Authors: Wendy Perriam
Eileen shifted uneasily on her seat. Would it hurt to lie, just this once; just the smallest, most innocuous white lie? Her stern inner voice immediately told her that it
would
hurt; began issuing dire warnings about slippery slopes.
‘I mean, to think of my own mother dying without sparing me one single thought. It’s as if I don’t exist, as if she’d never had me. But that’s the point, isn’t it? She probably wished she hadn’t.’
‘How could you even consider such a thing?’ Eileen all but shouted.
‘Easily. If I caused her so much trouble – as you never stopped pointing out – it would be completely natural for her to conclude she’d have been better off with just her elder daughter: the adored and perfect one. You can’t deny you were her favourite.’
Eileen opened her bag, rummaged for her handkerchief and pretended to blow her nose. Easier than having to reply.
‘So that’s it, is it? The two of you spent ages prattling, but it never even occurred to you to mention
me
, or—’
‘It wasn’t “prattling”,’ Eileen cut in. ‘She was near death, for heaven’s sake!’
‘But you said she talked about Chloe and Samantha, so why not me, as well?’
‘Hold on …’ Eileen kept the handkerchief half across her face, as if to hide from that accusing inner voice. ‘I … I remember now. She … she did actually say how sorry she was you couldn’t be with her at the end.’
‘
Really
?’
That one word was crammed with such a Niagara of relief, Eileen suppressed all the strict, unyielding principles she had spent her life upholding. Perhaps white lies didn’t count. ‘Yes, and she seemed … worried about you generally. She even talked about that awful time when your flat-share with Patricia broke up and you were more or less forced out onto the street. She realized how upset you must have—’
‘But that was years ago! You mean, she actually remembered?’
Was a nod a lie? Before the reproving voice could snap an uncompromising ‘yes’, she nodded, vigorously.
‘Honestly?’
Another shameful nod. ‘Honestly’ made it ten times worse.
‘You’re not having me on?’
‘No.’
‘Oh,
Sis
!’ Marion’s whole face had relaxed. She even looked less gravely ill.
How extraordinary, Eileen thought, that lies could be
compassionate
– kind, humane, almost like mental painkillers. She suddenly realized, with a sense of shock, that her sister had never felt loved – not by anyone. The fact was so blindingly obvious she could hardly believe her own obtuseness in failing to acknowledge it before. While
she
had basked in their mother’s love, and a husband’s love, and the love of their two daughters and two sons-in-law and, more recently, her three granddaughters’ love, Marion had been forced to make do with odd scraps and shreds of affection, thrown at her by unsuitable men or by fickle, faithless friends. There had been no one central person in her life to provide any source of support. In fact,
all those wild affairs might simply have been compensatory; the regrettable transgressions just a bid for attention. Perhaps, in the absence of love, attention might seem the next best thing.
And, of course, both she and Marion had been deprived of a father – Marion from the age of eighteenth months. She herself had eventually found a substitute in the form of marriage to a
responsible
, reliable, conscientious, older man. But all the father-figures her poor sister had pursued had proved reprobates or conmen. For the first time in her life, she was able to see Marion’s life not as reprehensible but as achingly unfulfilled. And thus wouldn’t it be an act of mercy to grant her some small comfort before it was too late?
She cleared her throat. ‘Because Mummy couldn’t say goodbye herself, she … she asked me to say it for her.’ All at once, she was struck by another thought: perhaps Marion
knew
she was lying, yet was so desperate for their mother’s blessing, she was willing to believe a gross distortion of the truth. But did it really matter? Lies weren’t only kind; they could also be necessities; more valuable, maybe, than even financial handouts.
Marion was actually smiling; her whole face animated. ‘Oh, Sis, I just can’t tell you how relieved I feel.’
‘Sis’ three times now. The expensive flowers she had scorned; this bouquet of lies was clearly a more precious gift.
‘Sis …’ she dared reciprocate, although the word felt strange on her lips: a rusty, unfamiliar word, long since consigned to the toy cupboard, along with other abandoned childish things. ‘Yes, Sis,’ she repeated, looking directly into Marion’s eyes. Harold always claimed that liars never looked you in the face, but, for this one crucial moment, Harold could go hang. ‘Not only did she say goodbye, she particularly wanted you to know that she … she always loved you very deeply.’
Eileen let out a long breath. How peculiar that lies could feel so freeing! And she was groping towards a still more singular fact: that even if they were both aware that this whole thing was a lie (and a flagrant black lie; not a pardonable white one), they could somehow
make
it true. Here, now, in this substandard, inefficient ward, a new truth was being established – and, for all she knew, a
life-saving and redeeming truth – that Marion, the recalcitrant younger sister, had been genuinely loved.
‘Thank you, Sis,’ Marion said, in a quiet, contented tone of voice; joltingly different from her usual peevish bark.
Then, lying back against the pillows, she shut her eyes, as if to sleep. Eileen stared in surprise. Surely no one in such obvious pain and assailed by all this noise could expect simply to switch off? A nurse in heavy brogues was now clumping up and down, and a group of boisterous kids had arrived to see their grandma; ignoring the old lady, whilst they fought amongst themselves. Yet, despite the hubbub, her sister’s breathing had already slowed; her mouth was slack; her fingers now unclenched.
Eileen drew her chair in close. Always conscious of her duty – and happy now to do it – she knew she must keep watch beside the bed, to ensure Marion was not disturbed. This sleep would be restorative and deep, because, incongruous as it might seem, love itself had provided the narcotic.
‘F
ancy a drink Carole? We thought we’d try that new wine-bar down the road.’
‘I’m … I’m sorry. ’Fraid I can’t.’
‘Why should she join
us
,’ Ruth taunted, peering over her
spectacles
from where she sat slumped at the adjoining desk, ‘when her precious Mike is waiting for his beloved to get home?’
Carole bit back a retort. Mike was history – as of yesterday – but, were she to admit that, Ruth’s look of gloating triumph would be more than she could bear. Ruth had met him on the sole occasion he had showed up at the office, but, since that time, her pointless, poisonous jealousy had expressed itself in constant jibes.
‘Oh, come on, Carole,’ Libby urged. ‘It is Friday, after all!’
She fiddled with a strand of her hair, twisting it round and round her fingers. Even at the best of times, she often felt distinctly spare when they all got together after work. As the youngest and by far the least experienced, she would sit very nearly tongue-tied amidst the raucous jollity – and today she might disgrace herself by
actually
bursting into tears. ‘No, honestly, I must get back.’
‘OK, please yourself.’
As Libby shrugged and turned away, Carole took her chance to escape, snatching up her jacket and sidling towards the door. It was already almost seven and they were meant to leave early on a Friday.
‘Have a good weekend!’ John called, as she scurried past his work-station.
‘Will do!’ Her breezy voice sounded false, even to her own ears. No weekend could ever be good, now that Mike had walked out.
‘And make sure you’re in on time on Monday,’ Averil barked, suddenly appearing from her office.
‘Of course,’ she muttered, again stifling her resentment. She had been late only once since she started in the job, yet Averil never let her forget it, nor the fact she was strictly here on trial. There was no certainty about promotion for
any
general assistant – or dogsbody, to use Ruth’s snide term. The girl prior to her had failed to make the grade and been unceremoniously given the boot, after a mere six months, as Averil enjoyed reminding her with depressing regularity. The intention, presumably, was to keep her up to the mark, although in point of fact it only increased her nervousness and made her more likely to fail, in her turn.
It was a relief to be out in the dark and shadowy street, surrounded by anonymous people who would neither nag her nor attack. But, as she trudged towards the tube, her footsteps slowed, until she finally stood indecisive outside the station entrance. The sleepless night, followed by a long, tough day at work, had left her tired and jittery at once, and in no mood for the journey home on a crowded rush-hour train. Anyway, it was only home if Mike was there. The sofa would seem unwelcoming without him sprawled beside her, sharing a pizza or a takeaway, and their large, lumpy double bed would mock a lonely singleton. And how could she leave for work in the morning without his coffee-flavoured kisses to speed her on her way?
Impulsively, she walked on past the tube and continued striding along the street, blindly turning left and left and left, just to give herself an action-plan. Action dulled the pain; provided tiny
distractions
, such as dodging passers-by, or squeezing past the crowds of drinkers gathered outside the pubs. Even non-smokers had flowed out onto the street, despite the November chill. She and Mike had signed the lease on their flat in March – a hopeful month, with everything in bud. Now, the leaves were falling, or lying brown and waterlogged. How could just one evening have kyboshed their nine months together? Enough time to make a baby….
No, she mustn’t think about kids – or about Mike, or marriage, or anything – or she’d spend another seven hours just staring out of
the window at the dark, indifferent sky, as she’d already done last night. She was in need of more distraction, but her plan of turning left meant she kept going round in circles, so now she just walked blindly on, focusing instead on counting bars and cafés. Two, five, six, eight, eleven … Every other building appeared to offer food and drink, although she had lost her own appetite entirely. Each breath she took set off the pain – a pain spreading from the purple bruise branding her whole stomach. In any case, the bars and restaurants all reminded her of Mike: his weakness for a pint (or three) of Stella; his love of red-hot curry; his dislike of salad in any shape or form; the way he always ate chips with his fingers, cramming his mouth with three or four at a time….
Despite the weight of memories, her brisk walking-pace was helping, in that it acted like a drug and helped to calm her mind. So she decided to go further: across Waterloo Bridge and down Kennington Road – a road she knew, because Libby lived there and had once invited her to supper, after work. Libby was a decent type, but had always lived on her own, so she wouldn’t have the faintest idea how much a break-up hurt. She had even once remarked that she much preferred her single state to having to share her life with some useless, boring bloke; clearly unaware that men could be super-charged and super-skilled, like Mike.
The crowds were thinning as she turned into Lancaster Place and she began to feel horribly alone, especially when she crossed the river, with its dark expanse of water stretching on each side. Despite the lights reflected in its surface, it looked menacingly black and she imagined all the corpses rotting on the river-bed – girls like her, so desperate, they had plunged into its depths. Well, at least Mike would be consumed with guilt when he was forced to identify her bloated body, yanked out from the mud. Shit! Her mind was back on him again. But, now she had cut down Baylis Road, there were no more bars and cafés to count, so, instead, she tried to keep her concentration solely on her feet.
That proved easier in Kennington Road, which, being very long and straight, meant she could stride along, full-pelt. She had lost all track of time and, once she’d passed Libby’s flat, had no notion
where she was. Not that she cared a toss. She was willing to walk anywhere – or nowhere – just so long as it stopped her brooding. She veered off to the right and went blundering on along a
nondescript
and treeless street, only panting to a sudden halt outside a yellow-brick church.
What had stopped her in her tracks was the sight of a small, elderly man actually kneeling on the pavement, in front of a large crucifix positioned outside the church. She watched, riveted, as he made the Sign of the Cross; his lips moving as he gazed with
reverence
at the naked, thorn-crowned figure. He must be praying – praying in public, despite the cold, and regardless of what passersby might think. He looked genuinely holy: his hands joined; his eyes intent; his lips forming silent words. Light from the adjacent
lamp-posts
merged his shadow and the Cross’s into one elongated, spooky shape. Then, finally, he eased up to his feet – the action stiff and slow and clearly causing pain – and, having brushed dirt from his trousers, he made a second Sign of the Cross and slowly
shambled
off.
Hardly thinking what she was doing, she darted in pursuit,
overtook
him and stood blocking his path. ‘Are you a priest?’ she demanded.
He looked startled at her question; grunted an emphatic ‘No!’
‘But you were … praying just then.’
‘Well, yes, I was, but that happens to be my church and I like to pay my respects to the crucified Christ.’
Her knowledge of prayer or churches was sketchy in the extreme. Her parents had no time for either, but, from what she’d gathered, prayer could be a force; might even work a miracle, so some believers said. ‘Could you pray for me?’ she blurted out, aghast at her own request. Had she gone insane? This guy was a total stranger – could be a perv, for all she knew.
He looked her up and down, as if harbouring similar doubts about her own credentials. ‘But … I don’t know who you are. All this is rather sudden, don’t you see? It’s hard to pray in a vacuum, so I’d need to know something about you – your name and—’
‘Carole,’ she interrupted. ‘Carole Gibbs. I need help.’
They were still standing in the middle of the pavement, causing an obstruction to people trying to get past. He steered her towards a doorway; continued gazing at her quizzically. ‘Are you a Catholic, Carole?’
‘Yes,’ she said, on impulse. If she said no, he might refuse.
‘Well, in that case, you really ought to see your parish priest. He could help you far better than I can.’
‘I … haven’t got a priest. I’ve not been in London that long.’ At least both of those were true.
‘Do you live round here?’ he asked. ‘If so, I could have a word with our own priest, Father Patrick, and see if he might….’
‘No, I don’t.’ Should she have said ‘yes’ again? Yes’s seemed more hopeful.
‘Well, where?’ he persisted.
‘I’m … not sure. I mean, I’m going to have to move soon. I can’t afford the flat I’m in at present.’ Without Mike’s contribution, it would be impossible to pay the rent. Indeed, if it hadn’t been for Mike, she would never have come to London in the first place. Her own measly salary would barely cover the cost of even a small bedsit. So where would she go? What ever would she do? All at once, the full horror of her plight struck home with hideous force: she was completely on her own. Her parents hated Mike. If she turned up on their doorstep, they would only say, ‘I told you so!’ and might even send her packing. Her only sister lived in New Zealand, busy with her own life, and was miles older anyway. And, as for all her old friends back in Norwich, she’d been so absorbed with Mike, she had shamefully neglected them. Desperate now, she clutched the old guy’s arm. ‘You have to help,’ she sobbed. ‘There’s no one else.’
He seemed embarrassed by her tears and stood, shoulders hunched, shifting from foot to foot. ‘Look, you’d better come home,’ he said, at last, ‘and have a word with my wife. She’s better at these things than me.’
In uneasy silence, they walked on, side by side; she slowing her pace to his uneven, halting gait. What in God’s name was she
doing
, craving help from some weirdo in the street? Was she so dependent on Mike that, without him, she was lost?
Yes, was the pathetic truth. She had never been alone before; had gone straight from living at home to living with him in the flat. Without someone else around, she felt like tissue paper: flimsy, insubstantial, easily crumpled up.
‘I’m Arthur, by the way,’ he said, as he led her round the corner into a narrow road of shabby terraced houses. ‘And this is where I live.’
She muttered something inaudible, more concerned with
scrubbing
at her face before she met his wife. She must look a total fright; eyes red; mascara streaked.
Halfway down the street, he stopped and stood fumbling for his key outside a battered black front door. Old people were so
slow
, she thought, as, having found the key, he then struggled to insert it in the lock.
‘Eunice!’ he called, ushering her into a narrow, dim-lit hall. ‘We have a visitor.’
A small, dumpy woman emerged from the back room, bundled up in a capacious home-knit cardigan, the colour of mushy peas. Her straggly hair was scooped up on top; her eyes faded-blue but kind.
‘Carole’s new to London,’ Arthur explained. ‘She’s a Catholic, so she needs to find a church. And she’s in need of help in general, so maybe you could sort her out.’
With obvious relief, he escaped upstairs, while his wife showed her into the sitting-room – a stuffy, uncongenial place. The
three-piece
suite was so big and bulky, it seemed to push against the confines of the walls, while the scrum of knick-knacks, amassed on every surface, only added to the overcrowded effect. Things should be bare, uncluttered – Mike had taught her that.
Eunice, clearly flustered, was letting out a stream of words, without pausing for any answers. ‘Nice to meet you, dear, but do excuse the mess. If I’d known I was having company, I’d have had a thorough clear-up. Would you like a cup of tea, to warm you up? You look frozen in that jacket. It barely comes down to your waist! When
I
was young, people wore good, thick, winter coats, but now it’s all these lightweight things. Do you take milk and sugar in your tea? And how about a sandwich? I could make you….’
‘Nothing, honestly.’
‘Well, do sit down. No – not that chair. It’s Arthur’s. Take this one, near the fire.’
Mike would dump the gas-fire – a hideous thing in a sickly shade of yellow, with an ugly metal grille. She hadn’t realized till this moment that he had turned her into a snob. Even her parents’ home seemed embarrassingly out-dated, seen through his appraising eyes. But, as far as Eunice was concerned, she should be grateful, for heaven’s sake, not criticizing every smallest thing. At least she was in the warm and not alone. Without this refuge, she might have walked the streets all night.
The woman was still fussing – clearly ill at ease, or perhaps unused to visitors. ‘Are you comfy there, or would you like a cushion behind you?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
With a worried sigh, Eunice arranged a cushion behind her own grey head. Then she smoothed her skirt, adjusted her glasses and sat rubbing at her chin, before finally she asked. ‘Well, what’s the trouble, dear?’
The popping of the gas-fire filled the silence. Where did she begin?
‘Have you run away from home?’
‘
No
.’
‘Well, what about your parents? Can’t they help?’
‘No.’
Eunice shifted her bulk on the sagging, chintzy chair. There was a second, unsettling pause, before she spoke again in her breathy tone. ‘Forgive me, dear, for suggesting such an indelicate thing, but you’re not … expecting, are you?’
If only. If she’d fallen pregnant, Mike might have stayed, simply for the kid’s sake. ‘No,’ she said, third time.
Eunice gave another sigh. The sighs seemed nervous, rather than impatient, as if she were running out of suggestions. ‘But Arthur said you needed help, so there must be
something
wrong.’