A Distant Shore (29 page)
With this move came a career change for Sheila, who finally left the legal world and became a full-time employee of the local Labour Party. Two years after the letter, Dorothy met her sister’s friend Maria for the first and only time at their mother’s funeral. Their father was both too ill and too grief-stricken to notice that Sheila had brought her “girlfriend” to the funeral, but if it wasn’t for Brian’s stern words she would definitely have said something to her younger sister. As it was, everybody managed to be civil to everybody else, and then, within a year, her father died, but Sheila and Maria did not bother with this funeral. Roger sent flowers, but Brian removed the card and tore it into pieces, claiming that he’d never liked Roger’s holier-than-thou attitude. And then Brian left her, and she left Birmingham and moved back home. As the coach thundered its way towards London she calculated that it was now over six years since she had last seen Sheila at her mother’s funeral. The odd Christmas card maintained the illusion of some kind of intimacy, but in reality all that bound them together was blood and the increasingly distant memories of a past that they shared. However, right now, on this coach to London, this was enough.
There was no sign of Maria Kingston. Sheila, however, was clearly visible behind the barriers. She had become thin, emaciated even, but her lopsided grin remained intact. As the coach swooped in an unnecessarily flamboyant semi-circle, she looked at her sister, who as yet did not seem to realise that of the many coaches pulling in and out of Victoria Station, this was the one that she was waiting for. She scrutinised Sheila, then realised that it was not so much that she looked older; the point was her sister appeared to be calmer and more centred. The thin, middle-aged lady with the long coat bore little resemblance to the fiery young woman who loved to tease Brian over dinner, but when a subject close to her own heart came up, hers were always the first eyes to ignite. Everything always had to be extreme with Sheila. Yes, I will do this. No, I won’t do that. No flexibility. But after nearly six years, and even before she has spoken with her sister, she can see that Sheila is radiating a new calm. And, if truth be told, this is what she has come to London for. She has travelled south in search of calmness.
Sheila’s house has a sloppy bohemian feel to it that suggests a letting go. She looks around. Her sister has changed not only in appearance, but also in aesthetic taste. With Roger it was stripped pine, and furniture with hard angles and clean lines. The new Sheila appears to embrace hand-woven fabrics, prints, glass jars full of organic pastas, and cats. She wonders what her sister would make of her own ordered existence, but realises that it would, undoubtedly, remind her of their parents, and therefore bring forth little more than contempt. Sheila pours the water onto the two tea bags and then she puts the kettle back onto the stove. She pushes a pile of newspapers to one side, and as she does so she plonks the two mugs down on the table top.
“Herbal tea only. I’m afraid I’m a bit purist these days.” She smiles at her younger sister, but the sadness in Sheila’s eyes is clearly visible. She takes the mug of tea and warms her hands on it. “Rosehip,” says Sheila. “It’s all I have at the moment. I’m sorry if it’s not to your taste.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “Just fine.”
“Maybe after you finish the tea we can go for a walk around the garden. Or we could take the tea with us. I bought this place for next to nothing with Maria.” She puts down her cup and looks at Sheila.
“Isn’t it a bad area, Brixton? I mean, you hear so much on the news about problems.” Sheila laughs.
“The news? If you believed everything you heard on the news you’d never go anywhere in London. There are places all over this city where middle-class people take a five-minute ride in a mini-cab to the tube station because the silly buggers are afraid of being mugged. But I suppose you can always hide if you’ve got money. It’s no different down here than anywhere else. And besides, it was the only place we could afford.” Sheila pauses and takes a sip of her tea. “Anyhow, I hope you get to see Maria. I think she’ll be back in the next day or so.”
She tries to look pleased, but she knows that it is not going to be possible for her to have this, or any other kind, of conversation unless she says something to her sister.
“Sheila,” she says. “The wig.” Sheila laughs.
“Lung cancer. That’s what you get for years of smoking roll-ups, isn’t it?”
She pushes her mug of tea to one side and reaches over and takes her younger sister’s bony hands in between her own.
“Sheila. What’s going on?”
Her sister lowers her eyes and her shoulders begin to shake, at first slowly, then with a juddering rhythm that passes through her whole body.
“Not now, Dorothy. Later, perhaps, but not now.”
She lies in bed and stares at the bright-blue wallpaper, which seems to be in stark contrast to the rest of the house, and she listens to the wind whipping around the roof and rattling the window panes. Stubborn Sheila who, having endured her sister’s silent wrath at bringing her girlfriend to their mother’s funeral, simply refused to attend the funeral of their father. As a result Dorothy stood by the grave, along with her father’s distraught drinking friends, and a large turnout of neighbours, thinking the whole while of Sheila safe in London, insulated from the hurt and confusion of the ceremony. And then it started to rain, huge drops of fat water, each drop a shower in its own right. Sheila had tucked herself safely away in London and left her big sister to grieve alone in a muddy cemetery in the north of England. And now, crisp between two tightly folded sheets, her sister has again discarded her. Left her to discover for herself facts that should have been shared. But rather than feel angry towards Sheila, she stares at the wallpaper and tries to understand. She wonders if there is not some element of revenge to her sister’s behaviour. Sheila was already fifteen when Dorothy left for Manchester University, but perhaps she ought to have written more, or come home more often, not immediately buried her aspirations beneath those of Brian. Through the open window she can see the dark sky, and it surprises her that in London stars can be so bright. And then she understands that she owes her sister the sacrifice of her company, and although she has not told Sheila about her own situation back “home,” she knows now that this is where she should be. It is right that she is in London with her younger sister and her crooked wig, and when Maria comes back her companion will simply have to work around the two sisters. This is how it will be in the future.
The elderly doctor appears to be a kindly man, but he is nervous. There is something discomforting about the way he keeps moving around in his chair, and his eyes seem to be focused on a spot a few inches above her head. When the nurse announced that Sheila had arrived with her sister, he asked if he might speak with the sister alone. Sheila seemed unconcerned and simply went off for more tests.
“I think,” he continues, “that as the next of kin, so to speak, I have to be blunt with you.” She looks at this man, who appears to be still fascinated by whatever it is that is hovering over her head. “Your sister’s cancer is inoperable. I have asked her to stop working. To keep working will only accelerate her deterioration.” He lowers his eyes, as though curious to see how she is taking this news. She stares directly at him, so he once more looks to the ceiling. “Will you be staying with her for long?”
“I’m not sure. She has a friend, Maria, who should be back soon. Maybe until then.” She is not about to disclose her own resolutions to the doctor.
“I see.” He waits a beat. Then he once again lowers his eyes to meet her own. “It’s never easy for a patient to come to terms with this situation, but your sister possesses a tranquillity which is in many ways quite remarkable.” The doctor seems worried now, as though wondering if he ought to explain exactly what he means. But she does not require any explication from this doctor. She has seen it for herself. The only thing that puzzles her is whether this tranquillity was there before the illness, or if the illness has brought this on. “Is there anything that you need to ask me?” The word “need” seems a little strange to her, but she simply shakes her head. “There are,” he says “various agencies who specialise in counselling of one sort or another. The nurse can give you their numbers if you’re interested.” She is momentarily puzzled and wonders if he means counselling for her or for Sheila, but she decides not to trouble this man any further.
“Thank you,” she says. He gets to his feet.
“Your sister shouldn’t be too long now.” He hands her a card that he takes from a tray on his desk. “Please call me if there’s anything at all that’s worrying you. This will not be an easy time for her, and I can see how much of a shock this has been for you.”
In the evening she sits at the back of the hall at the local Labour Party meeting. Resting on the chair next to her is a plastic shopping bag full of files and papers that Sheila has asked her to return to her employers, along with a letter of resignation. After this morning’s tests they walked around her sister’s garden, and Sheila pointed out all the plants that she and Maria had planted, and she occasionally stopped to pluck off a brown leaf, or break back a weed or a stray branch. Then they sat at the small wooden picnic table, with its two neatly arranged benches, and Sheila confessed to her sister that she was extremely tired. She admitted that her job as the secretary of the local Labour Party was simply too much, and then she rolled her eyes and declared that Tony Blair’s revolution would just have to do without her. At least for now. She laughed at Sheila’s comment and agreed to take back the necessary files that evening.
Derek is just as Sheila has described him. A tall man who carries himself awkwardly, and who possesses a face that positively oozes nervous concern. He winds up the meeting, fields some gently pitched enquiries, and then strolls towards her at the back of the hall. She stands up to greet him, and he extends his hand.
“I’m happy to meet you,” he says, welcoming her with a smile that she imagines he bought somewhere. “But I’m sorry to hear about Sheila’s resignation. She’ll be sorely missed.” She picks up the shopping bag.
“Sheila asked me to bring these for you. She wanted you to have them straight away.”
“Well, it’s typical of her to be so thoughtful.” She stares at this man, who seems somewhat unnerved by this encounter.
“Do you have somebody lined up to take her job?”
He laughs nervously. “Well, I’m only the local chair. And mine’s a voluntary position. Sheila’s job will have to be decided on by the whole committee, including our MP, but as it’s the only full-time job we have there’s bound to be plenty of competition.” Then he stops, as though suddenly aware of what he has just said. “Would you be interested in the job?” He is clearly embarrassed that this has not already occurred to him. She smiles.
“Thank you, but I already have a job.” This poor nervous man.
“Of course.” He laughs skittishly. “Well,” he says, “we usually go to the pub for a tipple and to thrash things around somewhat. You know, set the world to rights.” He glances towards a small knot of people who are waiting for him by the door. “Would you like to join us?”
“No, but thanks very much. I’ve got to get back.”
“Of course,” he says, “I understand.” They stare at each other and then he once again holds out his hand, which she shakes. “Please convey our warmest wishes to Sheila for a speedy recovery.”
“I will,” she says, and she watches as he turns to leave. “Don’t forget the papers.” He stops and laughs. She hands him the shopping bag, which he cradles in his arms like a child.
“How stupid of me.”
The following evening the sisters go to the local cinema to see a film by a friend of Roger’s. Sheila is adamant that she and Brian met the director one night at dinner. Sheila is also convinced that Roger has always been jealous of his friend’s successful move into features, while Roger has been stuck, albeit at the high end, in television documentary. But she does not remember this man, nor does she remember Roger’s jealousy. As she watches the film, her mind wanders. It must be nearly forty years since she last sat with her sister in the dark. No doubt her parents had bullied her into taking Sheila to some cartoon or other, but the rediscovery of something as simple as a trip to the cinema with Sheila fills her with a cautious joy. After all, so much between them continues to remain unspoken. Sheila, for all her new-found serenity, still appears to be unreceptive to intimacy, and the hours between meals are stitched together in silence. There has been no sharing of photographs, or affable tumbling down the paths of old memories. Her sister appears to be grateful for her presence, but she remains hermetically sealed.
She looks across at Sheila. She wants to tell her about how, after she left to go off with Maria, Roger had called her and suggested that the next time she came to London they should meet for a drink. And how she manufactured an excuse to Brian about a concert at Wig-more Hall, and met Roger in a club in Soho that lay behind a single unmarked door. Once she was buzzed inside, and had climbed the seemingly endless steps, she entered a smoky room that appeared to be full of over-confident men. Roger waved to her from the bar and immediately pressed a drink upon her and told her that he was heart-broken to be “dumped” by Sheila, but as the evening progressed it was unclear what purpose she served, other than to provide him with an audience for his self-pity. Corrosion was the order of the evening: Roger soon began to refer to Maria as “the lesbian bitch”; the Labour Party became “the fucking reds”; and Sheila was castigated as “self-righteous and jealous of my success.” She listened until it was time to take the last train back. Sadly, she would have to mark school papers on the train, and she was already worried that she might have drunk too much wine. As she stood to leave, Roger offered to walk her back downstairs to the door. He had spotted some friends from the world of commercial film standing at the other end of the bar, and so he was staying. She thanked him, but told him that she would let herself out, which she did, and on the train back to Birmingham she didn’t know whether to feel pity for Roger or for herself. And now, sitting here in the dark, watching Roger’s friend’s dreadful film, all she wants to do is reach over and take her sister’s hand and tell her about that evening, to share with her how she feels about this betrayal, but Sheila appears to be moored in a peaceful place. She sits with her sister, tears beginning to form in her eyes, and waits. And then eventually the credits begin to roll, and she quickly wipes her eyes, and as the house lights come up, her sister gives her that lopsided grin of hers.