Chapter 3

Rachel Dealtry

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t look at her face, it’s just too upsetting. Some days I can do it, some days I can breeze in and look at her picture, feel her spirit watching me and just say a silent “Hi” and that’s ok, it’s ok to do that, but some days, and today is one of those days, she burns a whole in my heart. The well is too deep, the mirror too cracked, the soul too destroyed. I pull myself together; lift the water off my face with the palm of my hands, take a deep diaphragmatic driven breath and place the photograph back. I feel something pulling at my nylon tights and I bend down to see what the hell it might be, I don’t figure it out, but whatever it was has left a ladder. I say this out loud “I have a ladder” my voice sounds different, dulcet, toned, deeper “You’re worried about a ladder!” shouts back at me! “What the...” I look up and see a young Joan (my mother’s best friend) staring right back at me. “We’re at Woodstock and you’re worried about a fucking ladder in your stockings, deary me!” I am astounded because when I look again at my laddered tights, I notice that my legs look different, my legs feel different, I feel funny, woozy, dizzy and the sounds, the music, everything... is... different. I touch my hair which is thick and wavy, I feel around my face for recognition and then suddenly it dawns on me and I feel as though I cannot breathe, I am drowning, being pushed down under a blanket of water, it takes me, intoxicated, I splutter, gurgle, drift. Everything goes black and then something strikes me, hard on the face. I open my eyes and see stars glistening all around the sky and my eyeballs roll around inside my head. It’s Joan again; she’s leaning over me, pulling at my limp arms. She sings at me “June, June, wake up. You just blacked out” Of course! I know exactly who I am and I know exactly where I am and this is just the final nail in the coffin of my day. I AM MY MOTHER. I sit up and look at my left hand and sure enough, a simple gold wedding ring sits there, staring back at me. “Fuck June, are you alright? Cum-mon, we best get a friggin move on we don’t wanta miss Canned Heat”. No sooner had Joan mentioned Canned Heat, the heavens opened and this wasn’t just a shower either, it was torrential. Joan pulled my arm and we ran through the crowd, sopping wet. She squeezed me through the smog of delirious air, I just let her pull me through the squelch. Before I knew it we were somewhere near the front, right up by the stage. No-one seemed to care that we were soaking wet, it was like being in a giant swimming pool with lots of happy people. She gripped my hand and I wondered how I would manage to release it so that I could gain a perspective on what was happening to me. I knew that my father must have been there somewhere and the last thing I needed was to see him. As the band started and Joan flew her arms in the air, I edged away from her, slowly manipulating my way through the crowd, I was groped a little and offered a smoke which I politely avoided, I reasoned with myself that this was psychedelic enough without enhancing anything. When I found a safe spot, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a compact silver mirror. Staring back at me was her, was my mother and I couldn’t help but say “What the fuck is going on?” the reflection smirked right back at me “That’s really not the best way to greet your mother Becca”. I felt my stomach summersault, snapped the mirror shut, crouched on the floor as I felt the vomit rising through my legs and up into my throat, I keeled over, the music was playing through my chest, the swimming pool was just mud  rising and my body was sinking again. I knew that I had to make a decision, because right there and then it didn’t feel as though I had any choice. Joan was here, my father was here... somewhere, and I was lost inside my own mother. I debated opening the mirror again and asking her advice on the situation, but knowing that it was there gave me a sense of security. I could do that later, in private. ‘You are at Woodstock’ I told myself, ‘you are your dead mother and you are fighting it. Later, later Becca, we will deal with this later.’ I let the sick go and as I breathed in, I let something go, I let myself go. Finding my bearings, I drifted back through the crowd searching for Joan, I’m not sure how long it took to reach her, but I’ve always been fairly good with directions. I saw her on the shoulders of a chiselled god and I made a dash for her. Reaching up, I squeezed her hand as tight as I could; she bent down “June – June. Are you feeling better?” I jumped up “Yes, much much better! This is wild!” There was warmth on my shoulders and something tickled my neck. I turned around slowly and looking back at me with dewy eyes was my very own father.  

Chapter 2

Chapter 2 by Tom

The 32 bus pulls over at the corner of Alexandra Road. I step down onto the damp, familiar paving stones which shimmer in the pale early evening light. I usually hate the rain, but tonight I don’t even think to take out the half-broken Jaeger umbrella nana bought me a few Christmases ago. I spent all afternoon doing everything I could to get rid of the nauseous feeling triggered by the incident with Mr Heath – I relabelled the china with the new hospice branded price stickers Mrs Rodgers ordered in, dusted the ornaments several times and even chatted to some of the elderly customers. But now as I approach my house, disarmed by tiredness, I feel the thoughts that I tried to push away during the afternoon begin to resurface.

'How’s your day been, dear?’ nana says, smiling as she hobbles out into the hallway with her apron on.

'Oh, nothing special' I say in a monotone, dropping my Dior handbag on the tiled floor in the hallway and nudging it under the stairs with my foot, as I begin to peel off my sodden jacket. 

'Something will come your way soon'. I look up and she nods her head and smiles at me.                                                                                                                                                                   

'I hope so' I say as I begin to climb the stairs.

I collapse onto my bed with a loud sigh, turning over onto my back to stare at the white ceiling. It becomes a kind of a projection canvas which my thoughts flicker upon.

I see Nev and I walking along Alexandra Road under the cherry blossom trees on a warm late April day. I see my college self. I am walking up the steps to the stage to collect a joint award with my friend Josie for the category of Dress Designer of the Year at the college fashion awards ceremony. I hear our names announced and the cheers from the crowd. I hear Francis Jacobs tells me 'You know you’ve got so much potential. You should be looking to get yourself into one of the graduate training programs with Valentino or McQueen'. I remember the confidence that night gave me. Then I remember nana’s voice on the phone at the start of my final semester: 'Can you come home dear, as we need to talk to you about something?' She didn’t sound like herself.

I swing my legs around onto the floor and raise my body into a sitting position on the edge of the bed. I reach over to the dressing table and pick up a photograph. The photograph is of a woman in her late forties. She is sitting in a French cafe. She is smiling and her thick, brown hair shines in the sunlight. This is how I like to remember her, not as the gaunt woman in the pink headscarf.  'If only I still had you here to talk to, mum' I say, as tears fill my eyes.   

The Handkerchief

Becca works in the hospice shop. She fucking hates it. The stench of piss. The old biddies who have nothing better to do than buy old tat. The mentals who come in just to rant. She’s not exactly living the dream.

Today is Tuesday. Which means bagging up the shit even the shit bags don’t want and sending it to the depot for recycling. It also means Mr Heath will be in. ‘Just a couple of stamps, today,’ he’ll say. Then ‘What happened to that courteous Asian chap?’ or ‘I’ll have to be quick because Celie is in the car’. Celie’s his dead wife. Although you wouldn’t know it the way she’s always making trips to the post office with him and buying chops for his tea from the dry cleaners.

Silly bastard. Becca almost feels sorry for him. But not enough to have the same conversation she has week in week out as his nose drips onto her glass counter. She’s in no mood to humour anybody today. She has nylon trousers to fold and ugly old handbags to display. Only, she’s imagining the trousers are Stella McCartney and the bags are Celine; that she works in a boutique down one of the cobbled lanes off George Street – she can smell the Diptyque candles just thinking about it.

At least she can until a pikey with sour-milk breath demands to know how much the Miami Vice video is. She wants to scream ‘Who cares? Just take it and fuck off’, but she points to the price tag instead. It’s 50p. He seems delighted and starts rummaging around in the pockets of his stonewashed jeans – the only wash, she imagines, they’ve ever seen.

All she wants is to be a designer. Nothing too daring. Classic cuts. Valentino, Berardi, Mouret. Dresses that make stars shine, not land them on the what-was-she-thinking pages. Too bad the only thing college taught her is a sketchpad and swatch book won’t get you anywhere without a trust fund and a studio in Spitalfields. And how ironic that now at her most skint she’s working in a fucking charity shop. For free. ‘Oh you’re so good,’ the grannies twitter. ‘The world needs more young ladies like you.’ But she’s too busy staring at their whiskers to listen, making a mental note never to grow a beard. Besides it isn’t true: the world has quite enough young ladies like her, which is how come she can’t find any work. Victoria-fucking-Beckham beat her to it. And good as Fashion Retail Manager will look on her CV, her career already feels over before it has begun.

The hippyshit bells on the back of the door jingle away like Santa himself is about to burst through. ‘Good day, young miss. Just a couple of stamps, please, and I’ll take some envelopes if you have them. I’ll have to be quick, though – my wife is in the car and she does fret…’ The inevitability of it all is just too depressing. Becca can’t help herself:

‘This isn’t the post office. They closed it when Cameron came into power. He’s the prime minister, by the way. And your wife died a long time ago, Mr Heath. Long before the economy did.’ Shit. He looks gutted. Why did she say that? Nev’s right, she is a bitch.

‘I, I… oh, I feel rather… Oh.’ He looks so pathetic she can’t bear it.

‘It was a long time ago,’ Mr Heath.’ A flicker of recognition.

‘Celie. My Celie,’ he splutters between shuddering sobs. Fuck. ‘Look, I’m sorry. I take it back,’ Becca blurts. ‘It’s fine. Everything’s fine. She’s probably just at the butchers, I didn’t mean to…’

Mr Heath crumples onto a chair by the faded jigsaws. ‘Dear Celie. Of course she’s gone. Of course,’ he says, resigned. ‘I do try to remind myself every day, you know? I’ll wake up alone in that giant oak bed… and I’ll say “Gordon, she’s gone. It’s just you now old chap.” But then I’ll go downstairs and I’ll catch sight of something, the carriage clock she wound religiously, the chair she nursed our son in, the china figurines she polished so lovingly… And there she is: frying up my eggs like she’s never been away. And it’ll be all “Come along, Gordon, bingo today, let’s get a good breakfast in you” or “Don’t forget to take your navy cardigan, dear, we don’t want you catching a chill”. And before I know it she’ll have slipped her hand in mine and we’ll be taking a stroll together, the way we used to along the pier in Southwold all those years ago…' He stares ahead the whole time as if he's watching an old cine film. Then the projector in his mind suddenly jams. 'She was doing the flowers for the harvest festival when she died. A stroke they said. Everyone agreed it was a fitting way to go. Summoned directly from the house of God. I’d nod and say "Of course, of course". How were they to know I may as well have been in that coffin with her? Because Celie’s heart used to beat for the two of us, you see. Soppy I know, but there it is. And that smile… It still…’

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a hanky as a tear threatens to fall. ‘She always insisted I carry one. Would starch them while she listened to the wireless.’ He thrusts the faded rag in Becca's face. ‘Those are her initials, see? Celie Rose. She embroidered them on every hanky: “So you’ll always carry me with you,” she’d chuckle. But I didn’t need a handkerchief to do that.' He shakes his head. ‘Silly old fool, listen to me. You have work to do, and here I am wasting your time conjuring up ghosts.’ He hesitates then looks around uncertainly. ‘I’ll just take a couple of stamps and be gone.’

Becca has been so lost in his words, the request is a jolt. ‘This isn’t the…’ She stops. ‘I’m afraid we’re out of them today. But you could try the newsagents next door. They’ll have some.’

‘Will do,’ he smiles, reaching for his shopping bags and heading off to live out his past.

Becca feels as if she’s in free fall. She distracts herself by dusting the ornaments. Ordinarily she would be asking herself why people feel the need to clutter up their windowsills with so much hideous rubbish. But, right now, all she can think is ‘who will give a shit about me?’ She imagines Nev rummaging through her stuff after she’s gone, keeping her iPad and tossing out the rest. And then she realises how much she envies Celie Rose with her crappy clock and her tacky figurines, and a man who falls in love with her every day.

* * *