I expected him to go on from there, back to the bit about marriage, wondering if I was up to the task of taking care of the house itself as well as things domestic, but then hadn't I done all these things on my own? But when I saw he planned to say nothing more, I turned back to my book to hide my confusion. I can't say I read a single word.
He never broached the subject again, though now he had planted the idea in my head, my fantasies began to get the better of me. It was at times like this that I truly wished that I had a friend, someone to share secrets with as the Pancake Sisters had done all their lives. Someone to bounce this one off to see if a ball had really been thrown into my court. I was so lacking in social skills I couldn't figure out a simple thing like that. I went to my room feeling the lowest I had felt for a long time: it made me realize how poverty-stricken I truly was.
I WONDER WHAT CELIA
would say if I told her? I can't help turning this idea over in my mind. Would she laugh scornfully, be happy, disapproving? Or would she sit there, old stone face, with that slight natural upturn to the corners of her mouthâjust like Shirleyâthat makes her expression seem so pleasant all the while, masking an interior life I know nothing about? I always wondered where she and Shirley got this lovely little feature that no one else in the family has. Was it perhaps something passed down from my mother? Was Shirley smiling when they shot her? Laughing with her big mouth in that joyful way of hers? What really happened to my daughter?
What was Shirley doing in New York, anyway? A mother should know a thing like that. But I seem to have lost my children like the mother hen is destined to lose her chicks. Only I could never replace mine over and over.
The day Shirley came to tell me she was going, she was so happy, in her usual excited manner. I was happy for her. I thought she had gotten a scholarship, for I knew she had applied. Until she told me her father was paying for it. I don't know. Just the mention of their father in those days was enough to drive me crazyâit drew out of me all the pent-up anger, the words I never spoke otherwise, and unfortunately my children were the ones those words fell on. It wasn't because he was paying, I wanted him to pay and pay and pay. It was just the way she spoke of him, Shirley who had hated him as much as I did, the way she said “Pops” now in this loving tender manner, which let me know that to her he was more than a bank account. I just stood there and said “Pops?” Something in the tone of my voice triggered that angry reaction in her. For she immediately launched into such a defence of him. Which of course ended up with a devastating attack on me. My God! What did that man do to earn such a whitewash?
Silence. Silence can sever as effectively as a knife. I never once told my children about my own childhood, my past, my relationship to the Richardses, they only knew that we were somehow related. So when Shirley flung at me that day to conclude her narrative of my bad qualities, “Not even your own family would talk to you!” I should have realized the power of that silence, its potential to surround the heart and squeeze it dry. In knowing nothing about me, Shirley knew nothing about her own past; she was as lacking in anchorage as I was. How was I different from the Richardses and their refusal to speak of anything to do with my history, of my mother?
SOMETIMES I WISH I
had someone to talk to, especially now, when I am forced to think about these things, for one can't live in the world today without becoming aware of one's own shortcomings, of how the past loops around to choke off the present. Or, perhaps, of how one can undo the knots, set the past free. I am confronted with all of them, the advice-givers, whichever way I turn, the Oprahs and the Doctor Phils. If these oh-so-confident talkers are to be believed, by facing the past we can find our own strengths in the present, to overcome the mountains to be climbed and conquered. Or in my case the pit to crawl out of. I try not to put too much trust in these people; they are foreign and get rich from this sort of thing, so how can they be trusted. But I'm a majority of one, it seems, for their aura, their authority penetrates even into the kitchen. Even the two young beauticians, Morveen and Kyisha, are constantly quoting psychobabble though I'm not sure they understand what it means. I can't escape it in the glamour and beauty magazines the Pancake Sisters pass on to me.
Shirley was beautiful enough, in her own way, but she wasn't obsessed with her looks, like Lise. Shirley was more into herself, I think now, into finding out who she was. Did she? Was that what it was all about? Every time I think of Shirley I'm tempted to pick up her picture and wonder. Try not to open the old biscuit tin and look.
I never gave them much of an anchor, did I? I launched them on the great sea of life and then I just let them drift off until they disappeared beyond the horizon.
SOMETIMES I ASK MYSELF
, now that my heart seems to be opening wider, did I really love any of them? And when I am feeling sorry for myself: Did anyone ever love me? And now sometimes I ask: Why am I feeling like this? Is it love?
MATRON IS ALL EXCITEMENT
these days, I don't know what's gotten into her, but she's more fluttery and buttery than usual. Ruby swears she's got a man, which leads Birdie to question in her sweet way, “What ever did she do with the first one?”
For Matron is Mrs. Spence. She is the Director, as she keeps telling me, for I am the only one who calls her Matron. The rest who've been here a long time call her by her first name: Delice, pronounced De-Lees. Which I think is much too nice a name for her: Delice Spence. But I have to confess she's been awfully nice to me lately, always stopping to exchange a few words, to rave about our latest vegetables, to compliment me on a dress or a new hairstyle, for I've gotten quite vain and experimental, I must confess, to Morveen's delight. Not a single complaint from Matron in months. I think it's all because of Mr. Bridges. Matron is a romantic at heart. Romance is all she ever reads, and she rushes to her cottage every evening to watch the soaps. She is very caught up in them, if her avid discussion with the other fans at our residence, including those in the kitchen, is anything to go by. Even Winston surprises me sometimes with his knowledge of these matters, as I learn from overhearing the post-lunch conversation of the domestic staff when they are relaxing outside the kitchen.
I think all of this soap opera business has given Matron the idea that something is going on between me and Mr. Bridges and marriage is imminent, which explains her breathlessness, for nothing untoward seems to be happening in her life. She keeps telling me about that old couple in their eighties who met at a retirement home in the city and how they got married and had their pictures in the papers. “On TV, Mrs. Samphire, imagine!” Of course she didn't tell me, as Ruby did, referring to them as “silly old fools,” that neither survived the shock of new-found love longer than six months. I just smile at Matron and everyone else, for the only evidence they have is that Mr. Bridges and I spend an awful lot of time together, but all of it in the open.
What do we do in this time? We garden, we sit companionably and read, we listen to music occasionally, we go for walks around the grounds, we talk. Mr. Bridges is impeccable in his politeness, and says nothing more of marriage, although he still talks of going back to his house. Why he hesitates to make that move I don't know since there is nothing stopping him that I can see. But of late I've noticed a restlessness in him, a subtle ruffling of the surface, a slight shifting of his attention from the matter at hand, as if he is not quite as focused as he used to be. And I wonder what is the matter, is he feeling unwell? But I dare not ask. And soon off he goes to Miami again, as he seems to be doing more and more.
I AM PLEASED TO
see that Mr. Bridges has come back from his latest trip seeming like his old self, all confidence and smiles, his distracted air vanished. He's gone over to his old house several times in the past week, to take an inventory, he says, of what work needs to be done. I'm a little disappointed that he doesn't invite me to go along at some point, as I feel I could be useful, but I guess he knows what's best. He has roped in a young relative, an architect, to help him. In any event, he has not invited me to go on any of his forays outside of Ellesmere Lodge, so this is nothing unusual. But he does report back to me when he returns.
What an appalling recital his inventory is. What an awfully long time it will take to put things right, I'm thinking. My heart sinks. For Mr. Bridges is the kind of perfectionist, in his person and his home, who will do nothing until everything is arranged to his complete satisfaction.
MAYBE THE WORD HAS
gotten to me, but last night after dinner, back in my room, I took an inventory of myself. I laughed at my foolishness when I was finished and vowed to tear the page out, but it's still here and I think I'll leave it to remind myself how silly I've become.
My own personal inventory:
Body: in quite good shape for a woman my age, I would say, especially one who has been so battered about by life. I've always had good posture, drummed into me by Aunt Zena. I hold myself straight, and while I'm not fashionably slim, I've got myself back down to what one might call nicely upholstered. Not too stuffed. Or, maybe pleasingly plump? It helps to be tall, for the weight is quite evenly distributed. I would say I'm well proportioned. So I wear clothes well. It helps to have such nice things too. I mean, I have big breasts and I do have a bit of a bottom. A belly, too, if I am perfectly honest, but it's okay with the right clothes.
Face: Well, there's where I think I would score myself much higher now than I would have done in the past. Paying attention to my skin and hair does make a difference. My hair is thick, extremely coarse and curly, and I've always worn it pulled back from my head and tied in a knot. But a nicely shaped cut that frames my face has done wonders, as has a little straightening and the light henna that Morveen insisted that I try. The colour sits much better with my skin tone, she says, which she brightens up with foundation and highlighter.
With all the gardening my skin has gone from the colour of putty back to sultana raisin. Some people might consider that too dark, but that's their problem. Dark is now beautiful. Not that I would ever call myself beautiful, but I am saved by my high cheekbones, which give my broad face character. At least I think so now. Not too many wrinkles. Well, that's a matter of opinion, but when I smile I do look quite nice. Even to myself. Note: Smile more!
My eyes, which have always been a muddy brown colour, are beginning to look a bit washed out, but I think that's just old age. The touch of blue shadow does help to bring them out, and they are a nice size and properly spaced, though when Morveen told me that I told her she was talking foolishness. How vain I've become. I only wear glasses for reading and close work, but I could do with a more fashionable pair. My hearing is okay, I think. Well, excellent, I'd say. If only some people knew!
My nose, oh my nose, it is still too big and flat, I wish I had inherited my father's, but I guess it goes with my face, which is rather large, and what the fashion magazines would call triangular shape. Too large, maybe. I don't know, sometimes it looks just too big to me, with those cheekbones. It goes with the rest. Like my lips. Much too big, but Morveen has shown me how to reduce the effect with lipstick and lipliner, if you please. I haven't paid this much attention to myself since Charles Samphire first started to gaze at me. But what he saw I will never know. I wonder what Mr. B sees?
I can't do much about the size of my hands and feet, but after the monthly attention from the manicurist, my hands and nails would be rated passable, even at elegant dinner parties, I would say.
In addition, I tick off: I am intelligent, well-spoken, very well read, a good listener, willing to learn new things, know how to set and eat at a good table. Thank you, Aunt Zena. I could tackle the repair of a house or just about anything else if I had to, and I have all my own teeth, thanks to my mother, I think. Very healthy, with no scars visible unless I take off all my clothes. Must make a note to do so only when other people take off their glasses.
I HAVEN'T OPENED THIS
notebook for such a long time. I don't want to open my eyes ever but I promised her and I will I will maybe tomorrow.
WHO ARE WE TO
question the will of the gods???? (William Shakespeare or maybe Sophocles.)
I'VE TOLD HER I
really must go back home I can't stay here one minute longer and she says she understands and she has promised and this time she really means it I think but says they have to finish the repairs first. I feel guilty because I know it's going to cost a lot and I haven't a red cent of my own. I tell her that she doesn't have to do everything at once I just need one sound room to live in. She tells me not to worry it's all being taken care of. I don't know if I should believe her or not. These days I don't know what to believe.
SHE DID SAY I
could come and live with them in the meantime if I wanted to. They'd love to have me. Well, that's a new one. Nearly two years too late. Thanks but no thanks. I've had enough of people.
WHAT I CAN'T STAND
is everyone being so bloody cheerful with me. Even that bloody Matron. She keeps popping in, in her breezy little way. “And how are we today?” We???? God, I could strangle that woman.
LOTS OF VISITORS COME
, at least the ones whose immune systems won't be compromised by a sickroom. But I don't want them here. I don't want anyone. The only one I can stand is Ruby, who arrives in the afternoon wearing some outlandish outfit. I can hear her coming down the passage, signalled by the tinkling of ice cubes in her cocktail shaker of dry martini. In her other hand she bears a martini glass with two olives and a cigarette pack with her gold Ronson lighter pushed inside it and exactly two cigarettes, for since Babe's death she has been good at rationing herself. She bangs on the door with the hand holding the shaker, enters, and uses her bony hip to push the door shut.