19 January 2017

Something To Say

Something to Say
Alice couldn't speak, yet there was something important she needed Carol to know.




“I expect you’re looking forward to getting out of here, Aunty.” Carol’s prattling and fussing round the bed checking nothing’s been left in the hospital locker. I know she’s not expecting a reply. It’s not just my body that’s not working properly any more. The stroke has robbed my speech.  Just when I’ve decided there’s something I need to say.
I’ve been here for three weeks but now Carol’s come to take me to a home. A home, not my home. I heard the doctors telling Carol how I wouldn’t be up to looking after myself anymore.
“That new care home in town has a good reputation,” Carol said. “I’ll see if they can take her.”
 “They’ve got a lovely room for you at the home,” Carol tells me. “Lovely sea view.”
I look at her, trying to communicate without words but she’s not meeting my eye.  I don’t know why she feels so guilty. Everyone’s agreed it’s for the best.
“Now I can’t stay long,” Carol says, pulling into the car park of Atherley Lodge. “I’ll just see you settled then I’ll have to go to work. I could only take the morning off.”
The manager lady’s called Sally, a big woman who fills her white uniform completely. She helps me out of the car and wheels me in to a bright, bare room on the ground floor. “Perhaps your daughter can bring some things from your own room, Mrs Payne,” she says.
I don’t think anyone notices my eyes leaking as Carol says, “I’m her niece, actually. Aunty Alice is my Dad’s sister. Much older than him of course.”
She sounds like she’s apologising. I don’t know what for. Her dad, Derek, might have been younger than me, but I’ve outlived him. He’s been dead two years.
          Carol stands like a spare part while Sally points out the room’s features, then turns on the TV for me. She puts the remote beside me, on my left. My right hand’s useless now.
It’s a nice room but it’s not my room. Out in the corridor, I can hear Carol and Sally talking.
“She’ll settle soon. We’ll take good care of her.”
“Should I come back later? See how she is?” Carol sounds worried.
“Best not. Leave it till the weekend. Let her get used to us.”
So I have four days of getting used to Sally and the other women – the ones who work at Atherley and the ones who live here. It’s a pleasant place but there’s not much conversation in the dining room. There’s a few like me here.
“Your niece rang,” Sally says on Saturday morning. “She’s on her way over. Says she’s bringing her son with her. Joe? Is that his name?”
I nod. I haven’t seen Joe since Derek’s funeral. Carol says he’s shot up and gone all moody. I wonder if I’ll recognise him.
“Here we are, Alice!” Sally marches into my room a while later. “Visitors for you.”
Carol emerges from behind a Sally eclipse and behind her I can see a boy a fraction taller than Carol, hunched under a grey hood. There are wires coming from the hood to a small metal box. It looks like he’s plugged into his own power source. Carol tugs him round. “You remember Joe, don’t you Aunty?”
I look up but I don’t see the small boy who used to help me pick raspberries and make jam. Instead I see…I squeak. “To… to…” Blast this stupid stroke. Why can’t I get the words out? My chest heaves but the words refuse to come.
“What was that, Alice? Tea?” Sally’s talking in the loud cheery voice I’ve got used to. “Yes, I’ll get your visitors some tea.” She bustles out.
Joe walks round the back of my chair and goes to stand by the window. I follow him with my eyes. “To…mmm.” I try again, but it’s no better.
But Carol twigs what I’m trying to say.
“No, Aunty, this is Joe, not Tom. I said you might not recognise him.”
She’s right about how much he’s changed, but she’s wrong about me not recognising him. “To…mmmm,” I say again, forcing air out between my lips.
“Joe,” Carol repeats. “Don’t you remember him coming to see you at the cottage when he was small?”
I nod. I remember. I remember other things too. About Joe and Tom. But Carol never knew Tom did she? I want to tell her but I don’t know how.
“The room’s very bare, Mum.” Joe’s finished looking at the view out of the window and is staring at the walls. Carol looks surprised to hear him speak.
“Yes, well, we can go to the cottage and bring some of Aunty’s things. That’ll cheer the place up.”
“Don’t you think Aunty Alice would like to go and choose the things herself?”
“Um…well…” I can see Carol thinking this is a bad idea.  What’s she afraid of? I’m not stupid.  I know I can’t live there anymore. But I want to go back more than anything. I move my head, like a spectator at Wimbledon, as they bat the conversation between the pair of them.
Sally returns with a tray of tea and biscuits.
“You’re looking happy, Alice,” she says loudly, setting the tray down on the table beside me. “It’s good to have some company, eh?”
“I said we should take her to the cottage to get her own chair and some other stuff,” Joe says. He points at the bare walls.  “Some photos, maybe.”
That’s right, I think. I squeak and nod to get my message across.
“Sounds like a good idea.” Sally beams.
Carol frowns. “Are you sure it won’t do more harm than good?” She tries to lower her voice but I can still hear. There’s nothing wrong with my hearing yet.
“No. A nice outing’s just what she needs. How about tomorrow?”

I’m sitting on the edge of the bed waiting when Carol gets here. “All set, Aunty?” She helps me up and hands me my stick. I can manage it with my left hand. We make sloth like progress out to the car. Joe’s in the back, lightning fingers flying across the keys of his phone.
 “Lunch at one,” Sally reminds us as Carol clips her seat belt and closes the door. “Don’t be late.”
“Is the food good?” Carol asks as we drive away.
I nod. I’ve not been up to cooking for myself much recently.
As we get to the village, the church bells are ringing and the road is clogged with cars. There are even cars on the grass of the war memorial. It’s hardly respectful.
          Inside the cottage Carol wrinkles her nose and flings open all the windows. I stand in the kitchen and find I don’t mind much that I won’t be living here again.
          Carol squirts cleaning solution into the bowl and turns the tap on.
“I’ll just mop a few surfaces,” she says. “Freshen the place up a bit.” While the bowl fills, she magics a bag onto the table.  “Joe, go into the other room and put some of the photos from the mantelpiece into here.”
          Joe takes the bag and leaves the room. I could follow him but I don’t. The photo I want is here.  I open the drawer of the dresser while Carol has her back to me and slip a black and white photo into my pocket.  I shuffle across to the back door but can’t get it open with either my useless right hand or my less dextrous left.
Carol turns from her cleaning to see what I’m doing as Joe returns with the now bulging bag.
          “Take Aunty up the garden, Joe, if that’s what she wants,” Carol instructs. “You might even find a few raspberries.”
          So Joe opens the door and takes my arm. I smile up at him as he helps me down the step and we begin a slow progress together along the path. There’s a gate at the end which used to lead to the old farmyard before the land got sold and a new housing estate built.
          When I was a child this was a working farm, our house a farm cottage. The other side of the farm was a small wood and it’s still there. That’s where I want to go.
          Joe doesn’t ask questions, just leads me through the gap in the new houses and into the cool wood beyond. It’s dark in the wood but beneath the canopy of still green leaves, tenacious light stabs here and there, polka dotting the earth floor.
          It’s not far to the oak tree – the oldest in the wood. On its trunk, the letters are faded but just about visible.  I point them out to Joe and we stand in silence, looking. I know they mean nothing to him – not yet.
          Suddenly we hear Carol calling. “Joe? Is that you?”
          “Over here, Mum.”
          Carol joins us. “What are you doing here?” she asks.
          “This is where Aunty wanted to come,” Joe says.  “Look.” He points at the tree.
          Carol reads: “T.A + A.P 1939. 1939? That was the year Dad was born.”
          I let out a small squeak and turn watery eyes towards Carol.
          “A.P,” says Carol.  “Alice Payne?”
          I nod slowly.
          “So who’s T.A?”
          “To… To…”
          “Tom? Tom who?”
          I hold out the photograph I took from the drawer. Carol takes it and sucks in her breath sharply. She frowns and looks at Joe.  I know why. The photo could be him – except it isn’t. It’s far too old. In it, Tom is a couple of years older than Joe, but looks almost the same. Carol turns the photograph over and reads the name written in faded pencil on the back.
          “Who’s Tom Allen?” she asks. “Was he your sweetheart?” She looks back at the initials on the tree.
          I nod.
          “What happened to him?”
          I sigh.
          Carol hands the photo back. I can see I don’t need to say anything. I can see she’s worked it out. The sums weren’t hard. I was sixteen in 1939, Tom eighteen. “Come on,” Carol says, turning back towards the cottage, “We need to get you back to the home.”
          Carol loads my chair and the bag of photos into the boot of the car and helps me into the front seat then we set off back through the village.  Church is over, the cars all gone.
          As we pass the war memorial I hit the dashboard and squeak. Carol brakes.
          “Do you want to get out?” she asks.
          I nod.
          It’s quite a palaver getting me out of the car but I can see Carol doesn’t mind. Joe unplugs his wires and comes to help.  Slowly, the three of us cross the grass to the war memorial. There, at the top of the list of village men lost in World War 2, is carved: T. ALLEN.
“So he went to war and never came back for you,” Carol says. “Did he know about the baby born at Christmas?”
I shake my head.  No-one knew. No-one questioned why Mum and me evacuated to Wales. When we came back everyone thought Derek was hers.
“Who was he?” Joe asks, “This Tom Allen bloke?”
“He was your great granddad,” Carol says. She points to the photograph in my hand. “You’re his spitting image.”

I smile and nod. She was always clever, my granddaughter. Sometimes you don’t need words to tell the most important things you want to say.

This story was placed 3rd in the 2014 Nottingham Writers Club competition

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