Remember Me (21 page)

Her voice lowered to a whisper,

Some say doctoring stuff, you know, for women. He’s got a load of whatyamacallits –
devices
, that’s what he calls them. Rolling and unrolling the handbill, I sat, and
said nothing. Devices and machines and gadgets. The fire was filling the room with a dry, parching heat; making my face burn and the hair beneath my wig itch with sweat. Then I understood: the
story my father told me was true. He met my mother here, in this shop, before I was born. My hands rolling and unrolling the handbill are his hands, the heat is a crush of bodies, all eager to see
the new device for measuring the feet. There’s shouting and laughter and a small red-headed man asking his customers not to swear. Hewitt, demonstrating the marvellous power of his machine,
has one eye on the men all in a line, the other on the pretty black-haired assistant with the beetle-shaped brooch in her hair. The fire was choking.

I’m here tonight, I said, pressing the leaflet into Alice’s hand, Maybe you’ll come. And your brother too.

Alice unfurled the sweaty piece of paper and read it. A bitter smile spread across her face.

I don’t believe in the spirits, she said, Load of old squit. But my brother? Who knows, maybe he’ll turn up.

~ ~ ~

The woman in the mirror was dressed in a high-necked white blouse and a brown skirt almost down to her ankles, a head of shiny black hair curling over her shoulders. Jean
didn’t bother much with me any more, so after she’d left to go and help Bernard get ready, I ignored the sneer of the Russian dummy on the dresser, and styled it myself. I never liked
seeing through the mirror, but this time it was necessary. Tonight was going to be important; I wanted to look my best. The woman in the glass bent close, and with the tip of her little finger,
rubbed a smear of Jean’s beautifying Red across her lips. It smelled of blood but when she smiled, her teeth shone white as snow. She whispered a long-forgotten question.

Who is the fairest?

I could hear Bernard in the room below me, coughing and repeating a phrase, over and over. He was practising his speech for the opening. The words ‘beautiful’ and
‘marvellous’ brought another sound: Jean’s familiar snort of derision. These were two of Bernard’s favourite words. I could only guess that this time he was planning to use
them to introduce me. That would explain Jean.

I never did get that fitting done with Hewitt, on account of what he called unforeseen circumstances to do with his customer in the back. I knew at first hand what they would be, even if Alice
Dodd could only guess. Hewitt didn’t get his opportunity to touch me that time, and my feet have got their old boots on still. Apart from that, I’m ready for tonight. I’m more
than ready. I’m Beautiful. Marvellous. Perfect.

~ ~ ~

The venue is a gaunt church hall, chill enough to see your breath, with a pointed ceiling, a wooden stage along the whole of one end, and what would have been stained-glass
windows on each side. They’re clear glass now, turning silver-grey in the darkening light. The floor is speckled with chalky spats of white; above us, on a narrow ledge, doves are settling to
roost. I’m waiting in the back room with Bernard, who is coughing and humming – tuning his voice – while the space around Jean is filled with a prickly silence. She says not one
word to me, even though she’s noticed my hair, and her lipstick colour on my mouth. She takes a slow, amused look at the length of my skirt. She speaks, sharp as a claw, to Bernard.

There’s an old man outside telling me he’s employed to help, she says, What shall I say to him?

Say he can help you set the chairs out, Bernard replies, just as brittle, Say he can stand at the door. When she’s gone, Bernard takes my hands in his, and sits with me on a little couch
in the corner. His voice goes soft and sing-song again. He tells me that everything will be fine, that I must try to relax a little.

Every eye shall see you, he says, as if he’s reciting a poem, And how marvellous you are.

When he leaves to begin the service, I sit alone in the back room, trying not to feel the fluttering in my ribs. The thought of every eye on me doesn’t make me nervous;
I’m used to being looked at now. It’s the thought of one particular pair of eyes out there, smiling, dark. At these times, Jean would normally be at my side, peeping round the doorway,
remarking on one woman’s new hat, the awful state of another’s coat. I miss her.

I can hear them moving about, settling into their seats; the way the brightness of the sounds become thicker and more clogged as every chair is taken and the hall is filled. When Bernard
announces me, I take up my position on the stage with my arms raised, and ask them to please sit. I would take a seat myself, but Jean, out of ill will or forgetfulness, has not provided a chair
for me. So I stand and look. A hundred heads, more than a hundred, with scarves and hats, bare and bald, removing gloves here, repositioning an umbrella there, all looking at me. Not one of them is
Joseph. I can’t see him. The faces are upturned, some smiling, a few familiar, but not one of them is Joseph’s face. Alice and her spite. She wouldn’t have let him know. High
above the congregation are the doves, shuffling from side to side on a long ledge, now and then the last one in the line turning awkwardly around and resettling in the same space. Bernard has his
eyes closed. His hands are carving a shape in the air: a balloon, a clock face – it’s hard to tell what it may be until he opens his eyes again and fixes his stare upon a woman in the
second row.

This is most peculiar, he says, smiling to show there’s a joke coming, But I see a large red ball with a seal upon it. The audience is smiling too, now, but not the woman in the second
row.

Did you go to the circus, madam? Were you taken there as a child?

She shakes her head. He’s at a loss for a moment – the circus is a certainty, normally – so he pauses, puts his hand up as if he’s listening to a message
that must not be interrupted.

Then it’s . . . he says, playing for time, That’s it. A lady is rising, she wears a long coat. I see her holding your hand. Ah, thank you, madam, much obliged. You’re watching
the parade, she says. At last, the woman in the second row nods her head.

We’d go see the elephants, she says, Come down from the station. My gran that’ll be. She always took me.

The audience sighs, Bernard sighs. I know him well enough now to recognize it as the sound of relief. Sometimes, I can’t tell whether he’s making it up –
Painting the Scene, as he calls it, or Bringing Comfort, if the woman is wearing black. But today, I know.

Then I have your grandmother with me. She’s reminding you of the happy times you used to have. She’s convinced there will be more to come. But you must let go of something first.

A flurry of wings on the ledge above.

Whoever you are looking for is at peace, he says, Would it be your sister?

Daughter, she says.

A flash of white at the back wall: a feather, spiralling down to earth.

Ah yes, your grandmother is what we call an enabler, my dear. She is bringing a message from your daughter. She is at peace, she is in your grandmother’s arms. I would like to leave their
love with you.

Silence in the room. The woman puts a handkerchief up to her face, presses it to her cheek. All eyes are on Bernard now, their conduit, their guide. The bird on the end of the
ledge turns, flits open its wings and shows me its pearly breast; flies, in a swoop, across the space above their heads. Flying down towards me, sapphire blue, flying and falling; an arrow, a
searchlight, a shooting star. And as I watch him, I am falling, too. Joseph has come.

I try to think of it as beautiful. A clear sky, blue as a sugar bag. The colours below it are carved-out land. Green for the clutch of trees inside the plantation; butterscotch
track between the tower and furthest farm. A flint church floats on a spray of corn. In the distance, a string of glitter marks the waterline. Birds in the field trail a farmer’s cart,
blowing like confetti in its wake. The stone of the parapet is warm and brown. Joseph is standing on the edge.

Just like a bird, he says, opening his arms wide, taking in a lungful of pure light.

Watch me fly, Beauty!

There’s something familiar about the face, or not quite the face perhaps – the hair. The hair, that’s it. Black as ebony, shiny as a door knocker. He’s
smiling; he’s lost his teeth at the front. A pair of glasses, round and thick, sit on the tip of his nose. The eyes behind them are kindly. His smell is goose fat.

Princess, says Mr Stadnik, How wonderful to see you! I’m in the back now, half lying, half sitting, on the couch in the corner. There’s no one else in the room. I can hear Jean and
Bernard in the hall outside. From the echo of Jean’s shouting, I know everyone else must have left.

You fainted, child, he says, snapping his fingers, Clear out, pfff! That bird – it flew right at you.

He makes a diving motion with his hand, then stops suddenly, pulls himself back to look at my face.

Don’t cry, he says, reaching in his pocket for his handkerchief, Don’t cry! It’s a wonder to find you. After so long. So long a time.

There’s no blue about him; not the slightest hint. He’s on this side of life.

You can go now, says Jean, appearing in the doorway, Mr Foy will pay you what we owe . . .

Her words drop away when she sees us together. It’s like watching a silent film.

What’s going on here? she says, finally recovering.

Mr Stadnik gets up from the couch, introducing himself with a smile and a bow.

That’s all very well, Mr Stannick, says Jean, Now if you’ll kindly leave my niece alone – she needs to rest.

But she is not your niece, states Mr Stadnik, with a wide, black grin – Is she?

They look at each other steadily. Without taking her eyes from Mr Stadnik’s face, she calls out,

Bernard!

And again, almost a shriek,

Bernard! Come and see this!

~ ~ ~

For three days, I’m not allowed to leave the house. This isn’t Jean’s doing, it’s Bernard. In a state of panic, he declares I am unfit to go anywhere
alone. He doesn’t quite put it this way, but I’m learning fast: I’m learning the language of lies.

You’re very popular now, he says, And some unscrupulous types will take advantage. The man barely knows you – a lodger, you say, in your grandfather’s house? I’ve seen
him, he’s no more than a tinker, a street sweeper, that’s what he is. What kind of man is that to be associated with? A man who pushes a broom in the road! Don’t you worry about
him. We are here, Jean and I, to protect you. He won’t bother you again.

This means: I’m very worried that Mr Stadnik will take you away from us. Our star turn. Our breadwinner.

I learn by listening. Jean is unable to speak quietly – or perhaps she doesn’t care if I do hear; perhaps she thinks I’m too stupid to realize what I am to them. Perhaps she
thinks I should show my gratitude by being their puppet. They have created Winifred, after all.

It’s our teaching has brought her this far, she tells Bernard, who is sulking over his brandy, Not a pot to piss in when she turned up.

They’re downstairs in the parlour, tight as a drum now, pooling their worries in the lamplight. Bernard’s voice is dark and miserable.

She doesn’t need us, Jean, he says.

She hasn’t got the means to go it alone.

A long stretch of quiet, then one of Bernard’s sighs.

She can leave whenever she chooses.

Jean’s laugh cuts the air,

Then let her, she says, Ungrateful little madam.

Be kind, my dear, he says, after another pause, Be kind to the child.

She’s no child, she says, and for a moment I think she’s about to tell him about Hewitt, what he did. What we did. But there’s only silence, and in it, and through it, I see a
chance. In the morning I will ask if I can go to Hewitt’s, to get my fitting done. I am their creation and their Godsend, after all. And a Godsend needs a decent pair of shoes.

~

It’s a shock to see him. Jean is ahead, always ahead of me, and where better, she says, to get my feet measured, than in the comfort of my own home. Our little palace.

Normally, I don’t do house calls, says Hewitt, But you, my dear, are a very special case.

He’s wearing a mustard-coloured jacket and a cravat, like a country gentleman come into town for an outing. He has a large leather bag which squeaks when he opens it: tape
measure, cream gloves, a sheaf of crisp white tissue paper, the little casket to put your foot in. Hewitt’s Devices are spread across the floor. When she sees my face, Jean is triumphant. She
excuses herself to the kitchen to make tea; really, she will stand and listen in the hall.

Any news from your mother? I say, willing Jean to march back in and stop me, Any
medical
troubles lately?

Hewitt breathes in his sing-song way, lalala.

She hasn’t bothered me since, he says, No bad dreams, no wakeful nights. You cured me, he says, and laughing to himself, Ex-or-cized the spirit.

I tell him straight away that I lied, that Jean told me what to say. Head down, very quietly, he says,

I know. I don’t believe in all that rubbish. It’s just entertainment, really, isn’t it?

He looks up, serene, untroubled, almost smiling.

Then why did you ask for me?

I liked your face, he says, You remind me of someone I knew.

Fiddling with the leather straps, pulling on his gloves.

Why the gloves? Afraid you might catch something? Hewitt reaches for my ankle.

My dear, allow me, he says, Medicated, new, from America. A massage first, you see, to relax the foot. I could kick him now, that’d bring Jean running. But he takes my foot in his hand,
brings it between his knees, and strokes it. I close my eyes, and think of his mother and her coarse words, and my own mother, and my own father. All gone. His hands on my feet are soft and
warm.

~

He said they were the tiniest feet that ever had shoes made to fit. The most dainty and fragile, like alabaster, he said. Crouching with his head bowed, and me in the armchair
with my leg raised and my petticoat glowing in the morning light. Taking the right foot and placing it in the box, pulling the strap across the bridge of my foot. Feeding the little lace through
the hole, pulling it, measuring, marking, all the time stroking, sliding the wooden frame to toe and heel. His thumb caressing the arch, the skin below the ankle. A perfect fit.