A Question of Identity (14 page)

‘Maybe we should put it on a bit of a formal basis,’ she said. ‘Make a plan. Say, you come to lunch here one day a week, I come to you another.’

‘I might be doing something.’

‘Well, then we change it of course.’

‘Make an appointment to see your sister?’

‘You don’t have to sound like that. And of course you’d be welcome to come any time, drop in when you like. Oh, Mu, don’t always start arguing, it makes me tired.’

‘I wonder how friendly you’ll actually find the people here. It’s not the North.’

‘I know that. I shall make an effort though. You have to make the effort.’

‘Of course, I’ve known most of the people round me for thirty years. Or I did. There’s been changes. Always are. I still know quite a few but we don’t just drop in without notice. That’s what you’ll find different.’

‘You needn’t worry, Mu. I’ll never drop in on you without notice.’

They sat in silence then, sipping their medium sherries, looking out of the window at the bare branches of the tree on the other side of the fence.

‘You’ll stay and have a bit to eat with me?’ Elinor said eventually.

‘No, I’ve got a lasagne to finish up from yesterday, it won’t keep.’

‘Chuck it out then, what’s a bit of heated-up leftover lasagne?’

‘Money. I don’t know about you of course but I have to watch every penny.’

Elinor let her go. Nothing had changed, and nothing had been agreed and there was no truce between them, nor ever likely to be, she thought, taking out cheese and eggs from the fridge to make an omelette. There were lamb chops. She had planned those if Muriel had stayed but the heart had gone out of her to bother with them tonight, or to bother with anything else much. She could see what was on television, she could read, she could sew up the hems of her new bedroom curtains, which trailed onto the floor. She put away the sherry bottle and washed the glasses.

The bell rang.

The electricity had cut out twice that day, but come back on again before long.

‘It shouldn’t go off at all,’ the electrician said, when Elinor let him in. ‘I take a pride in my wiring.’ She was unsure where the switchboard and fuses were but he knew. ‘I ought to,’ he said, opening the cupboard.

‘Is there anything I can get for you, Mr . . .?’

‘Matt. No thanks. If I drank all the tea and coffee I was offered . . . Right, let’s have a look-see.’ He shone a powerful torch.

Elinor hesitated, then went back into the sitting room. She switched on the table lamp, which promptly went out again with a small flash.

‘Gotcha!’ Matt said from the cupboard.

Twenty minutes later, the electricity was sorted to his satisfaction and he left to check two other bungalows.

‘I never expected this sort of attention, you know,’ Elinor said, watching him walk down the path on his way to number 1. ‘You still working at this time to make sure we’re properly fixed.’

Matt nodded, not looking round.

MURIEL SAT IN
front of the television, which was showing a documentary about families who had emigrated to Australia, a tray of supper on her lap – the warmed-up lasagne and two slices of bread and butter. She had barely eaten any of it. The television was talking to itself.

She was angry, angry with Elinor and angry with herself. She had not intended to let her sister get the upper hand. But somehow Elinor contrived it. She did not try to win arguments, as she had when they were young, nor did she try to gain by possessing some item Muriel hadn’t got or having more money left over at the end of the week. In the past, Elinor had gained the moral high ground simply by being what she was and Muriel was not – a wife. Marriage had been Elinor’s triumph. She had never gloated about it. There had been no need. The very fact of Bill’s existence and of her own changed name had been enough.

Since he had died things had evened up, but now Elinor had discovered a new way of seeming superior to Muriel. She had become sweet, forgiving and sisterly. She had moved four hundred miles, from the place where she had lived all her married life, to be near her twin, so that they could spend their last years trying, as she had put it, ‘to mend bridges’. So far as Muriel was concerned, there had never been any bridges, so they couldn’t very well be mended.

She had come away from the bungalow in Duchess of
Cornwall Close feeling wrong-footed yet again. Elinor had been reasonable, affectionate, resisting the slightest disagreement. Muriel was cross with herself because she had intended to turn the other cheek, to admire the bungalow and approve of the new life, to sound pleased about everything and envious of what would clearly be a friendly and neighbourly community. Instead, she had not bitten her tongue, she had retorted, been sarcastic, pointed out all the pitfalls and shortcomings of the place.

Since early childhood they had disliked and been jealous of one another and that was now inextricably part of their deepest nature. None of which was her fault. Elinor had brought it all about. Elinor gave her the rope, playing it out eagerly until Muriel hanged herself. Perhaps it had been a game when they were children. It was no game now.

She sat in the dark, her food uneaten.

She should ring. They were too old for all this, Elinor was right, it was too wearing. She should ring or even get out her small car and drive back to her sister’s house. Apologise? No, of course not. What did she have to apologise for? But just arrive, stay for five minutes, say something warm, something welcoming, something Elinor would immediately interpret as a gesture of remorse.

Why did she feel so strongly that she ought to do this? She had nothing to feel bad about. They just didn’t get on. Plenty of sisters didn’t get on. Plenty of fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, brothers, aunts and nieces. It was the way of things. Blood might be thicker than water but that very fact probably made matters worse.

Family. Muriel got up and switched on the light, carried her tray into the kitchen. She had often thought the entire concept of ‘family’ overrated.

She made a cup of coffee and went back to the television, which was now showing a drama about MI5. Muriel was fascinated by spies. She wished she could have been born a generation earlier and worked at Bletchley Park.

In Duchess of Cornwall Close, the lights flickered two or three times. Elinor went to the window but, so far as she could see,
other people had electricity and there was a blue glow from the television at number 1, opposite. Her lights went out. So whatever the man had done hadn’t solved the problem, and it was gone eight, he wouldn’t be about now.

The doorbell made her start but as it rang the lights came on again.

‘I thought you might find a torch handy, I’ve got a spare.’

It was Rosemary Poole. Nice-looking woman, Elinor thought, tall, well-styled hair, seemed too young to be living here.

‘Come in, come in. Have your lights been playing up?’

‘On–off, on–off, it’s going to give me a migraine if it goes on.’

‘Are you sure about the torch? That’s very kind of you.’

‘I’m quite sure. It may be all right now, but if you need to get up in the night and they’re not working . . .’

‘I was just making myself a cup of coffee, can I tempt you? Or tea?’

‘That’s very nice, I will. A weak coffee would be nice.’

Two hours later each woman knew a good deal about the other – past lives, husbands, jobs, changes.

Elinor talked a lot about Muriel and felt both relieved and disloyal. Rosemary Poole was a good listener. ‘I only had a brother,’ she said, ‘eight years older, so I never really knew him. He was married and away by the time I remember much. I longed for a sister.’

Elinor shook her head. Took the coffee cups away. The lights went on and off. On again. Stayed on.

‘Did that electrician call on you earlier?’ she asked Rosemary. ‘He was supposed to have found the problem and sorted it out but clearly he failed.’

‘I didn’t let him in actually.’

‘Oh.’

‘I suggested he come back in the morning. He didn’t have any sort of card or badge and of course I didn’t recognise him. He could have been anybody.’

‘Well, I let him in here and he seemed all right. Faffed around with the wiring and the fuses and so on. Still . . . now you say that, I probably shouldn’t have.’

Rosemary got up. ‘Take no notice, it’s my son-in-law Harry talking. He makes a fuss about that sort of thing. He’s very good, keeps an eye out for me, but I tell him, I’ve got all my faculties and I’ve lived a long time. I don’t need a nanny.’

‘Perhaps I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Come over to mine. My daughter baked me a cake and I can’t eat it all myself. About eleven?’

‘I’d like that. Thank you, Rosemary. And for the torch.’

Elinor watched the light go bobbing down the path and across to number 1, and did not close the door until her new friend was safely inside.

She knew that she would feel uneasy until she rang Muriel. The fact that she had had such an unexpectedly pleasant evening with Rosemary Poole made her conscience raw about the hostile atmosphere that had surrounded her parting with her sister.

She rang but the answerphone picked up.

‘Mu? It’s me. I’m sorry, you’ve obviously gone to bed. I just wanted to have a word – I don’t like it when we seem to part on such bad terms. So – if any of the ill feeling was my fault, I’m sorry. Let’s try again. I’ll give you a ring sometime tomorrow. I’ve had a nice evening with a neighbour who popped in so I hope you’ll meet her too. All right, talk tomorrow, sis. Night-night.’

Rosemary Poole rang her daughter. A grandson answered.

‘Is that Bradley?’

‘No.’

‘Hello, Harvey. Isn’t it time you were in bed, sweetheart?’

‘Yeah. Here’s my mummy.’

‘Hi, Mum. Everything all right?’

‘Everything’s fine, I’ve had a really pleasant evening getting to know one of my neighbours – Elinor Sanders. We found we had such a lot to talk about, quite a few things in common. I’m going to be very happy here, Karen. Oh, and the electrician is coming round, will you tell Harry? I’m going to get him back tomorrow. Is Harry there?’

‘No, it’s one of his snooker nights out. You make sure that electrician does come back, Mum, I don’t want you having a fall. Proper lighting is very important.’

‘Yes, thank you, dear, I do know that.’

‘Sorry. Listen, I’ve got to go, they’re both in the bathroom with the taps on. I’ll talk to you tomorrow, might try and pop over after work.’

‘Only if you’ve the time, Karen. Don’t you worry about me. I’m very comfortable. You see to those two terrors now.’

‘Night, Mum.’

‘Goodnight, dear, big hug for the boys and Harry.’

I’m a lucky woman, Rosemary thought, as she put the phone down. It had just struck her as she was speaking to Karen. Lucky to have her and a son-in-law and grandsons she loved, lucky to be near them but not too near, lucky to have this nice brand-new bungalow with one friend made and the prospect of plenty more.

Lucky.

She went cheerfully in search of the
Radio Times
to pick her programmes for the next few days.

Excited. I haven’t been excited for all this time. No ups, no downs. No probs. Thought it was all sewn up, to be honest. I mean, who’d be stupid enough to rock this lifeboat I‘m in? Got lucky, that’s all, but when you get as lucky as that, you keep your fingers crossed and don’t walk under ladders. Who’d have expected luck like mine? At least, that’s what it seemed like. Luck.

In the depot, where they were brainwashing me – because that’s what it was – they were all buttoned up and proper, not allowed to let out what they were really thinking, but they’d give me a look and I knew what it meant. I knew what they really thought. That I was guilty as hell. I’d done all of it. Just got lucky. Well, they were right, weren’t they?

They said, ‘None of this is going to be down to luck, it’s down to learning, remembering, watching yourself, not slipping up, always being on your guard, never being able to relax. It’ll get easier, mind. In five years a lot of it will come easy. Someone asks your name, you’ll give them the new one, someone asks where you were born and when, you’ll parrot it off because the old place and date have gone from your mind. It’ll feel odd on your birthday – the one you have now. The day’ll go by and nobody’ll mention it because there’ll be nothing to mention. But suppose you get married in the future –’

‘Hang on, I’m married already.’

‘No, you’re not, you’re divorced.’

‘So . . . you’re telling me I can get married again?’

‘Nothing to stop you.’

‘What about the papers, all the forms you have to sign? It’s all legal stuff. They’ll be wrong, won’t they?’

‘No. The forms will be correct in every detail. New name, date of birth, place, occupation, all of it.’

‘But it wouldn’t be legal.’

‘It will be legal, take my word for it.’

‘Passport?’

‘Passport.’

‘Driving licence?’

‘Everything. Every last bit of paper. All legal. You’ll be legal.’

‘So if I get married . . .’

‘You get married.’

‘What do I tell her? She – whoever she is – she’ll have a right to know who I am, won’t she?’

‘She’ll know who you are.’

‘Not the real me, she won’t.’

He’d sighed and leaned forwards across the table. ‘It will be the real you. The old you won’t exist any more.’

‘She could find stuff out.’

‘No, she couldn’t, because there’ll be nothing to find.’

‘How do you mean, nothing to find?’

‘Wherever she looks – this woman you might marry who you haven’t yet met – wherever she looks, if she does, she’ll draw a blank. Hospital records, schools, register of electors, bank, credit cards . . . you name it. She won’t find anything because there’ll be nothing there. There was stuff there – it was all there once. Not any more. It’s gone. Thin air. That person you called yourself – that person you were . . . he doesn’t exist any more. Do you get it yet?’