Break Point (6 page)

I give the
shed door a good shove and put up a faded garden lounger. Sinking
my bare feet into the long cool grass I think of Babs.

There was a
need in both of us to escape our apolitical relationships. We
wanted to experience those Isms again. Feminism. Socialism.
Anarchism. So me and Babs shared Isms for a bit.

I told it to
June straight, once she knew about me and Babs. I said, June, I
wanted the Isms again. I've missed them. And I also said, June, has
there ever been anything more between us than Wimbledon?

She went
fucking spare. But Wimbledon is our thing, she said. More passion
in it than all your politics. All those memories. Wimbledon binds
us together.

Me and Babs
couldn't stay together, not after we got found out. Not with June
and Tash reacting like they did.

I’m soon
interrupted by the doorbell.

It's the
fastidious little Mrs Parrott, cake tin in hand. "How is the
invalid?" she says. "May I see her or is she sleeping at the
moment?"

"I'll just go
and see." I knock gingerly at Gwen's door. "Gwen? Mrs Parrott's
here. Can she come in a sec?"

"Oh my hair
... where's my brush?"

"It's only me,
Gwen, dear. I've baked you your favourite little fairy cakes and
iced them. I know how you like something sweet when you're a bit
under the weather."

"Oh how
kind."

"Is there
anything I can do for you?"

Does she not
know how undermining she is? Does she mean to imply that I've
neglected my duties? Does she butt in on Anne like this?

"Well, I do
need to go to the penny bazaar."

Mrs Parrott
looks up at me because, though I'm on the short side, I look strong
and more equipped to do this sort of thing than her. I leave her to
her sticky buns as I take Gwen across the hall to the
toilet.

Mrs Parrott is
still hovering after Gwen's trip to the loo. I go back in the
garden, hoping to shake her off but she follows. She's heading
straight for the shed.

"This grass is
getting so long again," she says. "The problem is Gwen's mower
doesn't cut terribly well. I'll bring over Richard's strimmer on
Sunday."

"There's no
need. I know someone who'll do her garden for her."

"Well, there's
certainly a lot that needs doing to it."

"Mrs Parrott?"
I start to say, while she’s busy with her faffing, her back to
me.

"What?"

"Gwen keeps
talking about Rosemary. Do - did you know her?"

Mrs Parrott
looks disapproving. Like I've transgressed some sort of
code.

"Only I don't
want to go putting my foot in it."

"I gather
there was some kind of feud." Mrs Parrott hauls up a few weeds. "I
don't know what it was about and I don't ask."

So not dead
then. Just not speaking.

Mrs Parrott
makes a move towards the shed again. "I think I'll have a go at
that creeper now. There are some hand shears in here
somewhere."

*

When
the shadows have lengthened in the garden, I return to the world
between the white court-lines where Monica Seles is playing; where
there's that eight o'clock-shaped shadow creeping over the court. I
take in the analysis of each shot played by Seles and her opponent
Lucic.
She's determined to hang onto this
match (
re Seles
).
Breathtaking. Absolutely breathtaking (re
Lucic
).
Seles is looking crimson, out of puff, but everyone wants her
to come through, she's dead dignified, so
heroic
, fighting her way back after
the stabbing, and as the match reaches its climax, Gwen starts
beating her stick. Gwen doesn't believe in modern equipment, that's
for sure. I make a resolve to see this match through before going
down, but now the players are back to deuce. That means at least
two more points have to be played until the match is over but the
knocking's getting more insistent. I'm coming! I'm bloody
coming!

"Couldn't you
hear me? I was banging for ages ... don't you know that it hurts my
hands ... anyway I just thought we could try Anne. See if she's
back yet. Then perhaps you'd get me something to eat if it's not
too much trouble. It's gone six-thirty."

"D'you want to
speak to Anne yoursen?"

"Of course.
Take me into the sitting room. I'll talk to her while you start on
my tea. Some nice fish, I think."

I help Gwen
out of bed. "There's some pilchards or some kipper."

"Too rich.
Didn't you go to the fishmonger's this morning?"

"I only went
to the corner shop today."

"Dear oh dear.
I could have asked Mrs Parrott if I'd known. It'll just have to be
kipper then. Kipper and mashed potato. Do you think you can manage
that?"

*

"Oh
Anne
."
Gwen is in raptures as I peel spuds in the washing-up bowl. "Can
you come over tomorrow? Would you? You see I'm ill and need more
help than usual and it would be so nice to see you anyway, and how
is your mother? Good. Only it's been utter chaos here while you've
been away."

*

Gwen's tray is
full of unfinished kipper and tea slops when I come to collect it.
She blows her nose hard until it trumpets, then she wipes it this
way and that. "Rosemary used to bring me my food on a tray when I
was ill. She was such a devoted daughter ... until she had other
ideas ... "

I sit down on
the bed, attentive, because you have to capture the moment with
Gwen. In the time it takes to clear away the tray, Rosemary can
disappear without trace.

"What
ideas?"

"Oh ... going
off to teacher training college and all that."

"Wasn't that
good?"

"All I wanted
was to see Rosemary settle down with a nice husband and children.
That's why I like to see young people in love, like you and
Gordon," she says, though I didn't have her down as a romantic.
"Oh, do let me meet Gordon. I do need the garden doing, and then,
if I'm well enough, we can all have a spot of lunch together. What
do you say?"

"I'll see what
I can do. Though I can't promise."

Gwen's looking
sleepy now, as I slip out with the tray and wash the
dishes.

"Gwen, I'm
just nipping up the corner shop. Won't be a minute."

Gwen gives a
few vague nods, her eyes now closed. I hurry along the road and go
to the phone box across the road from the corner shop to phone
Elliot.

"Bobbie. How's
it going, duck?"

"Listen, I've
not got long. I'm in t' call box. Gwen wants someone to do her
garden on Sunday. But if your back’s not up to it - "

He mulls it
over. "She'll pay the going rate?"

"Handsomely is
what she said."

"You're
on!"

"There's just
one snag, promise you won’t laugh - but she thinks I've got this
boyfriend called Gordon."

He cracks up
laughing. "How come?"

"I just said
the first name that came into me head. Just don't say owt funny if
Gwen starts on about me boyfriend, right? Anyway, I’ll call you
tomorrow.

MIDDLE
SATURDAY

On Saturday
morning, after her breakfast, Gwen feels her chin. "Pass me my
mirror,” she says. “Pass me my tweezers. There's a few ugly great
brutes that have sprouted in the night." Pluck pluck. "Anne's
coming this afternoon. I must get up for Anne." Cough cough. "Help
me to the penny bazaar and then run my bath, will you? I want to
wear my paisley dress and a spot of lipstick to put the colour back
into my mouth."

Together we
spruce her up for Anne's visit. Anne the Infallible, and Gwen gives
me a shopping-list as long as me arm because Anne likes China tea
and semi-skimmed milk and Hob Nobs, and then Gordon's coming over
for lunch tomorrow, isn't he? After he's done the
garden.

Gordon or more
likely Elliot, I tell her. Gordon may be working this Sunday. He's
got the chance of some overtime, I say, but my brother Elliot can
come. He needs the money and all.

I see, says
Gwen, and after the shopping I dust and buff and though I can't
shine things up like Anne or put together fussy little fairy cakes
like Mrs Parrott, I've got the edge in other departments. I've got
my strength, my lifting power, and people have liked my bedside
manner. I keep cool and collected. I don't let things get to me
when I'm working with the old folk. Well, not as a rule, though
Gwen's a bit of a hard nut to crack, a tough
five-setter.

*

Later, I
unbutton my white Carewise overall and think how Middle Saturday is
about tying up all the first week matches. Looking back over the
first week, I'm not sure how to rate this Wimbledon so far. You
can't judge it in the same way as the classic years.

Voices
downstairs soon cut across my viewing. As I descend the stairs, I
see a woman - it'll be Anne - leading Gwen slowly by the arm into
the sitting room. I pictured Anne as older. But she's early to
mid-thirties I reckon. Her hair is dark brown, like mocha, and dead
straight except for the bottom, curling in at the shoulders. She's
got brown eyes, lighter than her hair and a bit Oriental in shape,
and a mouth which only just closes around her teeth. Not beautiful
but she's got this strong, no-nonsense look. Her Carewise overall
is well-ironed and cuts off at the knees, just above her nursey
calves.

She's a bit
awesome like June when I first met her.

Anne escorts
Gwen over to the table where there's a box of Scrabble, which has
seen better days. Days with Rosemary, I shouldn't
wonder.

"Now," says
Anne. "Are you sure you're up to playing, Gwen? You still look a
bit pale to me. Are you sure you didn't get up too
soon?"

"Well, let’s
see how we go." Gwen wheezes, and the spittle has collected in her
lips and washed away most of the lipstick. "It does get so tedious
in bed ... and anyway, we've got Gordon coming over tomorrow -
Robina's boyfriend. He's coming to do the garden."

Anne sits down
opposite Gwen, in the tall chair without the cushions, and gives me
a closed-lipped, minimal smile. "Are you off now?"

"Yes," says
Gwen, answering for me, and sliding her reading glasses out of
their case. "She'll not play with us. She's glued to the
tennis."

"I haven't
seen any of it this year," says Anne.

What, so she
has other years? I picture Anne watching the tennis with me
upstairs, letting me in on her favourite players.

"Do you have
far to travel?" Anne removes the box lid. "Can I give you a lift
before we begin our game?"

"No need,
duck. I'm living upstairs."

*

I whip up to
the corner shop and while I'm out I phone Elliot from the call box.
Come over at nine o'clock tomorrow morning, I tell him, and
remember that Gordon is me boyfriend, and then I go home and creep
upstairs.

I pick up the
Dokic/Kremer match to find they're already well into the second
set. Some time later, I hear footsteps on the stairs followed by a
knock on my door. Without waiting for an answer, Anne walks right
in.

"So ... " she
says, scanning the room with her slanty eyes. "You've moved into
Gwen's room." She sits down on the padded stool and crosses her
legs. "You are privileged," she says. "I've been here nine
months."

"Gwen was ill
and desperate for live-in help."

"Of course,
she wouldn't have given you Rosemary's room," says Anne, now on her
feet again, and standing up at the window, looking out.

"You've met
Rosemary then?"

Anne spins
round, her eyes on the telly just as Dokic takes the second set on
an ace. "So that's the young thing everyone's talking
about."

"Yeah, that's
her ... Gwen worships Rosemary, doesn't she? Though Mrs Parrott
told me they'd fallen out."

"I see you've
made it your business to be informed." Anne looks at her gold watch
with a tiny face. "Anyway it's been nice meeting you. I hope this
placement works out for you."

*

The tennis all
finished for the evening, I sit on the green buttoned stool where
Anne sat earlier and clear a space on the dressing table. I think
about writing a letter to June. I suck my pen and picture Anne in
black slacks and a light thin sweater. She'd go for a casual look,
off duty, I reckon, and I wonder if she's got hairs on her nipples.
I wonder what she meant when she said, you've made it your business
to be informed? And it was a bit odd, that, wishing me well in this
placement. Most people would have said, See you tomorrow, or
Monday, or whenever she's due back. I shove the writing pad in the
drawer. It's time for Gwen's supper and bedtime drink.

*

Gwen's in her
dressing-gown and slippers, slurping on her horlicks, and taking
her time over it like a child who knows it's time for bed. "What
time's Gordon coming tomorrow?"