ROSES ROUND THE DOOR

ROSES ROUND THE DOOR

By Janet Baldey

        

What do you say to the person who ruined your life?

         You stare down at the withered figure folded into the old-fashioned double bed and lick your lips.

         ‘Hello Mum.’

         Her lashless eyes flicker, so you know she’s heard but she doesn’t smile.   Instead, she stares from out of those lizard eyes as if everything’s your fault. Just like she always did.

         Out of habit, you reach out and mould your hand over one of the brass bedknobs.  Their pitted, dull gold surfaces have always puzzled you. How can things like that wear away unevenly?   They don’t have moving parts, not like people. The thought flashes through your mind that perhaps there are bits of Mum that work properly even now. Then, you look at her and the dry husk she’s become and know you’re wrong - again.

         The heat is suffocating in that stuffy room and drops of sweat start to trickle down your back. The harsh sound of her breathing and the soft background wheeze of the oxygen cylinder are making your headache. You heard the noise as soon as you stepped through the front door. It scared you. You don’t know how your Sis can stand it, day after day and all through the night as well.

           Mum’s eyes are closing now and you back out of the room, sighing with relief.

         Sis is sitting downstairs surrounded by a blue haze of smoke. She was always the brainy one, you’d think she’d have learned.

         She leans forward and pours out a thin stream of khaki coloured tea from a round-bellied teapot.

  

         ‘Nice of you to spare the time.  How long has it been now?’

         She seems angry and you don’t know why. You used to visit, but they never seemed pleased to see you, just sat there staring at the telly as usual. You feel like telling her this but you didn’t come here for a row, there were enough of those when you were a kid. Instead, you take the tea with a grunt and sit down in an armchair facing her. It sags under your weight; it never did that the last time you were here.  You look around the room. Nothing much has changed, except for extra layers of grime. Faded forget-me-nots cling to the walls and high up in the corners cobwebs hang, clotted with dust. Shows how long Mum has been ill. If nothing else, she was always house-proud.

         Marge narrows her eyes and draws on her fag.  You wonder if she realises how like Mum she’s become. Except that Mum never dyed her hair or wore so much make-up. Her mouth is opening and closing, like a fish, but your mind is foggy and you can’t make out what she’s saying. So, you tilt your cup and watch your tea swirl and think about the time you were last here.

         It was some time after you’d first met Jenny. You’d always remember that day. You were late leaving the Centre; most of the others had already been collected but you didn’t live far away so you used to walk. Turning a corner, you almost tripped over her. She was crouched on the ground rubbing her ankle, her eyes shiny with tears.  She’d fallen down a kerb and her heavy bag lay, like a brown puddle, by her side. You’d never heard of love at first sight but when she lifted her pale, drenched face to yours, you felt something. Anyway, you hefted up her bag and let her lean on you as she hobbled through the narrow streets.

         The next day, she brought you a paper bag full of homemade cakes. A ‘thank-you’ from her Mum, she said. You blushed, but deep inside, you were pleased.

           After that, it became a habit. You always found her waiting outside the Centre, the angular planes of her body jack-knifed against a wall. She wasn’t pretty but you liked her. Shy at first, soon you were chatting easily. You began to leave her at the gate of her house and go home on a high. At last you’d found someone who understood and laughed at what you thought was funny. Magic!

   You began to notice the green depths in her eyes and the way the sun kissed the tips of her hair and it was then you changed your mind.  She was pretty, more than that, she was beautiful.

  You remember the first time you took her to the pictures. You’d saved up for ages. You sat in the stalls and let the film wrap itself around you while your arm crept along the back of her seat and settled around her shoulders like a dusty snake.

         As August burned into an Indian summer, you took long walks in the countryside, Jenny by your side. You felt so happy, you hardly noticed the corn stalks prickling your feet as you walked across the fields while the red gold disc of the sun rested against the horizon. You talked about the future. You knew that Jenny was the only one you’d ever want. She dreamed of two children, a dog and a cottage with roses round the door. You thought you could manage that. You couldn’t write very well but you’d always been good at sums, everyone said so. You’d even learned how to use a computer. You could become an accountant, like your Uncle Joe.       

        

Once or twice a year you’d come home and see his Jaguar parked outside your house. After you’d walked around it once or twice, admiring its shape and the way the sun bounced off the chrome, you went inside and found your uncle, as sleek as his car, being served tea from out of the best china.  You’d never been to his house but you knew he lived in the country; maybe he had roses round his door.

         Funny, how you can wake up full of hope and by the evening all your dreams are shattered. One day, you got back from the Centre put your key in the lock, turned it and walked into a nightmare. Jenny’s mother was standing in the sitting room facing Mum. Both of them were reared up like snakes spitting venom at each other.   They turned around as you entered and looked at you with such hatred that you cringed. What had you done?  You hadn’t hurt Jenny. You’d only kissed her.

         Afterwards Mum looked at you, her face drained of expression.

         ‘You must never, ever, see that girl again.’ Her voice was flat and each word was a sentence.

         ‘Why?’ you shouted.

         She turned away, her lips fused into a tight line.

         Jenny wasn’t at the Centre the next day.  When it closed, you ran around to her house and banged on the door until your knuckles were sore. But, although you thought you saw the curtains twitch, there was no reply. Weeks later, the neighbours told you they‘d moved away.

            Afterwards, you didn’t bother to try any more. There didn’t seem to be any point. When you were eighteen, you left home.  Anything to get away from Mum and the trap door that had taken the place of her mouth. The Council found you a flat and Margaret looked after you. You liked Margaret. But she wasn’t Jenny.

           Gradually, you become aware of Marge. She’s poking you. Her fingers are sinking through the cloth of your jacket, deep into your flesh.

         ‘Wake up, you fool.’

Her voice is like iced water and opening your eyes, you see her face, inches from your own. Her cheeks are red and her eyes glitter.

         ‘Whassup?’

         Your tongue seems too big for your mouth and the word is slurred.

         You can see Sis’s lips working but the words don’t reach your brain. Then, as if by magic, her voice rings out, loud and clear, as if a wireless had suddenly been tuned to the right frequency.  

         ‘You always blamed Mum but she was only trying to do the right thing. She wanted to put a stop to things before they went too far.’

         You sit, goggling at her.

         Marge’s face tightens with impatience and her voice rises.

‘ You don’t understand do you? You’re not normal. People like you and Jenny, can’t cope on your own.  What would have happened if you’d had a baby?’

You sit, staring at her. Then anger builds up inside you until you feel like a volcano about to burst. What was so wrong with you and Jenny loving each other?   And if you’d had a baby you would have loved it more than Mum had ever loved you.  Suddenly, your eyes feel hot and you’re frightened you’re going to cry. Then Marge will laugh at you just like she did when you were little and things didn’t make sense.

         So, you bite your lips hard and stare at the dregs in your teacup.  It’s safer that you pretend to be more stupid than you are. Still, it hurts when you see the contempt in Marge’s eyes. You’d thought a lot of her when you were a kid.

         Suddenly, you are desperate to leave. You start to get up and then you freeze as a dull thump echoes from above. You hear a hoarse rattling sound and your neck jerks upwards. Without a word, Marge races towards the door. You follow, more slowly.

         ‘Goodbye Mum’ you think.

         She’s on her back and, for a change, not staring at you. Already glazing over, her eyes are angled towards the ceiling.   

         You stand looking down at her and feel so unhappy, your stomach hurts. With all your heart, you wish you’d been born different.  You wish you’d been the sort of son Mum could have been proud of. You squeeze your eyes hard to keep the tears in.   Then, all of a sudden, it dawns on you; your Mum has just died.  You can cry now -it’s allowed.

           

          

Copyright 2013 Janet Baldey