A Distant Shore (30 page)

The telephone rings twice and then she picks it up. The man’s voice is pleasant, but he speaks with a strangely detached authority. She confirms her name, but as she does so she wonders how this man knows who she is. She has not given anybody Sheila’s telephone number.

“I’m calling you from St. Thomas’s Hospital.” Immediately she knows that something is wrong, for this is not Sheila’s hospital. “I’m a police officer. Your sister has been the victim of a mugging attack, but she’s fine. We’re bringing her home by car and we just want to make sure that you’ll be there to receive her.”

“Can I speak to her?”

The officer laughs slightly, as though mocking her concern. “Believe me, she’s fine. She’s actually already in the car. We won’t be long.”

She puts down the telephone and feels as though she could scream with frustration. This morning Sheila had insisted in her usual cold manner that she would go to the hospital by herself, and not wishing to cause any argument she had simply let her sister have her own way. She takes a deep breath and then decides that there’s little else that she can do except put on the kettle and wait for the police to bring her sister home.

Sheila has a huge piece of white gauze on her forehead that is held in place by two broad strips of Elastoplast.

“It’s just where I hit my head when I fell.” Sheila sips at her cup of hot water. “And the bloody wig came off, lot of use that is. They put in some stitches.”

“Some stitches?”

“About a dozen, they said. I don’t remember. But I’m all right.”

“What did he take?” Sheila shrugs her shoulders.

“My bag, but there wasn’t much in it. A credit card, some ID, bits and pieces.”

“Shouldn’t we stop the card?”

“The nurse at the hospital did that for me.” She stands and pours herself another cup of tea, then sits again, this time next to Sheila.

“Has this ever happened before?”

“Christ, this is London, not Afghanistan. It was just a mugging. I didn’t resist, and I got away, okay?”

“But you saw him, right?”

Sheila laughs now. “Oh, I saw him all right. Strapping bastard, and cocky with it.”

“But you’d recognise him?”

“Not really, they all look the same.” She pauses. “Of course I’d recognise him.”

“That’s not what I meant.” Sheila takes another sip of her hot water.

“Look, I was a little shaken up. I admit it. And I don’t much like the sight of blood, especially my own. But I’m all right.” Sheila arches her eyebrows. “And, I’m glad you’re here. Thank you.”

In the afternoon, it is a plain-clothes officer who takes a seat in the living room. He is older than the man who brought Sheila back from the hospital, and he seems more business-like. Either he joined the force late, after a false start in another career, or he is simply not very good at his job and promotion has passed him by. He flips open a pad, jams the head of the ballpoint against his leg so that the nib pops out, and then he looks up at the two sisters who sit on the sofa before him.

“Right then, we’ve already got the description from the other officer, but is there anything that you’d like to add.” Sheila shakes her head. “Clothes? Distinguishing facial marks? Voice? What did he sound like? London accent? Jamaican? Anything will help.” Again Sheila shakes her head. The officer sighs.

“He did speak, didn’t he? There must be something that you can remember.” Sheila looks across at the officer.

“I don’t want to press charges. It doesn’t matter.” The policeman seems surprised, but he responds as though he has heard this line before.

“You mean, if you’ll excuse my language, you want to leave the bastard on the street so he can do this to somebody else? Except maybe the next person won’t be as lucky as you were.” Sheila is adamant.

“I don’t want to press charges, and that’s the end of it, okay?” Dorothy looks at Sheila in surprise. The officer senses the futility of the situation.

“Is there some reason why you don’t want to prosecute this man? He knocked you to the ground, he took your bag and left you bleeding. Do you think you owe him something? Or do you know him, is that it?”

“I don’t know him. I’ve never seen him before in my life, but what’s going to happen to him when you lot get hold of him? Accidentally fall over and bang his head in the cell, will he? Or by some mysterious process will his belt find its way around his neck? I know what happens to young blacks in police cells. You just can’t wait, can you?” The officer snaps his pad shut and gets to his feet.

“You know, if that’s what you think, then maybe you deserve to have these people loose on the streets.”

“These people?” There is a note of triumph in Sheila’s voice, but the policeman is unperturbed.

“Criminals.” He spits the word out. “Crackheads who’ll dump you down a rubbish chute, or pour petrol through your door, if you look at them wrong. That’s who I mean. Violent bastards who don’t respect the law, and whose only ambition in life is to score some draw and stab people up.”

Sheila laughs. “But you know how to teach them to respect the law, don’t you?”

The officer and Sheila stare at each other. Then the policeman reaches into his pocket and pulls out a card. He drops it on the coffee table, and then he turns to face Dorothy. She stands.

“If your sister comes to her senses, that’s where you can find me. Otherwise, enjoy the rest of your day. I’ll let myself out.”

She hears the door slam and she sits again, this time in the chair opposite Sheila. She looks at her sister, who stares blankly at the wall. She can see that Sheila is tired and wants to go to bed, and she has not got the heart to argue with her.

Her sister sleeps right through until the morning. She is sitting at the kitchen table when the phone rings and she grabs it, keen that it should not wake Sheila. She recognises Mr. Jowett’s voice.

“Ah, I didn’t expect you to answer the phone.”

“Mr. Jowett.”

“Well, Miss Jones, thoughtful of you to leave your sister’s number, for as it turns out things have moved ahead rather quickly. We’ve tentatively scheduled a preliminary hearing for you tomorrow. Would this be convenient for you?”

“A hearing?”

“It’s just a formality, but it’s much better if you’re here in person to account for yourself.” She pauses before answering.

“You mean defend myself?”

“I’m merely informing you of the process.” Now it is his turn to pause. He sighs deeply, and then he continues. “Please, Dorothy, there’s really no need for this to become confrontational, now is there?” She wants no more of this discussion.

“What time tomorrow?”

“Two p.m.”

“I’ll be there.” Before Mr. Jowett has a chance to say anything further she puts down the receiver. And then she looks up and sees Sheila in her nightdress, standing in the doorway to the kitchen. “I’ve got to go back. That was the headmaster.” Sheila moves towards her and sits at the table.

“Holiday over, then?”

“I’ll be back. I just have to sort something out.” She stands and runs water into the kettle, and then she puts it on the stove. Sheila yawns and leans back in her chair. Her sister slowly pushes her hands in the air.

“I’ll be fine. I might volunteer at the communal gardens.”

“Is that a good idea?”

“Of course it’s a good idea. I can’t just lie around here all day.”

“Tea or water?”

“Water, please.”

“Any idea when Maria is coming back from Brighton?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?” Sheila glares at her. Then she sighs. “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with her. We’ve not been getting on too well.”

“Nice timing.”

“I don’t expect her to stop her life just because I’ve got cancer.”

“Isn’t she supposed to want to be here for you?”

“She’s supposed to do whatever she wants to do.”

“Water or tea?”

“I said water, not tea. What’s the matter with you?”

She looks at Sheila, who lowers her eyes.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t sleep very well. I kept seeing his bloody face.”

“Whose face?”

“Tony Blair’s, who do you think? The mugger’s of course. I just can’t get it out of my head.”

“Are you sure you don’t want to press charges?”

“Come on, what’s the bloody point?”

She pours the hot water, and then she reaches for an herbal tea bag. And then she remembers. She hands Sheila her hot water, but she places the tea bag on the side. Sheila can make up her own mind. She leaves her sister to contemplate, and she goes upstairs to pack her bag.

She sits in Mr. Jowett’s office, but is somewhat surprised to find that only he is present. Miss Arthurton shuts the door gingerly, careful to make no noise whatsoever. She leaves them alone. And now Mr. Jowett speaks. He places both hands on the desk in front of him, and she wonders if he is aware of the fact that he is striking an awkward, even vaguely ridiculous, pose.

“First of all, I want to thank you for coming all the way back here from London. As it turns out we don’t really have a procedure that is adequate to cover the full nature of Mr. Waverley’s complaints. I did take the matter up with the local education authority, but I’m afraid we now find ourselves at a bit of an impasse.” She stares at him.

“An impasse? I don’t follow you, Mr. Jowett.”

“No, of course not.” He clasps his hands and then brings them both up to his chin. “Well, there is a bit of a problem. You see it looks as though we’ll be offering Mr. Waverley a full-time position among us. His family situation seems to have resolved itself, and we are in dire need of a geography teacher.” He pauses to allow her to speak, but she says nothing. “I think it might be best if you were to leave, don’t you? Mr. Waverley is prepared to let bygones be bygones, and I think I can offer you a decent early retirement package. There will be no question of censure, of course. You’re simply doing what so many of your colleagues are doing these days and taking advantage of this new window on life. I believe they call it the third age.” She looks at Mr. Jowett, who she is sure never dared imagine that he would ever ascend to such professional heights. To be a history master was probably the full extent of his ambitions, but good fortune has enabled him to exercise an unimagined authority. She stands.

“Thank you, Mr. Jowett.” He looks somewhat panicked.

“Well, will you be taking up our offer?”

“I shall let you know.” She turns and begins to walk out before Mr. Jowett can uncouple himself from his desk. There is no point closing his door behind her. The mousy-haired Miss Arthurton, who looks up from her desk, will see to that. But only after she has brought Mr. Jowett a nice cup of tea.

She looks through the window of the bus at the people in the streets below. Her town feels small after London. She had thought this as she rode home in the taxi from the bus station. She literally dropped her bags in the hallway, nudged the mail to one side with the outside of her shoe, and then dashed back out and into the taxi whose meter continued to tick. She had asked the driver to wait so that she would not be late for her appointment with what she imagined would be a panel of stern-faced interrogators. She smiles at her folly and gazes down at the mid-afternoon trickle of shoppers. And then she sees the newly daubed signs on the sloping slate roofs, signs that are meant to be read from the upper deck. In tall white letters somebody has painted GOD IS GOOD, and on the neighbouring roof, CHRIST DIED FOR OUR SINS. If her mother had had her way, such sentiments would have meant something to her but, with some regret in her heart, she has to acknowledge that her father’s opinions in these matters enjoy total dominion. This being the case, she looks at the defaced roofs and finds it surprising that the council doesn’t have rules and regulations against this type of graffiti.

When the bus reaches her stop she gets to her feet and moves quickly down the stairs to the lower deck, and then she steps down and onto the pavement. It is as though she has no control over her decision. She walks straight to the shop and as she opens the door she hears the familiar tinkle of the doorbell. He is alone. Mahmood seems neither shocked nor angry. In fact, he seems curiously shy.

“I just thought I’d come by and say hello. But I’ll go if you want me to. It’s just that I may be away for some time and, well, it just seems silly.” Mahmood puts down the pile of magazines that he is holding.

“You seem very tired. Have you been sleeping?”

“I’m going away, Mahmood. My sister is not very well, and I’ve got to help her.” Mahmood seems puzzled.

“But I did not think the two of you got along.”

“Well, we didn’t. But things change, and there you have it. And how have you been?” He now looks somewhat dejected.

“Oh, so and so.” As he says this he shakes his head from side to side so that it wobbles as though it might, at any minute, fall off.

“Listen, I’m sorry about the awkwardness with Feroza. I won’t come back again, but I just wanted to let you know. About my sister, that is.”

“You can come back in whenever you like. I can control my wife. I am the man of this house. But since the child she is crazy. I cannot allow my wife to smoke and drink. The English they have spoiled her so that she is like them, and happy to sit around and play with the child and expect the wage cheque or the dole cheque.” She looks at Mahmood, and cannot remember having seen him so agitated. But she has often thought that the child in him was put down far too early. “I have been thinking that I should take my chance and drive a mini-cab rather than suffer all this newsagent business by myself. In fact, this England is crazy. I go in the streets and after all these years in this country they tell me, ‘Your mother fucks dogs.’ Why does my mother fuck dogs? They do not know my mother. In my home there is problems. Out on the street there is problems.” Mahmood stops and looks at her. “I am sorry, but today is not a good day. It is a very bad day.”

“I am sorry, Mahmood.” She takes a step towards him. “Things will pick up.”

“You, of all people, must not be sorry. You understand Mahmood.” She looks at her friend and finds herself wishing that she had not come into his shop. Not on this bad day.