Read Online Becoming Strangers by Louise Dean - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Louise Dean
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just gone, disappeared. Her world was closing down. Every time she got to the place in her mind, which took her a long time to get to, there was a sign before it, 'Closed.' Before they'd come away, there had been a day when she couldn't think what day of the week it was.
She'd decided to speak to George about it. He'd been down in the tool shed and she'd gone down and stood
in the doorway, and he'd said, 'Still in your nightgown? Not going to Madge's today then?' And there she was, wood shavings all over her slippers, her long nightie picking up wood dust too, and she had what she'd prepared to say right on the tip of her tongue. 'Look,' she'd wanted to say, 'something's happening in my head, I'm not right, but please just put up with me, don't get the doctors involved and don't tell the girls. Please just look after me, please.' But she'd said instead, 'Who's Madge?' and she'd felt like she ought to ask, as a matter of urgency, because she had the horrible feeling that it was someone she knew really well, maybe it was a niece or a sister or even one of her own children. 'Don't come that with me,' he'd said, 'go and get yourself dressed and I'll take you in the car, you'll have missed the bus by now.' She'd touched his arm, the hairs were like electric fuse wires, always ginger there and he'd shaken her off without looking at her. 'Go on,' he'd said roughly. His voice went hoarse the same way when their oldest daughter told them she'd lost the baby.
'Who's Madge?' she'd said, stepping back into the garden, feeling like springs under her feet the planed-off wood curls that he'd swept outside. She watched him hobble down to the runner beans and the compost heap, but he hadn't heard, he hadn't answered her and so she'd gone back up to the house. When he came in later and found her sitting in the front room he didn't mention getting the car out.
So all she said to him and to the girls, was, 'I shall be quite happy when it's my time to go.' And they teased
her, 'Oh, when's that then, Mum, let us in on the secret, will you?' It was all she could do. At least they knew she wasn't suffering.
Coming down the hill the other side of the plateau, she could see a small hamlet, a cluster of makeshift houses, each slightly elevated with four stumpy wooden legs. When she got there, she would have another sip of water. A long chicken-wire-fenced area to the left of the road led to the first of the dwellings. Inside the run were chickens and monkeys. On the steps of the home a surly-faced woman stood with her hair in rag curlers, a baby at her hip and glamorous if well-worn slippers on her feet. She looked sternly at Dorothy. Underneath her legs a long pale yellow mongrel dog was curled and he raised his head to look, then went back to sleep. The woman nodded and so Dorothy returned her nod and said, 'Good day.'
The woman cracked a smile.
'How's it going there?' she asked.
Dorothy nodded quickly.
'Fine, thank you. Lovely day.'
'If you say so.' Her voice was deep and singsong. Then she sat down, shaking her head over the baby, and laughing with real amusement.
In front of another house, a boy stood up on the pedals of his bike, balancing it with his legs tense, ready for the unexpected. Seeing her, he grinned and called his friends, and a group of children came out to watch her, their mothers stood in the doorways that were hung with lace moving lazily in the slight breeze. A
couple of old men, sitting smoking with their backs against used tyres, called out to her and raised their hands in salute. She felt like the head of a carnival parade and quite naturally raised her hand to return their greetings. No one approached her; they let her go on her way, a fleeting oddity.
Two teenage girls, also with their hair in rags, sat knees-together on the steps of a blue-painted tin-roofed house. In their pink and yellow dresses, they looked quite a pretty picture. If this was poverty then it had colour to it, she thought, and a slow easiness
She'd decided to speak to George about it. He'd been down in the tool shed and she'd gone down and stood
in the doorway, and he'd said, 'Still in your nightgown? Not going to Madge's today then?' And there she was, wood shavings all over her slippers, her long nightie picking up wood dust too, and she had what she'd prepared to say right on the tip of her tongue. 'Look,' she'd wanted to say, 'something's happening in my head, I'm not right, but please just put up with me, don't get the doctors involved and don't tell the girls. Please just look after me, please.' But she'd said instead, 'Who's Madge?' and she'd felt like she ought to ask, as a matter of urgency, because she had the horrible feeling that it was someone she knew really well, maybe it was a niece or a sister or even one of her own children. 'Don't come that with me,' he'd said, 'go and get yourself dressed and I'll take you in the car, you'll have missed the bus by now.' She'd touched his arm, the hairs were like electric fuse wires, always ginger there and he'd shaken her off without looking at her. 'Go on,' he'd said roughly. His voice went hoarse the same way when their oldest daughter told them she'd lost the baby.
'Who's Madge?' she'd said, stepping back into the garden, feeling like springs under her feet the planed-off wood curls that he'd swept outside. She watched him hobble down to the runner beans and the compost heap, but he hadn't heard, he hadn't answered her and so she'd gone back up to the house. When he came in later and found her sitting in the front room he didn't mention getting the car out.
So all she said to him and to the girls, was, 'I shall be quite happy when it's my time to go.' And they teased
her, 'Oh, when's that then, Mum, let us in on the secret, will you?' It was all she could do. At least they knew she wasn't suffering.
Coming down the hill the other side of the plateau, she could see a small hamlet, a cluster of makeshift houses, each slightly elevated with four stumpy wooden legs. When she got there, she would have another sip of water. A long chicken-wire-fenced area to the left of the road led to the first of the dwellings. Inside the run were chickens and monkeys. On the steps of the home a surly-faced woman stood with her hair in rag curlers, a baby at her hip and glamorous if well-worn slippers on her feet. She looked sternly at Dorothy. Underneath her legs a long pale yellow mongrel dog was curled and he raised his head to look, then went back to sleep. The woman nodded and so Dorothy returned her nod and said, 'Good day.'
The woman cracked a smile.
'How's it going there?' she asked.
Dorothy nodded quickly.
'Fine, thank you. Lovely day.'
'If you say so.' Her voice was deep and singsong. Then she sat down, shaking her head over the baby, and laughing with real amusement.
In front of another house, a boy stood up on the pedals of his bike, balancing it with his legs tense, ready for the unexpected. Seeing her, he grinned and called his friends, and a group of children came out to watch her, their mothers stood in the doorways that were hung with lace moving lazily in the slight breeze. A
couple of old men, sitting smoking with their backs against used tyres, called out to her and raised their hands in salute. She felt like the head of a carnival parade and quite naturally raised her hand to return their greetings. No one approached her; they let her go on her way, a fleeting oddity.
Two teenage girls, also with their hair in rags, sat knees-together on the steps of a blue-painted tin-roofed house. In their pink and yellow dresses, they looked quite a pretty picture. If this was poverty then it had colour to it, she thought, and a slow easiness
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