Authors: Trezza Azzopardi
Mr Stadnik gets up, passes by me into the hall, heaves open the cellar door.
This is where a brave man hides, he says, pointing down the stone steps, When he is old and cannot understand. This is where he dies.
Darker still in the hallway, with only a glimmer of light between us.
I do not doubt you see wonderful things in your head, he whispers evenly, Pretty children in bonnets, buried treasure, starlit skies. Go on, make money from fools. It’s easy, in this time.
Speak your fine words, with your fine clothes and your fine hair and your
gift
. But do not imagine that you bring comfort. There is no comfort in this world, and there is nothing in the
next. The dead, Princess, are the dead.
It’s hard to keep a friend who won’t believe. No point telling him that the spirits decide for themselves when to come. They can be bloody-minded, spiteful as a
child. The state of the house after Mr Stadnik got his hands on it – I should think my grandfather would have had a few choice words, if he ever turned up. But he never did. I could give
reasons, quote Bernard’s gospel. But Mr Stadnik had cast a doubt over everything. I thought I knew it all, until then. I was taught to believe – not just in the spirits, but in the gift
they said I had. They’d turned my head, Bernard and Jean. I wouldn’t sit on Mr Stadnik’s dirty chair for fear of catching something. Fine clothes, fine words. Mr Stadnik was right
about that. It makes me laugh now; these days my words are not so fine, and the only kind of seat I get to enjoy is a bench, marking time, looking at adverts for furniture I can never buy, in a
freesheet I took from a rubbish bin.
I tried to keep Mr Stadnik, that was my mistake. I could have gone back to Bernard and Jean and made my apologies. But my insides were hollow. I had seen the ghost of Joseph. I
had
seen
him, I was sure of that. It cleans you out like a dose of meths. If I think of that time now, it’s white as a page. There was nothing left of me, after the hall, and the bird, after I saw
Joseph fall. And it wasn’t beautiful, try as I might to imagine it. He was young and afraid. He fell from that tower on a flat grey morning, like a stone into mud. No bells ringing out a
wedding song; just crows, screaming in a ring above his head. That’s all there was to mark his flight. No one told me, not Aunty Ena, not Alice, but it doesn’t matter. Doesn’t
alter the fact. Fell like a stone.
Just when I thought there was no one else left, Mr Stadnik appeared, bringing a feeling I could hardly remember: safety. I thought he would look after me. I wouldn’t have to stand in front
of the faces and hope that I could make the right words come out. But then we went to Chapelfield, and I understood him for what he had become: a mad old man, buying back the pawn shop with his
wages, picking over the rubble, hoarding the debris. As if these people would ever come back, turn up at his house, sort through all the boxes, hoping to find that silk blouse her mother wore when
she got married, the father’s sheet music, or his watch, or the silverware handed down, the tangled baby clothes. As if a single item could bring a person back to life.
When the rain stopped, we crossed into Chapelfield gardens. It was good to be in the air, that smell of light after a downpour. We wandered around the gardens, now and then Mr Stadnik bending to
pull up a weed, or examine a fallen leaf. The wrecked pagoda stood in the middle of a patch of scrubby grass. We climbed the steps and leaned on the rail, side by side in our new, awkward silence,
looking out across the trees. Hunched over, Mr Stadnik was even smaller than I remembered, almost grotesque, with his shiny black hair and his thick glasses and the film of grime on his skin. His
cuffs hung loose about his wrists; on the right one, he wore a gold bracelet with what looked like a heavy charm attached.
What’s that? I asked, A keepsake?
No, he said, touching his finger to the chain, Over there – pointing to a bank of shattered houses – I found this chain.
You’re just keeping it safe, then, I said, Until someone comes to claim it.
Correct.
Bernard had a name for it, what Mr Stadnik did: Bernard called them the Vultures. We saw men like him all the time, sifting through the bombsites, trying to find something worth
selling.
And this, he said, holding the charm up to the light for me to inspect, you will recognize.
It wasn’t a charm: it was a small round brooch. The stone was lost. Aunty Ena’s opal. He hadn’t even mentioned her, yet he wore her only piece of jewellery.
She always said opals were unlucky, I said, Did she give it to you, then?
Of course, he said, his voice bitter, How can I be so stupid! You think I stole it. No. She gave this to me. As a token of love.
He jerked his other arm into the air, revealing the cuff I remembered he wore, its laces frayed with wear. Unfastened it. Held his wrist up to the light, showing me two livid
lines where the leather bit into the skin, framing a series of coarse white scars.
And here is another token, he said.
I could read nothing in the marks.
What does it mean?
This lover was called hope, he said, A foolish name, don’t you think? I carved it myself, after a different war.
My father’s words came back in a whisper on his lips.
Cross my heart and hope to die.
He ran his finger along the scars, then carefully replaced the leather cuff.
They say hope is the worst of all evils, because it prolongs the torment of man. Believe me, there are far worse evils in this world. Never give up hope, Princess. Promise me.
~
The roof of the cathedral glinted through the trees. We walked to a clearing to get a better view. I wanted to keep him, still. I was ashamed that I could think of him as a
thief, when he was simply collecting bits of hope; keeping them safe for others to claim back. I thought by showing him the cathedral roof, he would forgive me. Perhaps he would recognize that we
were both attempting the same thing; I was trying to give hope too, in a way. I wanted it to be like old times again. I was wrong to want.
Look, I said, Look at the roof, Mr Stadnik.
The sun was low in the sky, a bank of rose-coloured cloud above it. The cathedral stood proud in the dusk.
It’s a roof, he said, shrugging, A fine example.
See? I said, pointing to where the blue light shone, soft as melt, See the spirits there?
A fine example of a zinc roof, he continued, Beautiful, how it takes on the colour of the sky. Like a pool of water. Watch, it will change in a minute.
We looked on as sunlight caught it, the blue dissolving into pink, pink into purple as the last rays sank away, then a simple, dull grey.
Your spirits have gone home, Princess, and so must I, he said, breaking from my side. He looked baffled, bitten by a thought.
You are welcome to stay with me, of course. It is your home too, he said.
I told him I had to go back. They would be worrying about me. I lied for both of us.
Then take care of yourself, he said, and as he turned, Oh, beautiful hair, by the way, and the colour – just like mine. We two, we could be the exact same age!
He bowed, took my hand and placed the brooch in my palm.
A token of love for a Princess, he said, waving me away.
The woman eyes me suspiciously from round the edge of the door; the rain has been blown away by a bitter wind, leaving a sky black as jet. When the dark came down and the city
shrank into itself, I thought again about Mr Stadnik’s offer. I even went up to the door. He had taken his handcart inside. The memory of the clothes piled high in there, like so many
discarded pelts – it was enough to stop me. I asked at The Steam Packet if anyone knew of lodgings. The man looked me up and down, considered a while, before finally directing me to Mrs
Philips.
Mrs Philips does not look pleased at being disturbed so late. She won’t let me in, despite the cold. A gulp of air whistles past her down the hall, banging a door deep inside the
house.
I charge by the week, she says, In advance. I’ve got one room left if you’re interested. It’s a bit on the small side, mind.
She shuts the door on me, disappears down the hall, reappearing a minute later with her scarf on her head and a coat draped over her shoulders. We cross the road to the boarding house, where she
lets me in.
Here’s the key, she says, If you want to take a look, motioning me up the stairs.
When I get to the first landing, I realize she’s not coming up.
The very top, she shouts, Private, it says on the door. Toilet’s on the floor below.
The room is furnished with a single bed, a chair and a wardrobe. The sloping roof on either side of the bed gives it the appearance of a crib; the windows above it show the
clear night sky. In one corner is an ancient stove, propped up on a pile of books; in the other are two filthy dusters, a broom and an empty tin of floor wax.
Private, it says on the door.
Perfect, I say, looking up into my two black squares of the night.
~
On the first morning, in the kitchen, I meet the other residents: an old woman who kept me awake all night with her cough; a younger one who sits shivering in an armchair next
to the fire, her trembling hands reaching out, over and over, to steady her legs; one who stands by the window, not looking or speaking to anyone; and a fourth woman, freckle-faced, with a
tinkling, nervous laugh, who makes up for the awkwardness by talking all the time.
Pleased to meet you, she says, ducking her head like a chicken, My name’s Noreen. This here’s Sissy – gesturing to the coughing woman – And over there by the fire,
that’s Emily. Hogging the hot seat as usual! Say hello to our new friend, Em – she won’t stand up, my lover, it’d take her all day. Just on release, she is, from Bethel
Street. And Georgie too, she said, pointing at the woman near the window, We call her Garbo. It’s our little joke, on account of her not saying much. It’s in the eyes, you know.
I won’t be able to remember all the names at once, I say.
Don’t you worry about that, says Noreen, You just tell us who
you
are. Not often we have such a lady in our midst. We’ll have to mind our manners now, girls! The other women
look away. I can’t tell whether they’re embarrassed by her or by me.
Go on then, she says, in the silence, What’s
your
name?
Winnie, I say.
Winnie what?
Just Winnie.
Her smile takes in the whole room.
First-name terms is fine by us, she says, We’re all on first names here, aren’t we, girls?
The others completely ignore her.
Anything you want, Winnie, just you ask. You’re welcome to pool your points with us. That’s what we do, and it suits us just fine.
I don’t have coupons, I say, But I’ve got a bit of money. She gives me a roguish look.
No last name, no book, you’re a mystery girl. Never mind. I know where you can get stuff. That’s right, isn’t it? Noreen says, to no reply. She leans in close.
But don’t tell Mrs Philips. Stickler, she is. Doesn’t like us to break the rules.
~
All the residents here are women, and more than the four I’ve met – six at least. Most of them have come from Bethel Street House. There’s one who seems to
spend all her time in the washroom, crying, and another one I’ve only ever heard behind her door; Mrs Philips and another lady take her meals in on a tray. She keeps to her room, and I keep
to mine. Everything I need, I take up the stairs, hidden in my case.
Noreen is hardest to avoid. While the other women circle me like a pack, or stare blankly through me, Noreen goes out of her way to make an excuse to stop me on the stairs, just as I’m
going out.
Business, is it? she asked, the first time. I thought it best to just agree, but she wasn’t letting me go so easily. She gave me a narrow look.
I thought I recognized you from somewhere, she said, Maybe I’ve seen you about in the city. I work too, in a manner of speaking. Mrs Philips doesn’t know, mind, so don’t say.
Careless talk and all that!
I said nothing; she wouldn’t get any kind of talk from me. But Noreen was persistent, closing in with her sweet scent and her knowing little eyes.
Get you anything you care for, I can. I’ve got contacts. Give us a shout if you’re wanting anything.
I said I’d remember for next time, and left it at that.
~
What I do, when I go out, is walk. There’s no one I want to meet, so I avoid the main roads. I learn the passageways and cuttings and paths that lead onto open land. Each
day, I walk a bit further. I just walk. It requires no gift and no thought. I walk until my legs ache and my feet are sore. It’s a long way, I tell myself, a long way to the end of the world,
and I must plan for it. I walk in a straight line, as far as I’m able. It’s twenty-five miles to the sea. I have never seen it. I have no ambition, but if there’s a wish inside
me, it’s to walk there.
~
When I run out of money, I go back to the pawn shop and I sell my coat. It’s valuable, made of wool. All those things Mr Stadnik collected, the old suit jackets and the
shirts and bits of baby clothes too tiny to bear, they’re worth something. He said he was buying them back from the pawnbroker – to store them for the people. I’m thinking he
lied. Perhaps he was really taking them in to sell them. I never saw what he had in those two paper bags. I can think anything now, of anyone.
Jean taught me many things, apart from the coaching and the hymns. I get by on very little, I can fashion a new coat from the blanket on my bed. It’s no disgrace to wear it. When the cold
creeps in at night, I lay my new coat across the bed, and it becomes what it used to be.
It’s my boots that fail me. The walking has ruined them. I think of Hewitt, the soft slippers, and how easy it would be for me to just drop by, be polite. Then I remember his hands on my
feet. I take the two dusters from the corner of the room, and tie them round the soles. It serves its purpose, until Noreen notices.