Caryl Phillips - A Distant Shore

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.