I am still alive. I am still alive.
The words thrummed, unintelligible, in her ears, a strange instrument she did not know. Like a pounding headache, they thrust things aside-
"- the Bardeen and Brattan-"
I am still alive. I am still alive.
I am still alive.
But of course she was. So why did it feel as though she had been frozen, lifeless statue in a busy courtyard, while Eustace Clarence and Victor, even Helen and Lucy and Peter and Edmund, hurried by? Why was it only now that she breathed and felt it, looked at her hands and saw colour (rusty iron red- no no no), opened her door and felt the air relax, move?
Breathlessly, she took off her hat.
Then it all came back, sudden and so unstartling in its familiarity, sinking her stomach and weighing, stone-like, on her brittle frame.
I am alive.
(And they are not.)
She knew with remote clarity that she was not the only person to feel this way, was not the only mother to have lost a son, the only sister to have lost a brother; she knew, but it was a knowing like the colour of the rain, like the sound of a daffodil or the taste of ice. Granny May, she thought, leaning against the wall, there is Granny May. Old Mrs Swire, who lost her child to the Spanish flu and her husband to a motor accident; even people she didn't know - the Millicent MacPhersons of England. Mrs Pole.
Frowning, she stood up, blinked.
Mrs Pole.
Strange how she had not thought of that women. Jill Pole had a mother, this she knew; she recalled with dreadful clarity that one, awkward conversation they had had on the front porch one summer while Eustace Clarence had gone in to talk with Harold; that silent feud over a shaded slur Alberta had cast on Jill (and what that had been over she could scarcely now remember). Jill had, she recalled, invoked her own mother's authority, and only Eustace Clarence's arrival had prevented what might have resulted in a rather shameful dispute (Alberta Scrubb, ex-home affairs journalist and long-term columnist for the Daily Mirror, picking a fight with a fifteen year-old girl?) - even now, her ears burned slightly at the memory, so indelibly scratched in her mind that even at the point of forgetfulness, it leapt back into frame.
No, Jill Pole had certainly had a mother. A sudden strange surge of (sympathy) for this nameless woman caught her, tugged piteously at her sleeve, for this unknown woman, whose daughter Alberta had never been personally fond of, whose daughter was not lying in a still-unmarked grave.
(And really, it had been over a week, why was it that the headstones had not come in yet? Tardiness, unforgivable tardiness.)
Mothers who watched their children die.
There was, if not an article, at least a column in that, but the thought was coated in an unpleasant taste of rotting leaves in an over-humid summer.
Leaves, now, that was right; she had a new pot of Ceylon in the kitchen, and she had barely had a cup this past week.
Resolutely, she stood up, and headed to the kitchen.
When she reached the kitchen, she noted the papers lying on the kitchen bench, right beside the kettle, and heaved a sigh. Harold had many strengths but one of his weaknesses was surely his disorganisation; lecturer at the London School of Economics he may be, but his personal administration was limited to bookkeeping.
The papers would go on the side, and the note would- peering closer, she noticed the date: 28/03. Today, then.
Off to work. MacPhersons - CAD2710. Shared line, apparently, but Samuel claims the neighbours are polite - Harold.
Shared line? She wrinkled her nose. A shared line! Why- but then, of course, Millicent MacPherson had not had the attire of a wealthy woman, and the telephone was in high demand. But why on earth would a couple who was not that well off decide to invest in a telephone? And why was Harold so insistent that she call?
No, she had better things to do with her time.
Especially when you're unemployed, a voice sneered, and she promptly locked it up and threw it into cold storage.
The papers would have to be sorted- and heavens, but didn't Harold fold? Why, but the Daily Mirror was spread open-
Open at the page where her column used to be.
Le Ray to Shine Brighter with Fiancee Ruth at His 'Elm
Oh, goodness. Punning on actors' names, reporting on the engagements of debutantes and actors in such a tense political climate as this? She had known for a while that Harry was going soft, but this was a new low. Tea forgotten, she cast her gaze further down the page.
It is a marvellous hard thing to please all people all the time, yet debutante Ruth Elms seems to certainly have mastered the act...
... If the British Prime Minister should insist pursuing his 'new colonialism' policies, perhaps the only measure that may allow him to better position himself for next year's election should be to follow Le Ray's footsteps and find a young Lady Elms of his own. I hear that Jean Simmons is still available.
CASSANDRA
Oh.
Oh.
She glanced across at the note, at the newspaper, spread open at that page. Note, newspaper. Note, newspaper.
Snatching up the piece of paper, she marched down the hallway, half tore the receiver off the base.
2-2-3-2-7-1-0.
Did Harold think she had no chance to go back? Or was he merely worried for her, on her behalf, that she would react this way, knowing that Harry had so cheerfully shafted her for a man who combined political comment with cheap celebrity news? Should she be angry at him, or thankful to him? Or simply irritated? She was not that weak!
Memories of herself crying desperately assaulted her; she batted them away, focused on the shrill, jagged ringing of the telephone line. One ring, another, another, another. Hopefully the telephone was not off-hook; ideally, it would be.
Click.
"- Hello, this is Millicent MacPherson speaking."
"Oh, hello," Alberta said, and wondered exactly what she should say next. Her excuse sounded rather stupid in her head. "This is Alberta Scrubb. I don't know if you remember me..."
"Hello, Alberta," that same, mild voice replied, with the warmth of basic recognition. "May I call you Alberta?"
"I- yes," said Alberta, unable to keep from waspishly adding, "What else would you call me?"
From the other end came a small laugh. "I always feel safer to check."
The silence crackled across the wires. Alberta eyed the telegraph poles through the adjacent sitting room windows, remembering suddenly (somewhat absurdly) the short, wire fences that had lined the streets, before the war, before the Pevensies had stayed in her house, (before Narnia).
"I called because Harold-"
"I assume Samuel-"
Simultaneously, they stopped, Alberta chewing her lip and staring at the painting she still had not- could not- removed from the wall. She began to count the crackles over the line.
"I am glad that you have called," said Millicent presently, and Alberta wondered whether she would be able to better ascertain the woman's emotions if they were face to face. Glad was not exactly the tone pervading this call. "I was wondering how you were."
"Alive," said Alberta, unable to contain the soaking, tearing bitterness. "I am still alive."
"It can be awful, can't it?" Millicent said, her voice dry, and her answer was so very unexpected, so real, that Alberta laughed.
"Yes, I hate it," she admitted, and heard her voice rise in that awful indicator that she was about to start to cry. "I hate-"
Click!
"Oh, Milly, is that you? Oh-"
Click!
"That's Donna, I am so sorry," Millicent said, and Alberta felt, rather than heard, that she really was sorry. "She probably needs someone to watch over Michael tonight. You were saying?"
There were words inside, feelings and faces, and Alberta tried to reach out, drag them to the surface, but they slipped away and faded into the beige hall walls, into the neat patterned rug, the still muggy air.
"Alberta?"
"I feel like a failure," she whispered suddenly, and each word scratched raw her weather-beaten throat with its aching truth. "I can't-"
The phone clicked once, twice.
She couldn't continue.
In the silence that followed, Alberta wondered whether she had doubled the electricity bill for the month.
When Millicent finally spoke, her voice was gentle, even through the receiver.
"Why don't you come for tea tomorrow, Alberta?"
"I-" it was on the verge of her tongue to mention her work.
Perhaps it was having as much as work as Van Gogh, in his later years, had had a left ear. Perhaps it was the loneliness and boredom of being at home while Harold was off delivering a paper- likely his critique of Hayek's theory of financial regulation. Perhaps it was that Millicent hadn't worded her question "how are you" in those particular words, or as any other trite, hurtful statement. Perhaps- and, oh, but it felt silly to say- perhaps it was because she felt, instinctively, that Millicent was somehow kinder- kind, in the way Victor could be, when not teasing her; kind in the way that Helen, for all her irritating foolish fancies had been; kind, in the way that Eustace Clarence had, in his later years been. And even if she hadn't always liked that about Eustace Clarence, it had been so very much a part of him, particularly in his later years; that kindness that stabbed and warmed and angered her, and somehow, feeling that kindness, hearing it, made it feel as though, somewhere, somehow, he might still be alive.
"I would love to come."
In the buzzing silence, it did not feel like steel and ice and wire, but something softer, something like the haze of a Rothko multiform, pulse of invisible, glowing thread.
"I will see you at 11," said Millicent, gently. "And Alberta?"
"Yes?"
"We are all of us failures, some way or another. But it's not who we are, it doesn't have to be who we are. And you did not fail Eustace Clarence."
Long after the last click, Alberta stayed, holding the receiver.
"Number please?" came a clipped voice, with the hint of a Manchester accent.
She quickly hung up.
We are all of us failures, some way or another.
Glancing upwards, she saw again the crudely painted boat, the chunky, kitsch three-dimensional-esque wave. The dragon head looked directly at her, its purple sails billowing in the imaginary wind, its carved eyes staring, staring.
It doesn't have to be who we are.
Unbidden, (thankfully silently), words came to her with startling clarity: I think, Victor, Eustace Clarence, that I may be going on a journey.
"Foolish old woman," she murmured, but the words were as hollow as the dragon boat was real, and she smiled ruefully, headed to the kitchen, and began to boil the tea.
A/N: By the late 1940s, direct calls could be made within short distances, though telephones were something of a luxury and many families did use a shared line. The first three numbers correspond to a letter code, for the area. The MacPhersons live in Camden Town, but since this is alphabetically the third CAM district in London, I assumed that their area code would be CAD (2-2-3).
To anyone who watches The Hour, I am totally aware it happened in the late 50s and not the 40s, and I'm also aware it's not the best show out there (although Lix Storm is *perfection*), but hey... it's possible to pun on Le Ray and Elms. And that show is something of a guilty pleasure.
I have 4 more chapters planned... here's hoping I can get it all out before the year ends!
Happy Advent, all!