“I should go now, Mahmood.” She wants to pamper him, innocently. She wants to feel the warmth of his skin. However, she knows that this would be unwise. She smiles weakly, and then she quickly turns and leaves Mahmood’s shop.
At home she puts the letters, all of them, into a metal pail. She walks to the back door and pulls it open. The door sticks. It has always stuck, but without a man to help she has had to learn to tolerate the door. For a moment she wonders if she should rummage through the letters in case there is one from Geoff Waverley. A permanent job? Does the man have any idea of what he is doing? She thinks not. She strikes the match against the large household box, and then she drops the lighted stick into the pail. She watches as the flames begin to dance now. The smoke will attract some attention, but most of her neighbours will be at work. It will burn quickly. There is no need to unpack, of course. There is no need to even telephone Sheila. In the morning she will place flowers on the graves of her parents, and then take the bus to London. Once there she will telephone Mr. Jowett and accept his offer. Early retirement. And nothing to fill her life with, apart from Sheila. But this is a new blessing. A purpose, and a chance to repair history. She feels fortunate. As though life is now finally beginning. And almost everybody seems happy with her.
When she reaches Brixton she discovers the house to be in darkness. She places her bag on the kitchen table and shouts for Sheila, but her sister does not respond. She goes upstairs and turns on the lights, and then she moves along the hallway to her sister’s bedroom and pushes gently at the door. Her sister is lying in bed, and the room is illuminated by a single lighted candle that burns on top of the chest of drawers. Sheila’s discarded wig lies on the laundry basket like an unloved pet. She tries not to make any noise as she spies on Sheila, who looks both peaceful and exhausted, although it’s apparent that life is slowly leaking out of her. She wonders about the wisdom of having a candle burning in this fashion, but she does not want to blow it out in case her sister has some special reason for the candle being lit. So she closes the door and leaves Sheila at rest. Downstairs she puts on the kettle and makes herself a cup of tea. Then she hears a light knocking at the door and she rushes to open it before the person can knock again. She recognises Derek from the Labour Party meeting, but he is looking at her in a strange fashion, and his eyes are slightly watery, as though he has been crying.
“Sheila told me you’d be back today. I called earlier. I was wondering if we might go out for a drink?” She looks at this man in astonishment.
“A drink?”
“I mean so we can talk privately.” She thinks for a moment, and then she opens the door a little wider.
“Sheila’s asleep. If you want to talk privately, then we can do so here.” He hesitates for a moment, and then he realises that he has to make a decision.
“All right then. If you’re sure that this is fine by you.” She stands back to let him pass, and then she shuts the door behind him. He takes a seat at the kitchen table and she crosses the room and takes a cup from the cupboard over the sink.
“Tea?” He nods.
“Yes, please. Nothing in it.” She quickly makes the tea, places it before him, and then she sits opposite him. She picks up her bag and removes it from the table.
“Now then, is there something the matter?” Derek takes a sip of his tea and looks directly at her.
“I suppose there’s no easy way to say this, but it’s to do with Maria.”
“She’s not coming back, is she?”
“Well, it’s not that straightforward. Maria is outside in the car.” She opens her mouth to speak, but before she can ask any questions he continues. “Maria and I are, well, I suppose the easiest way of putting it is, an item.” She stares at Derek.
“You mean Maria has left Sheila for you?” He nods. “And does Sheila know this?”
“No, of course not, but I didn’t want to keep you in the dark.”
“I see, but you don’t mind keeping Sheila in the dark, is that it?”
“Well, that’s just the point. We’re both worried about what effect it will have on Sheila’s health if she finds out.”
“So you want it to be our little secret?”
Derek says nothing. He paws his mug of tea as though he is about to drink it, but then he gently pushes it away.
“I’m sorry, I’d better go.”
“Yes, you’d better. Especially if she’s outside in the car. We wouldn’t want her to get lonely, would we?”
Derek stands. “I can see you’re upset and I don’t blame you. But these things happen.”
She laughs. “I won’t dignify that with a response.”
She and Derek stare at each other, but she decides to say nothing more, not wanting the responsibility of further curdling this man’s already inadequate sense of himself. Derek lowers his shameful eyes and turns to leave, and she follows him to the door. He waits before opening it, and then he turns to face her.
“For what it’s worth, Maria is devastated by this situation.”
“You mean the Maria who is sitting outside in the car, right now?”
Derek opens the door and she closes it behind him without bothering to glance out into the street. She begins to wash the cups and the teapot, and having done so she puts everything back into the cupboard and then she sits in a spotless kitchen. The moonlight is streaming in through the kitchen window and again she remembers her father’s funeral, and Sheila’s wilful absence, but as the years have passed by she has found it increasingly difficult to blame her sister for her absence. After all, her sister’s pain is connected to her own guilt with a bond that neither of them can untie, and all that she now hopes for is the belated opportunity to repair the damage that has been wrought between them. Perhaps Sheila could move back north, and maybe buy a place by the seaside. They might walk together on the beach, and occasionally contemplate taking trips together. They might even go abroad. These are pleasant thoughts that will help her to survive another night in London in her sister’s lonely home. She turns off the kitchen light and then slowly climbs the stairs. Before going to her own room she checks on Sheila, but her sister is still sleeping peacefully. This time she decides to go in and blow out the candle.
The first policeman, the one in uniform, fingers the pencil with increasing frustration. He stares at her, and although he sympathises with her situation there is precious little that he can do. He has said this a number of times, and his body language makes this abundantly clear. And then the senior officer arrives, the one without a uniform, and he sits down beside her. He fails to reintroduce himself, but it is clear that he has been briefed on the situation.
“I’m sorry, but if your sister doesn’t wish to press charges, then there’s nothing that we can do. I mean, we’re pretty sure we know who he is.”
The officer pushes a piece of paper in front of her. She sees his sour face, and beneath it all his vital statistics. Details of his date of birth, height, weight, colour of eyes, everything. His address, phone number, it all seems so straightforward.
“I know it’s difficult to believe, but we just haven’t got a case without your sister’s co-operation.”
She stares at the officer, but there is effectively nothing further to be said. They both know that Sheila won’t change her mind. When Dorothy left the house this morning her sister was still in bed. Sheila had asked for a cup of hot water, and before she went to fetch it she relit her sister’s candle. All thoughts of the assault seemed to have fled from her mind. In fact, it was difficult for her to know what, if anything, Sheila was thinking about. The officer scrapes back his chair and gets to his feet.
“I’m sorry, love, but unless you can talk some sense into her, we’ve got to move on. It’s not as if we’re short of work round here.”
She sits on the upper deck of the bus, and to the left-hand side, so that she can keep an eye out for Imran’s Southern Fried Chicken. The uniformed policeman had told her that it would be the stop after this, and he had warned her to be careful. He’d laughed, “Don’t wear your Rolex,” but wishing to maintain some loyalty to Sheila she’d said nothing in reply. The bus is full of schoolchildren whom she knows should be at school, but who seem determined to make as much noise as possible. Her natural reflex as a teacher is to shout at them and demand that they calm down, but she has to remind herself that soon she will no longer be a teacher. That part of her life will presently be over. And even if she were still a teacher, these are London kids and highly unlikely to take any notice of a little old lady who should be downstairs anyhow. And then she sees Imran’s Southern Fried Chicken and her hand reaches up to the bell. As she steps from the bus the estate unfolds before her like a dark shadow, a vast landscape of council flats, barking dogs and worn-out grass. Filth is strewn everywhere, and a group of kids are playing what seems to be an organised game of football using a tin can instead of a ball. She walks past Bojangles, which she can see is a former Catholic church that has now become the estate disco, and then she passes the cracked and peeling outdoor swimming pool, which looks as though it has never seen any water.
Pretoria Drive leads to Pretoria Mansions, and she climbs the stinking urine-stained circular staircase to the third floor. Once there, she walks along the balcony and knocks at the door. He answers with a child, a half-caste girl whom she guesses to be about three, clutching one leg. “Yeah, what do you want?” He seems neither puzzled nor concerned as to why this woman has knocked at his door. No doubt he imagines her to be a social worker or a probation officer.
“I’ve come about my sister,” she says.
“What about your sister? I don’t know who your sister is.”
“You attacked and robbed her.” He reaches down and encourages the girl to go back into the flat. Then he steps out onto the third-floor balcony, forcing her to move back. He pulls the door behind him, then slowly, and very deliberately, he looks her up and down.
“You got a parachute?” She says nothing. “Cos you’re gonna fucking need one if you come round here talking like that.”
“You can keep the money, I just want her things back, that’s all.” He looks her up and down again.
“You know, you’ve got some front, but you can just fuck off. If I ever set eyes on you again you’re gonna get hurt, am I making myself clear?” She stares at him and wonders what possible nobility Sheila sees in such savages. He was making himself perfectly clear, standing there sweating his filth and spewing his words. Two steps removed from the jungle.
A week after Dorothy came back from Pretoria Mansions, Sheila died. The elderly doctor came to the house twice during the final day, but he said very little. What could he say? Sheila had refused the services of a nurse, and had made it clear that she would not be going near a hospital. There was always a candle burning in her room now, day and night. Redcurrant was her favourite scent, and its pungency permeated the whole house. Conscious almost to the last moment, Sheila lay back, her bald head supported by two pillows, and she stared at her sister. Her skeletal body could no longer summon the energy to maintain conversations, but there was nothing more to be said. At one point Derek telephoned. She took the call downstairs, but having listened to him express his regrets and then wonder if it might be all right for him and Maria to visit, she hung up. She went back upstairs, but Sheila did not ask her who had just called. Sheila never asked anything. Sheila trusted her. An hour later her sister died. She sat with her for a few minutes, and then she blew out the candle and left Sheila in the dark. Downstairs she was momentarily startled by a low gurgling sound that came from the fridge, but she soon regained her wits. She thought of her mum, who always told her eldest child not to search for God in a time of distress because that’s when he’s out of sight and busily taking care of you. “Wait till you’ve dried your eyes, love, then go looking for him. He’ll have more time then.” But her eldest child had never looked for God, and now it was too late.
She made a cup of tea and then sat down at the table and settled herself. To go back upstairs was out of the question, and so she had little choice now but to wait patiently in the hope that she might soon be released from the night that lay ahead. If only she had her piano to hand, for the patterns of music that she had been trying to stitch together in her mind for so long, they all made sense now. But not just music, for there was also a choral accompaniment of voices. Sitting at her sister’s table she could feel this powerful surge of music coursing through her body. For a moment she panicked and wondered if she should transcribe the patterns, but she immediately calmed down. She would not forget. The music had been a long time coming, and its disparate pieces were now secured by grief. They would never again become unstitched.
Dorothy sits before Mr. Jowett. During the past month she has suffered the misery of organising her sister’s affairs. Maria and Derek showed up at the brief cremation ceremony, along with others whom she had never met, but who she presumed had some affiliation with the Labour Party. Roger was conspicuous by his absence, but he sent flowers. The day after the cremation she put Sheila’s house on the market, and she found an unwed professional couple who were not in a chain. They didn’t seem to mind that she intended to leave the curtains and the kitchen blinds, but she got a company to clear the rest of the house. It almost broke her heart to see the huge patches that suddenly glared from the walls where furniture had once stood or pictures had been hung. And then Dorothy fled London and returned home, where she discovered that all her utility bills were red, that the streets were claustrophobically small and narrow, and that everything was so much bleaker in the north. She also discovered that she was truly by herself. The terms of her early retirement package had arrived in the mail. She required a signature from Mr. Jowett, and so an appointment was made with Miss Arthurton. And now she sits opposite Mr. Jowett and listens as he idly asks her what her plans might be, given the fact that she has all this time on her hands. As he speaks he hurriedly signs the papers, in triplicate. Might she be travelling abroad? As he asks this question he leans back, and she listens to the sickening creak of his chair. She says nothing and waits for him to hand her the papers. His good humour offends her, but this will be the last time that she will have to see Mr. Jowett, so she steels herself for the rest of the ordeal. It does not last long. He hands back the papers, but he still seems keen for a conversation to develop. She takes the papers and climbs to her feet. He extends a hand, which she shakes without enthusiasm, and then she turns and leaves, without closing the door behind her.