Women’s fiction and chic lit

‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 8

One afternoon when I was outside, I heard Arthur’s voice drift over the fence. “Marian! Hello?”

I straightened up. “Hello, Arthur.”

“I have to go away for a while.”

Bleakness flooded through me at the prospect of his leaving, though that did not seem to be the right time or place to say so. It was none of my business, after all. I had no claim on my neighbour, especially at this time of year: goodwill, festive whatnot, family time. But the absurd hope remained, that we might have been part of his plans.

“When are you thinking of going away?”

“Tomorrow, unless something better turns up.”

“Would you like me to, I don’t know, water the plants or anything?”

“Come over, we can talk about it.”

Ten minutes later we were in his living-room, me perched on the couch, Arthur seated in his usual chair by the window. The room was familiar by now, yet something had changed. I was puzzled and then I understood – it was cold. In place of the usual warm glow from the fireplace, there was only darkness. The standing lamps usually shed a welcome glow. The kitchen, too, was quiet. Where usually there were layers of mess, now it felt too tidy.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Arthur asked, standing over me. I could not see the expression on his face.

“Not really.”

I felt uncomfortable. “Arthur… Is it anything I said?” I tried a smile, but he winced, shifted on his feet and said nothing.

“All right then, anything I did?”

“Of course not!” Suddenly he was flaring, anger shimmering, shaking his body with unaccustomed emotion, which I found reassuring. I prefer anger to indifference any day. He proceeded calmly enough to explain, as if he had been working through his thoughts for a more palatable solution.

“I have to go to Southampton. My friend is ill.” Leaning over me he switched on a light. I longed to lift my hands over his shoulders and pull him closer to me.

“Must you?” I asked, “I mean, must you go? There are surely others who can help.”

“I suppose there are….” His eyes shone both doubtful and hopeful, casting an appealing mess of wrinkles across his forehead.

“Well, then, stay here for a while. The weather forecast is bad. If you have nothing in, you could always come to us.”

I realized I was rambling, but could not stop. “Elaine wants to meet you,” I said. It was a total lie, as apart from her friendly questions, she had shown little interest. Elaine knew very little about Arthur, though she had noticed that I was more cheerful.

“Look,” Arthur said, new decision breaking through the unhappiness in his voice. Once again, he came and held my hands. “I have not been totally honest with you.” A sinking feeling crept over me. “I have commitments in other parts of the country.”

“What? What is it?” I forced myself to speak gently. There was a long pause, so long that I thought Arthur had not heard me. He answered softly,

“I have a son, with another woman.”

“But that’s great!” I said.

“She doesn’t love me,” he went on. “But she has her boy and uses him to keep a hold of me. She has not been well for months and now she sort of expects me to help her. I don’t know what to do. I would so much prefer not get more involved with her than I already am, but James is totally under her thumb and has been calling me, begging me to go down. He says she may be dying. I don’t know what to do.”

I had never seen this quiet, elegant gentleman at a loss before. I didn’t think there was much I could say, but again he forestalled me, “But you are here with me. Thank you.”

“Shall I go and put on the kettle? Or, if you like, you could tell me all about it over supper with us? It is time Elaine met you.” That he made no response to my suggestions concerned me more than all the fuss he could kick up. I hobbled over to his seat and clumsily placed my arms across his shoulders. His hands clasped me hard around the waist as if he was suddenly scared to let go. I leaned into him, and we stayed together, comfortable and awkward, just breathing.

“Do you want a cup of something?” I gestured hopelessly in the direction of the kitchen, but his only answer was to pull me more closely to him. I kissed his cheeks. I stroked his shoulders and felt them relax, inching into restfulness. But his face was down, gazing into nothing.

“I could put the fire on?” Silence.

“I could make us something to eat?” Each suggestion was left hanging in a stillness broken only by breathing, holding arms and closed faces.

***

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 7

I was quietly stunned by this confession. What astonished me was not so much what Arthur said, but the way he spoke, so calmly, so carefully. I am an emotional woman, and when I speak of things that tug my heart, my voice fills with tremors, my hands shake and my legs raise themselves of the ground. I cannot sit still. Yet speaking of abject misery there was he, calm, gentle and peaceful.

“Thank you for sharing that with me,” I said. I meant it. He looked at me, looked into my eyes. Silently he gazed over the wrinkles round my mouth, over my forehead. His hand was raised to my cheek, which he touched gently. He looked at my face like an artist might, examining curves, the fall of hair at the ear, the tilt of the eyelid. I let him lift my face to the side, bring it back.

“You are beautiful” he said.

“Thank you,” I answered.

“I wonder…” he whispered as the minutes ticked quietly past.

“What?” I asked, searching his face for clues.

“Would it matter to you if…?” he started, but broke off. There followed a long pause and then suddenly I clasped his hand, pulled it towards me and started to kiss it, first the palm, then the fingers, many small kisses coming unbidden from me. He did not pull away, but sat with a small smile on his face, which did nothing to discourage me. I kissed the palm again, let the hand drop and then looked for the other, lifting and kissing it too, first the soft folds at the back of the hand, then each finger, tip, hundreds and thousands. To say thank you. I was filled with gratitude that I didn’t know what to do with. Where could I put it all?

“You don’t have to, you know.” Arthur’s self-control maddened me.

“But you have such beautiful hands and I want you to know – you are – beautiful too.”

“And I thank you, too.”

He rose up from where he had been seated next to me, and resumed his seat over the way, in front of the window. I could not see the expression on his face.

***

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 6

We fell into a pattern. As the winter nights got colder, the leaves drooped and rain fell like wet kisses from the denuded branches of tall trees, I got into the habit of popping round to Arthur’s whenever I had finished gardening. There was always something to tidy: leaves to clear, branches to pull and burn, hands to snarl on old, reluctant thorns. I was happy outside, those afternoons. The work cleansed my thoughts and stretched my body in beautiful, aching curves. And afterwards, there waited Arthur’s kitchen, or the living-room with the French windows where we sat together, watching the shadows and the wind dancing with the remains of the leaves.

“A top-up?” Arthur’s enquiry broke through my thoughts. He found me getting lost in my silences.

“That would be great!” I said, pushing aside tiredness. As I watched Arthur pottering about in the shadows, I felt immense gratitude that he did not feel the need to chat about the latest bad news, the international situation, the lamentable state of his shares portfolio. I could not have borne that. Politeness forced me to smile as I took my mug of water with the hint of chamomile, and the couple of water biscuits that Arthur now kept for me. He paused, “On second thoughts, would you like some spread on them?” I realized I would, some jam or honey. Not low fat, lo sugar or ergonomic and environmentally conscious but just your standard pink, sweet stuff.

“Yes! That would be lovely.”

Arthur lifted my plate to the kitchen counter, fetched a knife out of a drawer and smeared jam from a jar. Watching him looking after me, tears pricked behind my eyes.

“I can do that,” I called, without conviction.

“Yes, I know. But I am up anyway, and you have been working outside all afternoon. I have only been sorting through boxes.”

He was suddenly beside me. “Strawberry all right?”

“Yes, of course!” I croaked self-consciously, a surprising tear slipping unbidden down my cheek. Perhaps he didn’t see it, because he said nothing, but crossed back to his usual chair.

“Penny for them?” His voice was careful and light. In the gathering dusk his voice was penetrating.

“What?” I sniffed.

“Penny for your thoughts?”

”Oh!” Uncomfortable flutterings rose to my throat.

“Just begin anywhere. I will catch up with you.”

“Well, in that case, how about rock buns…?” I was muttering to myself again. I sat up straighter in my seat and looked over at his gentle smiling face. He trusted me. I must not disappoint him.

I said, “It seems that age is catching up with me. I’m rather tired, that’s all.”

“You are being brave again.” He spoke quietly, but I understood him perfectly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I see you getting about, managing. I see you trying to smile when you knock over the milk bottles and have to bend to retrieve them from a gritty path. I see that you cope.”

“Well, doesn’t everyone?”

“I suppose so. You were going to tell me about rock buns.”

I stifled my reluctance and began slowly, spilling snippets and stories of my childhood: the way my mother would bake miracle melting biscuits once or twice and then never make them again. And later, away at school, while I was being teased and left in among reams of rules that others would easily flout but which clogged me up, how I found motherly friendship with the kitchen staff. They baked all sorts of delightful cakes for us, coconut melts, shortbread, chocolate krispies and rock buns for afternoon tea; our consolation before prep began and dull routines of boarding school closed around us once more.

“But surely, it can’t have been that bad?” Arthur was lightly dismissive.

“Well, I suppose it wasn’t. We got used to it. But there was a sort of neglect that went with it, and a feeling that I could never be myself. I was forever hiding under sarcasm, frowns or routine.”

“There were the holidays to look forward to?”

“Yes. Anyway, the point is, I am unused to having someone look after me. It makes me emotional.” There was a long pause while I ate my jammy biscuit in the gathering gloom, turning away gratefully from my first impulse to weep.

“Perhaps you mean that you don’t look after yourself as well as you might, but that is hardly surprising. You have a wonderful daughter, you cope mostly alone, and you manage.”

“Yup! God, how I hate that word – manage! It is so dull and put upon.”

“We all manage,” he replied automatically. Still, to me the word conjures up such aching compromises, that I stuck with my assessment, my mouth set in a straight line.

With great deliberation I enunciated carefully, “I love rock buns, and chocolate cake and biscuits, and wine and cheese and tea and coffee and steak and chips and ice-cream, though not all at once.” My attempt at a joke fell flat. “So, I am just like everyone else, but none of that stuff agrees with me anymore. In the last few years I have discovered that if I eat steak, or drink a cup of coffee I cannot walk. Do you want to see me crawling around the house? If I eat butter my kidneys ache and my head itches. Ditto cheese. My wrists and fingers seize up. Chocolate cake makes me ill. I am fed up, not being able to do what everyone else takes for granted.”

There! I had said what I wanted, and the world was still here.

“I see. Is that all?”

It was quite the wrong thing to say. I burst into tears. “Yes. Not being able to do what everyone else does!” I managed a wail. “It is not just food, and chores, and not having a job or a husband. But everything,” I finished limply.

“Everything… yes.”

He let me sob and sniff and slowly reach up and out of the other side of my sad hole. I wanted him to put his arms around me, but I just sat in my seat. As I always have.

“And if I said you were lucky, how would you feel?”

I laughed a sad bark and sighed. “I would say, of course, you are right, and I would also say I don’t know. Most of the time I would agree with you.”

There was a movement over there, and over here. Suddenly Arthur was sitting next to me, holding both my hands in his own.

“You are lucky, Marian! You have a wonderful daughter. You can see her every day. You have your own little house, and you don’t have to work for a shitty boss who calls you up in the evenings or on your days off making unreasonable demands. You can please yourself every week day from eight in the morning until half past three or four or whenever your daughter gets home. And in the evenings when there is no-one to talk to, you have your daughter who loves you, living under your roof. I call that lucky!”

I was ashamed and I sat forward starting to say sorry, but he interrupted me. “No, don’t apologise. What did you say, except how you feel? What’s wrong with that?”

I smiled again and sniffed, and he handed me a handkerchief.

“I’ll get it back to you,” I nodded.

“No. Just keep it.” For some reason, Arthur seemed to be avoiding my eyes.

“What is it?”

“I spent years – God, it was months, years – looking after Lilian. At the end she couldn’t speak, she was fed through all sorts of tubes; she slept in one room down the hall. A nurse watched her and I was upstairs. I used to go and sit with her at night, hold her hand and pray that God would come and pull her out of her misery. But it was years. And then one day I looked up and they were taking away her bed, her boxes of pills and the monitor, and the nurses were shaking my hand and getting ready to leave. The cleaners were coming round to clear away the smell of urine and bandages and for the first time in months, I opened the window, with the old-fashioned catch, that looked out over the lawn at the back, with its rose borders and the cherry tree in the middle. It was spring. And finally, Lilian was finished with breathing in jerks and spasms. She was beautiful again, I knew. And I had lost her. She had gone. All that was left was an empty space, the marks on the carpet where her bed had been, and the boxes of sterile gloves and tissues. It was a relief. I felt guilty.”

***
(to be continued)

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 5

There followed a long silence, which neither of us felt like breaking. I looked out of the window, admiring the darkening folds of garden green that I could see behind him, the flaring reflections in the windows. Gazing at streaks of oranges and pinks trying to break through a bank of deep blue sky, I felt at home in the silence. Arthur was quiet for so long that when he did speak, I almost jumped.

“My wife was ill for over twenty years, though she became ill so slowly that for several years we hoped she might beat the odds. I’m so glad it’s all over. All I feel now is relief, and regret that we didn’t have more good time together – she was a few years younger than me.” Another pause, and then he said, “I feel sorrow, of course, to have to get to the end of what is left of my life by myself.”

Without thinking, I said, “Snap” and he looked up sharply.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Snap. I feel the same about my husband.” I sighed.

“But – do you not have his company? Does he not sit by you of an evening?”

“Well, he might, I suppose, but he died last year, in January. He was cycling when a car ploughed him off the road.”

“Oh, golly, I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, well. So I know how you feel.”

Discovering we had love and death in common, there was suddenly no need to say much more. I didn’t need to ask about Lilian. I knew that when he wanted to, Arthur would fill me in. And I would get round to doing the same, about Karl.

We had drinks and cakes and a paper to look at. I sipped my drink, steam wetting my face as I breathed. The rock buns were shop-made, and from the smell of them, they had used lots of butter, so I only nibbled a small bite, which tasted better than I remembered; much richer.

“Thank you for inviting me over,” I said. And then I remembered that my neighbour didn’t yet know who I was.

“I’m Marian. I’ve been living next door for about three-and-a- half years”. It seemed a bit lame to offer my hand for a shake, so I left it lying over the table. Arthur nodded, and there was a fresh smile on his face, as though he was grateful to get on with being ordinary.

“My name is Arthur, and I have been here about a month. You probably saw the removers coming and going. I used to live in a much bigger house, hence the chaos. I should throw lots of stuff in the way of second hand uplifts but somehow I can’t bear to, not yet. This way, I can pretend that Lil will be coming soon, to help me sort it all out.”

“Yes, of course. There’s no hurry, is there?”

“None at all. Now,” he rose and stretched himself. He was very tall. “If you’ve had enough of sitting here, shall we repair to the sitting room? Withdraw to the withdrawing room?” Arthur threw me such an arch question mark that I grinned.

“Yes, let’s.”

“I think I can promise you a softer chair….” He was striding quickly ahead. “I am still finding stuff,” he called. “I only found the kettle last week. The removers had stowed it in the drawer of the chest that went into the spare room.”

“I’m sorry.” I called, which sounded strange, so I said nothing else.

I was pleasantly surprised by the snug room behind a glass-panelled door. Carpeted, and fitted with a “real flame” gas fire obviously new and bought to impress for a sale – no use for actual warmth – the room was comfortable and had been recently painted in clean, fresh colours.

“Real flame? This thing is no good for colder days….”

I risked asking, “Are you by any chance a mind reader? You seem to know what’s on my mind.”

With a flap of his hand, Arthur replied modestly, “Not at all. It’s just that I learned to read my wife when she stopped being able to speak. It comes easily now, though some people find it creepy.” He laughed. That was when I knew I liked this man very much.

***
(to be continued)

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‘Faith, Hope and Love’ Part 4

In the gathering dusk I approached my neighbour’s front door with an unusual, childlike dread. The gate creaked loudly as I opened it and then stood stupidly trying to latch it shut behind me. I gave it a pointless shove, then abandoned it as my legs threatened to get tangled round my elbow crutch. Certain I was being watched from the living room, I had no desire to linger. Up the path, stooping in the unfamiliar doorway, I pushed the bell. It sounded very far away, but before I had time to wonder, the door was flung open and Arthur was saying, “Come in, I’ve just got the kettle on….”

I saw his back retreating in double quick time and felt strangely thankful for the careless reception. We could skip pointless questions like, “Had a nice day?” and there was no need to fib or fluster as the toe of my shoe caught on the edge of the door frame, which I hastily clutched for support. Pleased not to have to apologise or explain, I liked it here already.

Arthur was reaching out an arm. “Don’t you want to take off your coat?” I felt heat from the hall radiators wrapping comfortably around me. “My wife liked it hot, and I haven’t got used to turning the heat down.” Without thinking, I leaned and patted his shoulder, “No worries!” It could have been embarrassing, but then, my neighbour had already seen me crawling.  “Come through” he said, “I was just making tea.”

I passed a clutter of dishes and a newspaper opened out over an old kitchen table. I recognized the same daily as mine, and could not resist leaning over to see how the crossword was going. Most days I try the cryptic, because doing it reminds me of Karl and I sometimes feel he is close beside me, as I try to work out what ‘Lady with pink vest some say in past tense’ might mean. It’s a foreign language, but I like it.

Arthur busied himself with mugs and plates of biscuits. “Never really been one for crosswords, but Lilian was very good at them…”

“Yes,” I muttered, “That’s the same with Karl”.

“Karl?”

“My husband.”

There was a tiny awkward pause as I dithered, deciding what to say, how much to share. Not only did our respective spouses like crosswords more than we do, but they are both has-been spouses. There seemed no point in being frigid about the fact that Karl is dead. Still, I couldn’t face filling the space with the sound of my voice, sharing my sorrows. Before I could decide, fate stepped in.

“Here, have a seat.” My host moved a chair at the kitchen table out for me. “You’re in luck. The place is tidy because my woman came yesterday…”

“Your woman?”

“The cleaner, you know….”

A plate Arthur was bringing to the table wobbled in his hand. He frowned as he moved about, fetching mugs and teaspoons, then started to pour tea into two mugs.

“Will you have some? I forgot, you said you don’t… I can offer you something else, if you would rather…?”

That he was considering me, I found unexpectedly moving. I aimed my glance over his shoulder for a second, trying not to blink and answered, “Weak tea is fine.”

“I’ve got some rock buns…” The plate, on which sat soft, yellow dollops was set between us. Rock buns? I hadn’t seen one of these since I was at school. I could hardly believe they still existed in the world of retail baking. I lifted one and bit into it, just to see if it tasted the same.

“I thought you said you weren’t much for cakes?”

”I did say that, yes, but you asked me if I wanted one, and I do.”

“Ah, so you don’t eat rock buns, you just taste them, is that it?”

“Well, it’s a very long story.”

“I’m not in a hurry. Are you?” Arthur’s face was calm and relaxed, but there was a lift of sad humour in his voice.

“Not at all. Though Elaine might wonder where I’ve got to.”

“Your daughter?”

“Yes. She is thirteen going on thirty. You know what kids are like.”

“Actually,” Arthur coughed, “My wife and I – Lilian – we, ah, we never had children.” Arthur caught a crumb in his throat and coughed again, then wiped his eyes.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…”

I reached across to pat his hand, suddenly aware that there was only tea on the table and that my cup was empty. To mute the sudden tenderness I felt for a man I had only just met, I rose quietly and poured myself half a mug of hot water from the shiny kettle perched on the kitchen top. I resumed my seat then topped up with the brown stuff, just as if I had been living there forever. He forgot that he should be playing host. His wife just died.

***
(to be continued)

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‘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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