Over the years, whenever I’d returned home I always knew that I could find him in his shed. I’d go down past the old cottages, then across the wasteland till I came to the patchwork quilt of allotments, with their turnips and runner beans laid out in obedient rows. He’d be there sucking on his pipe and bemoaning the fact that we were giving up our English birthright and getting lost in a United States of Europe, or the fact that one never sees men in collars and ties on Sundays, or expressing his continued astonishment that ordinary folk could have any respect for the memory of Churchill, a man who during the 1926 General Strike had, as Dad had been telling me since I was a small child, referred to the workers as “the enemy.” I would listen, knowing that I would never hear a word from either him, or Mum, about Sheila, but everything about their behaviour suggested a profound pain at having failed to hold on to one of their two children. It was, of course, easier for me; she was my younger sister, and although I missed having her in my life, I didn’t depend upon her in any way. I never had.
The young man who is weeding among the tombstones recognises me. We have one of those “nod and a wave” relationships. He seems to enjoy his work, or at least he never complains about it, which surprises me. I’m so used to young people who either don’t want to work, or who make it clear that although they are working they are doing so reluctantly. This young man’s work ethic seems to have been born in an earlier generation. In fact, he dresses as though he were from an earlier generation, with his flat cap and big boots. I stand and look down at my parents, their names freshly picked out with a wet cloth. I can feel the young man’s eyes upon me, and it suddenly occurs to me to ask him if he’s ever seen anybody else standing here looking at Mum and Dad. Maybe Sheila has visited out of some vaguely remembered sense of duty, choosing her times to coincide with my absences. For a moment I toy with the idea, but the truth is Sheila would never bother to cultivate such cunning. Not my Sheila, the seventeen-year-old girl who ran away from home while I was at university, and who showed up penniless on my doorstep. Once I’d recovered from the shock of opening the door on Sheila and her lopsided grin, I asked her in. She left her rucksack by the door and sat down on the edge of my single bed.
“Where have you been, Sheila? You look like a cat dragged you backwards through a hedge.”
She stared at the Jean-Luc Godard poster on my wall and said nothing, so I made her a cup of tea and waited for her to speak. I had concert practice that evening, but I knew that I wasn’t going to make it. While the tea was brewing I quickly excused myself and dashed down the dormitory corridor. I slipped a note under my friend Margaret’s door. I didn’t feel like explaining anything to anybody, so a note was easier. I told Margaret that something had come up, which it had, and that they would have to manage without me tonight. I hurried back to my room and closed the door behind me, then locked it. Sheila didn’t look up. I felt guilty, but I couldn’t help but notice how much bigger on her chest she’d become. I poured us both a cup of tea and then sat next to my sister, ready to talk. But she wasn’t ready to talk, and her eyes began to fill with tears that eventually spilled out and ran down her gaunt cheeks.
I must have lingered too long at the graveside, for it appears that I’ve missed the four o’clock bus. A woman of my age finds it both difficult, and a little undignified, to run. I sit on the bench by the bus stop and stare at the hordes of badly dressed schoolchildren milling about and shouting. I recognise the green sweatshirts, and the ties that hang down like cords that you might yank to turn on a light switch. Then I realise that I know some of the kids, so I look away and try to make myself as inconspicuous as possible. A doublechinned man, burdened with shopping bags, sits next to me. He was on the bus that brought us out from the village a few hours earlier, and he attempts conversation. “It’s still warm out.” I can’t help him, and so I smile and silently beg his forgiveness. He registers my reluctance and opens a copy of the evening newspaper. I look around and wonder how I ever managed to live in this noisy, filthy town. Mercifully, I now live in Weston, or in the “new development,” which the man next to me has no doubt already guessed. I’m sure that he sits at home at the bottom of the hill, probably by himself, judging by all the shopping bags, and considers me and everybody else in the new development to be interlopers. All of us, disturbing a pattern that has gone on for decade after decade until Stoneleigh came along to make them feel as though their shrinking lives, which were already blighted by closures and unemployment, were even less important than they had hitherto imagined.
It’s a little after five-thirty when the bus rolls slowly into the village. There are those who don’t stir, for they will be alighting at one of the small towns or lonely villages beyond Weston. However, I watch as my bench partner gets to his feet and struggles with his shopping bags, and then two younger women make their way from the back of the bus and join him at the door. I bring up the rear. The driver is a polite young kid who seems to specialise in this route, and he wishes us all, individually mind you, a good night. Strange, I think, as it’s still bright out, but I appreciate the gesture. Usually I would turn to the left and begin the short walk up the hill, but having read some of the back of the man’s evening newspaper it occurs to me that catching up on the news would be a nice way to spend the evening. I wait until the bus has moved off on its way, and then I cross the main road. Carla sees me coming towards her and, at least to start with, she’s a little shocked, as though I were the last person she wanted to see. Then she catches herself and looks somewhat nervously at me.
“Hello, Miss.” She is dressed to go out, with her eyes overly made-up and her hair neatly combed so that it fans down over her shoulders. If I’m not mistaken there’s even a dusting of glitter on her face. I look at her, budding all over, and done up like a promiscuous little so-and-so, but there is nothing that I can say to her by way of admonishment for she is no longer one of my pupils.
“Hello, Carla. I’m sorry I won’t be seeing you again.”
Carla shrugs, not with insolence, but as though to imply there’s nothing that she can do about the situation.
“I’m sorry too, Miss.” She pauses. “Is it true you’ll be going into a home?”
I say nothing, but I’m taken aback.
“It’s just that people are saying you’re ill.”
I stare at Carla who, despite her mother, is not a bad girl. Christ, I’ve taught far worse. In fact, as far as delinquency and bad behaviour go, this girl is practically an angel. I begin to think of what I’d do with her if she were my child. But she’s not my child or, if truth be known, even my friend. She asks this intrusive question because, like all young people today, she feels entitled; entitled to dress, behave, speak, walk, do whatever they please.
“Yes, Carla, I am ill, and it’s a bully of an illness.” The girl looks momentarily alarmed. “But you’re all right. It’s not catching.” Carla smiles weakly.
“What is it, Miss?”
“What is it? What do you think it is?”
Carla shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know, Miss. Your nerves?”
I can see that the blushing girl wishes that she’d never asked the question, so I rescue her.
“I don’t think I’m quite yet ready for a home, Carla, do you?” I throw her a parting smile and move off into the newsagent’s, leaving her to wait for the bus that will no doubt take her into town for her night of teenage antics with her friends.
It’s a bit of a pull up the last stretch of the hill and I begin to tire. It has already been a long day and my hip has started to hurt. Too many years of sitting at the piano in the same position, said my old doctor when I first went in to complain about it. “You need regular exercise” was his solution, but some chance, I thought, looking after Brian, trying to teach all day and taking on more pupils at night to make some extra money. And so the hip just got worse, until it reached the stage where it was difficult for me to walk any distance. That’s when the old doctor gave me the steroid shots and, miraculously enough, they seemed to do the trick. Now that I’m retired I do, of course, have a lot more time to exercise. But what use is it now? Dr. Williams told me not to think like this, but Dr. Williams is a specialist, not a proper GP. I can feel the evening newspaper getting damp in my grip, so I tuck it into my bag. And then, as I enter the cul-de-sac, I see Solomon. As usual, by himself, washing his car, oblivious to everything around him. He has a habit of keeping the car radio on, and a window wound down just a little bit, so that he can listen to light music on Radio 2. I hate this kind of mindless commercial rubbish, but I’ve never told him this for fear of offending him. He puts it on when he drives me, although he makes a point of asking first. I’m always accommodating and I say “fine,” so it’s obviously my own fault. I’m sure he isn’t going to throw a fit or anything if I say, “No, I don’t like it,” but generally I try to be pleasant. As I come up to him I realise that today there’s no music. He’s washing his car in silence.
“Is everything all right?” Solomon asks me this without looking up at me. For a second or so I’m taken aback, but I understand that it’s probably his way of being discreet. He’s allowing me my space. I stop and look at him waxing the bonnet of his car.
“I think everything’s all right,” I say. “I missed the bus coming back, but that’s about the highlight of my day.”
Solomon stares at me.
“You missed the bus? How did that happen?” He seems genuinely concerned, so I try to set his mind at ease.
“No emergency or anything. I just spent too much time with my parents.” He continues to look puzzled. “At the cemetery. Time just flew by.”
“Oh, I see.” He puts down his cloth now. “Miss Jones, it is true that sometimes life can be difficult, yes?” He turns to face me. The dying sun forms a halo around his head and for a moment I find myself more caught up with this image than with his enquiry. Solomon notices that my attention has drifted off, but he simply waits until my mind returns.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I must be tired after the walk up the hill.” He seems confused now, but we both know that his question still hangs in the air between us. “Yes, Solomon, sometimes life can be difficult.” I pause. “And why on earth do you still insist upon calling me Miss Jones.” I laugh now. “For heaven’s sake, I keep telling you to call me Dorothy. I don’t employ you, you know.”
“Yes, Dorothy. I know this. I am just trying to be polite.”
I feel bad now, because I can see that he doesn’t know if I’m mocking him.
“Solomon, you couldn’t be any more polite if you tried. In fact, I sometimes wonder if you shouldn’t be less polite. People will take advantage, you know.”
Solomon says nothing, he just smiles that same enigmatic smile that always seems to be on his face.
“I am sure that your parents were wonderful people.” He isn’t giving up. I set down my bag now, but he continues. “I would like to learn more about your family.”
“Well, talking about my parents and my sister, these are not easy topics, Solomon.”
“But it is not good to keep these things locked up inside.”
I look at him and understand that he is only speaking to me because he wishes to help. However, we shouldn’t be standing in the cul-de-sac, in the full view of others, talking like this.
“You know, Solomon, why don’t you come inside and I’ll brew a nice pot of tea. When you’ve finished your car, that is.”
Solomon raises his eyebrows.
“You want me to come inside for tea?”
“Well,” I say, “only if you want to. I might even give you a biscuit, if you’re lucky.” Solomon smiles and he throws down his cloth.
“A biscuit? Now the temptation is too great.”
“No rush,” I say. “I’ve got to put the kettle on. You might as well finish your car.” He wipes the excess water from his hands by rubbing them along his overalls. Then he bends down and tips the bucket of soapy water into the gutter.
“I will just finish the waxing.”
“I’ll see you in a minute.” As I turn to walk towards my house, the full glare of the dying sun hits me in the face. Solomon has been blocking out much of its force, but I now squeeze my eyes closed against its powerful light.
Solomon waits until he has had a second cup of tea before he asks his question. I look at him as he prepares himself. He is a thin man and he seems dwarfed by the armchair. Not that he’s sickly, but his legs and arms seem a bit too long for his body. I offer him the whole pack of biscuits in an attempt to stem his question, but it is too late.
“You have not really spoken of your illness. I am sorry if I seem to be prying.”
“You’re not prying.” I make a bowl with my hands and cradle the cup.
“But will you be fine?”
“Dr. Williams says things are all right for now, but I need more tests.”
“But he does not understand the problem?”
“So he says.”
“But I do not understand. You appear to me to be strong.”
“I have difficulty sleeping. And sometimes my mind wanders. You must have noticed this.”
I look at Solomon, who now seems somewhat embarrassed that he has raised the subject, and we fall into silence. He stares at me, and I wish that he would look away, but I can see that he has no intention of doing so.
“That’s enough about me,” I say, trying to strike a lighter tone.
“If you say so.”
“I do, I do.” Here is the moment that I’ve been hoping for. An opening into which I can place my own question. “But what about you, Solomon? I hardly know anything about you.”
I look across at him, and he suddenly seems very tired. He has not yet finished his new cup of tea, and the cup hangs at an angle in his hand. It is politely balanced over the saucer, which he supports in the broad palm of his other hand, as though he were holding a small coin. He washes his car, he drives me to the hospital, he stays at home behind his blinds. At night he patrols the culs-de-sac. He smiles nervously in my direction, as though apologising for his inability to answer my question. But it doesn’t matter. I look at him and feel sure that at some point soon he will lever his thin frame out of the chair and pretend that he has something that he must attend to. Always polite. Until then I am happy to watch him as his mind drifts beyond my question, his idle thoughts turning over like leaves in the wind. I am simply happy to be in Solomon’s company.