Authors: Ruth Mancini
“So, are you a nurse too?” Uncle Silbert asked me.
“She's a journalist,” said Zara.
“A journalist,” he repeated. “Very interesting.
Well, it's nice of you to come,” he said, patting the hand that held his, but
looking at me. “I don't get many visitors.”
“What about your family?” I asked.
“All gone away.” He didn't elaborate. He sat and
nodded silently for a few minutes, smiling.
“The nurse visits you every day, though, doesn't
she?” asked Zara.
He nodded.
“And she helps you with your bath, and brings your
medication.”
He nodded again, and looked a little embarrassed.
I smiled at him sympathetically.
“Can't bath on my own,” he said to me. His voice
was soft, and throaty. I had to strain my ears to hear him. “Dignity,” he said,
“is a luxury afforded to the fit and well.”
“I'm sorry,” I said.
He shrugged his shoulders, and smiled at me. “Oh
it hardly matters anymore. You get used to it, like everything else. But I'm a
proud man,” he added, turning to me again and fixing his blue eyes once more on
mine.
I know you, I thought suddenly. He continued to
stare at me. I felt confused, light headed.
“You shouldn't be living like this,” Zara was
saying. “You should be somewhere you can be taken care of properly.”
“I can manage,” Uncle Silbert protested. “I won't
be a burden to anyone ...”
“A burden.” Zara sniffed, and looked at me. “This
man fought in the war, you know, risked his neck flying across Europe for four
years, and parachuted into France with the Normandy landings. Ended up in the
military hospital with shrapnel wounds in his back, arms and chest and took
home the George Cross...”
Uncle Silbert was still looking into my eyes. I
could have sworn he was saying something.
“…a pride that must never die,” finished Zara,
theatrically and gazed ironically around the kitchen, and through the doorway
into the bare hallway. She started as if she'd said something wrong, stood up
and left the room.
“Why is everything all packed up in bags?” I asked.
“Oh, to make things easier,” said Uncle Silbert.
I stared at him, lost for words. I thought about
the shrapnel wounds. He looked so noble, so distinguished - and yet so
vulnerable. I couldn't bear for him to say anymore. He continued to look into
my eyes, then leaned forward and passed me his handkerchief.
“Are you in a lot of pain?” I wiped my eyes,
embarrassed.
“Pain? Of course. But then so are you,” he added. I
looked down at my ankle, and started to protest.
“Not that.” He stopped me, and tapped his chest. “I'm
talking about in here.”
I began to wonder if we were really having this
conversation out loud.
“Maybe I am,” I said slowly. “But yours is
different. Worse.”
“Possibly. Possibly not.” He lifted his hands. “Who's
to say whose pain is greater, or lesser than anyone else's? We are all unique
beings and pain... we must try to empathise; but never measure.”
Zara had come back from the loo and was standing
in the doorway.
“So how do you bear it, then?” My voice sounded
strangled.
“You get by,” he said, looking from me to Zara. “With
a little help from your friends.”
It seemed very bright outside. We took the lift
down to the street below in silence. Zara took my arm and we hobbled down the
road to the car. I was feeling very tired. Everything felt strange, as if we
were in a dream together.
“Isn't he lovely?” said Zara eventually.
“The best,” I agreed. “I'd like to see him again.”
“Oh, you can. You will. He liked you very much.”
“His eyes,” I said. “What was it about his eyes?
They reminded me of someone, but I can't think who.”
“Did you ever go to Sunday School?” asked Zara.
“Yes ...”
“Remember those pictures of Jesus?”
“Yes, that's it! The same solemn, gentle face, and
the deep blue eyes ...”
“Although of course Jesus would have been dark,”
she added. “With black curly hair and brown eyes.”
“Like Tim,” I suggested, and we both cracked up
laughing at the image.
I drove Zara home and we sat in the car outside
talking for a bit. I really didn't want to say goodbye to her. Eventually, I
put my arms round her and kissed her cheek. She hugged me and stroked my back.
“Call me,” she said. “And make it soon.”
My interview took place a week later and was merely a
formality. Hurricane Andrew had just hit the North-Western tip of the Caribbean
and Southern USA, leaving devastation in its wake. I looked at the floor and
tried to imagine what it would like to be buried underneath a collapsed
building, whilst Phil sat opposite me in his office and asked me a series of
pointless questions to which he already knew the answers. The appointment of
the new programme editor was announced the following day, and two weeks later I
found myself once more driving round the countryside talking to farmers about
government subsidies and mechanisation and frantically scanning the Guardian's
media pages for jobs in London.
“Don't take it personally. He just happened to be
the right man for the job, that's all,” Phillip told me. “You’re next in line.”
The following week a family was murdered in an
arson attack in Cherry Hinton, creating a temporary diversion to the issue. I
attended the inquest with anticipation, did a two-way from the Radio Car with
the Drive Time presenter and the Cambridgeshire Chief of Police, and was
congratulated over the talkback by Phil, who assured me that the interview
would be channelled through to the national network. By some strange quirk of
fate, Simon Goodfellow managed to tape over it before it could be sent off and
my supposed moment of glory passed unceremoniously.
“Well I heard you, and I thought you sounded
great,” said Catherine that evening. It was the third time she'd rung that
week. Last night we'd broken both our individual records for the longest
telephone conversation ever. It had lasted two hours and fifteen minutes.
“Thanks, sweetie,” I said, balancing the telephone
receiver between my ear and my shoulder and lighting a cigarette. “But I don't
suppose anyone else did.”
“Maybe it'll be on the air tomorrow at breakfast
time,” she said hopefully.
“I don't think so somehow.”
“Lizzie,” Catherine sounded edgy, suddenly. “Could
I, maybe, come and stay with you for a day or two?”
“Of course you can!” I was delighted. “You know
you're always welcome.”
“Maybe you could pick me up on your way home
tomorrow?”
“Not a problem.” I paused. “Is anything wrong?”
“No, no,” she said, quickly. “Just need a break
that's all. And I miss you,” she added.
“I miss you too,” I agreed. “It'll be great to see
you in person. I'm getting Telephone Ear, at this rate.”
“What's that?”
“You know, when your ear goes flat and develops a
numb, tingling sensation from too many hours spent on the telephone. I'll see
you tomorrow. I can’t wait.”
Catherine was waiting for me at the Newmarket Road
Park and Ride. I knew there was something wrong the minute I saw her. Her face
was pale and drawn and her left cheek red and slightly puffy. Her hair hung
loose and lank around her shoulders. She was wearing a grey flannel skirt and a
navy blue jumper. It looked as if she was wearing our old school uniform. I
opened the car door and hugged her as she got in. She clung to me and buried
her face in my shoulder. We stayed like that for a few minutes, then I started
the engine.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I asked
her, as we drove round the ring road and onto the motorway.
“I guess I've got Telephone Ear,” she joked. “I
spent too long on the telephone to you and got a thick ear for it.”
I gasped. “Are you serious?”
She nodded.
“Oh Catherine ... I'm so sorry.”
“It's not your fault.”
“I know.” I squeezed her hand. “I'm just sorry,
that's all.”
I glanced at her sideways as she sighed and stared
ahead through the windscreen at the road ahead. It was starting to rain. I
flipped on the wipers. Catherine sat mesmerized, watching them flick backwards
and forwards. I remembered doing that when I was a kid, trying to coincide each
flick to the left with a telegraph pole by the roadside. I slipped into
reverie, relaxed in her company, remembering past car journeys, driving in the
rain. When I glanced over at her, Catherine was fast asleep, curled up in her
seat like a baby.
She woke as we pulled up outside the flat, and put
her hand to her mouth.
“God, I was dreaming,” she said. “I dreamed my
teeth were falling out.”
“That means you're worried about money,” I said.
“Am I?”
I laughed. “Well, maybe not yet,” I said. “But
after tomorrow you will be.”
The next day the rain had cleared and it was warm
and sunny. We walked down to Bond Street and then, with several detours, along
Oxford Street to Tottenham Court Road. Catherine bought a pair of strappy
sandals with chunky heels from Shelly’s, a pair of earrings and a beautiful
pink, white and blue floral dress. I bought a pair of jeans and a very
expensive brown suede jacket that I couldn’t afford from a shop on Carnaby
Street.
“I feel wonderful,” said Catherine as we sat
outside a cafe in Soho drinking cappuccinos. “I feel ten years younger. I'm not
going to be able to eat for the next month, of course, but who cares?”
“Retail Therapy,” I smiled. “Nothing like it.”
We took a bus up to Finchley Road. I told
Catherine we were going to The Heath. On the way, however, I stopped at a
hairdressers and dragged her inside.
“What are we doing?” she asked.
“Ha ha,” I smiled as the hairdresser came towards
us. “Appointment for Donoghue? Three o'clock.” The hairdresser nodded and
ticked Catherine’s name off in her book.
“Aah, help! I'm about to be scalped!” Catherine
screamed, hanging out of the door with her hands over her head. People were
turning in the street to look at her.
“Come back here, you coward,” I said, pulling her
back inside. The hairdresser led her to a washbasin. “Just sit back and close
your eyes. You won't feel a thing.”
“I can't afford this!” she protested, as a towel
was put round her shoulders.
“My treat.” I smiled wickedly. “You're not getting
out of it that easily.”
After Catherine's hair had been washed I sat
behind her to direct, and to make faces at her in the mirror until she allowed
the hairdresser to chop off more then a couple of inches. Eventually, as it
struck her how much better it looked, she started to get excited and her hair
got shorter and shorter. When we emerged out onto Finchley Road an hour later,
Catherine had a bob.
We walked up through Hampstead village to the
Heath and across to Parliament Hill where we sat on the bench looking out over
the city, spread beneath us.
“What the fuck am I doing?” said Catherine. “You
were right. I should be here, getting involved in productions, student stuff
even, just getting my foot in the door, making contacts in the theatres, not rotting
away in a dead end, with...” She paused. “I've done nothing, since I've been
with him, you know. Nothing. No wonder I'm depressed.”
She twisted the engagement ring on her finger,
nervously. “God knows what he’s going to say about my hair,” she continued. She
looked at me. “You know I haven’t had a haircut or bought an item of clothing
in four years without consulting him, or at least thinking first, “Would Martin
like this?” I’m lost,” she announced miserably. “I don’t know who I am anymore.”
I took a deep breath. “Then leave him Catherine.”
“Leave him?” She stared out Eastwards towards
Canary Wharf. “I can’t leave him. I’m supposed to be marrying him.”
“Do you really want to marry a man who pushes you
around, who controls your life - who hits you?” I asked her.
Catherine flinched at the former implication now put
into words. “Where would I go?” she asked.
“You can come and stay with me,” I said.
She looked doubtful.
“Catherine, it’s not that difficult. You’re not
married…yet; you don’t have any kids.”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I’m frightened. What if
it doesn’t work out?”
“If what doesn’t work out?” I asked her.
“Me,” she said. “Without
him.”
That evening we were sitting up at the bar in the Kings
Arms. Catherine was wearing her new dress and sandals. Her hair was tucked
behind her ears, and her fake diamante earrings were sparkling. She looked a
million dollars and I told her so. She beamed happily. The door opened and Zara
flew in and hopped up onto the bar stool beside me. I introduced the two of
them and ordered a drink for Zara.
“So.” Zara was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
“So what?”
“I've done it,” she announced, proudly.
“Done what?” I asked.
“Entered for the RGN. The exams,” she said. “They're
letting me start on the fourth module, so I'll sit the finals next year.”
“Well…wow,” I said. “That’s great. So you feel
okay about this?”
She took a large gulp of her drink. “I don't want
to sit the exams, if that's what you mean. But I don't want to remain stuck
where I am either. You were right,” she added. “It may be an uphill struggle,
but if I stay where I am I'm stuck. Either way it's bloody difficult. So what
have I got to lose?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all.”
“You’re an inspiration,” said Catherine.
“Really?” Zara was pleased.
“Really.” Catherine tucked a stray lock of hair
behind her ear. “I think you’re very brave.”
“You want to know what I think?” I said. “I think
you are too. We all are. We are three brave women.”
“The three musketeers,” smiled Catherine.
“What were their names, now?” Zara scratched her
chin.