August 2018

‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 3

While we stood in the kitchen chatting, I was splashing water on my face and wiping away smears with the kitchen towel.

“Who on earth would fancy me?” I muttered, rubbing too hard at dark smears under my eyes. “Oh! That reminds me,” I said, “I’m going over to see him for a drink.”

“See? You had a whole conversation with him. He invited you for tea, even though your face was a mess. See?”

Elaine lifted her shoulders and turned her back so that I could not argue with her: to my daughter, everything is straightforward. Engrossed with her homework which was layered out over the kitchen table, I knew not to interrupt her again until she had finished. She would work steadily until I came back to start making the supper.

“I’ll just pop over then, I won’t be long. If you want to, you could set the table. If I’m not back in an hour or so, just come over. It’s number five.”

“It’s okay, Mum. I’ll be fine. Have fun.”

On the way, I was thinking, I must be too old. And yet, a spark of hope lit up, which just might flame. It was a childish hope, but I held it tenderly, gently. I am just like all forty-something widows.

If I didn’t have Elaine to keep me on the straight and narrow I would go crazy. That is my main worry, actually, having enough to do. I must be just about the only mum in our circle of friends who doesn’t have a paying job. I gave up “work” years ago; and these days I just slog with domestic stuff. After Karl died, I had to use some of the money to buy a car and force myself to drive again. I had run out of excuses. I am a timid driver, but there are some things I have no choice about. The fact that Karl died when a hit-and-run driver ploughed into his bike, is just one of the things I try not to think about when Elaine wants a lift to an out-of-town leisure centre to meet her friends.

Elaine and I also care for Sylvester, a thin, amorous tomcat, and a goldfish. I make sure that the fish tank is somewhere the cat can’t get, which isn’t easy, as Sylvester seems to be made of elastic. There is no-where he cannot go, and nothing he will leave untried. The kitchen is also Marian proof – no glass, please; fish proof – out of the way of the dishwasher, the ledges where stuff falls and breaks; and Elaine proof. I hide some of my favourite foodie things, or she would just scoff them. Not to mention my favourite pair of scissors, the pen I use to mark her school stuff and a stash of rubber bands. We have most eventualities covered, I hope.

Appointments are made on the calendar which hangs in the living-room next to my computer. That is the one I use, that and my mostly empty diary where I keep a note of routine appointments up to a year ahead: the dentist, hair dressers, parents evenings. That’s it, mostly. Since Karl died, there’s been a big hole in my life.

***

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 2

One afternoon at the late end of Autumn, a brief space of intensely yellow light shone, calling irresistibly to those who, like me, are apt to linger forgetfully indoors, “Come out, for I am on my way South!”

I heeded the call and was in the patch of green that I laughingly call my “garden”. Having weeded and tidied as much as I could bear, I was trying to rise off the turf. Large circles of damp had soaked my trousers while I had been kneeling at the edge of the lawn; and soggy scraps of leaf litter stuck to the cuffs of my gardening coat. Moisture had seeped into my soft, comfortable shoes. After only an hour outside, I was surprisingly stiff and finding it hard to unbend, my precarious balance and the uneven ground conspiring against me. My elbow crutch which I had carelessly abandoned was too far away to be any use.

Dilemma: should I just stay where I was and hope that my stick got up and came to help me; or should I crawl over the grass to fetch? Mummy the dog?

A giggle erupted noisily from me at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation and I saw myself as others must see me, sprawled flat out on the damp grass, like a sunbather who has forgotten what time of year it is.

Over the fence floated a voice. “Hallo there! Hallo, I was just wondering… Are you all right?”

“I …yes, I am – all right!” I sat smartly upright, more formal, trying hard to straighten my face, but by now I was enjoying that floating feeling intense hysterics leaves behind. I didn’t want to get down off my cloud just yet. I tried to compose myself, wiping smile lines with my hands into a semblance of respectability. I felt mud smear over my cheeks, blending nicely with a sweaty sheen.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, I am fine, thank you. Having a bit of a rest, that’s all.”

“I see. I’ve just moved here. The name’s Arthur Thompson.”

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Thompson – Arthur,” I called. “I just fancied a lie down.”

“Oh! I quite understand. Earth is refreshingly non-committal, I find.”

Then his face was gone and I sat alone on my ridge of earth, my elbow crutch still out of reach. Where did he go? Was he offended? Restored by laughter, I happily crawled over to my gleaming steel branch and picked it up. “Come on, you!” With a grunt and a painful heave, I rose to my feet, a mess of shuddering spasms, grateful not to be watched: Must not laugh, must not topple over again. Stagger, clutch, trip, sway: Got it!

With a deep sigh of relief I finally stood straight. Stiffened and over-tired after working in the garden, standing usually takes several minutes of intense, trembling concentration, and frankly, there are some things that middle-aged women do best with only God’s eyes upon them.

“You managed to get up, then?”

My neighbour had been watching. Suddenly I felt deeply annoyed and embarrassed. Is privacy only for other people?

Thankfully, automatic pilot came to the rescue.

“Yes! Thank you, I get there in the end. It just takes time, that’s all.”

“I’m sure. You seem quite the expert. Care for a cup of tea?”

“No, I’m sorry, I don’t drink tea.”

“Coffee?”

“Makes me ill.”

“Something stronger?”

”I’m sorry, I don’t drink alcohol either.” I was beginning to wish I sounded less like a fundamentalist party pooper.

“Cake? Biscuits? A fancy?” A further shake of the head, and Mr. Nice Neighbour changed tack.

“Cigarette?”

“Never touch them. Sorry…I can’t eat any of that, but we could do sandwiches or something?”

“That would be grand. I don’t know many people around here, you see, and my wife just died.”

“I’ll just get my stuff in and come over.” Shocked by my neighbour’s confession, I pitched back and wobbled madly for a few seconds: For God’s sake, Marian, don’t fall! I gritted my teeth to keep my balance.

All the while, evening shadows were creeping quietly over the earth, darkening the grass. Collecting my bag of tools, I draped my kneeling mat over my free arm and tottered inside, aching all over. After the late autumnal freshness, the stale air indoors felt like a warm shroud.

“Mum?” Elaine was staring at me. “What have you done to your face?” Rushing to the hall mirror, I was horrified to see my reflection, like that of a small child who has been caught out scoffing powdered drinking chocolate.

“Oh God! I met our new neighbour; he was talking to me over the garden fence.”

“New neighbour, eh? That’s nice….” Elaine winked and nudged me. Suddenly interested in boys, she was always dropping harmless, suggestive hints.

“It’s not like that!” I nudged back. “I mean,” I spoke slowly, the full horror slowly dawning on me, “He saw me looking like this – our entire conversation!”

“So?” She wanted details.

“I look a mess!”

“Did he run screaming back to his house and slam the door?”

“No, he smiled.”

”He obviously fancies you.” Elaine grinned as if it was the most natural thing in the world for any neighbour to fall in love with her mum at first sight.

“Obviously.” I pulled a pained expression like that of a starving wolf, common to all mothers whose children say embarrassing things that they don’t really feel like contradicting, gems such as “I think you are beautiful” or “He obviously fancies you.” No middle-aged single mother worth her salt wishes to deny these things outright; but it feels foolish to agree, ridiculous to concur wholeheartedly. Middle age is a time for mothers to cherish hopes quietly, not shout them out in front of their pubescent children.

***

(to be continued)

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ by Fran Macilvey

To celebrate the completion of my second book, The Seduction of Susan Scott, here I serialise a short story – quite a long one, as it turns out – which I have had on the books for a while.

Part One

***

“Elaine!”

My mother stands as still as a painting, waiting at the back door, calling me into the house. Whooping and hollering, I’m out having fun with my friends. On our streets, broad-leafed trees stand guard, their branches creaking in a conspiratorial breeze. Broad fingers of shadow, stretched by the dimming light of evening hide me as, rising from my knees and leaning into a crumpled trunk, I gaze at my mother’s face unobserved: Her eyes are closed against the low flare of late evening sun and her face glows bright in the light.

She is a fire woman, who relishes sunlight and spends most of her time indoors. Like my father, I am a child more at home in colder weather. Yet I play in the sun.

“Elaine!” Mum’s voice finally jolts me. With deliberate slowness I saunter over, so that she is forced to linger at the step. I know she wants to, and that despite the lateness of the hour there will be no hurry, no cross words from her because I refuse to move more quickly. We both know that to rush indoors, away from open fresh light and breezes, is a shame: It is not right to move away from beauty, to abandon displays of God’s love for dim corners of man-made stone.

We wait and watch as gold light breaks from the clouds for a final blaze, and then sinks gently in a halo of orange. As shadows lengthen, still, we watch. Only when coldness pricks my skin, does my mother drape her arms around me in a heart-shaped hug and pull me indoors. “To bed, now” she whispers, and I turn in and go up the stairs. I give my teeth the briefest of brushes, threw off my clothes and launch myself into bed.

***

Downstairs, Marian does her evening checks, securing the high, awkward catches for the bathroom windows and the small pane in the front hall. Among the trees outside, darker people plot and plan at nightfall. The house has already been burgled, though there is precious little to steal. Marian doesn’t really care about “stuff” but in this neighbourhood the insurers do, so she obliges them. In any case, though the contents of 3, Larch Avenue are not worth much, replacing them is a chore she could do without.

Marian usually goes early to bed. She has Elaine to look after, and the cat and the goldfish. Who would have thought that she would become the sole carer of a thirteen year-old girl? Who is looking after whom?

***

(to be continued)

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