Meeting Elsie

The table in the centre of the room was piled high with books.  Old, yellowing pages, watermarked covers, dust on the spines.  I knew Elsie was there, I’d heard her stick tapping its way through the door and over the wooden floor.  I knew her little figure was standing, waiting, but it was impossible to see her behind the mountain of print.

“Did you want something?” The voice was genteel, soft, without disguising the hint of steel.  She wouldn’t be satisfied with any old answer.  She wanted to know what I was doing here and she wanted to know the truth.

“I – I – I’m...”

“Can’t hear you.”  The voice was a little louder. 

“I’m Jean’s daughter.”

The tap-tap made a slow journey along the floor until she stood beyond the corner of the table, where she could peer over at me, scrunching up her eyes and frowning.  She withheld judgement, I could see, until she got to know a bit more.  Well, withheld judgement was better than jumping to conclusions which wouldn’t have been favourable to me.  And they wouldn’t, I knew that.

I looked back at her and saw that old reliable, the family face.  There was the strong, straight nose, slightly hooked, the lips, once full and pouting, still sensuous and the thick mane of hair, white and drawn up into a loose bun on top of her head.  She was like a classic version of my mother, older but even so, not raddled or haggard looking.  Clearly she’d been more careful about what substances she imbibed and their volume.

“Did Jean send you?” She asked.

“No...” I looked at the floor, scuffing the rug with my shoe.  “Jean is dead.”

“I’m not surprised, I have to say.  When did it happen?”

“A month ago.”

“I’m not surprised.  Though I’m a bit surprised she didn’t go years ago.”

“She wasn’t well for a long time,” I wanted to defend my mother, though I wasn’t any friend of hers while she lived.

“Wasn’t well?  Is that what she called it? Hm!”   She moved back to a hard, high chair near the wall, “well, sit down.  I suppose you’re up for inheriting all this now?”

“No, I – I hadn’t thought about that.”  It was true.  I’d merely found the address of an office of solicitors in my mother’s things, with a note that Elsie was to be informed if “anything happens to me.”  My mother was the queen of the euphemism always. 

She had headaches, not hangovers.

She was thirsty, not alcoholic.

She needed something to calm her down, no hint that she was addicted to prescription meds.

So here I was in a big old house with a small old woman, not sure how to go on. 

“She grew up here,” Elsie said, “did she tell you?”

“She told me she had everything she wanted, when she was a child,” I said.  It was true.  My mother used to talk about her childhood like some idyllic experience in a sylvan glade, where it was always summer and someone brought you strawberries and ice cream all the time.

“Hmm, you could say that.  She ran away from here.”

“I guess she needed to move on.”

“No.  She didn’t like us, that’s all.”

I was unable to think of a response to that.  I stood awkwardly, biting a thumbnail.

“First her mother.  Then herself. They all went away.”

Again, I had no response. I knew my grandmother had left my mother at the family home in order to pursue an art career; one that never happened.

The small face looked up, bird-like, curious.

“I suppose you’re here to dump another sprog, are you?  I’m too old for that now.”

“No.  I came to… ask you to my wedding.”

“Wedding?  You’re getting married?”

“Yes – so I came to invite you…”

“It’s a turn-up for the books, that’s what it is.  Someone in this family getting married.  Wonders will never cease.”

I saw the slight, humorous curve of her lip.

“My father will be dancing in his grave. He used to worry about getting us well settled.  No need for all that concern.  Your grandmother and afterwards, your mother, didn’t bother with the formalities.”

“Will you come?  At least, will you think about it?”

“Oh, I’ll be there. In my finery. Don’t worry, I’m no Miss Haversham; there’s no wedding dress here, stashed away waiting for a bride.”

I laughed at the picture of the old lady making her way up the aisle, leaning on her stick, in fraying white net and lace of seventy years ago.  Again, there was a slight curve of her lips.

“You can wear what you like – I’m only here to let you know I’m getting married and you’re invited.  Look – there’s the invitation.”  I showed her the card, all written.

There were sounds in the hall, and her home help came into the room.

“Well, Elsie, let’s get dressed and ready for the day.”  A bustling woman, she took charge with a hand gently under my grand-aunt’s elbow.

“That’s my grand-niece.  She’s getting married.  She’ll inherit all this you know.  Someday.”

She went with the home help into the adjoining bedroom.  I stood and looked around at my inheritance.  Some old pieces of furniture that Elsie had grown up with.  And the books. Outside the window, old, old people were taking walks, sitting on benches, chatting or reading newspapers. 

My grand-aunt’s old family home was long gone, impoverished by reckless sons and daughters; the remnants finally sold to keep her, the last of her generation, in this bleak accommodation.  

Her memory of long ago was wrapped around her, cushioning reality.  For all her brave words, she couldn’t face being turned out of the family home.  She sat here, still living the old days, still picturing around her that long ago family, the hopes and dreams of her young days.  Growing older and more entrenched in the image of an old matriarch. Promising an inheritance that no longer existed.

 

 

 

Dave Meets Stella

Annie’s chat with Dave was interrupted by the front doorbell.

“Talk later,” she switched off her phone.

Opening the door to the sodden figure, head down, rain dripping from the hood, Annie was surprised.  Big time.  Not in a good way.

“I – I,” Stella started and broke off.

“What do you want?”  Annie rasped.

 “Can I come in?”

“I suppose,” She stood back sourly.  “What’s that?”

 “My stuff,” Stella moved in, followed by a suitcase.  Annie wanted to throw it back out.  But the neighbours might be watching. 

The suitcase bulged through the narrow hallway into the kitchen.  

It looked odd against the maroon presses and ivory walls. It, and the old raincoat covering it, dripped heavily.  Rain swamped the stone-tiled floor. 

“If you’ve a floor cloth... I could....”  But Annie was already there, vigorously mopping while the heap kept dripping. She wheeled the suitcase awkwardly out the back door, along the garden path and into the shed, banging the door.  She locked the shed, taking its key back indoors in her pocket. Cheek, she thought, bringing rain and slush from wherever into my house. 

She mopped again forcefully, as if she could rub her mother away with the spill.

Later, in the tasteful sittingroom, drinking tea while her daughter sipped red wine, Stella wore a pyjamas and dressing gown, draped around her body in a fleecy embrace.  She was tired.  She closed her eyes, relaxing into Annie’s warm nightclothes and cream leather armchair. 

Sipping her wine in the chair opposite, Annie didn’t like the view.

She loved her home. She’d worked hard for it. She enjoyed having friends in and loved it when Dave stayed over and it became their little love-nest. She didn’t enjoy her mother turning up out of the blue.

The rain still poured. She’d have to stay tonight. Couldn’t leave a dog out on a night like this. Who makes up these clichés? Mothers, Annie thought. Mothers invent them to manipulate daughters.

Stella sighed contentedly. Her daughter boiled. She’s got no right, Annie thought, raging helplessly at the sleeping figure.

She threw a quilt over Stella and went to bed. She wanted to sleep this evening away, or postpone the morning indefinitely.

*

But morning comes, ready or not. Annie, waking, pressed the snooze button, then remembered the night before. She was quickly wide awake and seething.

She peeked into her sittingroom. Stella, asleep in the chair, exhaled in gentle, audible breaths.  Annie banged the door shut.

Waking, Stella looked around, then snuggled back in the quilt. Warm, dry and can’t be evicted, she told herself.

When she went to the kitchen, her daughter had finished breakfast and was wiping the table. Annie put out cereal, milk, yoghurt and bread. She switched on her kettle.

“Tea, is it?” She asked, grimly.

Stella nodded, clearing yoghurt from around her mouth with her hand. Annie looked away, saying, “I’m going to work, lock the door behind you when you go.”

After Annie had driven off, Stella settled in front of the television with tea, biscuits and last night’s quilt. 

She looked out at the grey sky and the shrubs in the garden, swaying in the wind.  Annie would feel better in the evening.  Stella sat and concentrated instead on others’ problems – debt, infidelity, paternity tests – as featured on daytime TV.

In the evening, Annie didn’t live up to expectations.  She slapped a plate of pasta in front of her mother, followed by a glass of water, and began to talk about what was to be done.

“How d’you mean?” Stella asked.

“You wouldn’t want to stay here,” Annie said.

“I thought I could?”

“The village is miles from anywhere, you don’t drive and anyway, you’ve your own house.”

Silence. Stella looked down, examining her neglected nails, a striking contrast to her daughter’s beautifully manicured hands.

Annie poured herself a glass of chilled white wine.  Stella, who’d ignored the water looked longingly at the Sauvignon Blanc.

Annie sipped her wine, “I have to work, I’m out most of the time.

“I can look after the place. While you’re at work.”

“No.  You can’t.”

“Why not?  I won’t do anything to anything.”

“What do you want from me?” Annie’s voice grated.

“I’d love a glass of wine,” Stella answered.

“That’s not what I meant,” Annie said, but sullenly passed her a glass, “You have your own home.”

Stella sat, silent.

“Well?” Annie asked.

“No.” Stella whispered.

“Oh for Christ sake, what do you mean?”

Stella looked down.

What is it?” Annie was fuming, “What?

“It’s not my house,” Stella whispered.

“What?” Annie exploded, like a clap of thunder in the room.

“I... lost it.” 

“Tell me you’re joking.”

She could see from her mother’s face it was no joke. She sat at the table, head in hands. She couldn’t bear to look at Stella.

 “Dad left you that house free and clear.”

Stella sipped her wine. 

Annie got up and stood over her.

“It’s that Fred, isn’t it? Is it?”

Tears welling, Stella nodded

“We had to mortgage it.”

“What?”

“We needed money.  For a business.”

“You mean, Fred needed money?”

Stella nodded again, tears coursing down now.

Annie felt like slapping her. Messing up, landing herself on her daughter, then weeping piteously, looking for sympathy.  She knew she was being manipulated, yet couldn’t turn away from her mother’s tears.  Her voice was gentler when she said,

“Look, I’m tired. We’ll leave it for tonight.”

“Can I watch telly so?” Stella spoke like a child, embracing role reversal. 

“Go on then,” Annie answered, “but this is temp-or-ary.”

“And another glass of wine?”                           

Annie poured the wine and Stella left the kitchen.

“We’ll have to get things sorted,” Annie called after her. Stella didn’t respond.

Dave rang about nine.  Annie told him her mother had arrived. 

“Great,” Dave said, “I get to meet your mum at last.”

“Well...,” Annie fudged.

“We could take her out. For a meal,” Dave said.

Annie said, “we’ll talk when I see you.”

“Will I come over?”

“Not tonight. To be honest, I’m exhausted.”

“You’ve been working too hard, love. You’ll have to take things easy.”

“I will,” a smile crept into Annie’s voice.

“Promise?” Dave asked.

“I promise.”

“Right then, off to bed with you, Missy.”

 “OK – is that an order?”

Dave laughed, “Sleep well.”

In the sittingroom Annie found her mother asleep in the armchair, under last night’s downy quilt, in front of a blaring TV show about a large family, all losing weight.  She turned it off and went to bed.

She fretted a while. Lost the house? Annie raged at how someone, left in financial comfort, could just ‘lose’ a house, as if it were an umbrella left on the bus.  She thought about contacting her solicitors, but before long she drifted off, exhausted, into a dreamless sleep.

In the morning, at the kitchen table with tea and toast, Stella asked for her case.

“I want to change my clothes.”

Annie left the kitchen. Stella peeked out.  Annie was in the hall at a built-in cupboard, taking clothes out of a bag. She then disappeared into her own room and came out with some underwear, still in their packaging. Stella quickly slipped back into the kitchen.

There were dresses, trousers, blouses, cardigans, along with the new underwear.  Stella wished that the clothes wouldn’t fit, but it was clear they would be fine.  She’d once been petite and now, even with some middle-aged spread, was small enough to fit into her daughter’s clothes.  She’d seen Annie rummaging in a charity-shop bag, but she couldn’t refuse them without revealing that she’d been spying.  So she took Annie’s unwanted things. 

She muttered to herself about hand-me-downs. More like hand-me-ups, she thought, going from daughter to mother

In the following weeks, Annie tried unsuccessfully to get her mother to leave. Stella insisted she had nowhere to go. But whenever Annie asked why, Stella clammed up, said nothing. 

Frequently, she asked for her ‘stuff.’ 

Annie told her, “you’ll get it back when you’re going.”

“I need my stuff,”

 But not enough to tell the full story.  Annie felt helpless. Stella would say nothing about Fred and their breakup, insisting only that she had nowhere to go.   

Annie had known little about Fred but she hadn’t trusted him.  Two years ago, Annie had spoken out to her mother about what she called “a stupid infatuation” with the much-younger man.  Stella, on a rollercoaster of fun and besotted with Fred, had refused to listen. Crossly and loudly she’d told Annie where to go.  Since then, they’d had no contact; Annie, stubborn and busy, had got on with her life while an obsessed Stella had thrown herself into her affair.  She couldn’t bear to admit now about adding Fred’s name to her accounts and how those accounts were cleared following Fred’s disappearance.

She’d found Annie’s liquor cabinet but was careful to take little.  Each night, when Stella plaintively asked for wine, her daughter frowned, but poured a glass.  Stella knew that wouldn’t be forthcoming if Annie suspected she’d been helping herself.

She passed each day with daytime television, food, tea, a little drinking, all in the comfort of a plush sofa.

Annie no longer had Dave over to stay, but she sometimes stayed at his. Stella was pleased whenever Annie wasn’t around for breakfast. 

She knew Annie wanted her out. She felt increasingly unwelcome and embarrassed in her daughter’s presence.  

She racked her brains to think of something to put herself in Annie’s good books and secure her place in this cushy spot.

She hit on the old mother-child answer. 

Food.  A homemade meal. 

In the kitchen, she found nothing fresh but dairy food. The freezer mainly held frozen gourmet dinners. Hidden at the back, she found some chicken fillets and half a bag of chips.  There was an old packet of quick-set jelly in a cupboard.  Annie didn’t normally eat dessert.  Today, though, Stella boiled water and made up the jelly, sloshing a little vodka in and putting it in the fridge to set.  

She was excited. The chicken fillets, covered in a can of mushroom soup, were bunged in the oven.

Stella hadn’t seen any chips since she’d been here. This bag had the tired, iced look of having been freezer-bound a long time. There was some oil, which she poured into a saucepan and set to heat.

It heated slowly. Stella went to the sittingroom to watch a little TV.  The programme featured a woman, beset by debt and deceit through a partner, being advised by a couple of do-gooders.  It was like Stella’s own story. She completely lost track of time.

Remembering the oil, she opened the kitchen door to be greeted by flames around the cooker, spreading to the presses. Panicking, she ran, leaving the kitchen door open. From outside, everything looked fine. She wondered what to do.

Ah, yes, the fire brigade. She’d left her mobile in the kitchen. She knocked loudly next door.  No answer.  The next house was empty too.  She moved back down the street to stand outside her daughter’s house in tears. Smoke and flames lit the windows now. People began arriving back from work and some neighbours called the fire brigade. They patted her shoulders and asked her in for tea. Stella shook her head, weeping. By the time the brigade arrived, the fire had really taken hold. They trained their hoses on it and soon the flames were gone, with only a smouldering wisp left here and there. 

The house was gutted.

Annie got out of her car and looked at what had been her lovely cottage. What wasn’t burned out was so badly damaged as to be useless. Between tears and coughing, Annie called her mother all the names in the dictionary and outside. Stella stood in shock. Her plan was in pieces. It had seemed so simple. Now, her daughter had lost everything and she herself was homeless again.

Annie was on her mobile now, tearful and cross, making arrangements with Dave until she could get sorted. Dave welcomed her and insisted her mother should come too.

“Get in,” she said, opening her car door.

“Where are we going?” Stella asked.

“Get in.  Go on.”

“My stuff....” Stella said, “What about my stuff.”

“You can’t bring that manky suitcase to Dave’s,” Annie hissed, “Get into the car.”

“I want my stuff,” Stella stuck out her lower lip, “is it burned?  Is my stuff burned?”  Fresh tears blubbered.

“Christ!,” Annie went by the charred mess to the back garden, returned and dumped Stella’s tartan suitcase in the boot.  

*

Dave sipped his beer.  He looked from Stella to Annie and back again.  Two women, dressed in designer clothes, sat on his sofa.  He was happy.  He loved Annie, had always felt a little unworthy of her.  He was glad to help.  He’d been waiting for just such a chance.

After Annie’s call, he’d set the table.  As they arrived, he went for takeaway. 

They had one suitcase between them, the tartan one that Stella had pushed across town and beyond, all the way to her daughter’s house three weeks ago.  Annie had wheeled it in gingerly, the raincoat dried off and sticking to the case.  Stella opened it.

Inside, dry and safe, there were dresses, tops, trousers, shoes, all designer labels. Hardly able to believe her eyes, Annie had fondled the expensive garments, admiring the fabric, cut and finish.  She felt like crying.  She’d had wardrobes of beautiful clothes in her house.  All gone now.  Her mother’s fault.  And here was that same mother, with a suitcase of fashion worth thousands.  A woman who had nothing.  Who’d kept bleating about her case;  Annie had thought it was a suitcase full of tat.  She’d enjoyed punishing her mother about her ‘stuff,’ but she’d had no idea of the contents. There was designer lingerie (which surprised and embarrassed Annie) and jewellery.

“It was all I could take from home.  When I lost it.”

Annie could only stare.

So here they were, eating Chinese food; Stella in a burgundy suit, beautifully cut, Annie looking stunning in a grey silk kimono, Dave quietly enjoying having two such stylish women in his flat. Until they’d finished eating.

Stella stuttered an apology. Annie replied by accusing her mother of everything from stupidity to deliberate sabotage, even arson. Stella blubbered a while, gave up apologising and began to shout back, her voice shrill and harsh. Dave talked nicely, trying calm the situation, but gave up when he realised they didn’t even hear him.

The arguing went on, ever louder.  Voices became more strident, accusations hurled from one to the other.

“You never cared about me.” Stella spat out.

“You taught me not to care.  You left me with anyone and everyone.”

“I was busy.”

“Yeah – going out with your friends.”

“I was doing my best.”

“I suppose I should be thankful you weren’t doing your worst.”

“Your dad worked long hours. I was lonely.”

“He worked long hours – and left you in comfort.  Which you threw away on that – that scam artist.  I warned you.  Didn’t I?  I told you. He wasn’t long charming the pants off you.”

“Don’t talk like that!  I’m your mother!”

“Well he did – judging by your fancy knickers.”

Dave looked from one to the other, stunned.

“Stay as long as you like,” he’d said to Annie, when they arrived.

Tomorrow, he’d help them find someplace, a flat maybe, until the insurance kicked in and Annie could get sorted.

He hadn’t bargained for her mother, certainly not for this mother. 

He’d heard it often enough – meet the mother, because that’s what your girl will become.

There it was, his girl had grown into her mother before his very eyes; a raucous virago.

He sat, sipped his beer and told himself he’d had a narrow escape.

Frances O’Keeffe

Scrambled Eggs

Only the very worst weather kept Maggie from the beach.  Each day, she spent her lunchtime walking; looking at the waves lapping or heaving or sometimes crashing fiercely against the headland.  She watched the sea’s roll, she listened for the sea’s whisper.  Then she’d go back for a quick sandwich behind the counter, refreshed and secretly justified. 

*

He’d said there wasn’t anyone else.

 “Don’t go,” she said.

He looked down, scuffing his shoe on the faded, once-red carpet.

“It’s all arranged.”

“But… we… us...”

“I can’t let them down.”

“You can’t go.”  She burst out crying.

“I have to. It’s all set up.”

“No.  The thing is…”  She paused.  Then, “I’m pregnant.”  

He laughed.

“You were bellyaching about your period last week.”

“Weeks ago,” she wept.

“Days ago.”

“It was weeks...  You’ve met someone else.” 

“Don’t be stupid.”

“I love you,” she sobbed; shrill, almost accusing.

“You don’t even know what that means.”

She cried louder. Not gentle tears that might have charmed him, might have got him to promise anything. These were messy tears, spreading, mixing with catarrh, turning her face blotchy and trickling to her mouth.

“I love you.” She grabbed his sleeve.  He shook her off.

“I’ll prove it,” she screamed.  The door closed. She shrieked promises as his feet drummed down the wooden stairs.  “I’ll prove it,” she called again, but he was gone.

They’d had a lazy, chilled-out summer. Carl had put a sign up in her shop and when people asked about it, she directed them to the jetty by the Point, where he’d be waiting each day; 12 noon and 4 o’clock, to take them on a boat trip around the bay.  He amused the customers with jokes and sea-lore, they passed the word on to others back at their hotel or in the pub.   

In the evenings, they sat upstairs in the flat, sharing fish and chips.  When funds were low, they’d cook a meal from whatever she had in her small kitchen, laughing over pasta with tinned sweetcorn or beans on toast.

The shop had originally belonged to an old aunt, a pharmacist, who dispensed medicines and old-fashioned advice.  After she died, she surprised Maggie by leaving it to her.  Maggie, not having a pharmacy qualification nor any interest in study, adapted the shop, selling herbs,  spices, candles, books and seeds.  In summer she kept a small stock of buckets and spades, fishing nets and sun hats. It didn’t make a fortune, but it was hers and she loved it.  And she loved that summer, every fizzing minute of it since the day Carl had walked into the shop and they’d clicked instantly.

Then, in August, Carl had begun talking about Spain. Alarm bells sounded, she ignored them.  She concentrated on  making him happy, closing the shop early, taking him to the pub and lovingly back afterwards to the flat where scented candles were waiting to be lit and the curtains were closed against the world.

Carl had enjoyed the summer.  But now the days were shortening, visitors had dwindled and there was this sailing trip to Spain.  Maggie changed the subject every time he mentioned it until it was time to go and he found himself justifying, while she cried and clung.  Eventually he’d pulled away from her, into his new life, loudly closing the door behind him.

Maggie heard the front door bang.  She ran over to the window, pressing her face against it, leaving great smears, as Carl walked away. 

Later that day, moping on the beach, she’d seen the motorboat disappear behind the headland, Carl’s dark curls lively in the wind.  Now she only had this place, her shrine to him, where he would come sailing back someday.

Weeks went by. Daily, she went to the beach. Hoping. It became a comforting routine. Months, then years, passed. She lost interest in social life. Friends drifted away; she barely noticed. Her father died. Her sister married and moved away. Her mother died. She grieved, somewhat.  But the real  focus of her day was the beach. 

Her customers thought her something of a wise woman. They listened when she spoke about herbs and plants, believing she had the special insight of one who lived apart. As for Maggie, after twenty four years, she believed she’d learned from the sea – its constancy and resilience, the rolling waves always different, always the same.  

*

“Hello, my name is Jay.”

He stood at the counter, tall, pleasant, nervous. A student, he wanted a summer job. So many before him had stood there, hoping to earn some money during the holidays. She’d never hired anyone. She didn’t make big money and besides, she felt protective towards the shop and didn’t want anyone else in her little kingdom.

Yet, for some reason, she took to him right away.  There was something about him; still, she didn’t want an assistant.  Starting to say she wasn’t looking for anyone, she found herself instead agreeing to take him on.  The small pay didn’t bother him.  He started immediately and hung on her every word as she explained the stock to him.

Jay settled easily.  He threw himself into the work, attracting younger buyers and delighting the old ones. Despite the rainy, windy summer, customers flocked to ask about plants or flavourings. Sales increased.  There was a buzz in the shop.  He organised shelves and made clever signs, like ‘We’ve plenty of Thyme for You’ and ‘Your Health is Your Wealth.’

Each morning, he’d open up early, leaving Maggie to a leisurely breakfast upstairs.

Soon, she began taking breakfast downstairs, enough for two. They’d sit together in the shop and talk about mixing their own pot pourri or broadening their range. 

Maggie loved these mornings of tea and scrambled eggs on buttery toast.  They laughed and made little shop-jokes like “Their health is our wealth.”

Some older customers mentioned toy boys. She smiled.

“Don’t change your will,” one said.  Others shook their heads and threw meaningful looks.

True, there was a bond.  Having lived on memories,  it was a new experience, this comradeship with another person. But the customers had it wrong - she looked on him as a friend, or the younger brother she’d longed for as a child.  She felt she’d known him always.  It puzzled her sometimes.  She’d catch herself looking at him, wondering.

Then, one morning at breakfast, Jay’s fork fell.  He bent to pick it up.  She saw the small, pale patch on his head.  

Her glob of scrambled egg hung on its fork in mid air.  He saw recognition in her eyes and confirmed it with his.  He knew who she was.  He’d known all along.

“I... didn’t know how to tell you,” he said, like a scared small boy. 

Maggie sat, shocked.  Then suddenly jumped up, clearing the breakfast things.

“Open up,” she said.

“But…” Jay began. 

“It’s time,” she growled, “Open the door!”

She avoided him all day, as much as possible in the small space.  She threw herself into work, talking too loudly, smiling too much, so that people wondered what she was on and whether it could be mixed from her simple herbs and spices.

Inside, she was churning; amazed and angry.  He’d fooled her.

I should have known, she thought. 

At six, she slumped on a chair, worn out from her racing thoughts.

Jay locked the door.

I should have known.

The floppy, dark curls, the easygoing manner. 

Jay was Carl’s son.

*

Carl had sent him.  Despite herself, her heart lifted.

But Carl was dead.  An accident at work left him badly injured, he never came out of hospital afterwards.

“Mum was there for him.  They were devoted.”

Devoted? He sent his son to me.  

Jay seemed to read her thoughts.

“For closure,” he said.

Closure?  What’s that?  He was asking for me…?  

“To settle unfinished business,” Jay explained.

Confined to bed, thinking and praying, a memory had surfaced.

Her pregnancy.  He hadn’t believed her, he’d told Jay.  He’d left, shut it out of his mind. Now he wanted to put things right.  He died serenely after Jay promised to go to Maggie and his child.

“He tried to write to you,” Jay said, “he was too weak.  He sent me… to see him. Or her…”  He looked at her, waiting. 

“There was no baby.”

“You… lost the baby?”

“I was mistaken.  There was no baby.”

Jay looked relieved.  No deserted pregnant lover, no child left without a dad.  A cloud lifted from his dead father.  Carl was free.

Maggie remembered pleading for her unborn child, the betrayal when he walked away. 

Of course there was no baby.  She’d planned to remedy that if she could get him to stay.   But he’d gone, without a look back.  Leaving her alone.  Childless.

She’d carried Carl in her heart, remembering him as clearly as when they’d shared their brief summer. How he laughed, how he walked, how he’d bend his head and she’d see that tiny, vulnerable patch of skin.  The start of baldness.  The particular shape of  that spot told her Jay was his son.

She’d dreamed all the time that he’d come back to her one day.

“He sailed to Spain,” she said.

“His friends went,” Jay smiled. “But he met my mother.” He straightened the smile away.

Maggie did some calculations. Taking Jay’s age, Carl had met his wife shortly after leaving her.  

Jay continued,

“Another guy went in his place.”

So there was a child. Waiting to be conceived. 

Jay’s mother was there.  It should have been her, Maggie.  It was a glitch in the universe. 

She looked back over the years.  Changes. Mobile phones, Internet, satellite TV. People doing things, laughing, living.  And she, at the beach every day.  Just waiting.

Carl had Jay’s early steps and first words,  sports days and class plays; he’d watched Jay grow. While she was here.  Just waiting.

It was a mix-up.  Jay should be our son. It should have been me. 

“It should have been me,” she rasped.

Jay looked puzzled. 

“I’ll go, if you want.”

She spoke savagely.  “Whatever.  Yeah.  Go on.  Just like your father.”  He stood awkwardly. She raised her hand and he flinched, even though he was  across the room.

There would be no motorboat coming back by the headland.  Carl had died without knowing she’d kept her word, proving that she did, truly, know what it means to love.

“Get out!” she shrieked.

The shop door clicked as Jay left.  She stood, lost in the prospect of a Carl-less world; so bleak it made the last twenty four years seem like a carnival.  

Jay’s mother had taken her place.  It should be me, she thought.  I’m his rightful mother.  She looked down at her bare hands, held out before her.  Empty.

The shop, cramped and cluttered with bottles, plants and potions, seemed like a huge cavern, stark and threatening.  Carl was dead.  He’d lived happily without her, only thinking at the last about the child.  Hungry as she’d been to hear about Carl, the words had wounded her.

She’d given Jay a job and friendship and cooked breakfasts. And he’d stung her with words, not thinking what those words would do to her.  Gabbling truth tactlessly, like a child. 

Just like a child.

She threw on a jacket and ran out, looking up and down the street.  She turned left, towards the street where Jay had lived all summer.  She ran, barely noticing her hair clinging to her head in the pelting rain.  She’d find him.  She would catch him up, talk to him.  She’d take back her harsh words, make things right. She’d bring him home. 

Because, no matter what happens or how you feel, that’s what you do for your child.

Frances O'Keeffe

Dancing by Heart

Her secret dancing began in anger. 

Every day, she sat in a call centre on her ever-widening bum selling timeshares for places she’d never seen.  On a good day, she sold enough to keep the supervisor off her case. 

Every day, Hal, a plasterer, screeded and dashed and pointed, exercising and tanning without even thinking about it. At the end of the day, he came home ready for a big meal and a night of telly, dozing in the armchair with a can of lager.

 

Weekends at the pub, a few drinks and a game of darts and his social life was sorted. 

She’d given up trying to get him involved in anything.  Any talk of something new – bowling or swimming maybe, he’d grunt a pretend agreement but make every excuse to avoid actually doing it.    

It was enough to make any self respecting, overweight girl livid.

She’d tried going to the gym with her friends.  A few sessions of being stuck between two babes zipping along a treadmill in size twelve leotards while she spilled over her tracksuit, gasping for air, made her decide to ditch the fitness centre.   

That’s how things stood until the day she checked her scratch card and got a surprise.  A win.  Her first thought was to rush home and tell Hal.  A thousand.  She thought about what they could do with it.  Pay some bills, reduce the overdraft, paint the flat. 

Her second thought was, nah.

That’s when Lisa enrolled in the Salsa class. 

Salsa dancing.  No need for a partner so nobody need know about this latest go at shifting the flab.  She’d seen it advertised on a poster sparkling with dynamic people in seductive poses. It looked so energetic and vibrant; highly recommended when nursing a grievance.

 

She signed up at the community centre and told Hal she’d be late on Tuesdays.  He shrugged “OK” while watching the telly.

Lisa loved the class right from the beginning.  Terence, the teacher, was very attentive. He’d hold her waist and demonstrate steps to the class.  Sometimes, to correct the positions, he’d run his hand down her spine or crook her leg just right.  He’d clasp her tightly and hold his face close to hers, a lock of dark hair falling over one eye.   He’d wink – just barely – as if they shared secrets.  It was blood tingling work.

She knew other class members envied her.  Teresa Danes kept asking questions about moves and steps, swinging her long hair as she spoke, clearly trying to get Terence over to her.  But he paid her little attention compared to the constant interest he showed in Lisa. 

She loved her dancing, couldn’t wait for each Tuesday.  Salsa became her beautiful secret.

The weeks went by and Terence began preparing the class for the Christmas Show.  He promised gruelling weeks of practice to stage a spectacular such as the community centre had never before seen.   This was to be her ‘reveal’ to Hal.  He would sit on a sticky plastic seat, enthralled by her dancing and the new Lisa.

By now she was living, breathing Salsa, secretly practising moves in the kitchen while Hal vegetated in the livingroom.  It took her over, she couldn’t get enough.

Soon, her skin and eyes glowed, she felt fitter and thinner.  She went shopping and tried on new, skimpier clothes.  None zipped up.  She still had a way to go. 

Then she saw it.  Red, cut low around the cleavage yet cleverly draped to reduce the shoulders and upper arms.  The full skirt fell gracefully to mid calf, ideal for showing off dance moves and shapely ankles while hiding thick thighs.  It fitted beautifully. 

She had to buy it.  She hugged it home and hid it in the back of her wardrobe, saving it for the Show. 

Every Tuesday night she danced wildly and then went home to Hal, slumped over the remote, glued to the screen.   No wonder she looked forward to seeing Terence each week, with his deep good looks and tantalising closeness.  Nothing like a little light flirting without the humdrum slog of a relationship.  She basked in proximity-pleasure, alive with possibilities.

*

In December Terence organised the dancers for various pieces in the Christmas Show.  He ran through the opening numbers first, the warm ups, he called them.

Then he got to the list for the grand finale Chachachá, the height of their performance.  Teresa Danes, still swinging her hair, was called first.  Lisa waited, tingling.   

Her name was called last of all. She wondered what special role Terence had created for her.  But he was listing the line to dance along at the back as a foil for the main dancers.  She was called last because she’d be on the far end of the line, half hidden by the stage curtain.  At the edge, the point of least exposure.  She felt sure it must be an oversight.

After class, Terence looked surprised when she questioned him.

“You’ll get to do more when you’re ready,” he smiled as he locked the classroom.

“But…” Lisa spluttered as they left the hall.  Didn’t he always dance with her to teach the class?

“To encourage the others,” Terence still smiled, “if you can manage it, so can they.”

Now they were outside where a tall, dark man waited.  Terence introduced her to Guy.  They walked off into the night together.  Clearly his interest in her had been purely professional.

In her heart she’d been graceful and passionate, showing the class how it was done. What Terence had seen was a lumbering fat woman, the proof that anyone can salsa. 

Nothing to do but go home.  Back to the telly and the mumbled responses; with a heart full of dancing and no way to express it. 

She tried.  Back home, she took hold of Hal’s hands, pulling him towards her.  He responded with,

“You OK, love?”

“Yes.  Oh yes,” She threw back her head, putting the excess into yes.

“Hal, dance with me.”  She’d reveal her secret right away.  She could get her red dress, put it on there and then and show him what she could do.

He moved his head to look around her at the TV.

“Hal, get off that couch.”

“You go on, I’ll be up when this is finished.”

Dancing had been a means to an end during Hal’s pulling days.  Now they were a couple, he could dispense with preliminaries.  For Lisa, dancing had become an end in itself. 

She went upstairs and lay sleepless and seething.  Hal came up later and was soon rhythmically snoring while she fumed silently. 

She woke in the morning, still furious.  She was full of dancing and nobody wanted to know.  Half-hidden behind the curtain at the Christmas Show didn’t do it for her. 

Hal left for work, but she couldn’t face the call centre.  Instead, she took her red dress out and held it in her arms; the folds fell over like a beautiful dance move, a scarlet invitation to Salsa.  She put it on.

It looked stunning, just as it had in the shop.  She complemented it with dramatic red lipstick and dark mascara, swept up her hair and slipped ino high black court shoes she’d once worn to a wedding. 

The mirror approved.  She looked stunning; but felt stifled, stuck in the flat while her real life was no longer here.  Her real life was dancing.

Leaving the house in her dress with only a black wrap over her shoulders, December didn’t touch her. She walked without thinking, music running from the iPod in her bag to the earphones and right into her veins.  Time passed. She had no track of it.  She walked on, absorbing the music, a walking, living rhythmic being.

The town was full of cars, buses, people with baby buggies and shopping bags.  They looked dreary, dowdy, preoccupied with dull stuff like the price of carrots and the next gas bill. 

She came to a steel bridge, one of those old ones that could be swung open to let ships through.  Painted mud-grey, it made a suitable background for the lanes of traffic stuffed with people who wanted to be anywhere else.  Stuck people.   Lisa, with her red dress and her music, was in another, magical world.

She stumbled on a discarded drink can and sidestepped to avoid it, moving her left foot back, slipping into the basic back movement, through the Eight Steps, finishing with a clap as the wrap slid off her shoulders and fell at her feet.

At the side of the bridge, as the traffic edged by, she danced.  Already warmed up by the music, she did moves and flings, better than she’d ever done in class.  She just danced, heart and soul.  Right then, everything she’d learned made more sense, more beauty, more passion.  She was alive; crazy with delight.

Passersby had to step off the pavement to pass, but many of them stood and looked.  She was dancing for herself.  Not for Terence, not to show the class, not for weight loss.  They didn’t matter now, Terence, Hal or Teresa Danes; nor even the Christmas Show.

There was only dancing, absolute dancing on the bridge.

Until a voice from another world cut through her bliss, “Lisa?”

That stopped her short.  It was Hal, off to a greasy spoon for lunch.

“Lisa?  What the hell are you doing?”

“Dancing.”

“You can’t, it’s…” he gestured to the traffic, “are you trying to embarrass me?”  Two laughing mates stood behind him.

“Hal, don’t be daft. I didn’t know you’d be here.” Hal moved around to different places with his work.

“You can’t do that here. You’ll catch…” he gestured vaguely towards her shoulders.

“I can.  Join me?”

“For Chr…” his voice trailed off as she began to dance again.

He spluttered, then moved off, angry and uncomfortable.  His workmates followed, grinning. 

The dancing began again, it had a life of its own.  She was ecstatic, had no thought of time.  Salsa itself decided when to finish.  When it did, she gave a final flourish and a showy courtesy.

One driver beeped, then others followed in a round of raucous applause.  Some pedestrians clapped.  She accepted the ovations with another bow, then another and another.  Then, scooping up her wrap, she strutted off the bridge, a star.

Something had happened. Salsa didn’t change her life with Hal.  It changed her. 

*

She was packing when he arrived home. 

“What are you doing?” Hal asked.

“Just going to Mum’s for a few days.  To think.”

“Think? About what?”

“Just to think.”

As soon as he realised she was serious, Hal changed his tack.  He kept asking, “What’s wrong? What’s wrong with you?”

And later, as she zipped up the second bag, “you’ve met someone.  You have, haven’t you?” 

“It’s not like that...”

“Who?  Who is it? Tell me – who is it?”

And Lisa anwered,

“Just me.”

   © Frances O’Keeffe