Puccini's Ghosts (31 page)

‘You mustn’t see me like this!’ she said. ‘I can’t bear it!’

Joe winked and clicked his tongue at her, then bent over and rummaged in his holdall.

‘Naughty boy,’ she said, gliding past. She flipped out a hand and gave his backside a little slap. ‘Running away like that.’

‘Ah, well,
Principessa,
’ Joe said, ‘but I haven’t come back empty-handed.’

‘You shouldn’t have done that to poor Georgie. He’s been beside himself. Weren’t you, Georgie?’

George said, ‘Fleur, that’s enough.’

Fleur patted her rollers. ‘So much rehearsal you’ve missed, we’ve covered so much ground. You’ve got a mile of catching up to do.’

Joe fished for another moment in his bag and brought out a small, heart-shaped box. He waved it vaguely. ‘Chocolates,’ he announced to none of them in particular. ‘Here you are, chocolates.’

‘Oh well,
chocolates
. Well, of course that changes everything,’ George said, tightening his folded arms around himself. Joe had made no show of offering him the box so he would not dream of reaching for it. He was not yet nearly sorry enough. George’s anger ignited inside him; Joe was not sorry at
all
. ‘As a matter of fact,’ he said, ‘I think it’s rather inadequate of you.’

Fleur drawled breathily, pulling her hands down her hips, ‘Oh, George, stop being so mean. Lovely chocolates. Charbonnel et Walker, mmmm. I adore chocolates.’ She sighed and smiled encouragingly, waiting to have the gift thrust upon her. ‘Oh, my downfall, I shouldn’t, really…’

Joe was confused. He probably did feel a little guilty or he wouldn’t have thought of getting a present, but he hadn’t gone further in his mind than just bringing the damn box into the house. He had no particular concern about
giving
it, and he certainly had not meant it to arouse feelings one way or the other. It had been going cheap in a shop near the station, old stock left over from Valentine’s Day. He’d imagined himself handing the box over and joking that the chocolates might already be stale, and then being scolded a little. He didn’t see why they couldn’t make light of it. He was back, wasn’t he? But it was impossible to joke about it now. He looked round for somewhere in the cluttered hall to put the box down. He wanted to forget the whole idea, disown it, lose it.

Lila watched him, and ached. It was obvious he wanted Uncle George and her mother gone so that he could give her the present privately. She took a step down the stairs. Joe saw her and pushed the box at her over the banisters.

‘There you go, then,’ he said, glancing up and stepping back, wiping his mouth.

She clasped the box to her chest and smiled radiantly through the v-shaped gap made by the dent in the heart. His awkwardness in giving the gift showed how sincerely he meant it.

‘Oh,
Joe
! Thank you!’ she said. There was nothing else she need say. It would be meaningless to add something about the actual chocolates, because who cared what was in the box? Joe could feed her worms if they came from a heart-shaped box.

‘We’ll be late,’ George said. ‘Come on, we’ve got stuff to shift down to the shed. People will be there already. I should be down there now.’

Fleur was feeling under her scarf with both hands. ‘Not me,’ she said, coolly. ‘I’m still damp. I’ll see you about half past three.’

‘Half past three? The run-through’s at two! You
know
the run-through’s at two! Full cast. I said full cast!’

Fleur stepped back across the hall and patted George on the cheek. ‘Yes, yes, sweetie, I know, but I’m not on till Act II.’

‘But you’re
seen
. The whole cast and the audience have to see you. Your presence at the end of Act I casts a shadow over the next two acts. It’s important.’

‘Well, this time they’ll just have to imagine me there. You can’t expect me to sit around all afternoon just to
appear
. George, you shouldn’t get so worked up,’ she told him, drifting towards the stairs. ‘It can’t be good for you. Anyway, I was going to vocalise but now I must lie down, my head’s just aching with these big heavy things. Byeee.’

She disappeared upstairs, leaving the others to load up George’s car in the rain, with music stands, folding chairs, band parts and Thermos flasks.

d
r Chowdry calls again though I didn’t ask her to.

I submit to my tetanus booster and then she says I may as well take the bandage off my foot now. It’s healing all right. Since I won’t stop walking around and the bandage keeps coming off there’s not much point, she says. I don’t think I’m walking about much but the bandages do get wet and dirty and my toes do throb even when I haven’t been anywhere I remember going.

She looks around the room, and then a little crossly at me, and says as if it’s a joke, Well, well. So now it’s all the old clothes you’re going through. Have you been dressing up? What’s this?

She picks up Liù’s pale dress between one finger and thumb and in her hands it looks like nothing but a crumpled, filthy rag that’s been stuffed in a box for over forty years. She has no idea that it’s proper pre-war satin and you just don’t get that quality any more. She has no idea it is the most beautiful garment I ever owned.

That was specially made for me! Give me that back!

The more startled she is the harder she smiles, Dr Chowdry. Oh now, no fuss, no fuss, she says. Here you are, I haven’t done it any harm, it’s all right.

And you’re still drowning in papers, she adds after a minute. Still raking over all these old things. Are you looking for anything in particular?

I have to think about this. She calls at inconvenient times, Dr Chowdry. I’m never dressed. This time I may have nodded off in my chair and she walks in the door anyhow which, no matter how you look at it, is a liberty.

No, I’m not. But I may be trying to find something out.

And what might that be, do you think? She is putting on the very careful voice again. She sits down. Do you have any thoughts about what that might be, what you’re looking for?

Not the foggiest. Do you like doughnuts? I’ve got three. They seem a bit smaller than when I bought them but you’re welcome. How is Paris now?

Paris is as right as rain, very nearly. I’m popping in on her in a minute. And—

She leans forward with a widening smile. And I have something for you, or rather, I have someone. If you feel like it. I hope you don’t mind, but there’s someone waiting in my car to see you, if you’d like to see her. It’s Mrs Foley, do you remember Stella, Mrs Foley?

Enid’s mum? Oh, Enid’s mum, I whisper. I stroke the satin dress between my fingers.

I am not and never was the Paris kind of child. I never did inspire in my mother what I see in Christine. This is something I know. But all at once I’m back in the warm and sleepy land of Enid’s mum—Sew Right, the back shop and the flat above—and the smell of cloth bales and paraffin and sweet tea which are to me the smells of acceptance, which is a precious thing when you haven’t encountered much of it.

It’s the September following
Turandot
. I am being looked after. At my most feverish I blink my eyes and warm brine runs from them and splashes down my face. I remember Enid’s mum saying rubbing will make them worse and I must let the tears fall. She strokes Vaseline on my cheeks and says it’s a layer of protection. I remember the bliss of not needing to move unless I really feel I can.

After those first two acute and delirious weeks of glandular fever which I can barely remember, I spend a drowsy month on the divan in the sitting room of the flat, lulling myself into an understanding that I really am quite ill. We drift into October. The situation is not ideal. It’s the fifth or sixth week before I am properly aware that I have ousted Enid from the divan and that she and her mum are sharing the one small bedroom where Enid’s mum usually sleeps alone. I think there may be only a single bed, and cushions on the floor for Enid.

Dr Chowdry whispers that if I’m ready she’ll just go and bring her in from the car, she needs a hand, she’s not so good on her legs.

But in the way she seems never to worry about anything, Enid’s mum seems not to mind the overcrowding and anyway, given what I’ve done, it’s impossible for me to stay at Seaview Villas. Unless you count my father, which nobody much does, there is nobody left there to look after me. I have seen to that. My mother is in London with Uncle George, and where Joe has gone is anyone’s guess. I can’t bear to hear Joe’s name mentioned. I also become distressed when the thought of my father crosses my mind. His disgrace clings to me and I am suffocating in my own as it is. It was Enid’s mum’s idea to bring me to the flat after I came out of hospital.

Well, it’s yourself. Look at you, Enid’s mum says from the doorway, as Dr Chowdry goes ahead moving furniture and lifting papers from the floor, clearing a path for the walking frame. Why are you not in your clothes, dear? Are you ill? Look at the state of you.

I’m fine, I say, but I don’t get up. Bits of my face start trembling and I put up my hands to control it. It’s creasing and collapsing and folding into its former childish, tearful shape.

But I want to add, Look who’s talking. I wouldn’t have known her. She’s almost doubled over and the hair she has left is crimped white and dry. Her legs are massively swollen and one of them doesn’t seem to bend at all. With Dr Chowdry’s help she gets across the room and eases herself into a chair. Her walking frame is placed to one side with her handbag slung over the top bar. Dr Chowdry disappears to the kitchen and returns with a tray of coffee and I realise she must have sneaked in and switched the kettle on before she went back out to her car. She tells us she’s making a call next door and another across the road and will be back soon to take Mrs Foley home. Enid’s mum removes her blue-tinted glasses and lets them dangle over her bosom from their chain. She tips her face up to Dr Chowdry and smiles the beatific, dentured smile of an ancient child. Her blue eyes have faded, as if someone has added milk.

She says after the door closes, Well, long time no see.

She looks around the room. I hear he passed away. I’m very sorry. It’s a loss. I had my hair done to see you. They’re very good, they come on a Tuesday and a Friday and they’ll do you in your room if you can’t get to the place downstairs.

I hadn’t seen him in a long while, I didn’t get back, I tell her. I haven’t been back much at all.

And do I hear you’re not so well yourself? Upsetting yourself over all that old business. Where’s the use in that?

There are things to sort out. I have a lot on my mind.

I had my hair done to see you, she says, tucking a hand under her curls. I was sorry to hear about your father. I hear he passed away.

He was a good age.

She nods around the room. So you’re having a clear out. Only thing to do. I’ll soon be eighty. I’m seventy-eight now.

Oh. You always seemed older. I always thought you were older than my mother. She would’ve turned eighty this year if she’d been alive.

Your mother? Aye, well, she did look younger, she took care of herself. I mean, she did take care of herself. She sips some coffee and looks at me. I probably felt older than your mother. It wasn’t so easy then.

I drink a little coffee. I say, It was because you were always in the same place. Like an old person. You were always in the shop, or in the flat. You didn’t move, you hardly ever went anywhere.

Aye, well. I had my work.

You were a person people went
to
.

You mean you did. I didn’t see many folk, mainly just customers. It was quite lonely. It’s all different now. I think it’s gone too far the other way, now.

What’s gone too far?

She doesn’t reply at first. She’s staring at the carpet, or what she can see of it under the strewn papers. Her attention is held by the ceilidh picture.

Well, maybe there’s my point, she says. She sighs and leans forward but can’t get near it. Can you pick that up, I want to see that. I maybe remember that picture.

I hand it to her and she fishes in her bag for a different pair of spectacles. You were always so calm, I tell her.

Enid’s mum looks up from clucking mildly at the picture. Calm? Aye, well, who wasn’t calm, next to your mother? You and her were a pair. See anything in that picture?

I take it from her and look at it again.

Well, the people. All of them, we knew them all. The ceilidh wasn’t really like that but it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing else.

Nothing else, no, maybe not.

We smile and lay the cutting aside and sip coffee. I wonder why people pretend to like instant coffee when it is so full of bitterness. It tastes of the tomb.

That’s never the wee frock I made you? she says. The satin rag is still in my lap and I shake it out so she can see that it is.

Oh, so lovely! I say. It’s the loveliest material I ever saw.

It’s far from lovely now.

I hand it across to her and she inspects her workmanship, running her fingers down the seams.

Hard to work, satin. Your two sides slip against each other so you’ve to put in a tight tacking stitch or your edges never stay together. Proper French seams but it’s only plain work, this. It wants going in the bin. It’s no use to anyone now.