeps echoed in the air. Jean was shaking uncontrollably inside. They were led to a high crib where a small human form was lying on a startlingly white sheet. His little heels were resting on squares of sheepskin. Neither Jean nor David had any inclination that this was their baby. “Oh, my goodness! Look at him David. Is that Richard? There’s no baby left! He’s covered in tubes.” David, choked with emotion could not find the right words to say. “He’s not as blue as he was.” “Oh, he still looks blue to me.” Jean cried. “He’s blue and red now. Look at all that blood in those tubes. He’s a blue and red baby now.” David stood in silence beside Jean whilst the nurse prattled on in an attempt to explain the technology surrounding the infant. He did so wish that Jean would not always symbolise everything with colours.

 46

Jean and David

The white coffin

t was a glorious spring day. The sun was shining profusely and the sky was a tight canopy of blue. Jean was sitting at the kitchen table with her head flopped over her hands. In front of her was a cup of tea. It was cold now, David had made it for her before he went out. That must have been hours ago. She stirs a little and looks up - having no idea how long she has been sitting there like that, stretched out over the table. Time is non existent for Jean. There is no present, only an event in the past. A finished event with no link to the now moment. And if the past is not linked to the present then there is no possibility of a future time for Jean. Jean is absolutely numb from exhaustion, from the sheer and utter devastation that she feels. That is the only thing she can feel, everything else has been blocked out. Her little boy is dead, his dear little fingers are cold and lifeless resting against the blue silk inside the white coffin. Jean picks up the cup of tea and puts it to her lips. It is her favourite cup, the one with cows on. Richard used to point to the cup and say ‘Moooo, mooo’. And every time Jean would Moooo back so that they would end up mooing together. The cold tea tastes horrible, but she drinks it anyway. David had said to her ‘be sure to drink that tea now, I don’t want to find it cold in the cup when I get back’. Why was David always so strong? Why did nothing ever seem to phaze David? Why could David always cope with everything? Jean suddenly 49

feels angry, it feels good. The monotomy is broken. Slowly, she gets up from the table and goes to the back door to open it. Outside the day tries to welcome her – Look at me! it cries, look how my sun is shining, come and greet me Jean! But she doesn’t hear the day calling, she just stares and stares. It is the stare of a blind person – there is just an image, an image without actually seeing anything. For a moment Jean wonders where David is and then remembers that he has gone to the airport to pick up Morag, her mother. She is coming for the funeral which will be in two days’ time. Jean has only slightly imagined what she will say to her mother about the death of her little boy. She hopes that her mother will know what to say. She hopes there will be something to fill the emptiness of not knowing what to say, not knowing what to do. Her mother will surely tell her what to do. David tells her what to do but she doesn’t listen to David. He doesn’t understand her at all. Not at all. How could he understand her, he had said. How could he ever understand her unless she allowed him to. She had been baffled by that remark of his, as if it was all her fault somehow. But then she was used to that, it was always her fault, she was hopeless. Jean takes a few steps outside into the garden. She hears Mrs B singing to her. Mrs B is her very own blackbird who comes calling most days, once in the morning and once in the evening. Jean loves the sound of her blackbird singing. Suddenly she remembers that she cannot possibly feel pleasure right now. How dare she find pleasure from the singing blackbird! Sing a song of sixpence, pocket full of rye; ‘sing a song Mama!’ she hears Richard calling. Oh clever little boy mastering the skills of language, his first thread of four words put together. And she would sing. How could anyone 50

put blackbirds in a pie? She asks herself silently. But that is painful, too painful to think about because Richard loved her singing that nursery rhyme, waiting anxiously for his nose to be pecked off at the end of it. Those four little words echo round and round the garden as Jean recalls the feel of Richard’s little hand and the sight of his smile. Blackbirds, birds that are black, don’t think about the birds Jean, she says to herself, but think about the colour, black the sad colour; or is it just a shade after all, that’s what some people say. What a dear little white coffin. Richard would be safe in there, soft blue silk to protect his thin little wrists and ankles. So thin, so vulnerable at the end, with his heart not working properly and his kidneys failing. David had wanted a blue coffin, he had shown Jean a photo on some website. Jean had looked in horror, so American, so tacky she had thought, although she had not actually said that. It had to be white she had said to David, firmly. Mrs B calls her down the garden path – footfalls echo in the memory, it won’t be long before the roses bloom again, Jean says out loud to herself and Mrs B. How did my footfalls lead me here? What am I doing here in this country? Why did I come so far away from my home? My home and the snow of the Cairngorms. Oh goodness, I remember the magic of a winter morning when snow had fallen snow on snow. White dust falling silently during the night when no one was watching. My father picking me up so that I could look out of the window. Holding me so firm, his strong arm underneath my bottom so that I could sit quite comfortably. I can’t have been much more than three or four, but I remember it perfectly well. Beautiful innocence, purity, whiteness – as white as the wee rose of Scotland. I must go home soon. Maybe I’ll 51

go back with Mum. No, David wouldn’t like that. I have to stay here, with my husband, it’s my place, my duty. Oh hell! Who cares about duty any more. Would Scotland take away the pain? Would it replace the numbness and the grief that I know will follow? If I wear a white rose will my homesickness disappear, will my feelings come back normal, will my little boy... don’t, Jean, don’t think about that. Oh no, he’s lying in a white coffin with his hands on blue silk. My head is exploding with sadness, my head is hurting from all these thoughts. Go away! Go away! Go away! Leave me in peace. She screams and the blackbird stops singing. ******** Thursday was the day of the funeral and it arrived like any other day. Jean looked out of the bedroom window while she was waiting for David to finish in the bathroom. Spring had arrived with an urgency of purpose – popping, sprouting, pushing, bursting. Everything was focused on life, it was that simple. In the garden in April there was no place for death. Jean found this thought quite ironic, so much so that it brought a smile to her face. The sky was overcast but at least it wasn’t raining. If only it doesn’t rain, she had said to David and Morag the evening before. David had told her a hundred times that it was not going to rain on Thursday but she hadn’t believed him. In a way she knew that she had been playing more the victim than was necessary. “Jean love, David! I’ve laid the breakfast table.” Morag called from downstairs. When she heard those words Jean thought that this could be just an ordinary morning. Her mother staying with them, helping out like she had done when 52

Richard was born, Jean and David going about their normal business. But it wasn’t just an ordinary morning was it? David came out of the bathroom and Jean went in. There was silence between them. She applied a foam cleanser to her face and looked in the mirror. She knew she must do her best to stay calm, not to show herself up, not to break down later at the service. She hated that phrasal ‘break down’ hated its meaning and its implications. Surely there can be nothing worse than a woman who breaks down in front of others she said to herself. She would have to think about Mary Stuart who went to her execution with grace and majesty. Jean’s mother had been a great support. Somehow, just by being there she had managed to emanate calm and normality in a house turned upside down by emotion. Richard had died on Saturday in hospital after a sudden relapse one week previously. The doctor said that there was nothing more they could do. Richard had looked so peaceful lying in a big hospital cot with a crisp white sheet covering his body. There was just his face and one arm exposed for Jean and David to look at. The other arm and his body were punctured with various marks where all the drips and drains had been. Jean and David had stood apart from each other looking at their dead son. It would be a while before they could accept each other’s pain and connect properly again. “How are you feeling love? Here, have a nice cup of tea.” Morag passed the cup to Jean and poured another one for David. Jean thought how civilised the breakfast table looked, as if it really was just an ordinary day. “I’m not very hungry actually,” she said and turned to David who was scooping scrambled eggs and bacon on to his plate. “I’m sure you’re not but it’s better to have something inside 53

you. Try and have something now, you can’t go through today on an empty stomach.” Jean was tempted to say something curtly to her mother along the lines of will you just leave me alone! But she didn’t, she didn’t want to upset anyone. She picked up a piece of toast and spread some butter on it putting a small pile of eggs on top. David picked up the newspaper and started reading. Jean could have strangled him for doing that. How can he sit there and read the paper? in two hours’ time the cars will be here and we’ll be going to our son’s funeral – how can he sit there and read the paper? So tense, so many bad feelings about David, what has he done to upset me so much? Why am I so hateful?, Jean thinks as she tries to swallow some egg and toast. Morag can see that Jean is thinking deeply, she recognises that look on her daughter’s face when she thinks too much. At the moment there is nothing she can say to her daughter to make things better. “Thanks Mum,” Jean says as she gets up from the table to go upstairs. She has one and a half hours to get ready. She wonders whatever she can do to keep herself busy for all that time. It feels quiet in the house, almost eerie, the radio is on but only very softly. She sits on the bed and picks up the battered copy of Burns from her bedside table. It falls open and Jean looks at the poem on the page that opens with Chorus. Of course, she says out loud, of course it would be that poem. That is what I’ll tell Richard to do, to keep me near. Soon now, so very soon. David comes into the bedroom. Jean notices an enormous sadness in his eyes. “Jean, Honey, it’s going to be a very sad day. Are you okay?” He bends down and takes her hand in his. 54

“Yes, I think so. I’ve been reading some Burns. He comforts me, makes me think of home.” She looks up as David’s expression changes to one of slight concern. “This is your home Jean, this is our home.” “Yes, I know David, I know that. I meant home as the place where I came from, where I was raised as you would say. Home is one of those words that carries many meanings. I just meant that when you’re feeling sad it’s good to go back somewhere in your mind. Somewhere that feels safe, and trusted where you can open up a pathway of memories in your brain. That’s what I meant.” She pauses, looks deeply into David’s eyes. “Are you okay David? Tell me if you’re not.” He sighs, a look of exasperation passing over his face. “I don’t know, I feel..., I feel so incredibly sad. I don’t understand why this has happened.” “Neither do I darling. None of us do. Let’s not try to understand something that is beyond us.” Jean stands up and gives David a hug. “We will have to try very hard to be good to each other. I have a feeling we will be enemies sometimes.” David tries to smile, he knows exactly what Jean means. “Yes,” he says, “yes, indeed. I’m going to get ready now. Let’s both get ready and then go down. The cars will be here shortly. And, your Mum’s on her own downstairs.” “Does this look alright Mum?” Jean enters the living room where Morag is waiting. She has been knitting. Jean thinks of the phrase ‘grey socks for soldiers’ that’s what her mother always said if Jean asked her what she was making. “Let’s have a wee look then.” Morag smoothes the fabric of the jacket shoulder. “It’s lovely Jean, quite beautiful in fact. Dear oh dear, you have lost weight since I saw you last.” 55

Jean ignores the remark but realises her mother is nervous. “Mum, thanks for being here, it means a lot you know.” “Oh Jean love, don’t, please don’t say any more.” David appears in the doorway of the living room. “I think the cars are here girls.” He says, quite formally. “I’m going to take one of you on each side, we’ll do this together.” In the car Jean looks ahead of her and sees clearly the small white coffin through the glass back of the hearse ahead. The top is adorned with a beautiful wreath of white flowers, all shades of white together. She feels something very special about this moment in time. It is one of those beautifully rare moments when words are superfluous and silence fills every empty space. It is even more special because the same feeling is felt by all three. When the moment has passed Jean knows that now is the time to speak to Richard. Barely audible, she mutters under her breath, O whistle, and I’ll come to you, my lad. David squeezes her hand, Morag bends forward slightly and remarks, “You’ve been reading Robbie Jean. Good, that’s good.”

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Jean and David

The red and the blue

t was a beautiful afternoon. Jean was in the garden pruning the roses when suddenly she thought about David’s promotion again. She could hear the water in the pond splashing as the droplets from the fountain rippled in the water. She put the secateurs down. ‘I don’t want to think about it any more’, she said out loud to herself. ‘Look at that sky, so blue, so blue. August is a wicked month. Who said that? oh yes, it was a book wasn’t it? Wicked that blue sky. You just know that Autumn is lurking behind it. And after Autumn, Winter. My dress is blue. The sky is blue. That’s funny, I dressed Michael in his blue romper today. Didn’t I promise myself never to have blue baby clothes again? I wonder why I didn’t choose that lovely little white suit. I love that white suit. So soft, just like cotton wool. It’s a blue day, that’s why. Not a sign of a cloud in the sky. Why is it a blue day? It’s not Autumn yet.’ “I’m home Hun!” She heard David approaching from behind the hedge that surrounded the patio. He kissed her on the cheek. “How’s he been?” “Oh, fine, just fine.” She picked up the secateurs. ‘He’s more important now than I am.’ she thought. ‘Blue sky, blue dress, blue baby clothes. The baby, I must go and see to the baby.’ 59

Inside, Michael was just stirring in his cot, in his perfectly decorated nursery. Everything was perfect in here. Winnie the Pooh stared at Jean from the walls. This was a room in which to find solace, to console yourself even when you were not sure that consolation would be the answer. “I don’t want to think about it any more.” She said out loud to Michael as she picked him up out of the cot. ‘I thought about it yesterday and it kept me occupied for the best part of the day. I have to think about you and, David’s supper of course. I really can’t keep on giving him pasta when he’s been working hard all day at the office. He’ll get himself a mistress if I keep giving him pasta for supper. Oh darling, you are so beautiful, what a perfect baby you are. Did you know it’s a blue day my sweet? Don’t ask me why. There’s Daddy coming up the stairs now, he’s coming to see how you’ve been. He’s coming to see if you’ve really been all right all day while he was away at the office. He doesn’t believe me one hundred per cent when I say that you’ve been just fine.’ ******** “Well, where’s my little man then?” “David, not so loud, you’ll frighten him with that big voice of yours.” “Oh no I won’t, will I? See there now, he’s smiling at his father.” “Will you hold him a while? I’ll get his bottle, it won’t take a moment.” “You musn’t be so frightened darling.” David’s thick lips kissed the little frumpled forehead. “Nothing, and I mean nothing is going to go wrong.” 60

“I’m not frightened, David.” The voice faded into the distance as Jean went down the stairs. ‘I’m not frightened, I’m just not thinking about being frightened and I don’t want to think about anything except this lovely house and David and my baby. My baby who wants his bottle and - my baby who - No Jean, NO! don’t think about it.’ The kitchen was untidy, though spotlessly clean. The geraniums on the outside sill flashed red in the early evening sun. Red, a splash of colour to intercept the blue. ‘David doesn’t like things lying around all over the place. I must tidy up in a minute. I know, I’ll ask him to give Michael his bottle, then I can tidy up a bit. Maybe I can start the supper. Oh why am I so disorganised? David’s never disorganised. He couldn’t be, could he? If David was disorganised he’d never hold on to his job and then we would have no money and then everything would go all wrong. It would go all wrong again. I must help to keep the perfection going. That’s it, the bottle’s ready. Oh no, it’s dripped all over the place. Rush upstairs, give it to David, rush downstairs, tidy up, start the supper.’ “I like that blue dress on you Hun.” “Yes, it’s very blue, isn’t it?” It was the wrong thing to say, to start her off. “It’s been a bit of a blue day, actually.” “What do you mean, Hun? Oh, come on then, little man, here’s your lovely milk.” “Oh, I don’t know. Just things. You know. Things, that’s all. David, the sky was so incredibly blue, without a cloud. Yet I had this feeling that it was hiding something. Some darkness. 61

I just wanted to pull back the corner of the sky, the edge of the canopy and see the darkness underneath.” “Look at his little mouth going at that teat. Isn’t that wonderful how he is totally reliant on us?” “Yes, I suppose it is.” “You must try and be less serious, Hun. Have you been reading Hardy again? You know he always sets you off. Give yourself a break, read a Wilbur Smith.” “I’m going to go and start the supper darling. You don’t mind, do you?” “No. Not at all. I love it here. You wouldn’t believe how hectic things are at the office. That Johnson portfolio is a nightmare. I don’t know how I’m going to get it sorted out. Just one big nightmare.” He yawned. Michael wriggled on his lap. The hole in the teat was too small for his hunger. ‘I’ll do some potatoes, I think. In butter, with cheese and onions. In the oven. Oh please don’t let him get that job. I couldn’t bear to move from here. It’s almost perfect here. Just a little more work to make it perfect.’ “Sorry to hear that, darling, about the portfolio. Can we talk about it later. I’ve got things on my mind. Well, only the supper really. I’m worried about giving you pasta again.” She was already out of earshot. ‘Well, we just love pasta, don’t we? little one. I do wish your mother could settle down a bit. Oh it has been just so hectic, you wouldn’t know how hectic life can be when you are grown up.” Jean peeled the potatoes. She absorbed the flash of red on the window sill. ‘Does David really think that I could read Hardy when I have 62

a baby to look after? What did he say about a portfolio? I’ll have to try and concentrate when he tells me about it. I’m not as intelligent as I used to be. My brain is no longer like a sponge soaking up information. Part of my brain has already died. Just think, a part of me has died. But that’s normal isn’t it? Or is it? It’s still another three hours before the darkness sets in. Am I waiting for the darkness? I already know what shadows mean. I have walked through the valley of the shadow of death. Now the darkness can only be kind. Now I am walking through the valley of life. But is it true? Is it true?’ “’He’s gone out like a light Hun.” She jumped. Cut her finger with the knife. The blood ran on to the white flesh of the potato. “Oh, David, you startled me. Look. I’m bleeding.” “It’s okay, Hun. Just a nick, that’s all. I’ll get a Band-aid.” “David, it’s all over the potato. I can’t use that now. It’s gone all red.” Jean was shaking uncontrollably. She wasn’t making sense. ‘Is there blood on Michael’s lovely soft white romper? Is there life after death? Is there hope after bereavement?’ “It’s the red and it’s all mixed up with the blue. I know now. David, I know what it is. It’s blood and blue all mixed up.” “Hun, calm down now. Come here and have a cuddle.” He paused. Moved towards her, opened his arms. “I don’t know what I’m going to do with you.” “It’s not perfect anymore. It can never be perfect again.” She cried.

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