The Keeper of Stories, page 26
Adam had wanted to come to the kitchen to see Euan and Janice. He had thanked Euan and apologised to her, before taking his food and drink up to his room. He had looked so small and white and shaken – but Janice thought she could glimpse the man he would become. There had been a certain dignity in the way he spoke and she felt he meant what he had said. And she had meant it too when she told him how sorry she was that she hadn’t asked about John and said she would like to know more about his dad, and hoped he would take her through some photos one day soon. Neither of them mentioned Decius.
Lying in this new bed, staring at the ceiling, she tries to think about what lies ahead, but she gets nowhere – so much is uncertain. Instead, she thinks of how she feels about what has happened to her over the past few weeks. It’s difficult to untangle this but she is left with a sense of extremes. It is as if her emotions have been shot all around a pinball machine and there are only two places for them to fall. Either in the prize slot (lots of stars lighting up) or they are catapulted into the bowels of the machine. She wonders why she ever complained that her life was boring – wouldn’t that be better? She dismisses the thought immediately. At least now she knows she’s alive.
On the good side of her emotional pinball are: very definitely, Euan – she likes to start with him, and it strikes her that she would like to end with him too. So Sister Bernadette had been right, when she whispered into her ear in the café overlooking King’s college.
Also very firmly on the positive side are her feelings about her sister and Mrs B. She includes her other friends in this too and decides there and then to stop telling herself she is just a cleaner. There is nothing wrong with being a cleaner but she can be a friend too. After all, she is a multi-tasking woman who can use a blowtorch, sander, and chainsaw.
Then there is the way she feels about her past, her story. She knows this is not all good, but she does appreciate that she has unburdened some of her guilt. She is now at ease with how she looked after her sister. And if not exactly at peace with what she did to Ray, she knows she can live with it. She wonders if part of storytelling is not only about sharing the good things in life but also enabling the storyteller to send the bad things out, to let them disperse like dust in the wind.
She thinks about Simon, too. He had to postpone their lunch but is coming up to Cambridge in a few days’ time to take her out and is going to stay over. He very definitely falls on the good side. She can’t wait to see him, and now she has left Mike, and Simon has been able to say what has been keeping him away, she can look forward to him being part of her life. She is also able to look back at his childhood with a less jaundiced eye. She was a good mother to him and she thinks, like Joy, she made certain that her son had a completely different upbringing to her.
It is much harder to think about the things that fall into the pit of her emotional pinball machine. But she feels she needs to take these out and examine them too. She deals with the easiest first. What is she going to do when Geordie gets back in less than a week? She has little money and currently nowhere to go. She thinks back to sitting in her car outside the old barns – there is the same sense of panic, but she realises there is no longer a feeling of despair. She will find a way. Now she has people she could ask for help. She has friends and … she gets stuck here, what would she call Euan? Boyfriend does not describe a fifty-five-year-old man, and they are not “lovers”. At least, not yet. The thought makes her heart race faster and the pulse of it reminds her of the staccato steps of the tango. She tries to concentrate. Not “lover” so … what? She once read a story about a Scottish couple – very appropriate for a man from Aberdeen – and whilst the tale was not remarkable enough to make it into her mental library, she came across a phrase she liked. The unmarried couple living together referred to each other as their “bidey-in”. She thinks one day she would like Euan to be her bidey-in.
The last two things she knows she has to take out and examine are much harder to deal with. One very much in the present, one from the past. There is a fox terrier that she loves who she now knows she cannot see. And, included in this, is the fact that a young boy who has lost his dad cannot see him either. There is nowhere to go with this thought. All that is left is grief and loss. She knows saying “he is only a dog”, is no way to describe Decius. And anyway, she now appreciates he is a wolf.
The final thing she thinks about is her mother. She knows this is at the heart of the guilt that for years has eaten away at her like a cancer. She can reconcile her feelings about her sister but at the core of her she believes she let her mother down. Particularly as her mother slipped into alcoholism. Logic and reason have no place here. They cannot help her. She believes that her actions led to her mother’s drinking and, ultimately, her death. The fact that she could not mourn her death only pushes the guilt, like a knife, in deeper.
There is a knock and Fiona pops her head round the door. “I’ve brought you some tea.” The jolt back to the present makes her feel hopeful for Fiona. She does have a chance to put things right with Adam. Over their late-night snack she told them she and Adam had had a long talk in his bedroom when he got back. She said there had been lots of tears but also she felt what had happened had forced them to be more honest with each other. She said she was sure they would look back on this awful night as a good thing.
Fiona sits on the edge of the bed. “So, tell me more about Euan. He is lovely.” As Janice explains a bit about how they met and her current circumstances, she remembers she has only heard two of his four (or possibly five) stories. “So, do you guys think this is a serious thing?” Fiona asks. Janice is not ready to share her thoughts on a “bidey-in”, so just laughs and thanks her for the tea.
Adam appears briefly at breakfast. It is a Saturday so he has no school to rush off to. He is quiet and withdrawn and Janice thinks of all that the young boy is dealing with in terms of loss: his father, John; and now Decius. As she pours herself a second coffee, she sees Euan go over to Fiona. He says something quietly to her and Fiona looks up at him in surprise, and there is something else in her look that Janice can’t quite read. She nods at Euan and pats his arm and Euan leaves the room. Janice looks at her enquiringly.
“Euan asked if he could have a few words with Adam.”
The two of them sit for some time, sharing coffee and chatting about how good the police and neighbours were. Fiona is thinking of ways to thank everyone and Janice reassures her that knowing Adam is back safely will be enough. The minutes pass by and Janice is increasingly intrigued about what Euan can be talking to Adam about.
Eventually, after about an hour, the door opens and they both come in. Neither say anything or act like anything is different, but Janice can see the change in Adam and she knows his mother will certainly notice it too. Adam has not been transformed into a happy twelve-year-old but he looks less pinched about the face and more relaxed. Both women realise that he has also been crying. He makes himself some toast and sits in one of the comfy chairs by the French windows. Janice and Fiona continue to chat self-consciously.
“Mum, can we go into town today?”
“Yes, of course,” Fiona replies quickly. Then she waits; is there going to be more? Any explanation of why he wants to go?
Adam munches through his toast unperturbed and Fiona eventually looks at Janice and shrugs. It seems that normal twelve-year-old communication has resumed.
As Janice and Euan leave the house she asks him, “What did you say to Adam?” He looks over his shoulder as if he’s worried the boy might hear.
“I’ll tell you about it later.”
They head to a bar by the river in Cambridge for a late lunch. The sun is shining but there are rain clouds gathering; it looks like it’s going to be a typical, showery spring day.
The bar is busy with students and shoppers, but they find a table along one of the side walls and order a mix of tapas and some red wine.
“You were going to tell me about Adam,” Janice says, before remembering she has said nothing to him about what he did last night. She interrupts herself to add this in, but he cuts her short. He is clearly embarrassed by her thanks and she is reminded how people can be such a mix – shy one moment, supremely confident the next.
“So?” she prompts again.
He is frowning into his wine and Janice thinks of when Euan told her of the boy drowning when he worked for the RNLI in Ireland.
“I just asked him about his dad.” He looks up. “I know he said he could love him with all his faults but I could see how hard it is for him. He is just a boy after all, and so he does want to think the best of his father. On the other hand, there must be times when he is so bloody angry with him for leaving them.”
Janice nods; she can see this.
“I got him to write down on a piece of paper good things about his dad – just on one side, great memories and why he loved him. Then, and this was much harder, on the other side of the paper he needed to put down the things that upset him and made him angry. I think it’s important knowing those things are part of his dad too.”
Euan is back to studying the wine in his glass. “What you end up with is a better picture of the man. Both sides are true, but you can’t separate them. You can’t have one without the other. You can tear a piece of paper across, but you can’t split it apart.”
He looks up. “I don’t know if it helped. It seemed to a little. And the thing is, I know Fiona got it wrong with the dog, but she will be there for him one hundred per cent. One good parent can make a lot of difference.”
As Euan drinks his wine and looks out at the river, Janice wonders what happened to Euan’s mum. He has talked about his dad, but never his mum. She also thinks that maybe, just maybe, a man who can be this sensitive might understand her story. She knows that she could not bear to be with another man who she had to hide her story from.
He looks back at her. “I think maybe I should tell you the third of my stories. I didn’t come up with that idea about the paper; someone showed it to me.”
“What happened? Your mother?”
“Yes.” He draws a deep breath. “When I was seven my mother killed herself. That’s why my dad wanted a complete change. He went from being a fisherman who liked books to a bookshop owner who liked fishing. He made a right mess of it to start with, but he got there in the end and I think, in some ways, that’s what saved him.”
“I am sure having you helped too.” As she says this, she wishes her mum could have seen her sister like that.
Euan nods. “Yes, I think we kind of muddled through together. I grew to love books and you can find all sorts of stuff in them. I think that thing about the paper came from a book my dad read. I didn’t always cope very well and got into fights and stuff. Nicked a lot of sweets,” he says, half-smiling. “I was just so angry. So, when I heard Adam shouting, I did understand a bit of how he felt.”
Janice realises this is what he must have told Fiona in the kitchen. The look on her face, she now realises, was sympathy.
“I keep my mum’s death as one of my stories because what happened is part of who I am; it made my dad and me different together, and…” He pauses. “I keep it because I loved my mum.”
“Do you know why she killed herself?’
“She lost a baby. It would have been a daughter. My dad told me more about this when I grew up – as a child I didn’t really know what was going on. I knew I had lost a sister and then the next thing I knew were the arguments about drink.”
“Your mum drank?”
“Yes. I think she couldn’t cope with Dad recovering, even a little, from the loss and she had nowhere to go. Her grief left her stranded. Her family were supportive but it was in the days of, ‘Just get on with it’. We were from a fishing community and life could be pretty brutal. There wasn’t the support she needed and she slowly drank herself to death. Although it turns out it wasn’t so slow; Mum was a small woman and she was pretty determined. I sometimes think if she could have got hold of pills or a gun, she would have ended it sooner.”
Janice can feel the blood drain from her face as the hope seeps from her heart. She knows, in the same way she knows there is a glass in her hand, a river flowing by the window, and a sun in the sky, she will never be able to tell this man that she did something that led to her own mother drinking herself to death. And to tell him that she was not sorry that her mum died would be completely and utterly impossible. She looks out of the window and she thinks there is some regret that is beyond tears.
She stands up. She notices she is remarkably controlled. It comes from a calm hopelessness. “I can’t do this, Euan. I thought I could but it’s impossible.”
He looks up, confused, and then she can see the hurt.
She busies herself getting her bag and coat off the chair.
“Janice, no, please. Can’t we talk?”
She thinks if he asks her to talk about books and stories she might break down and cry … she might stay … but he says nothing more; he just watches her. She cannot look at him.
She finds herself standing at the end of a road, at a crossroads. She had got up from the café chair and she had walked and walked. She watches the cars stream past – black, grey, then a splash of colour, bright against a road darkened by a March downpour. Bicycles hug the curb, then wriggle to avoid a puddle. They come so close she could reach out a hand and push them over.
Her phone rings. She thinks it will be Euan, but realises from the screen it is Stan. As soon as she hears his voice she knows, and she starts to run. As she turns the corner into the lane leading to the college, she sees the ambulance pulling up.
Thirty-Six
End of an era
The chapel is full and Janice feels like she is watching an old film in black and white. Black for the mourners. White for the flowers – lilies, narcissi, roses, and she thinks she can detect the smell of hyacinths. She doesn’t think this combination suits the woman she knew. Each flower on their own might, but all together she finds the fragrance cloying – suffocating. But, she admits, she would not find much joy in anything today.
At the front of the chapel she sees a woman in a dress coat – charcoal-black. She is weeping and it strikes her as surprising. Most of the time she didn’t think she liked her. The sobs are shaking her body and she sees her pull a handkerchief from her pocket. Then the woman turns and beckons to her. This surprises her more than the weeping. The woman reaches a hand out as she approaches, and whispers, “I’ve saved you a place.” Then she turns to the thick-set man beside her. “This is my husband, George. I don’t know if you’ve met him before.” Janice sits down beside Mavis and thanks her. “Well, I know Carrie-Louise was very fond of you. She often said so. She said you were a woman who hid your light under a bushel.” Janice finds her eyes filling up; she can hear Carrie-Louise saying it, but she knows she would have added, “darling”, at the end.
Carrie-Louise died of a stroke. It had been very sudden and for once Janice thinks the phrase, “It was very quick”, can be seen as a blessing. She didn’t have the trauma of a long deterioration or have to cope with losing her voice. Janice knows she would have faced all of this with grace and good humour, but she thinks Carrie-Louise would have preferred it this way. She is just sad that she cannot see that Mavis, her oldest friend, did really love her. She can hear her say, “Well … darling … bless her … so she really was … lovely … after all.” She also wishes that they had just chosen white roses for the coffin. She was such an elegant woman. Janice can’t help feeling she would have found the fussiness a bit vulgar. “Oh, darling … always keep it … very simple … that’s the way.”
As she makes her way back up the aisle after the service, she sees a familiar figure sitting on the last pew: Mrs B. Tiberius is standing to the side of her. She is dressed in black apart from the white plaster cast she wears on her arm. The spiral stairs had for once defeated her and she had tumbled head-long off them. She is also sporting a spectacular black eye. Janice wants to go and talk to her but remembers all too clearly her last encounter with Tiberius. Mrs B leans over and says something to her son and he looks towards her. He does the tiniest of nods in her direction and then turns and leaves the chapel. Janice can’t help wondering if he has brought his dog with him. Mrs B gestures for her to come over.
“Come and sit with me, Janice, whilst Tiberius gets the car.”
‘I didn’t know you knew Carrie-Louise.”
“Cambridge is a small city and her husband, Ernest, and Augustus were friends. I thought Augustus would want me to come.”
“She was a lovely woman. I think you would have liked her.”
Mrs B nods. “Interesting name,” she comments.
“It suited her; she was an interesting woman. Brave, too.” Her thoughts drift to names – she has never felt less like her birth name. “Do you have a middle name?” she asks, distracting herself from her own thoughts.
“Mary.”
Janice smiles.
“What’s that smile for? Are you thinking of the virtuous Virgin Mary, or maybe the flawed Mary Magdalene?”
“Oh no. Mary, Mary, quite contrary.” Despite the day, and the sense of sorrow she feels on so many fronts, Janice keeps smiling, and she experiences a small easing of her heart. “Anyway, how are you, Mrs B?”
“Well, as you can see, out and about again. Thank you for the flowers and for coming to visit.”
“You weren’t a very good patient, were you, Mrs B?” Janice comments.
