Break Point (3 page)

"What are
they? I can't see from here."

"Photos."

Lots of photos
of a black and white child, a girl, who grows into this
fully-coloured adult with sandy hair in a style you don't see no
more. Same with the clothes. Early nineteen-seventies I'd
say.

I hand them to
Gwen.

"That's my
daughter. Rosemary."

She says it
all wistful. Perhaps her daughter's dead. I don't like to
ask.

"Have you
found anywhere to live yet, Berty? ROBERTA."

"Robina. No,
I'm still working on it."

"I used to be
matron at Newminster General for many years."

"Did
you?"

"They go back
in my photograph box, in the cupboard down there, on top of the red
box file." She coughs.

"How long did
you work at the hospital?"

"Until I
retired. Of course there were all those earlier years when I was
bringing up Rosemary single-handedly ... if it hadn't been for my
parents I don't know what I should have done." She strokes her
chin. "Would you pass me my tweezers, please?"

She takes hold
of her bathroom mirror - one of them two-sided round things on a
hinge - looks into the magnifying side and plucks out a white curly
whisker from her chin. I want to tell her it'll grow bigger and
better next time, like underarm hair. Or leg hair. What a comfort
that was to June. Discovering that other women have hairs sprouting
in places they shouldn't. She had a few on her belly as well as on
her legs, all light and soft, but she soon found out about the
hairs in my nipples which I refused to shave off after a
while.

"This is me,
duck," I said. "Hairs and all."

June liked me
little white tits. Said they were like shy doves, fringed with
stubborn black hairs. She could get quite poetic, could June. That
was one of the attractions to her in the first place, along with
her operatic voice that fooled you into thinking it was going
places. That, and her bold hips and swinging tits, and the touch of
her finger running down the buttons of my spine, all the way down
to the part in me bum. We had hot moments back then, we could go on
and on, like that classic Borg/McEnroe final in 1980, just when you
thought it was all over, we'd both come back with another
breath-taking reply ...

"I can't
always get a good grip with the tweezers because of this darned
arthritis. Would you mind doing the honours with this stubborn
little fellow?" Gwen hands me the tweezers. "Ouch. Have you got
him? Well I never. He's mammoth, isn't he? Now then, when you've
done the breakfast things, Berta, would you mind dusting around
upstairs, and cleaning the bathroom, and opening the windows up
there for ten minutes or so, just to air it? Then I'll tell you
what else I've got in store for today."

Upstairs? Of
course. I hurry through the breakfast dishes because I forgot all
about that whole floor above my head.

There are
pictures all the way up the stairs of pressed flowers which remind
me of pressed butterflies which should be 3D and alive. Now, the
bannister knob at the top, that does look alive, like a living head
and shoulders. A sculpture. The stair and hall carpeting up here is
green, not a lush Wimbledon green, but a dull sage, and all the
upstairs doors have glassy knobs like crystals. I turn a knob at
the end of the landing on the left and walk across the room to the
windows with stained glass petals in the top panes, like the ones
downstairs. I open the windows and look out at the other houses
over the road for a bit, then I have a nose about. There's a
dressing-table and a padded green ottoman with a buttoned top and
matching dressing-table stool, a green spoon-back chair, velvety,
and green damask curtains which have lost their good looks and
hang. There’s an ancient bed on mahogany legs and a big dark
wardrobe full of a young woman's clothes. Ball gowns and evening
wear that haven't been touched for so long except by the microbe
fraternity, and there's a wedding-dress behind cellophane hanging
on a satiny hanger. I run the feather-duster along ledges and
pelmets and great clumps of grey drop down like dead shrews. I've
reached heights that Anne hasn't, and gloat. I have a go at the
sink in the corner which is grey and mottled and the dripping cold
tap has stained it over the years. The taps are a sort of clouded
brass.

Out on the
landing, there's a little alcove with an old dusty jug and bowl and
above it, a small round window with the same stained tulipy glass.
At the other end of the landing, the back bedroom is similar to the
front, only there's a wicker chair, a small divan-bed, and a
wardrobe and drawers made of lighter wood. This'll be the dead
daughter's room. I'm standing in the centre, waiting for a ghost or
a drop in temperature but I don't think I'm sensitive to such
things like Colin is. I open up the windows in the back room and
look out over the tops of firs and beyond to another world of green
where people sit on grass eating strawberries under sunshades.
Where you still can't believe you're here after all these years.
But you've got that small square of paper, tucked like a treasure
behind your credit cards and all safely zipped inside your bum bag
where no one can reach it except you and her. That ticket with the
words Centre Court and Tuesday 4th July in bold dark
letters.

"Roberta? How
are you getting on up there?"

"Just on my
way to the bathroom."

In the
bathroom the bath is one of them deep sort with legs and there's a
geyser and a huge airing cupboard, its doors reaching to the lofty
ceiling, and a frosted window with hundreds of squashed
larva-shapes which doesn't open first time, it just sort of
rattles, and a toilet brush which you have to unhook from the
inside of a fat white china duck.

"Berta? Leave
all that and come down a minute."

When I'm
downstairs Gwen says, "Do you have a car, Roberta?"

"Not no
more."

"That's a
great pity. I know I did say to the agency that my morning carer
doesn't need to have a car because Anne's usually able to take me
out most afternoons, except Wednesdays. But I think it would do my
throat the world of good to get out today. Don't you?"

That was a
close shave. She wants to go out somewhere but we can't because me
Mini snuffed it and anyway it's looking right grey out.

"Mrs Parrott
sometimes takes me out with her husband. On Sundays usually, when
Anne is off. But Mrs Parrott works during the week, you see, so I
can't ask her."

"I saw a bit
of drizzle before, Gwen. They did forecast rain for
today."

"Oh, a bit of
drizzle won't hurt. It'll be fine later, you'll see."

"We could sit
in the garden if it turns out fine."

"The garden?
Oh, I don't know. It's so overgrown out there. Mrs Parrott did cut
the grass only a couple of weeks ago or so but it grows so quickly
at this time of year ... There's a bus. A bus that goes to Cotters
Green every twenty minutes. Stops just round the corner
here."

*

Gwen moves in
inches as do the folk on the bus to Cotters Green. The driver turns
off his engine while Edna clambers off the bus and says goodbye and
see you tomorrow to Mr and Mrs G who talk to Mrs F about bus fares
and the weather and Beryl's op and oh she's left her stick on the
bus. Bus driver stop!

It brings it
all back, it does. I used to drive the Number 25 on the busy
Newminster route. I wonder what Gwen would say if I was her bus
driver today. She might be one of the old school who wants a man
driver. You always get a few who give you a hard time. Not always
to your face either but I could hear them on the seats behind me,
criticizing if I made a slight mistake. I got the feeling that if
I'd have been a bloke they wouldn't have even noticed.

Some bumpy
twisty miles later the bus driver drops off all his elderly
passengers at Cotters Green and Gwen takes my arm in one hand and
her stick in the other and we nose our way to a seat by the river
with weeping willows where children feed ducks and people walk
their dogs.

June always
wanted us to have a dog, a big shaggy Dulux sort of dog, sloppy and
licky. But I never wanted a dog. Told her they were like men,
cocking their legs over everyone and everything. But for all my
maligning, I've always liked men, me. I've always liked their
company and friendship and their straight up ways. Being round
women all the time gets too claustrophobic. Men are expansive.
They're not afraid to come unstuck.

"Should we
have a sandwich to be going on with, Roberta?

"Robina."

"Ribena?" She
frowns. "What’s inside them?"

"I did some
ham and some egg-and-cress."

"Oh ham
please." I loosen the cling-film around the pack of ham sandwiches
and hand them to Gwen. "Isn't it splendid here? I feel better
already."

It would be if
the sun was out. Not that it seems to bother all the old folk,
crammed together on seats, content in the clouds, hopeful of sun.
It gets me wondering why old people aren't valued like other
vintage things. Houses, trees, years. Wimbledon!

I look at my
watch. Shit, the time! Wimbledon's starting at noon
today.

"There's no
need to worry about the time, Roberta. ROBINA. You'll get paid for
any extra hours. What's the hurry?"

"Me brother.
He's done his back in."

"Oh dear.
Hasn't he got anyone else who can help him?"

"Not really.
It's not just that ... "

"What
then?"

I decide to
some clean with her. "I'm a big Wimbledon fan."

Gwen makes a
strange choking sort of sound and spits out a corner of bread rind
into her hand. I rummage around and find a small plastic bag for
the soggy mush.

Then she takes
out an apple and rubs it up and down her leg. "What does your
boyfriend do, Robina?"

"My
boyfriend?" (Shit, I'd forgotten about him.) "He works with my
brother doing landscape gardening."

"Could you not
move in with him? I know I shouldn't really be encouraging it but
everyone shacks up these days, don't they?"

"His flat's
not big enough. We'll get our own place one day ... when we've
saved up some money."

"Very
sensible, Robina."

"It's not too
warm out here, Gwen. I am worried about you getting
cold."

"My parents
brought me up to be thrifty and it's stood me in good stead all
these years ... Gosh, it is rather cold all of a sudden. That wind
... not at all like June ... and we've been sitting still, haven't
we?"

"Well, why
don't we get a cuppa in that cafe?"

And then we
can go back.

*

When I get
back, Elliot's taking up the whole settee again. "Not in your way
am I, Bobbie?" he says, drumming his fingers on the empty cup
balanced on his paunch. "Do stick the telly on, duck."

The atmosphere
is all wrong for Wimbledon. Elliot slumped out like a log, gallons
of 4 Star clunking into tanks, car doors slamming on the forecourt,
kids called Shari and Clo with all the latest sayings.

Then I
remember my own little TV, stuck in one of the cupboards somewhere
here. But after a morning's work I don't much feel like hauling all
my boxes out the way just to get at the cupboards so I make do with
Elliot's telly for now and the men's match on at the moment which
isn't hitting the spot. It's all serves. I've always said their
serves are like their orgasms. Intense, and over before you know
it.

"How's your
back, El?"

"Lot
better."

"So you'll be
working tomorrow."

"Have to see."
He sits up slowly. "Your new lady. She found you anywhere to live
yet?"

"Not
yet."

Then the phone
rings.

It's Hazel
from Carewise saying something about Gwen being poorly and Anne
having to go away for the next few days because her mother is ill.
"Sorry to put you in a spot, Bobbie," Hazel goes on, "but can you
do Anne's hours until she gets back? Mrs McMahon feels she'd rather
have someone she knows and we're very short on carers at the moment
... but she's got a proposal to put to you she said. Would you
phone me back if you're interested? Phone us both?"

I put the
phone down and Elliot says, "Who was it?"

"Shush,
Elliot. I'm thinking."

I don't have
to phone Gwen. There's always that Mrs Parrott woman in an
emergency, isn't there? And Hazel could find someone else at a
push. Anyway, it'll only be a cold that Gwen's gone down with. She
would insist on going out in the cool wind. I could always make
Elliot's back my excuse ... but it's no joke being ill and all
alone, especially when you're old. And Gwen does get confused, and
it'll be hard having to face her tomorrow if I don't get back to
Carewise. She’ll know I was home and not answering - watching
Wimbledon instead of putting myself out for her. And even if I did
work late, there'd still be time to catch the shadows slanting over
Centre Court. Some of the best matches get played at that time. And
Anne will only be gone a few days. She'll be back before the second
week of Wimbledon.