Something Special, Something Rare (9 page)

*

The night air is damp and heavy, the moon has gone behind the cloud. The wind chime makes a timid sound, as if it too is afraid of breaking the silence.

I open the bedroom door as loudly as I can and switch on the light.

My husband raises his upper body on one elbow and squints under the sudden brightness. What is left of his hair is sticking up. His face is more wrinkled than usual, red from pressing on the pillow.

‘I have something to tell you.'

‘Come back to bed. You'll catch a cold. And turn off that light.'

I turn off the light and lie down. He reaches out his right arm under my neck and holds me from behind.

‘We'll talk about it tomorrow,' he says. His left hand is on my belly.

ONE OF THE GIRLS

GILLIAN ESSEX

My bed's covered with clothes and I'm still not sure what to wear because it was only yesterday she rang and first I thought I hadn't heard it right that she wanted me to have lunch and listen to a band with her so then I had to rearrange things and I didn't even think about what to wear but I don't want to embarrass her though now it's too late so I settle for the skirt because at least it's black and I don't look so fat in it and then the doorbell rings and it's Emma and I haven't even put make-up on but I ask her if I look okay and she says fine without really looking then on the way I don't know what to say because it's been a while and she looks at the road because she's driving so I just gaze out the window then she asks me where I want to eat but I don't know so she picks somewhere and orders but I pay for it and then I eat most of hers as well as mine because all she's done is play with it just like when she was little and she gives me that look and it makes me try to hold my stomach in when we walk into the pub and she introduces me to the band and they're all flat-bellied skinny girls and I think about how bands always used to be boys except maybe the singer but I call out hello to the girls then one of them comes right over and shakes my hand then Emma leads me over to a battered leather couch facing where the band is setting up and she tells me that this'll be comfortable for me as if I'm old or something but I think the stools off to the side might be better though I sit on the couch anyway and try to pull my skirt over my knees and think about how it would have been better if I'd worn jeans like everyone else here and I hope the band won't be too loud then she asks me if I want a drink and I do really but I tell her no because I'm off alcohol now and then I think I should have asked for a lemon lime and bitters but I don't even know if pubs do that anymore and she says she needs a drink so she goes to the bar and I think she'll come back but she perches on a stool and doesn't look my way again and I wonder if it'd be okay to get up and join her but it looks like she's chatting up the barman and at first I think she could do better than that but then I think it's a start and anyway maybe she's just relieved there's someone else to talk to besides me so I stay on the couch and wonder how long it's been since I've been in a bar and if all pubs are like this these days with fake wood panelling and mirrors and stainless steel fittings and metal furniture apart from the couch and hardly anyone here to listen to the band but it's only three o'clock on a Sunday afternoon and it's sunny outside and perhaps when they start to play people will come through the large doors that open onto the street and I suppose that's what the band's for but it looks like they're being paid in drinks instead of money by the way they're knocking back red wine in beer glasses and I wonder if they'll even be able to play and then in walks this woman and I think she's one of the girls because she's thin and she's wearing faded and ripped jeans and a T-shirt with writing on it and her hair's got different colours in it the way they do it these days only mine's the same colour it always was except my roots are showing and she greets the girls in the band like they're all mates and hugs Emma but then she comes over to the couch and she says this must be the mothers' couch only I think she's said ‘the mother's couch' but then she sits beside me and from close-up I see she's got wrinkles but they're covered in make-up and she looks fantastic and I wish I'd put mine on and she says you must be Emma's mother but I just nod and wait for her to go away because I'm hoping that Emma will come back and then she tells me she's Sophie's mother and I don't even know which one Sophie is because I didn't catch their names but Sophie's mother points out the girl who's adjusting the mike and it's the one who shook my hand and she tells me that Sophie's the lead singer and I think that'd be right and I look at Emma and think she must be just the groupie if that's what they still call them and then Sophie's mother tells me that Sophie's studying law but I didn't know you could be a lawyer with a ring through your nose and she says she didn't really want her to be a lawyer and I think why not and then she tells me that she supposes Sophie chose law because she's always been surrounded by lawyers and I guess if Sophie's parents are lawyers then that's how come Sophie's mother can afford to look so good and then she says she's worried about whether Sophie will have enough time to study with all the band practice she's doing but she tells me Sophie's just won a medal at the uni so I guess Sophie does all right and I just think about how Sophie's mother hugged Emma like it was the most natural thing in the world and Emma didn't even flinch or not that I could see and then Sophie's mother tells me Sophie's going off to work in an orphanage in Cambodia as soon as she's finished her degree and then she wants to work in human rights and I think oh God she's going to save the world as well and I wonder if Emma would have turned out better if I'd managed to stay with her father because then she wouldn't have been so angry and we would have had more money not that she's turned out badly it's just she hasn't worked out what to do with her life yet and she's never even had a boyfriend or not that I know of but I haven't been much of a role model there and I wonder if it's because of me but then Sophie's mother says she doesn't want Sophie to go overseas and I think why wouldn't you because I would have liked to and I think it would be great if Emma got to go like for me and then suddenly the band cranks up and Sophie's voice sounds like she's channelling Janis Joplin and yet she's so tiny and she plays the guitar as well and now the girls are singing songs they wrote themselves about women taking control of their lives and I don't know where they could have got that stuff from being so young and Sophie's mother's sitting there and she's mouthing the words like she knows all the songs by heart and she says she goes to all their gigs as if it wasn't obvious and I think Emma must too because Sophie's mother talks about Emma like she knows her really well and I didn't even meet Sophie until today and all the time Sophie's mother's been talking I haven't said a word but I suppose I'd better say something so I say you must be very proud of your daughter and I ask her if Sophie got her talent from her and she says God no so I say from your husband then and she laughs in a brittle kind of way and tells me that she hasn't got a husband and then I say are you a lawyer and she laughs again only this time it's more like a sob and she tells me she just works for a law firm that's all well actually she just files and cleans up a bit and makes them coffee but all the lawyers look out for Sophie and I wonder how Emma might have turned out if people like that were looking out for her or even if I'd just encouraged her more but there was always work and bills to pay though I suppose that's just an excuse really because I wanted to try and have a life before it was too late but then almost before I noticed she'd grown up and then she was gone and if I'd known it was going to be so quick I would have waited and we could have had more of a life together and perhaps if I'd taken her to music lessons she'd be on the stage like Sophie and I'd be the stage mother and now Sophie's mother is talking about how she and Sophie are close like sisters and I wonder what that would feel like and I ask how old Sophie was when her father left but she says there never was a father and then she starts to cry and she says that she was married once but she lost the baby then her husband left her and had babies with someone else and she was so upset she persuaded a friend to help her have one too but he wasn't too keen at first because he was worried about the legal stuff so she got a lawyer to draw up some papers and the lawyer took pity on her and he was the one who gave her a job because she didn't have one and wasn't qualified to be anything except a mother and now all the lawyers in the practice are good to Sophie but you know how lawyers are she says only I don't and I think that was some friendship she had but then she says she used a turkey baster to get herself pregnant and I didn't think people really did that but Sophie doesn't know because that was part of the deal and I think that anyone who tried that hard deserves to have a daughter like Sophie even if it is a bit weird so I put my arms around Sophie's mother because she's still crying and I tell her she must have been a good mother because Sophie's so clever and she cares about people but then Sophie's mother says she's really scared because she doesn't know what she'll do when Sophie goes overseas and what if the band becomes successful and goes on tour and she can't go with them and then she tells me she's on anti-depressants and the doctor keeps putting up the dose but it's still not working and she supposes that's why she's crying and she does it all the time and then I notice that Sophie and Emma are staring at us and I see the pub's filled up with people so I move my arms but I keep holding Sophie's mother's hand between us on the couch and I give her a tissue to wipe the mascara streaks off her face and then Sophie comes to the microphone and welcomes a new band member to the stage and it's Emma and she goes to the microphone and starts to sing and it's just backing vocals but I'm so proud and I have to let go of Sophie's mother's hand so I can clap but not too loudly and then Sophie's mother stops crying and says I didn't know Emma could sing and then I start to like her better so I tell her that it's time she started thinking about herself and that there's lots of things she can do now that Sophie doesn't need her so much but when I say this she looks kind of panicked and I think she must be scared of being alone and perhaps I should tell her that it's not so bad when you get used to it but then the band's packing up and Emma comes over and asks me what I think and I tell her the band was great and she was fantastic and I would have said more if I could have thought of better words but there's a look on her face like what I said's enough and then later in the car Emma thanks me for coming and she says it was good that I could keep Sophie's mother out of their hair because Sophie thinks her mother's embarrassing and she wishes she wouldn't come to the gigs but they noticed that I seemed to be getting on all right with her and she asks me what we were talking about but I just say stuff because I know that's what Emma would say and I don't think she really wants to know and then she tells me that the guy at the bar owns the pub and he encouraged her to sing otherwise she would've chickened out and that's why she had to have a drink because he told her it would help and that she should pretend I wasn't there until after she'd sung and then I start to think differently about him too but by the time she's said all this we're back at my place and I ask her in and she hesitates then shakes her head but then just as I'm getting out of the car she gets out too and she tells me how glad she is that I came to hear her first gig and she says she hopes I like Sophie because she and Sophie are an item but they can't tell Sophie's mother because she'll freak and she tells me she's going to Cambodia with Sophie and all the while she's looking at my face and I try to keep it the same but I tell her that I think I like Sophie a lot and going to Cambodia with her is a good idea and then she walks right round the car and gives me a hug and tells me I look great and she likes my skirt and she thanks me for lunch and says that maybe next time Sophie can come too and I say of course she can and then with a wave she's gone and I go into the bedroom and pick up the pile of clothes on the bed and carefully hang them in the wardrobe and then I catch sight of myself in the mirror and there's this little smile on my face and I sashay into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea.

THAT VAIN WORD NO

BRENDA WALKER

William is an old man, a surgeon, standing barefoot on a paved driveway at dawn. He holds a hot-water bottle in his arms. He's looking at his trees. Conifers trucked in from some place of immediate forests. They're lined up along the driveway now, deep in the earth, evenly spaced, shocked. These trees don't show their misery yet, the foliage is firm and grey, but William notices an unhealthy pliancy that wasn't there when they were unloaded from the delivery truck. They will recover; they will grow. In the meantime he breathes in the scent of Christmas trees that reminds him of the smell of disinfectant in a dirty urban train.

He was six years old, sitting by his mother, watching her take a square of chocolate from a man across the aisle, watching as she slid into a light diabetic coma that the other passengers mistook for sleep. The man folded the silver foil back over the remaining chocolate; his hands were white and small. William said
no, please no,
quietly, she heard him and she refused to listen and he lost her. As he sat alone beside her body he relaxed. If she could slip away then so would he. He noticed the disinfectant: pine-scented chemicals rising from something, vomit, blood, half wiped up by a railway cleaner days before, and closed his eyes. His mother began to stir at Central Station. So long ago, almost sixty years ago, and the smell of pine is waiting in his memory.

Birds sing, the sky turns white, then rose, then blue, the hot-water bottle cools against his chest. He hears the tearing sound of a blind spinning upward in Dan's kitchen, the empty voice of a politician from the radio inside the house where his coffee waits.

Dan helped him to plant the trees. They've been neighbours for a long time. William knows the details of Dan's illness, the name of the woman in Geneva who sometimes phones him in the night. Dan is vegan, thinner than William, lining up ten vegetables and five fruits on his kitchen bench each morning. It's kept him alive, kept the markers down in his blood. Dan says that if he doesn't die of cancer he'll die of starvation. He's a good cook, in spite of the restrictions. He often cooks for William. The trees were his idea; it's William's driveway but Dan organised the sudden view of the pine trees through his kitchen window.

The old men hacked at the roots with axes, freeing the young trees from their clenched and pot-bound state. Dan dug pits slowly and filled them with water and William steadied each tree in the earth. Then they ate together: black ragged mushrooms with chopped garlic for Dan, steak for William.

Late at night, back in his own house, William climbed the spiral staircase to his bedroom. At every step he had a new view of the room below: the cane rocking chair, the sisal mat. Photographs of his daughter, Nina. Alone, long after a long-exhausted marriage, he circled the few things he owned like a great bird moving upwards in the air, thanks to this staircase. And it carried him like a mother to his sleep.

*

William is driving by the river, later in the morning. Boats with firm white sails slip beside his car and veer away into greener ruffled water. The traffic has to slow so that cars can file past a cyclist on a fold-out bike. A tourist. A man who doesn't know his cycle paths, who has checked his folding bicycle through with the rest of his luggage in some truly distant city. Osaka. Dusseldorf. The cars slow, slice into the edge of the adjoining lane, ease past. The cyclist could slip and be destroyed in spite of all this irritated care. It's William's turn to pass. He guesses at the space the man will need, then looks in the rearview mirror and sees that the rider has a joyful hands-free smile. Each driver puts aside the light callousness of the morning rush, slows, then speeds away.

William gives the day's first patient his opinion of her illness. She sits with her husband beside her and William watches as the man's hands began to tremble. He smells fire, an electrical fire, just a faint smell, then he realises that the smell comes from the husband, from his skin and breath. It's fear. She listens calmly; almost everybody lapses into shock. That's why William draws diagrams; he writes instructions down. The patient tells him, quickly, that she has children. As if this will reverse his diagnosis. As if he'll change his mind. She's in jeans and running shoes. Some of his patients dress formally in black, they make a funerary occasion of their appointments. I have a rendezvous with Death. William tries to think of the cyclist, smiling on the lethal metal highway. After she speaks she gathers her things. In the waiting room William sees a child scramble to his feet, a boy about the same age as he was when he rode in the train to Central Station beside his own unconscious mother. This boy must belong to his patient. Her secret shield. Surely a mother cannot be taken from her child. Surely even Death plays by this rule: that a mother cannot be parted from her child. The husband leaves first, then the woman with her son's hand in her own. Quite often at the door he feels misgivings; he senses the vast appeal of simple denial; the refusal of his surgery.

*

Once William's mother took him to a strange house in the city. He remembers the narrow street, the shush of trains. His mother left him alone with instructions not to follow her upstairs. He was afraid to leave the room in case she disappeared. He pissed in thimblefuls, thirsty but too frightened to look for a kitchen, soaking the brocade and wadding of a chair, soaking his own dark shorts. He was damp when she appeared at the foot of the stairs. By nightfall the cloth barely rasped his skin. There was no smell. His mother was at her sweetest, her most warm and sad. He knew that she hadn't pulled it off, the new lipstick and the astrakhan coat had been good for an afternoon upstairs but nothing more. They were going to be alone, William and his mother, or William would be alone in a wet chair guarding a strange door.

He sees patient after patient with good news and bad, the day slides into shadow, he takes a message on his mobile from Dan. Dinner again, yes.

*

Dan's house smells of butter and polenta, of cornfields in summer. Or is it paper? Something good. William leaves his drink untouched; his hands are occupied with a metal lobster from Japan. Dan owns this kind of thing. Probably old. Yes, it's old, Dan tells him that it was made by a family in Kyoto who died, one after the other, leaving no descendants. Brown flanges clack into place as William curls the tail. It's a miracle. The legs are loose and jointed like early attempts at prosthetic hands.

Dan's phone rings. He takes the call in another room but William can still hear his voice, he's speaking a name over and over again, a single syllable, half-sung into the receiver to soothe or amuse the woman in Geneva on the other end of the line. Like a parent calling softly in the darkness. Dan at sixty-seven, dying, and in love. William suddenly realises that it's the voice Dan uses when he says his own name, which he does at times, dramatising a conversation, putting himself in the sentence. Dan loves this distant woman as he loves himself.

William remembers crowding into a lift in the city with his mother. He was too short to see her face. He reached for her hand and held it until the doors opened and she stepped out ahead of him and he found that he had been holding onto a pale man, who smiled but did not speak. Tonight there is nothing but his mother in his memory. Even his daughter Nina fades. Perhaps he should speak to Dan about all this.

Through the window, beneath the blind that he had heard Dan raise that morning, William sees his row of conifers and feels the relief of darkness for the foliage newly positioned in unsheltered sun, the relief of the slow restorative lift of dampness from the unfamiliar earth. He closes his eyes and listens to Dan's love, failing as his life will slowly fail but still musical with the confident failing music of all human love.