Being Here (20 page)

‘I'm sure I will, dear.'

‘No wild dancing when you get a few drinks in you either.'

‘Spoilsport. I was hoping Carly and I would go along to a discotheque afterwards.'

Jane kisses me on the cheek.

‘Bless you, Leah. No one has gone to a disco for at least twenty years.'

‘Really? Why am I the last to find out these things?'

Carly bursts into the room at four forty-five. She brings the sunshine with her. Between the two, they lighten the gloom of my clothing. Behind Carly is a woman who is obviously her mother. I remember how I had envisaged her. Overweight and impossibly cheerful. I got half of it right. She is actually trim and impossibly cheerful. She beams at Jane and me and challenges us not to find the world a marvellous place. I don't have the energy to fight her.

‘You must be Mrs Cartwright,' she says, striding forward and extending her hand. ‘I'm Jacky, Carly's mum.'

‘I'm delighted to meet you,' I say, shaking her hand. It is cool and elegant. ‘But please call me Leah.'

‘Hi, Mrs C,' says Carly. ‘You ready?'

‘To rock and roll,' I reply. I wonder if her generation has heard of rock and roll. I wonder if Jacky's generation has heard of rock and roll.

‘I'll get the wheelchair,' says Jane. ‘Now just watch out for her, Jacky. Leah is a wild child.'

The car is huge, with chrome bars along the front and seats I have to climb up steps to reach. Jane helps me into the passenger seat and fastens my seat belt. I feel exhausted just sitting down. Then they fold the wheelchair and take it around the back. Carly hops into the back seat. In a few moments the car turns through the grounds and the Home swivels out of vision.

The journey takes about half an hour. Carly's mum chats to me.

‘I understand you were a librarian before you retired, Leah.'

I wonder how she knows this. It is not something I have mentioned to her daughter.

‘That's right,' I say. ‘I was a librarian at a small country town not far from here for … oh, about forty years.'

‘Carly told me you love books. I guess that must've been a perfect job for you.'

‘It was. Until things changed. When I started, you didn't need any qualifications other than a love of reading and the energy to spread that love. I applied for the job when the library was built, got it on the grounds that I was known in the area and knew about books. I like to think I did a good job.'

‘I'm sure you did. But you said things changed.'

I place my hand on the dashboard when we go round corners. I've never driven a car. Ultimately, I don't trust them.

‘They did. As the library expanded, we took on new staff. For fifteen years I had worked there by myself. And the new staff had to have qualifications. They'd done courses and knew all manner of procedures. All I knew was the books themselves. If anyone asked for a particular book I could lead them exactly to where it sat on the shelves. I could tell you if it was out on loan and when it was due back. I could probably have told you who had borrowed it. All that information was stored in my head. Then there was the Dewey Decimal system and file cards. Now there are computers and shelves of untouched books. What does a library become when books are no longer central? In many ways I'm glad I worked when I did, got out of it when I did.'

Jacky laughs.

‘I wish
I
could get out of teaching,' she says. ‘Too much bureaucracy, too many meetings. It's like the kids are an afterthought. I'm too old. At least, that's what Carly tells me. Isn't that right, sweetheart?'

There is no reply. She glances over her shoulder.

‘In her own world,' she says to me. ‘Gets her iPod plugged into her ears and nothing else exists. It's infuriating.' ‘You must be very proud of your children,' I say. ‘Carly is a delight, and her brother, doing medicine at university.'

She glances at me.

‘Sorry?'

‘Your son. Carly's brother.'

‘I think you must be mistaken,' she says. There is an edge to her voice. ‘Carly
had
a brother, but he died ten years ago. Leukaemia.'

It hurts, but I crane my neck to peer into the back seat. Fine white wires trail from Carly's ears. Her head moves to an imperceptible beat. She smiles and rewards me with a small wave. I smile back and hope it's more realistic than it feels.

‘I'm so sorry, dear,' I say to Jacky. ‘I am old and my memory plays tricks. I obviously have my stories confused.'

I gaze out of the window. The child had a story. And I missed it. I missed it completely. It is true that I am old and confused. But I am not so old and confused that I cannot be awed by the complexities and wonders of the human mind.

Jacky guides the car into the driveway of a large house. It has a garden with neat borders and there are white pillars bookmarking the front door. She cuts the engine and Carly slides out. I stay in the car until they have assembled my wheelchair and helped me into it. The front door opens and a man steps outside. He is smiling. Cheerfulness appears to be in Carly's genetic make-up.

‘Mrs Cartwright,' he says. ‘Welcome.'

He is not overweight either. And he's not wearing a suit. It is annoying when reality refuses to match my fiction.

‘Thank you,' I reply. ‘It's lovely to be here.'

* * *

I survive dinner.

The food is very good, but my appetite withered years ago. They serve me an impossibly large portion which only diminishes my hunger further. I feel guilty. When I have eaten all I can, what remains on my plate appears larger than the portion I started with. I wonder if I will be able to make it through the evening without visiting the bathroom. The practicalities are daunting. The possibilities of disaster more so.

Conversation is bright and cheerful. It couldn't fail to be.

Once I have turned down dessert, Carly's parents clear the table.

‘Carly told us you would be finishing your story tonight, Leah,' says her mother. ‘So, if you don't mind, we'll leave you to it. If there's anything you need, just let Carly know, okay?'

‘Thank you so much. You are very kind.'

‘Would you care for a drink? A sherry perhaps?'

‘A glass of water would be fine,' I say. ‘Alcohol and I were never the best of friends. I severed our relationship a long time ago.'

‘Of course.'

The dining room is pleasant. The furniture is expensive and in good taste. It reminds me of what used to be called an ‘entertaining room'. There are two armchairs in front of an ornate fireplace, unlit in the balmy evening air. Carly helps me from my dining chair to an armchair. I sink into its depths and know that without help I would never achieve the vertical again. Carly takes the chair opposite.

‘Recording machine?' I say.

‘Got it, Mrs C,' she says. ‘But before you start, I just want to say something. You know, about all that stuff. When we sort of fell out. My story? Yeah? You were interested in how I met Josh. My boyfriend? And I kind of blew you off.'

‘You don't have to tell me anything, my dear.'

‘Yeah, yeah. I know. But there is something I wanted to discuss with you. And it's not something I can really talk about to my folks, you know. It's not a story. Not like you tell. But … I dunno. I just wanted to talk about it.'

‘Is it sexual?'

‘What?' Her face creases. ‘No. Nothing about sex. Jeez, Mrs C. But I guess I want your advice. About love.'

‘Ah. Love is something I know a little about.'

‘Well.' She folds her legs beneath her. It is an effortless movement. I wonder how many years it has been since I was able to do that. I wonder if I have
ever
been able to do that. ‘You know how I said I saw Josh when he was playing his guitar. And how he was really into it. Into the playing. And that's what attracted me to him. Well …' She reaches to twist her eyebrow stud. ‘It's just that Josh is really, really good at music. He plays in this band and they're popular. There's even been talk of a contract. With a music company, you know? And …'

‘Yes?' I say.

‘Now he's sorta bigger than he was. Do you see what I mean?'

‘No.'

‘He's like more than Josh. More than the dorky kid I saw who was into music. And he's popular. With everyone. He's become uber-cool.'

Uber-cool?

‘And you are worried your feelings are changing?' I reply.

‘No. I mean, yes. They
are
changing. I'm so into him. More than ever. It's just there are pressures.'

‘Ah!' I begin to see the problem. ‘Is he pressuring you into sex before you are ready?'

‘Jeez, no.' Carly plucks at her lower lip and smiles. I am rewarded with a glimpse of ornamental dental work. ‘What is it with you, Mrs C? You're, like, obsessed with sex. There
are
other things, you know.'

‘Well, perhaps you could be more forthright, Carly. I can't advise you unless I understand the nature of the problem.'

‘It's … Look, am I good enough? That's what I want to know. Am I good enough for him?'

There is a slight pain in my chest. Indigestion. That's the problem with the substitution of decent food for inedible steak and black-eyed potatoes. It has taken my digestive system by surprise. A culinary ambush.

‘Are you good enough for this Josh of yours? Is that what you are asking?'

Carly nods.

I shift my weight in the chair. It eases the burning slightly.

‘Listen,' I say. ‘I don't know this young man of yours, but I think I have learned something about you. And I will tell you what I see. You are a beautiful girl. You have exceptionally fine bone structure. But that's not important. That kind of beauty might be the kind in vogue right now so you are fortunate, I suppose, to possess it. But what has nothing to do with chance is your inner beauty. It shines through you and brightens wherever you are. You have an enormous capacity for love, Carly. I feel it, like warmth from a fire.'

She cups her face in her hands and stares at me. I detect a reddening of her cheeks.

‘Aw, Mrs C …'

‘I have not finished. You are extraordinary. Do not ask if you are good enough for him. Consider whether he is good enough for you. He should be grateful to be in a position to earn your love. And if he is not, if he ever looks at you like you are something less than the greatest prize he could ever win, then … then …'

‘What?'

‘Tell him to piss off.'

There is silence for a heartbeat. And then Carly laughs. She laughs so hard that tears run down her cheeks. I rummage in my bag, produce a dog-eared photograph.

‘Here is his photograph,' I say. ‘I don't need it anymore.'

‘Mrs C …'

‘I don't
want
it anymore. I will swap it for one of you, if you have a spare and you don't mind a sentimental old woman having it. But you can keep this.'

She takes it.

‘Jeez, Mrs C. I wasn't saying he was
bad
, or anything. This is about me, not him.'

‘It is
only
about you, Carly. It is about the love you deserve. And now I want you to listen one more time. Because my story is coming to an end. And it is a story about just this very thing. Do you want to know why I never married? Why I never had a boyfriend, after Adam? Because after his love, I knew there was no point in settling for anything less. I
couldn't
settle for anything less.'

‘He'd do anything for you, huh?'

‘He sacrificed himself for me,' I say. My words sound small even to my own ears. ‘He loved me so much he sacrificed himself. Would your young man do that for you?'

I find my own face is moist. I brush tears away with a wrinkled hand. It seems somehow apart from me.

‘Turn on that machine,' I say.

She does.