Anjali Joseph - The Living

When I was tired and empty, beginning to be hungry, I texted Damian to ask if he wanted to come over. I said I had the house to myself. I put a kiss on the end. I carried on, waiting, doing things. I hung out the sheets. The back door was open. The sheets were bigger than me. I liked stretching to straighten them on the line. I’d hear my phone when the reply came. The same noises from outside and, when I went in, the hum of the fridge. In the apple tree a blackbird, making its call that sounded like water, a song sung through liquid.

I took a shower, put on my new dress and perfume, went out to get bread, eggs, bacon, and orange juice. Walked slowly back from the shop, not looking at my phone. Unpacked things, put away the bag, threw the receipt into the empty lined bin. The kitchen smelled of kitchen cleaner. The floors smelled of floor cleaner. The cars carried on passing. In the afternoon it got greyer, a bit colder. I left the windows open. There was no reply, no reply at all.

Was it real, this feeling, or just a fear, the old one, that everything was ruined?

This can’t be happening, I kept thinking. But the heaviness in my stomach said it was.

On Sunday I was awake till early morning. Rain, wind. The house was still, just the hum of the fridge. I wanted to put on the heating. I got dressed, had tea, smoked out the back door. I looked in the fridge at the bacon and eggs. Yellow and red stripes on the bacon packet, dates: Sell by, Use by … There’s time, I thought. I texted Jason, Rainy here, hope the weather’s still good in Newquay. No reply. Maybe he was out, maybe it was still sunny there. My son on a beach with his friends, girls, cans of beer, the sun, their shoulders burning. I fried an egg and looked at it, white, shiny, a brown curl at the edge. When it was cold, I broke the yolk with the end of a knife. Tilted the plate, watched it drool, yellow goo. Drank a glass of orange juice. This couldn’t be happening. I lay on the sofa with the light on.

Monday came, and it was the same as always. I hadn’t slept much, slept in bits, waking to argue in my head with Damian, who didn’t say anything back, just smiled and smoked, or got in his car and drove away, slowly.

Claire?

Funny how someone can sound annoyed before a conversation even starts.

Yeah, I said. I looked at the cordless then put it back to my ear. Who’s this?

Sharp sucking in. It’s Alison. Paul’s wife.

I still think of Paul as my other brother, even though he’s the only one left.

Yeah? I said. How’s things? A stupid question but I didn’t know what to say. I don’t like her ringing. For that matter, I don’t like her. She’s got a sharp face and a smile that looks like it’s hurting her.

Another inbreath. Claire, she started, I’m sorry but I’ve got bad news. It’s about your dad.

She went on, in a rush but careful, like a kid in a school play who got a bigger part than she was expecting. A whole speech. I let her get through it and while she was talking I sat on the third step from the bottom looking at the coloured glass in the front door. The pale blue pane, my favourite. I used to sit here when I was a kid and it was Grandpa and Nan’s house, staring at the blue, which looked like water you could dive into.

Alison answered the questions I would have asked, like when, what happened, how long had he been feeling ill, how long did it take.

Your mum said she told Jason he wasn’t well, she threw in.

I picked at the cuticle of my right middle finger and didn’t say anything.

We’ll be in touch, she said. About the arrangements. It likely won’t be for a week at least. I expect you’ll want to come and see your mum.

After a while I said, Let me know when it is. Jason’s away so I need to tell him in time.

She said something, I don’t know what, and I put down the phone. The hallway was dark, at the end of it a rectangle of light and some birds singing. I went towards the back garden and rolled up. The first person I thought about was Damian. Maybe this’d make him come back? Then Jason. I phoned but his phone was off. I sent a message: Please call as soon as you can, love Mum. He’d be back in two days. We’d talked the day before yesterday, on his birthday.

The sky was still high and blue. The sun was warm. I wondered if I should get drunk. It was nearly six, and I could smell someone’s barbecue. I was hungry. There was Dad, dead in an undertaker’s somewhere. I wished I’d asked which one. Alison would have given me the details. She must have loved all this, silly bitch. Or maybe she didn’t. Why don’t you stop being so angry with everyone, I told myself, and carried on smoking. I imagined things I could eat. Sausages. Baked beans on toast. Alphabetti spaghetti. Hadn’t had that in the house in years. Salad with salad cream. Food that came in packets, in portions, so you couldn’t get it wrong. I lay on the grass. It was damp and cool. The lawn was shagged, I hadn’t looked after it. It was tufty in some places, bald in others. The sun had moved, and the grass was mostly in the shade, but there was sun in my eyes. I shut them. Managed a tear. Smells of earth, grass, meat on a barbecue, someone’s perfume or deodorant, petrol. Summer smells. A radio. Soon I’d roll another cigarette.

I didn’t tell anyone at work. And I felt fine. Sometimes I’d think about him, at the undertaker’s in a coffin, his face strange. They do things to you, don’t they? Make you look nice. Waxy like Red Delicious apples used to be. He still existed in the world but he couldn’t move. He was like a stopped watch, one of the ones with wavy edges around the face and a leather strap, pretending to be more expensive than it is. When Mum said or did something to me, he’d pat me on the head after. He knew how I felt. He just didn’t do anything.

It was warm. I worked as fast as ever — faster than some days. The sun came through the high windows and in the afternoon the light bathed my station. We were working on Grace, a wedding shoe, white satin with a diamanté buckle. Spoils easily. I had to take one or two back to the sewing machines to show Helen and Karen. Most of them were fine. I matched them up, this with that, that with this, rearranging them so they made perfect pairs. Put them on the trolley for Tracy to wrap and box.

On the way home my cigarette tasted of ash and I thought that’s what a dead body tastes like. Right there, next to the kerb, I was being sick. It was hours after I’d eaten, so only a bit of water came out, frothy and sour. I got myself straightened up and looked round, but no one had seen or cared. I wiped my mouth, swallowed and carried on down the road.

During the time when I was drinking I had dreams of great colour and violence. I didn’t always remember them, but I’d wake knowing that something had been happening, like sleeping in a room where the television has been on. There was one I had regularly. Sometimes it was in the hall of a railway station, a big one, like CST in Mumbai. Under the arches and pillars it felt like a maidan. I was on the ground, watching people pass. I saw their calves — the men’s thin and dark, with sandals at the end, or heavy rubber chappals, and the women’s, legs emerging from a nine-yard sari, sometimes a regular sari, a girl’s legs in jeans, toe rings on her feet. The steps crossed and recrossed without anyone colliding even when it seemed they must and I watched now one pair of feet then another waiting for them to stop or clash but they only went on. The sound of the steps was regular and organic, like rain.