Carolyn Lewis

Stories

• Living over the Shop
• Before I Loved You
• Talking in Italics

This story won the Philip Good Prize organized by Quality Women's Fiction

LIVING OVER THE SHOP

Lil pushed her legs down, trying to reach the bottom of the bed with her toes. She stretched out her arms, flexed fingers touching the winceyette sheet, like a pianist touching the keys on a favourite piano. The entire bed was hers, she had it all to herself. She loved the richness of that feeling. No greasy mark on the pillow, no wiry hairs left on sheets, no guttural snoring sounds and no harsh, groping hands to disturb her sleep.
����Lil�s outstretched fingers touched the bag of mint imperials she kept underneath one of the pillows. She popped four of the hard, white sweets into her mouth and sucked contentedly as she listened to the noise of her sons unloading the latest delivery. After her nap, she�d go downstairs and take a look at what they�d brought home. Rolling over to her left side, Lil found her handkerchief; she held the soft fabric to her face and breathed in deeply. She had a set of the fine, Irish linen handkerchiefs in her bedside drawer, dipping one handkerchief each week in the bottle of gin she kept in her bedroom. Lil held the handkerchief firmly to her nose and closed her eyes. She slept.

Lil had been living over the shop all her life. Her father started the business, Earnshaw�s House Clearance � Good Prices Paid for Clean Items, when Lil was born. Lil had no idea who her mother was. Ernest, her father, had been vaguely surprised that she�d shown any interest in knowing.
�����I didn�t know her all that long,� he told her, �she seemed quite keen on me. Only did it with her twice, both times in the back of my van, but she scarpered after you came along.�
����After the war, when men returned home and began settling down into married life, Ernest Earnshaw saw a way of making some money for himself and his motherless daughter. Second hand furniture. Initially, he scoured the papers reading death notices, then he�d go off in his big Morris van, talking to the families of the deceased, buying up sideboards, dressing tables, old bedsteads and mattresses, anything he thought he could make money from.
����The shop and living over it became Ernest�s life. Lil grew up with the tones of the bell. She spent her early years in a big play-pen, peering up at customers as they browsed or haggled with Ernest over prices. When someone eventually made an offer on the play-pen, Ernest moved Lil into an old tea-chest. He sanded down the edges and put soft dolls and toys inside for her. Lil thought everything in the world was just outside the tea-chest; she stood on tip-toes, her fingers gripping the edges, her serious eyes watching her father in the shop.
����The shop-bell summoned Ernest from his meals, from working on his accounts and doing the football pools. The sound of the bell reached him in the outside toilet, where he sat working on crossword puzzles when the day was quiet.
����Lil was almost eighteen years old when Ernest died. He�d had a heart attack brought on by excitement when he opened an envelope from Littlewoods Pools.
����Dear Mr.Earnshaw, We have great pleasure in enclosing our cheque for�.. Lil was certain her Dad never saw the amount he�d won - �50. Lil read the letter after taking it gently from Ernest�s fingers as he lay over a walnut table he�d bought the week before.
����Even in death, she thought that Ernest was thinking of the shop and its trade. He died on a Thursday and was buried on the following Saturday, so Lil was able to open the shop up again by Monday morning. She inherited the shop and all its contents, together with the �50 that her Dad had won. Lil was nervous about the money in the metal box Ernest kept under his bed. That was money for stock, she thought she should keep it there, the way Ernest had done. She spent some of the Pools money on a new gas cooker and cans of duck-egg blue paint. A few weeks after Ernest�s funeral, Lil painted the kitchen of the flat. On the morning of her eighteenth birthday, she walked into the best hairdresser in town and asked them to bleach her dark brown hair. She paid with the remainder of Ernest�s winnings and left the salon with hair glittering like newly minted sovereigns. With the left over paint, Lil carefully stencilled the name of her business on Ernest�s van: Lillian Earnshaw: Emporium for Used Furniture.
����She was proud of the word Emporium. She liked the weight, the length of the word, she thought it gave the shop some class, some substance. She�d always loved reading and, on the days when Ernest had sent her to school, she diligently practised her reading and spelling. She knew no-one from the local girls school. When she went into the classrooms, she found that those she�d sat next to on one occasion, had moved up to another class by the time she went again.
����Boys were totally unknown to her. Whenever she passed a group of lads in the street, she kept her head down until she walked by. If they made any comments on her freckles or her overlong dresses and old fashioned shoes, she didn�t acknowledge them or make any sign that she�d heard. Boys were foreign to her, like a language she listened to but couldn�t understand.

After Ernest�s death, Lil soon realised that, to run her business properly, she�d need help. She had no family, she knew of no cousin or aunt to help. Apart from anything else, there was the problem of Wednesday afternoons.
����As long as she could remember, Ernest had closed the shop at one o�clock each Wednesday and settled Lil in the passenger seat of the van. The drumming of the engine was reassuringly loud in the empty expanse of the Morris as Ernest and Lil toured the surrounding towns and villages, looking for three-piece suites, old cookers and rolls of carpet. Lil always sat quietly, watching her Dad�s hands on the steering wheel. She�d sneak a look at him, watching the way his lips pursed as he whistled; she looked at the stub of a pencil jammed above his left ear.
����On return trips, with the roar of the Morris engine cushioned by the amount of furniture stacked up in the back, they�d stop off before going home, to buy fish and chips for their supper. Lil�s memories of the greasy paper, the fish in batter, were inextricably linked with the smell of other people�s furniture, piled up high in the back.
����But she was on her own and Lil didn�t know how to drive.
����Wednesday was still half-closing day and she�d always need new stock, so she arranged with the owner of the local driving school to take her out on Sunday afternoons. The driving school had only one car, a sleek, dark blue, Ford Zephyr. It had a bench seat in the front, in cream, mock leather and a column gear change.
����When Lil got in the car the first time, she giggled as her toes dipped towards the pedals.
�����It�s just like the time my Dad wanted me to learn how to play that big piano he bought. Couldn�t reach those pedals either � and Dad had to sell the piano at a loss.�
����The instructor smiled at her, his eyes focusing on the sight of Lil�s soft, rounded knees, encased in American Tan stockings as she wriggled on the slippery mock leather seat. He brought a cushion with him for their lessons, positioning it underneath Lil each time she got into the Zephyr.
����Lil passed her driving test first time, although, by then, she could barely squeeze behind the steering wheel. Her first son, Terry, was born just before Christmas. Lil never could remember Terry�s father�s name. She had a feeling it was Gordon, �Well, it was a name like that anyway, you know, a posh name,� she told Terry years later. He thought it was more to do with the gin she liked. Lil took on a 16-year-old girl to help her in the shop. On her Wednesday afternoon buying trips, Lil strapped her infant son in the front seat of the Morris, just as Ernest had done with her.
����Terry was barely a year old when her second son, Davey was born. There was still plenty of room in the old tea-chest for two children. Lil peered over the top of the chest as she walked back and forth across the floor of the shop.
�����You playing together nicely? Good boys.�
����Lil thought Davey�s Dad was a driver for a local auction house. Sometimes, when a piece of furniture was proving difficult to sell, Lil rang the offices of two old-established auction houses and their vans came to pick up the furniture and sell it on for her. The drivers for both firms were about the same age, and they each had blue eyes.
����So, when Davey was born, with a shock of blond hair and piercingly blue eyes, Lil told him, � See, it could have been either of them, doesn�t matter which one does it? They were both nice to me, buying me fish and chips when we went out. No harm done is there?�
����Put like that, Davey had to agree. No harm done.

Lil was determined that her boys did not miss out on their schooling like she had. On the day when Davey was old enough to join his brother in the local school, she walked them to the gates of the red-brick building. There was enough force in Lil�s beaming smile to propel both boys into the schoolyard. As soon as Lil returned to her shop, she took the old tea-chest into her store-room. Her hands lingered on the edges of the chest, smoothed and sanded lovingly by Ernest all those years ago. Her eyes watered slightly as she saw the marks of tiny baby teeth in the soft varnish.

The boys flourished at school, Terry showing an aptitude for maths, and Davey, to her delight brought home his stories for her to read.
�����Look Mum � I looked up the word Emporium. Miss wanted to know where I�d seen it, she didn�t believe me when I told her it was on our van.�
����Lil felt they were a proper family, the days were full, the shop was doing well. They didn�t need interference from fathers, cluttering up their lives. They could cope.

When she was sick for the fourth morning in succession, Lil put it down to the pork pies she�d bought that weekend from the corner shop.
�����God knows how old they were,� she told the shopkeeper, �that�s the last time I buy any from you � you should be shot.�
����It was only when she walked to the end of the road to wait for Terry and Davey as they came out of school, that Lil realised that neither of the boys had been ill and they�d all eaten the pies for supper.
�����Oh God! Not again.�
����This time Lil really didn�t have a clue who the father might be. She lay awake for hours at night, running her hands on the mound of her stomach. Her mind raced up and down different memories, like a car trapped in a one-way system.
����Then, just after her third son was born, Lil remembered. She�d joined the local Small Businesses Association. For their first function, they held a dinner-dance, a Get to Know Your Fellow Traders Dinner it had been called. She hadn�t remembered that night particularly well, because, instead of her usual gin, she�d been drinking rum. White rum and coke, it was the in drink, �all the rage,� every one at the dinner-dance told her. She�d had a lot of rum and, that night, Lil got to know her fellow traders. One confided to Lil that he�d been so lonely since his wife died, he was thinking of emigrating.
����When she cradled her new-born son, Lil whispered to the baby, �You started life on the back seat of a car, where I could see the stars, smiling down at me from the midnight sky.�
����The birth of her third son had stirred up Lil�s memory, unlocking details of that night and, most of all, she remembered the car. The lonely bloke had a car, a convertible, a Standard Eight Tourer. Lil had never been in an open-topped car before and she�d begged him to put the fabric roof down when they parked near the river, on the other side of town. She remembered looking up at the stars, listening to his plans for Australia.
�����You could come with me, we could start all over again, a new life together,� he�d whispered to her.
�����Me?! Leave the shop?� Lil laughed, and hugged him again.

She�d no idea what his name was; no matter how hard she tried, all she could remember was the car, but she called her new son, James. She�d always had a thing for James Dean. Before long, James became Jim.
�����Where�s he going to sleep Mum?� Terry wanted to know, �He�s not coming in with me and Davey. Davey�s bad enough, he farts all night long and I can�t breathe!� Davey hit his brother and Lil walked away from their scrap.
����She kept Jim with her in her room until he was three years old. She�d just bought the contents of an entire house and, amidst the faded carpets and kidney shaped dressing table, were bunk beds. So Lil�s three sons all slept in the one room, and for some time, Lil slept alone.

The boys grew, playing football in the tiny back garden, and jostling for space in the bathroom. Lil could hear their voices each morning, arguing over whose turn it was to go first. Jim�s voice was always higher-pitched than those of his brothers, �Aw, come on. You�ve been in there for ages...Muuum, tell them!�

Lil�s Emporium flourished; second hand furniture became fashionable and the area surrounding Lil�s terraced shop was a haven for bargain hunters and collectors of antiques. Lil bought the houses on either side of her shop and extended her premises. She�d had enough of listening to the boys� arguments about bathroom rights, so she extended the flat above the shop, adding an extra bathroom and a larger living room. The outside toilet, where Ernest used to sit with his crossword puzzles, was renovated and Lil used this light, airy building to store bigger pieces of furniture � giving prospective customers time and space to browse.

Never having met their fathers, not knowing who they were, didn�t appear to trouble the boys. Their world was Lil and the shop. As they left school, their teachers asked about their plans, about apprenticeship schemes and, for Davey, University was mentioned.
�����What for?� In turn, they asked the same questions of their teachers.
�����Our Mam needs us in the shop � plenty of work, always furniture to unload, vans to be driven.�
����As each son had left school, Lil bought him a van, and had it painted in the same colours as Ernest�s old Morris. Lil hired a signwriter to stencil in each boy�s name on the driver�s door. Her name was still on the sides of each van: Lillian Earnshaw: Emporium for Used Furniture. Lil was content. Her world and that of her sons was contained inside her shop and the flat above. When she locked up the doors of the shop each Friday night, she�d walk to the pub at the end of the road where she sat for an hour, the ice in her glass of gin melting, as she smiled at the other regulars. Sometimes she�d bring a man home with her, someone new to the district who�d just popped in for a pint and company. Lil always urged her new-found friend to be quiet as he tiptoed up the stairs to her flat. Lil had read somewhere that gin stopped babies being born, so she kept two glasses and a bottle of Gordon�s by her bedside. Just before the man clambered into bed with her, Lil insisted they both drank large glasses of gin. No-one questioned or argued with her logic. And Lil didn�t become pregnant again.
�����Not taking no more chances my girl,� she told her reflection each night as she skewered bright pink rollers into her hair. Although by now Lil was 55 and her hair was greying, her dark eyes were surrounded by deep lines and the contours of her body had settled into plump, comfortable curves.

As Lil aged, the boys took on more responsibility. When they drove their individual vans around the town, they saw houses displaying newly installed bow-fronted windows. The air around the narrow streets became thick with fine, old dust as floorboards were sanded down and varnished. Front doors sported heavy brass numbers and blowsy lace curtains were torn from windows and replaced with the straight lines of Venetian blinds.
�����We need to get pine, mahogany, good solid stuff, Mum, that�s what people need now. They don�t want veneer or utility anymore, they want something they can strip down, find the original wood. They still want second-hand, but we must call it something else, renovated or distressed,� Terry urged Lil one weekend.
�����Distressed,� Lil laughed at him, �what�s that when it�s at home?� The three of them tried to explain, falling over each other�s words in their eagerness to get Lil involved in a new venture. �It�s weathered.. or treated in a special way�making it look as if it�s older than it really is.� Lil laughed, holding up her hand, �Ok, ok, I get the message. I�d better have a look at this distressed furniture.�
����She�d laughed softly to herself in bed that night, thinking about their enthusiasm for the business. They were all adults, but they were just as keen as she�d been at their age. Lil pulled the eiderdown up to her chest and reached for the tumbler on the bedside table. She still kept a bottle of Gordon�s Gin by her bed, taking a few, small sips each night before settling down.
�����Good stuff this,� she told herself, �must be - haven�t had another baby have I?�
����But she hadn�t made a trip to the pub for a long time. No stranger had climbed the stairs to Lil�s bedroom for years.

The thumping downstairs grew louder forcing Lil awake.
�����What? What�s going on? I�m trying to have a nap � Terry is that you? Stop making that racket. Have you bought that table? I�ll be down later.�
����Her eyes were open, it was still light, she could hear the sound of cars driving past. She fumbled around looking for her glasses, her hand knocking over the tumbler, spilling its contents. Lil watched mesmerised as the liquid puddled out, slowly reaching the far corner of the bedside unit where it ran in a thin stream down on to the carpet.
�����What a waste." She eased herself up, noise has stopped and now I�m wide awake. Wait till I get down those stairs� Lil slowly swung her legs to the floor, her feet sliding into the worn slippers placed beside her cabinet. She grimaced as her bare feet touched damp sheepskin.
�����Ugh, first time my feet have touched gin.�
����Ignoring the damp, clammy fabric, she pushed her feet in and stood up. Reaching for a dressing gown, Lil tugged the cord around her and shuffled her way towards her bedroom door.
����Everything was so quiet. She couldn�t hear a sound. She opened the door and peered out towards the landing. She thought she could see someone moving towards her.
�����Terry? Is that you? I thought you were downstairs. Jim? Who�s down there? Boys?�
�����Hello Lil, I was just coming to wake you � it�s time for tea.�
����Lil grabbed the front of her dressing gown, wrapping it around herself.
�����Who are you? What the hell are you doing in my flat? Where�s Terry, where�s Davey..where are my boys?�
����The nurse laid a reassuring hand on Lil�s shoulder, �Come on sweetheart, we�ve been through all this before � the boys are all grown up, homes of their own, they don�t live with you anymore. You�re with us now. Remember?�



This story is included in the Cutting Edge anthology, published by Moonshine.

BEFORE I LOVED YOU

What do you make of that? I wanted to ask you when I saw two women on the Downs today. Everything they wore was black: their plump legs were squeezed into leggings and they both wore polo-necked sweaters and a tabard tunic; even their shoes were black. They were throwing chunks of bread to a flock of birds and, as fast as the women threw the bread, the birds jostled and fought, trying to catch each piece before it hit the ground. It looked such an odd picture to me: the sky full of black-winged screaming birds and the two women, dressed in black, silently feeding them.
    Where did the women come from? Was that a uniform they wore? All I could see was black, except for one of the women, her hair was thickly streaked with blonde, she wore a lot of make-up, glittery blue eye-shadow and her lips glistened with a scarlet gloss. The birds� beaks were wide open, searching for the bread, their raucous shrieks split the air and the women�s mouths gaped open, mirroring the beaks of the birds, as they hurled the bread into the skies.
    When all the bread was gone, the women walked slowly, in silence back to their car. They strapped themselves in, their heads almost touching as they bent over seat belts. Then they drove off, a dull, grey cloud of exhaust fumes, like a tired flag, trailing behind.
    What do you make of that? I wanted to ask you, to see what your answer would be. Then we�d talk about what the women did and why were they so silent? We�d make up stories about them, about their husbands. Perhaps they were silent because one woman was having an affair with the husband of the other one. Did they both have children? How many? Where did they live, what were their houses like? We�d have fantasised about affairs, joked about steamed up windows and passionate embraces on the back seats of family saloons. There would be empty Coke cans on the dashboard, crisp packets in the glove compartments. We�d have invented lives for those women, the bird women up on the Downs. That�s what we would have done.

I still talked to you. Wherever I went the conversations rattled around in my head. You came with me on the Downs; we looked at the changing colours of the leaves, we watched the joggers, grinning as they puffed their way past us. I heard your voice in my head all the time. When I sat in the dentist�s chair, are you ok? Did that hurt? You were with me when I went shopping, because I could ask you things, things like what about fish for tea? You were there when I tried clothes on in the changing rooms of posh department stores, peering out from behind curtains, the ones with the gaps at the side.. what do you think of this? Do I need a bigger size? You were always with me, but only in my head.

It started the first day I met you, when your hand stretched out to touch mine.
    �Hello,� you said and then you smiled, the lines around your eyes deepening and hinting at�something. Your smile came with me, I took it wherever I went, carrying it in my head, on the bus home, lying in bed, tucking it underneath my pillow.
    I imagined you at home at night, living in a flat, drinking beer from cans and never, ever, did I see you with another girl. What do you do on Saturday nights? Where do you go? Can I come with you? Having you inside my head made me brave, bold, asking questions because there was no fear of rejection. I began to tell you all about my life at home, my mum, my dad, the fights I had with my sister. She borrows my clothes and steals my friends. She couldn�t steal you, you were mine and nobody knew about you. You always understood, you were my ally, my secret friend.

I spent my days watching you, watching your long strides through the corridors. I heard the creak of your leather jacket as you stretched up to push the hair out of your eyes. Your hair needs cutting, or do you like it that long? All through those long working days at my first job, a newspaper office full of stories of courtroom battles, football matches, golden wedding anniversaries and murders, I watched you and I told you all about my dreams. Things I had never mentioned to anyone before. You listened to me, listened to all the words I carried with me.

Our working days were frantic, exhilarating and fraught. Working alongside you, phones rang incessantly, shouted arguments ricocheted around the room. Whenever I passed you, rushing from one desk to another, papers flying, my heels clicking on the floor, I wanted your approval, I needed your approval. How am I doing? What do you think of this?
    Don�t you see, I thought I already knew you?
    Then, tentatively, gently and so softly, you began smiling at me. A look across the room from you, made the day sunny. I could smile at you too and then I began to know you. We laughed together, we exchanged glances when a new story broke, we shared confidences and then we really did talk all the time. When you were inside my head, my words had bounced, they sparkled, they were light, precise and so clever and I grew afraid that outside, away from my secret world, you�d find my words dull, heavy and slow. I wanted to keep you inside, you were safe there, I was safe there, I was strong.
     Working on a murder, a front page drama harrowing in every detail, quite suddenly you asked: �Fancy a drink?�
    My voice, quiet and hesitant, �Yes please.� I�d thought my inner conversations with you had taught me all there was to know. But, locked inside my head, was only a tiny part of you. We began to discover each other; you talked to me, really talked to me. Your words were clear and strong, they encouraged me, taught me to think and argue, they gave me confidence and strength. When you were inside, locked away in my head, all that time I talked to you, my words had been sharpened, now they were like swords, shiny, steel-edged. I cut through arguments, slashed away at my fear and nervousness. With you I could shine, my confidence soared.
    My life with you began to climb and you spoke to me of travelling. Africa, America, driving through France, the Swiss Alps and your words brought the world into my head. When you spoke I could see everything, smell the sea, touch the flowers. I could taste the local wine and feel the heat.
    �Come with me, I want you to see these places with me.� Before you, the world was what I could see or touch, it was what I knew. With you, I could go anywhere. You said it all the time, �There�s nothing to stop you.� Nothing did stop me and I moved into your strong, confident world.
    Look at this, look at the view. I said it to you all the time, all the time we travelled together, forgetting that you had seen it before. What I meant to say was, look at it now, with me. You were right, you�d been right all along. I could do it. Travelling the world, sharing the world with you. We talked wherever we went, sitting up late in a smoky French bar, walking back to our hotel through night-dulled skies. Driving over mountain passes, tramping through snow-filled fields. We sailed past the Statue of Liberty, my gaze holding yours as the ferry boat moved alongside.
    What do you make of her? Is she with him? What�s going on over there? That�s what we did together, we invented lives for the people we saw around us; the couples sitting in uneasy silence, the women whose faces were slick with unaccustomed makeup, the solitary man in a busy restaurant tugging and turning at a worn wedding band. Newly together, happiness freshly minted, arrogance born from our delight, we gave new lives to those around us. We proffered happiness to others, offering changed lives, giving hope and excitement, making a difference. We were together, invincible, unique. No-one has ever felt like this � how could they? We fitted together, two halves of a magical being. We invested some of our magic, we could afford to, we had so much.
    Before I loved you, you�d been my ally, my secret friend. Now that I loved you, you gave me even more, more strength, more courage. Working together, our days were heady and full. Our careers grew, my confidence, long-lost and stunted became strong. I was assigned to cover major news stories and my opinion was sought, my views listened to. I echoed your words, I can do this. My name appeared in print, I was praised for my work, my professionalism, my skill.
    Watch me! Like a child calling out for parental approval, I still needed your mantle of protection. What do you think of this? Does this work? Tell me! Am I any good?
    Your words assured and praised me. They nurtured and strengthened me and then, slowly, for the first time in my life, I began to recognise my own strength. You�d known all the time what I could do. Just do it, you counselled, don�t ask, just do it. And I did. Weeks travelled so fast, my life changed as fast as I changed. But not you. How could I not recognise that you remained the same?
    Tell me what to do. My newly-honed confidence had been noticed and I was approached. A prominent newspaper, spoken about in reverential whispers, dangled titles and money: features editor, chief reporter, take your pick.
    What shall I do? Tell me what to do. You were solid, an island as I began the storm. I moved around you, crashing, whirling, demanding. Tell me!
    Do what you want to do..stay here..or go.
    If I go, will you come with me? Come with me!     You shook your head, your long blond hair tumbling around your face, hiding your eyes. No, you choose, make your own decisions. I can�t help you with this one.
    Before I loved you, my choices were hollow. My world was small, contained and narrow. But now? But now I wavered, my new strength seeping, leaving me. Help me, tell me what to do. You held me, your arms around my shoulders. I felt your warmth, your smile, your love. Believe in yourself, choose this one on your own. Choose what�s right for you.
    Whilst you were hidden in my head, locked inside me, you shared my dreams, you�d listened with love and compassion, but you didn�t listen now. You were tired of my tears and arguments, my sulking silences and demands. I grew angry, stamping like a petulant child, my anger growing in its intensity. You�d let me down, you wouldn�t help me any more. I had to do this on my own, I would do it on my own. I didn�t need you, they wanted me, not you.
    I don�t need you. The words hung in the air, they shimmered over our heads like violent heat, warping feelings and what I wanted to say to you. I wanted to say, to whisper, I�m sorry. I needed to retrieve what I�d lost, what had been damaged. You knew that, your face with its lop-sided smile, the long, hair flying around, the understanding in your eyes. You knew. All the time that you were locked inside my head, all that time before I loved you, all those times when I talked to you. You were talking to me now. I felt the unspoken dialogue, the silent words. You knew. You knew what I wanted to say, but you wouldn�t let me say it. You left me with that.
    You left me at the station, a strained goodbye, eyes not meeting, a hurried embrace. We both knew, but you wouldn�t let me voice it, I�m sorry, let me put it right. Those whispered words were finally drowned by the scream of the train. Leaving you.

My new life was busy, shiny bright with promises. New friends, new stories, a new life in a world crowding into the spaces where you used to be. I filled those spaces and I was sought after, lauded, I was in demand. Look at me, see what I can do now. But you couldn�t see me, you weren�t there. You weren�t anywhere, not locked inside my head because you�d gone from there too � I couldn�t find you.
    I don�t need you! I�d yelled, shouted at you. But I did need you. My new world was brittle, new friendships shallow, glitter blinded me. I didn�t see the hollows underneath. Their lights shone, beacons for me to follow. Promises of success, excitement, fast heady lives. Empty lives. There was nothing there, nothing underneath. Where are you?
    I tried to reach you, to phone, to talk to you. You�d gone. I�m sorry, please talk to me, I was wrong and I made a mistake. I watched others at parties, in restaurants, smiling when eyes met mine. I sent you messages, secret codes, hidden away again, locked inside my head. You didn�t hear me, the words echoed, my new life echoed too. There were only hollow sounds. I�ve made a mistake. I�m sorry.
     I came back to find you. Where are you? Travelling back, listening to the rhythmic wheels of the train, sitting still, eyes closed, words tumbling in my head. Where are you?
    I go to the places we knew, your flat is empty and cold, the Downs are bleak, dead leaves rattle at my feet. The newsroom is noisy, energetic; desks are crowded and the phones ring out constantly, but I can�t see you. I don�t hear the creak of your leather jacket, I don�t see you striding to greet me. I can�t see you � where are you?
    I close my eyes again, squeezing the lids tight, banishing light from inside my head, leaving room only for you. Can you hear me?
    I choose words, testing, discarding. I need words that will reach you, find you.
    Can you hear me..where are you?



This story is included in the New Fiction collection, published by Forward Press.

TALKING IN ITALICS

Duncan died on New Year�s Day.
    �A terrible day to die,� Angela, Duncan�s sister said, �should be the start of something new, not the ending of a life.� Hazel felt a need to defend her husband.
    �He didn�t choose New Year�s Day, it just happened then.� Angela stroked Hazel�s hand, �There, there, I know, I know.� Hazel wondered if she could slap Angela�s hand away without causing offence.

Angela arrived the day before the funeral, her eyes were red-rimmed and she looked pale and tired.
    �She looks like the albino hamster I had years ago,� was Hazel�s first thought as she opened the door to her sister-in-law. Angela held her arms out. Hazel wasn�t sure what she wanted her to do; she couldn�t remember the two of them hugging before. There was an uncomfortable pause as the two women did a jerky robotic dance as they faced each other. Hazel closed her eyes as she felt Angela�s bony fingers squeezing her elbows. Her arms moved in an involuntary response to Angela�s squeeze. They stood in silence, holding each other�s elbows, like puppets with their strings tangled up.
    Angela broke the silence and Hazel could hear tears in her voice, �You poor thing, poor Duncan, my poor brother.� Hazel swallowed an embarrassed giggle.

Angela stayed with Hazel for a fortnight. At first she�d been grateful, having Angela�s presence in the house. Hazel felt odd, untethered. She moved around the house, drifting from room to room, picking up a book, putting it down on a table, walking up the stairs, gazing out of windows. She spent hours sitting on the end of her bed looking at her dressing table, her eyes moving along the bottles of unopened cologne, the expensive French skin care, still in its cellophane wrapping, and the leather Filofax that Duncan given her for her last birthday.
    He�d placed his present on the dining table, next to three envelopes, all bearing her name. When he handed the shop-wrapped gift to her, she wanted to slide her fingers under the Sellotaped edges, smoothing the embossed paper and salvaging the pretty scarlet bow. She�d resisted the impulse, knowing Duncan would laugh or even worse, frown at her.
    She�d taken her time easing the present out of the wrapping paper. The Filofax had a cover of rich, ox-blood leather, a small gold pen slotted into a neat pocket in its spine. It was impressive looking, professional. Hazel had wondered what she could do with it.
    �Thank you, what a thoughtful gift.� She�d moved towards Duncan and lightly touched his arm.
    Duncan�s dry mouth had fluttered on her forehead. Hazel knew that he�d also glanced at his watch.
    �Enjoy your day � must go, board meeting at 10.�
    She heard rather than saw Duncan pick up his briefcase, his car keys, mobile phone and jacket. She�d listened to the sound of his leather shoes as he walked across the tiles in the hall; the front door opened.
    �Bye,� he�d gone.

Hazel picked up the Filofax, she pushed her fingers into the rich leather, watching as it smoothed back into shape, leaving no mark. She flicked through the pages. It was a beautiful diary with maps of London underground, Continental shoe sizes and different time zones filling the back pages. Each day had the hours marked out, horizontal lines stretched across each white page, all empty. Hazel tugged at the gold pen, releasing it and she wrote carefully on the first page: Duncan died today. All her dental appointments, hair cuts and visits to the doctor were written in her undisciplined handwriting on the calendar that hung on the kitchen wall.
    She closed the Filofax, muttering to herself, �What can I put in this? My life will get swallowed up, lost in all these pages.�
    Hazel didn�t know what to do. She didn�t know how to behave like a widow. The word bothered her. It sounded such an elderly word. Something she would grow into, like the navy blue coat for school her grandmother had bought one Christmas. A long, thick coat, the sleeves reaching to the tips of Hazel�s fingers.
    �Last you a long time, you�ll have lots of wear out of it, you�ll grow into it.�

Angela wept noisily during the funeral whilst Hazel�s eyes were dry. She passed her handkerchief over to Angela when it became obvious that the tiny, lace-trimmed one Angela held to her brimming eyes was inadequate. When they arrived back at the house, Angela rallied and played hostess. She wrapped a faded pink apron over her black suit and then brought out plates of pale, brown sandwiches, a sprig of parsley nestling in the centre. Hazel watched in silence as Angela manoeuvred plates from the kitchen on to the dining table. She saw with sad amusement that the plates of sandwiches outnumbered the funeral guests.
    Duncan�s fellow directors came back to the house; the company wreath had been enormous. They spoke to Hazel about pensions and told her to keep in touch before they left, settling inside a dark grey BMW. She watched them tugging at their black ties, mouthing into mobile phones as the car sped away, taking them back to the office.

Angela sorted through Duncan�s clothes, folding and smoothing the fine cotton shirts and pinstriped suits. She held Hazel�s hand when she sat, staring into space. She made bowls of soup, leek and potato, saucepans simmering on the hob for hours. She brought trays of breakfast up to Hazel, buttered toast, crusts tipped into the kitchen bin, cups of tea nestling on fine china saucers as she tip-toed up the stairs.
    �Don�t get up yet, no need to get up. Drink your tea whilst it�s warm.� She always yanked hard at the curtains in Hazel�s bedroom, giving her an account of the day�s weather.
    �A little overcast with a slight breeze, but should clear up later. We could have a walk, perhaps a look around the shops.� At this point, her voice dropped to a whisper, �See how you feel later on, no need to rush things.�
    Hazel felt an ache in her jaw, the lines around her eyes were tight as she continued to smile and nod, promising to drink the tea.
    Hazel didn�t want Angela in her home any more. She wanted to be on her own. The funeral was over, Duncan�s clothes had been shared between the Salvation Army Hostel and the local Oxfam shop. She�d taken the condolence cards down from the mantelpiece, leaving them in a pile on Duncan�s desk. She realised as she put them there, that she was waiting for Duncan to sort through them. He�d have pulled a face if he�d seen the one from their cleaning lady. Our thoughts are with you at this sad time. Sparkly gold lettering on the wings of a grotesquely overweight angel. Hazel shrugged and left the cards in the middle of the desk.

Her years of marriage to Duncan had left her feeling somehow displaced, cushioned against real life. She�d tried to explain it to Angela: �It was like being in a hospital, two or three storeys up, watching from windows. I could see people moving about outside, I could see them clearly, but I wasn�t allowed out, I couldn�t take part in anything.� She realised from Angela�s expression that she didn�t understand Hazel�s thoughts at all.
    �Hazel! What a thing to say. Duncan was a very clever man, he worked hard, you wanted for nothing, nothing at all. You�re in shock, totally understandable, I�ll put the kettle on.�
    But that�s exactly what her marriage had been like, Hazel thought as she sipped at yet another cup of tea. Married for 30 years, no children, something to do with Duncan, he�d been brusque with her when it was pointed out that the fault lay with him.
    �Sorry about that, something to do with German measles apparently..� He might have been apologising for a forgotten anniversary. Hazel had learned over the years to take her cue from Duncan�s attitude. She�d been bewildered and dreadfully upset when she learned that there could be no children, but Duncan seemed unable to discuss it any further. Hazel had never known her own parents, she�d been brought up by grandparents who�d unwillingly stepped into the role of parents again when her mother died in a train crash. No-one knew who her father was. From very early in her life, Hazel recognised that she had to learn from others, watch what other people did, take note of their behaviour; she had no recourse but to follow their lead. She felt that it was somehow part of her, this passivity she had. It had become her style, like the way she wore her hair, short, neat and with a centre parting or the plain leather shoes she bought each year. Nothing about her to draw attention, to make her stand out from a crowd.
    �That�s what I like about you,� Duncan had said, �you don�t make a fuss about things.�
    He�d recognised her submissive nature, marrying her soon after she�d joined his company as a junior typist.
    �Won�t do better than him,� her grandfather said upon meeting Duncan for the first time. Hazel often wondered if her grandfather meant it as a compliment.
    She stopped working after she got married. Duncan enjoyed telling her that he earned enough for them both. He handled all the household accounts, settling behind his desk on Sunday evenings; she could hear the rip as he pulled out a cheque to pay a bill. He deposited money in her bank account every month so she could pay the cleaner, the gardener and buy something for yourself. Hazel thought that was what everyone did, she thought it was normal. They had few friends, only business colleagues and their wives. Hazel found the women brittle, they had a sheen, a gloss she could never hope to achieve. She felt the entertaining that Duncan did was a chore, like washing the good china, something to be done every month, then put away again.

Hazel really wanted to be on her own in the house, so she could find out what it would be like, living by herself, to see if she could cope. There was something else she wanted to do too.
    �Are you sure you�ll be all right?� Angela�s eyes had plump tears, balancing, waiting to fall on her sandy lashes. �You will ring me if you get lonely or upset or�.anything!�
    Not for the first time, Hazel thought Angela spoke in italics. Her words quivered with meaning, with expression.
    �I can stay another week at least; school can cope without me for a bit longer under the circumstances. You�re not used to being on your own, I am. How will you manage?�
    Hazel had a sudden, clear picture of Angela�s flat. Walls painted in cream, almost hidden by prints of Rome, the Trevi fountain, St. Marks Square and framed photographs of her grave-faced students. She hugged Angela, feeling a short-lived pang of remorse. She�d given no thought to Angela�s own grief and now all she wanted, was to be on her own.
    She waved from the doorway as Angela walked towards the waiting taxi. She saw a lace-trimmed handkerchief fluttering as the diesel engine of the black cab chugged its way down the street. Hazel closed the door with a noisy sigh of relief.
    She�d persuaded Angela to catch the early train and it was now just 11.10 a.m. She walked into the living room and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. She kept her eyes on the jerky movements of the second hand. She wanted to replay the day Duncan died. She wanted to go over exactly how it happened, when it happened. She stood watching the clock, her breathing calm, measured. There was no sound in the house, just the ticking of the clock. She tried to regulate her breathing, in out, in out, matching the clock, tick tock, tick tock. She could smell soup, Angela had made one last batch, getting up early to buy fresh leeks. 11.30.
    Hazel stared at the chair, the one that Duncan had been sitting in the day he died. It had been a Sunday, she�d brought a cup of tea into him and placed two digestive biscuits in the saucer.
    She moved away from the living room and walked to the kitchen. She stood by the sink staring out into the garden; she was waiting for the hands on the kitchen clock this time. Waiting for them to move to 11.45. On the day Duncan had had his heart attack, she�d been in the kitchen and, at 11.45 she�d heard a low moan, followed by a crash, the sound of breaking china.
    When it was 11.45 she walked back into the living room. She stared at the tiny mark on the carpet. Angela had tried very hard to shift the tea-stain, but it was still there, a rusty blemish, on the pale blue carpet. Hazel stood for a long time looking at Duncan�s chair. She remembered the ambulance arriving, although she couldn�t remember dialling the emergency number. She remembered the blue light flashing; the bruising light beating in time to her own agitated heartbeat. Duncan had been stretchered out to the ambulance. Hazel worried for a long time whether he�d known that he�d smashed his dentures when he fell. His mouth was wide open, exposing pale pink gums. He�d have hated that.

The doctor at the hospital told Hazel that Duncan didn�t suffer, the heart attack was massive, sudden.
    �He wouldn�t have known a thing.� The young registrar patted her awkwardly on her shoulder, he thought she was in shock, she was so silent. Hazel refused any help in getting home. She sat in the back of the taxi watching a plastic crucifix move back and forth over the dashboard as the cab took her home to an empty house.

Standing in the living room, Hazel rested her hand on the back of Duncan�s armchair, there was a slight dent where, over the years, his head had flattened down the fabric. She smoothed it with her hand. Nothing. She stood very still, she held her breath. She felt no outpouring of sadness, her eyes were dry, she felt hollow. Was this what grief was, this void? She thought that, by reliving Duncan�s death, going over his last moments again, that would be a signal for the grief to start. She didn�t know what to do, how to feel. She was waiting for someone to tell her. Like a starting gun at the beginning of a race. Bang.

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