Being Here (12 page)

We regard each other for a minute or so. I wait for the thumbscrew of silence to produce its effect.

‘So what happens now?' she adds. Her hands flutter. ‘I keep saying I don't and you keep saying I do? I reckon we'll both get tired of that real soon. Take it from me, Mrs C. Nothing interesting has happened in my life. I can't even remember any stories by other people – you know? The books and stuff we've studied at school.'

‘I don't want those. I've probably read them all. I want yours.'

She grabs her hair in her hands.

‘Read my lips, Mrs C. I don't have …'

‘Where did you meet that boyfriend of yours? What's his name? Josh?'

She brings one hand back to her lap. The other plucks at her lower lip.

‘Josh? At school. I already told you that.'

‘Yes, but where specifically? Did you see him in class? Did he sit next to you? What did you think or feel when he touched you for the first time? Was the sun shining or did rain beat a tattoo on tin? Did he smell of fruit or day-old sweat? Are his fingers calloused from the strings of his guitar? Do his hands sing to you? Do they play you?'

Carly laughs. Once again I notice the rainbow of her braces. I will ask her about that when I have extracted what I can of her story. This will be difficult. She resists me. But I will win. Age, for once, is on my side.

‘Hey, Mrs C, you sound like my English teacher. She's always going on about stuff like that. Use the senses. Describe the details. Maybe we can come to an arrangement, you and me. What do you charge for writing an English essay?'

I do not reply. She laughs a little while longer, then stops. This time I tilt
my
head to one side. She holds up her hands in surrender.

‘Okay, okay. I have no idea why you'd find any of this interesting, but okay. I first saw Josh in the Undercroft. It's a place at my college, close to the canteen, where a lot of students hang out during frees. He was playing his guitar. Something slow. It wasn't fancy. I mean, he wasn't showing off or anything, like some kids do. Like they think they're hot shit and need everybody to know.'

Her eyes become distant. This is what I want. When the vision turns inwards and you lose yourself in a moment. Not recounting the past, but living it. Finding the truth.

‘I think that was the thing that made me notice him. The way he was … what's the word? Like, completely living what he was doing. Know what I mean? As if nothing else was happening and nothing else mattered. Into the music. Really into the music.'

‘Do you love him?'

Her eyes snap back to the present. I am not unduly worried. She can immerse herself in story and will do so again.

‘Hey, Mrs C. That's kind of a personal question.'

‘Of course it is,' I reply. ‘There's no point asking questions that aren't. Should I waste my time and yours by asking his shoe size? Do you love him?'

She uncurls from her seat and turns off the machine.

‘It's time I went,' she says.

‘Sit down,' I say. She doesn't. She stands, one hand on hip and regards me with studied neutrality. Her refusal is a small victory. ‘Is this what you think communication is about?' I continue. ‘The exchange of trivial detail, the refusal to talk about matters of importance? Words, words, words. They're free. They're easy. They exist, not to reveal the truth but to conceal it.'

I feel a pulse drumming in my temple. This conflict is not what I want, but I am powerless to prevent it. Words tumble through my mind and my lips phrase them. I have no control over this process. There is no filtering of what should be said and what withheld. The girl is offended. She is right to be offended. I am rude. But the words sweep me along. I am adrift on their current. Helpless.

‘Say something!' My voice is raised and cracked. ‘Your generation … everyone … for years now. Babbling. Always babbling, but saying nothing. Mobile phones. The internet. The communication revolution. It's a cruel joke. No one remembers the purpose of human interaction. The current commerce of words is an insane spending spree and do you know why? Because they are no longer valued. We coin and spend, spend and coin, and among the billions of daily bartered words, the endless babble, the text messages, the gossip in the newspapers masquerading as news, the verbal diarrhoea of television …' The pulse in my head quickens and jackhammers. ‘We say nothing and think we say everything …'

It is possible I will just talk, let the whole mad sea flood from me. And a small, buried consciousness within recognises the irony. This is rant, not communication. I am guilty of the very thing I rail against. But Carly's face stops me. There is a film of tears coating her eyes. They brim, but don't overflow. Her face is set and she doesn't avoid my gaze.

‘I don't want to talk about my feelings, Mrs C. Not right now.'

I know this is fair. This is reasonable. This is her right. But my words have an unstoppable momentum. I wonder if I am losing my mind.

‘But you expect me to talk about mine, Carly. We have spent hours together, you and I. I have told you things I have never told another person. I have stripped myself bare. Made myself vulnerable to someone a sixth of my age. I trusted you. I thought we had touched each other across a chasm of years. And yet you won't trust me.'

She raises her hands and opens her mouth, but I trample through her attempted interruption.

‘Do you think there is any risk in reciprocating, just a little, the confidences I have entrusted to you? Is it that you don't trust me?' She shakes her head as if flinging off annoyance, but I carry on. ‘Who am I going to tell, Carly? I am a forgotten person. I will never leave this place. I will be dead soon. Can you not even trust a dead person?'

I have crossed a threshold of good taste and I despise my self-pity even as it makes its appearance. There are tears in my eyes now, but I can't tell from which emotion they spring. I feel them break their banks and flood my face.

‘I didn't ask for confidences,' Carly says. Her voice is strong. She wipes her eyes with the back of an impatient hand and shifts her weight to the other leg. ‘I came here for research. For my assignment. You said you'd help. I didn't ask for your story.'

‘No. You didn't. That was my gift to you. And if you don't value it, then don't come back again.'

There is silence. I am shocked because I didn't know I was going to say that until the words appeared. Now I cannot take them back. Carly stands still for a moment. The dying sun is dipping beneath the trees. Through broad French windows, it paints her red. She hoists her bag upon her shoulder and turns towards the door. This time I want to call her back, but words have dried. She places her hand on the door handle.

‘Bye, Mrs C,' she says without turning.

Then she is gone. The door clicks shut.

I sob. I do not understand what I have done or the reasons for it. In all the world there are only two or three people who know I exist, or who would be upset if I ceased to be. And one of them – Jane – is paid for it. How could I offend a child who has spent her precious time – and for the young, all time is precious despite it being in unlimited supply – in listening to the ramblings of an old woman?

My story must be told. And now I have crushed the only medium through which it could be told.

My mind. My mind.

Is it crumbling?

And then, with a power that stops my breath, the answer comes to me.

I am scared.

I am scared to death. Of death. But, most of all, of loneliness.

CHAPTER 9

L
UCY AND I SIT
in our usual chairs.

Dinner has been and gone and the lounge is empty. The other residents are in the television room. When I first arrived here, the lounge was dominated by a huge television, but I changed all that. There was nowhere, other than your own room, to enjoy peace, or quiet conversation. It took considerable effort to have the television relocated. Places like this are resistant to change.

But I am stubborn.

Lucy is like me. She doesn't value noise for its own sake.

So we sit. Sometimes she reads. Sometimes we talk. Tonight I need to talk.

‘Are you afraid, Lucy?' I say.

‘Of what?'

‘Dying.'

‘Oh, that.'

There is silence for a minute or two. I let it brew. She will answer when she has thought things through.

‘Yes,' she says. ‘Of course. Aren't we all?'

‘Oh, you know. You hear stories of old people who welcome it. Embrace it like a lover. It is these, apparently, who “died as one that had been studied in his death; to throw away the dearest thing he owed, as 'twere a careless trifle.” '

Lucy sighs. She reaches across the gap between us and pats me on the arm. ‘You know, Leah, just sometimes it would be nice if we
both
spoke English.'

‘It
is
English, you ignoramus. By the greatest writer the world has ever known.'

‘Catherine Cookson said that?'

I laugh. Lucy does that to me sometimes. It is a great gift, to burst bubbles of pomposity with the blade of humour. I admire it. We sit, wrapped in silence, for a few minutes.

‘So are
you
scared of dying, Leah?' she says.

‘I am terrified,' I reply. ‘And I don't know why. My body is falling apart and my mind is following suit. I am in pain and it can only get worse. But why should I be scared? There is nothing I can do to ward off death, and anyway, in many ways it will be a blessed release. Yet I know that when the end comes I will struggle for just one more breath. Just one more. I will fight for it to the last of my strength. Isn't that sad? Isn't that pathetic?'

Lucy gets to her feet and struggles to move her chair until she is directly opposite me. I haven't the energy to help her. She sits and now her face is silhouetted against the French window, her hair a dizzying white aura. She takes my hands in hers.

‘No. I think it's just the way it is for all of us. It's hardwired.'

‘It's what?'

Lucy smiles. It is a ghostly thread within the darkness of her face.

‘It's a term my daughter favours.'

‘“Hardwired”? That's ghastly. It makes me sound like a toaster.'

‘Your petticoat is showing, Leah. Vocabulary is changing, as the world changes.'

‘I wouldn't take much pride in vocabulary that is an affront to good taste. Not all change is good.'

The ghost smile flickers again.

‘And what about your God, Leah?' she says. ‘Doesn't He make a difference to your feelings about mortality? I would think He should. I mean, what's the point of having a God if it isn't for times such as these?'

I squeeze her hands. She is the closest I have ever had to a friend. Since Adam. The thought is almost too sad to bear. It is a eulogy on my life.

‘Oh, God and I have a curious relationship,' I say. ‘Sometimes I don't believe in Him and sometimes He doesn't believe in me. It's something we are working through.'

Lucy laughs. ‘It's okay to be scared, Leah. It's okay.'

‘It will have to be.'

Shadows paint the room. There is a lamp against the darkness, positioned behind Lucy; it bleeds pale light over institutionalised furniture. Somewhere, a clock ticks. Somewhere, a clock is always ticking.

‘So do you not believe in God, Lucy?'

She takes her time replying.

‘I wouldn't go that far. I think maybe I do. Or perhaps it's as simple as hoping He exists. I was never a great fan of religion, Leah. All that earnestness and ritual. It always seemed like it was trying too hard. Do you know what I mean?'

I do, but I don't say anything. She rubs at her eyes.

‘But now,' she continues. ‘Now … I don't know. It would be such a waste, wouldn't it? If this was all there is. What would be the point? But, then again, that could simply be wishful thinking, now that time is running out. Maybe life is an exercise in futility. All of it is waste. Truth is, Leah, I don't know. I guess the only certainty is we'll find out.'