An Extract from Without Him

 

Shelley

February's the shortest month of the year, but this one was interminable. And after that, there would just be another month and another one. 

It was as if I had stepped into a parallel universe. Hell, maybe. The seventh circle.  That's what it felt like, some bizarre Groundhog Day starting over and over, a weird movie - the set unfamiliar, the script stilted, and the charcters clumsy and flunking their lines, trippping over props and tongues alike. 

Mornings were the worst.  I woke early, and would lie rigid in bed, straining to hear Vera get up and make her first foray to the bathroom.  This occured at a quarter to seven on the dot, when her morning routine began.  Vera was a creature of habit I quickly learned, long adhered to habits no doubt, and the thought of disturbing these filled me with horror.  It was bad enough we had landed on her, intruded so forcefully upon her life, her daily routine, despite all her continuing protestations to the contrary.   'You must do exactly as you please, Shelly,' she said to me that first day, 'you are to treat this house as your own home, and follow your own rules and regulations, I know we're all a little crowded, but with a bit of give and take I'm sure we'll figure it all out eventually.' she had said, her face taut with forced brightness. 

So I would wait, until I heard her come out, go back into her bedroom and get dressed (no lounging about in dressing gowns in this house) and when I heard her make her way downstairs I would hurl myself into the bathroom, have a half hearted attempt at a tepid shower holding the telephone shower head in various strategic positions (oh how I yearned for my power shower, even showering at my erstwhile gym - the glorious luxuries I took for granted.  My friend Sal had very kindly said I could use her shower(s) any time I wanted, but there's only so much you can ask of friends, and she was a good one, my only true one perhaps.) Then I would pull on a pair of jeans and a jumper, and begin the herculean task of getting the kids up.  The girls were first in line.  'C'mon, get up,' I would hiss, pulling curtains and duvets back, 'quickly, quickly, hurry!'

Emma got it.  She would oblige, slowly, mind you, but at least she moved.  Not only that, but she went on to rouse Mac, which involved a trip up the trapdoor ladder, something I couldn't even contemplate, not at that hour anyway.

Olivia was another matter.  She would curl into the foetal position, eyes squeezed shut and hold on to her duvet with the strength of an arm wrestler.  Once she even told me to 'fuck o-f-f-f, Mum', throught gritted teeth and I almost slapped her.  'Don't you dare use that kind of language,' I snapped.  'You're in your grandmother's house, now.'

To which she replied 'don't we all fucking know it.' And shot me a look of such loathing I almost recoiled.  This time Emma did slap her, and punch her in the arm as well.

'Emma!' I protested.  But secretly I was glad.  I was turning into a witch.

'Bitch!' hissed Olivia, scrambling to clutch at Emma's hair.  But it had worked.  She was up.

Then we would troop down to the kitchen for breakfast.  Vera would always be taking a last sip from her cup of tea and look up with the same expression of mild surprise, and say, 'gosh is it that time already?  I really must be dashing.  There's fresh coffee in the pot, Shelley.  Have a good day at school, dears.' And she would gather up her handbag and coat and exit quietly closing the front door firmly behind her.  The collective sigh of relief we breathed was indecent.

Followed by a gut wrenching twinge of guilt - on my part at any rate.  Here we were, counting the seconds til she was out the door, and every morning she would leave a fresh cafetiere of coffee for us before she went.  Of course it was undrinkable, but how you like your coffee is a very personal thing, isn't it? So I would remake it, but the effort inherent in Vera's gesture made me want to cry.  Speaking of which, I was doing rather a lot of that lately, I would have to pull myself together. 

It was the small things at first.

The bathroom arrangement obviously.  Emma was talking about drawing up a timetable and pinning it on the door, and Vera thought this was a teriffic idea, but listening to them both, and thinking of my beautiful bathrooms in our old house, I just wanted to bawl.

Watching Mac flee up to his hideaway in the attic the minute he came home from school as if he were being pursued by terrorists, instead of dragging his over-laden back pack into the kitchen, sprawling at the table, and regailing me with every detail of his 'skanky' school day. Now it was Emma who followed him up the trapdoor ladder with a mug of hot chocolate and a muffin she had brought home from school for him...he didn't seem to want to talk to me.

Not being able to relax, for even a second, was making me want to scream and cry.  Well you can't, can you, in someone else's house?  There was the moment of blessed relief when Vera would leave for her charity shop, three days a week, but that was almost immediately replaced with anxiety as to how to avoid her later on in the day.  How I had taken for granted the bliss of being boss of my own roadshow...I really couldn't take it in, just how much your life can change in a split second.

And not being able to drink...I could have, of course, I suppose, but it didn't feel right somehow.  I couldn't quite work up the courage to breeze in from the shops and open a bottle of wine and say to Vera, 'what about it, old girl?  You an' me setting the world to rights, sod the dinner, we'll just order a take away.'  Come to think of it, I never had seen Vera take a drink...perhaps she never had.  I would imagine she would disapprove of it.  Although there was a drinks cabinet in the front room.  I had examined its contents thoroughly one day down on my hands and knees, and it held a bottle of Harvey's Bristol Cream, a half empty and very sticky topped bottle of Creme de Menthe, some rather flat looking tonic and a bottle of Gordon's.  I backed off quickly, before I was tempted to pour myself a large one. 

Then there was dinner, which was a nightmare all on its own.  So far, Vera and I split the cooking, although I would gladly have taken it on on my own, after all, it wasn't as if I had anything else to do apart from get the kids to and from school.

'I'll do Monday, Wednesday and Friday and you can do Tuesday's, Thursday's and Saturday's, hmm?' she suggested briskly, the first week.  ' What about that, Shelly? We have to get a routine going. It'll be fun, a surprise every evening.'

'Of course,' I smiled my best, rallying, stiff upper lipper.

'And we'll have to work out the grocery shopping too, perhaps you could make a list - a weekly list of everything you need, and I'll do the same and we'll come to some sort of arrangement. No use in us both trawling through the supermarket.'

'No,' I murmured, 'none at all.' I wondered wildly would I ever be able to grocery shop on-line again, or would that be considered a selfish and slovenly habit? Not that there was broadband in this house, never mind wifi, although the kids still clutched their laptops as if they were life rafts. I know because I had asked, without a lot of hope, but it was worth a try, Vera could have been a mad internet hacker for all I knew.

'Don't you mean hifi?'  Vera tilted her head to one side.  'Arthur had a very good system installed in the sitting room, although I must say I rarely use it, I'm more of a radio person myself, but the sound quality is very good.'

I watched Emma stifle a grin and decided to leave the computer conversation 'til another day.  One technological innovation at a time.

Vera did dinner first, as it happened, it being Monday.  I had bottled completely at the thought of even trying to begin to explain to her the never ending saga of what my lot would and wouldn't eat - and that wasn't even counting Olivia's varying whims/diets/allergies.  In the end, I just said nothing, and prayed they wouldn't show me up - or worse - make a scene.

At six thirty sharp, we were summoned to the tiny dining room, where the table had been set and crisp white linen napkins sat freshly starched beside each place.  'Well, go on, sit down!' Vera's face poked through the serving hatch in the wall, making the kids jump.  'Shelley, I've carved and dished up in here, would you give me a hand to bring the plates in?'

'Of course,' I said, jumping to attention.  In the kitchen, on the counter, expertly carved, sat the pickings of a plump, perfectly moist, chicken with all the trimmings: crispy bacon, chipolatas, mountains of stuffing and roast poatoes.  For veggies there were creamed parsnip and turnip and tiny, lusciously glistening petis pois.  Suddenly I was faint with hunger.

'This looks wonderful, Vera, you shouldn't have gone to so much trouble.'

'Nonsense, since when was sticking a bird in an oven trouble?' she looked at me archly.  'And everyone likes chicken, don't they?' she asked hopefully as we trooped into the dining room laden with dishes.

'Everyone loves it.' I said firmly, and shot a laser like look of warning around the table, particularly in Olivia's direction, just daring her to even think of being on one of her vegan trips.  She ignored me of course, but I saw her nostrils twitch, which boded well. 

So far, so good, even though Mac, bless him, went bright red with fright when Vera asked him briskly if he prefered breast or leg. 'Um, I dunno, thanks.' he mumbled, studying his plate intently.

'What about a bit of both, then?' said Vera, totally ignoring any implied insinuation as Olivia leaned in to him and said - 'closest you're ever going to get to the real thing, muppet.' And poor Mac went even redder.  Olivia really could be vile sometimes, and then, without any help from anyone, she tripped herself up perfectly by tucking in to her dinner.

'Ahem.' It was Vera.

Around the table cutlery froze mid air, although Oivia was already munching.

'Aren't we forgetting something....?'

'What?' chorused my heathen children, collectively dropping me in it.

'I'm so sorry,' I blurted, it's just that it's been such a long time and -'

'Never mind,' Vera said, kindly. 'I know it's considered old fashioned, but we always said grace around this table and I think it's a nice tradition to continue, it's only giving thanks you know, nothing wrong with that, is there?'

I felt my cheeks flame and my childrens eyes widen.

'So if you don't mind,' continued Vera, I'll just go ahead..'

And we all bowed our heads and listened to the words I couldn't remember last hearing....and then everyone mumbled 'Amen.' Vera smiled approvingly and even more broadly when Mac added a spontaneous, 'and God bless the cook!' Making Emma, and even Olivia giggle.  And then there was very little said at all for a while, as we all tucked in to a proper, home cooked, family meal, and tried desperately not to think about the one family member who really, really should have been there.  

'This is really....nice...' said Mac, after a while, mid mouthful, sounding mildly surprised, and I wondered did Vera appreciate the understatement.

'Don't talk with your mouth full, Mac, how many times do I have to tell you?' I was uncharacaristically sharp and he looked wounded.

'Thank you, Mac.' said Vera. 'I'm glad you like it. Although it's not altogether a surprise......roast chicken was your father's favorite at your age...and remained an enduring one - as I'm sure your mum knows all too well.' She smiled in my direction, seemingly oblivious to the weight of silence that suddenly descended.  Olivia scowled, Emma chewed her lip and I felt the familiar threat of simultaneous tears and rage.

But Vera went on undeterred.  'We can talk about him, you know....in fact, we should....it's not as if he's dead - is he?' Her eyes swept the table and were unmet.  I felt sick.

And then Mac piped up again.  'What was he like, my Dad, when he was, like my age, you know?' And the look of hopeful eagerness that flooded his face tore my heart.

Vera, paused, considering his question with deliberate weight, and then looked straight at him.  'He was an awful lot like you, Mac, now that I see you up close - in fact...you're the spitting image of him.' she grinned.

And for the second time that evening Mac went bright red. But this time it was with sheer delight.

Did I say morning's were the worst?  I lied.  Night time was the real beast. Vera would retire early at about half nine. Olivia and Mac retreated to their respective lairs almost immediately after dinner, Emma would study in the kitchen, and I would eke out the time sitting in front of the the TV until about ten o'clock, when I would give in and go to bed.  I would trundle up the ladder to say goodnight to Mac.  Despite his air of studied indiference, I knew he still enjoyed our night time cuddles.  'Get o-f-f- Mum!' he would growl, when I kissed him and hugged him far too tightly. And I would pick up his disgarded clothes and set out fresh ones for the morning. 

'Mum?' he said, now, and I stiffened, mid clothes trawl. 

'Mm-hmm?'

'Have you heard anything from Dad?'

I couldn't lie to him - I had done enough of that to myself.  'No, darling, there's no news, I'm afraid.'

'Do you think he's really alive - or was Granny just saying that..? Because if he was....he'd contact us - wouldn't he?'

'Oh, Mac, darling, of course Daddy's still alive.' I sought to reassure him.  'It's just really difficult for him, right now, he'll be in touch any day soon - I'm sure of it.'

'But how do you know?' he persisted. 'How do you know he's alive?'

'I just do, honey. You have to trust me on this - I promise you - Daddy's alive.'

'Honest Injun?' It was our code of honour.

'Honest Injun.'

'Okay.' he said, his voice sounding a shade more robust.  'If you promise - I believe you.'

'Go to sleep baby.'

As I made my way down that damn trapdoor ladder, I wondered if it was true - if I was right - because I really and truly knew nothing for sure any more.  Was Charlie still alive?  I assumed he was - I had heard nothing to the contrary – and there had been rumoured sightings.  But one thing was for sure - if he was - then I wanted to kill him, for what he was doing to his kids.  I didn't care about me and him anymore - 'us' - I mean what was that anyway...? Some dim and distant other lifetime.  Death would have been easier - there would be closure, sympathy even. But this...this hideous whirlwind of disasters he had put in motion had taken everything we knew and devoured it - even my memories, such as they were, could no longer be put in any kind of sentimental context - they seemed as false now as the man I had loved and lived with - the man I thought I knew. 

But there was still a sliver of relief, however bereft, in closing the  bedroom door finally on the day, and on any further interaction with anyone. But only for a few moments.  Those mechanical moments when I would wash my face, brush my teeth (there was a basin and wash stand in the room) pull on a nightdress and fall into bed, lying there numbly, while my brain tried a few unsuccessful attempts at computing the situation.  I suposed Vera had meant well, putting me in Charlie's old room, there weren't a lot of options bedroom wise in the house, let's face it - but the irony was rather more than I could manage.  I would lie there, my eyes roving around the walls, the floor, the ceiling, taking in the Man United posters, the stacks of car magazines, the mororbike annuals, even the prized collection of model cars sitting on the shelves.  It was a boy's room,  a room, by all accounts that Charlie had left for his first flat at twenty or twenty one, if I remembered correctly.  And the room looked as if it had been preserved as it was on the day he left. 

'I never got around to clearing it all out.' Vera had said to me, settling us in, that first day.  At the time I had been too shell shocked to take it in, let alone comment.

'Of course, I'll get all this stuff put away, Shelley, and you can arrange the room however you wish.'

That had been six weeks ago.  Only now did the room strike me as rather macabre.  Charlie was forty-eight years old, wherever he was.  Gone from this house for almost thirty years, yet his room looked ready for his younger self’s imminent return.

How could I make this room my own?  The very thought was slightly ludicrous, and worse, it implied time. That I - we - would be here for how long?  The only way I could cope, could endure it was to somehow pretend it was all temporary, just a minor upheaval that we would all laugh about in a few months, when we were in our own home again - wherever that might be.  I had to believe that, however unlikely - otherwise, I would go out of my mind.

So I gritted my teeth and repeated the mantra I had adopted every night.  Soon this will be over. Soon we will be in a house of our own again.  Soon Charlie will be back and explain this has all been some terrible mistake and he'll make everything better.  In the meantime, I would have to be strong.  I could do this, put a good face on for my children, be an appreciative daughter-in-law to Vera. I would ignore as best I could the terryfying abyss that Charlie had left me gazing into, and try to pretend, as I lay in his old bed that was neither a single nor a proper double (they don't make 4' beds any more, I don’t think) that I didn't yearn for him, that I wouldn't give everything in the world to feel his arms around me one more time.  But even there I failed miserably. Because the ache of his absence was a physical presence all of its own. 

© 2010 Fiona O'Brien