This Is Where I Am (20 page)

‘So why couldn’t your pal come again?’ says Gill.

‘She’s not my pal. Naomi is just a neighbour. And she couldn’t come because she doesn’t want to be “seen in suspicious circumstances”. Her husband’s a judge or a QC or something.’

‘Big wows – and what about me? I’m a bloody headmistress. I don’t want to be caught with my pants round my ankles either.’

‘What a lovely turn of phrase you have, dear.’

My wee sister Gill. Two years between us, and she’s been striving to erase the gap ever since she could breathe. Followed me round school like a cullie dug –
but
why
won’t you play with me, why?
– followed me to uni, then followed me into teaching. Got married the spring after my summer wedding, got pregnant four months after I did, moved into a house
slightly
nicer than ours then . . . whoosh. One day I looked round and she wasn’t there. Behind, I mean, in her rightful place. All of a sudden, my wee sister had overtaken me. Headmistress of a
very
good state primary school, mum to two beautiful teenagers, possessed of a chic bob, svelte hips and a floaty, elf-like wardrobe. Gill is what you would call petite. Everything that is dainty, neat and groomed, while I am a shapeless bag. And somewhere along the way, Gill has developed elder-child syndrome.

‘It’s too cold to hang about – you should zip up your jacket. And your Russian spy can’t be that desperate if she’s not even bothered to turn up on time.’

‘Rula’s Chechen, not Russian – and she sounded pretty desperate when I spoke to her earlier.’

Today at Scotland Street had been the first time I’d succeeded in talking to Rula since Naomi nominated me her download-buddy.

‘I mean, you deal with these migrant people every day, don’t you?’ Naomi had said, once I was ensconced in one of her velvet armchairs, being plied with G&T.

‘Well no. I do an occasional volunteer shift at the Refugee Council.’

‘
Exactly
. The thing is, Rula sounds like she’s in a bit of a pickle. Since she buggered off –’

‘You mean since she had her claim for asylum refused? Is that what actually happened?’

Whenever you saw Naomi, not actually conversing with her, but when she passed by the window or you saw her in the car, her default expression always struck me as one of barely-contained impatience. That evening, it was considerably more overt. I like to think I bring out the best in people.

‘
Since
Rula left us in the lurch, I’m not quite sure what she’s got herself mixed up in. But the upshot is, she appears to owe rather a lot of money, and I’m getting utterly sick of her telephoning me.’

‘Have you asked her what it’s for?’ I said. ‘Maybe we could get her debt counselling or advice with repayments? Has she launched an appeal against the decision?’

‘How would I know?’ Naomi uncrossed linen-clad legs, reached for her tumbler. ‘No, Debs, this is the problem. I don’t
want
to know. I just want her to stop annoying us. So much so, I’m prepared to help her out – on the proviso she leaves us alone. I mean, Duncan’s in a very delicate position –’

‘That’s good you’re going to help. But you could maybe also say to her –’

‘Now, this is where you come in, Debs. I can’t say anything at all, that’s the thing, because she doesn’t have a bloody mobile. Just calls me from a payphone as and when the mood takes her. And I absolutely can’t get involved in any meetings with her, not when I haven’t a clue what she’s up to. So . . .’ ice-chunks clinking as she took a sip of her drink ‘. . . ah. You just can’t beat a G&T, can you? Yeah, so how would it be if the next time she calls, I give her your number? Then you could arrange to meet her and hand over . . . well, like I say, I don’t mind helping her out. A
little
. As long as you stress that she must never phone us again.’ She set the glass down, was all bright smiles. ‘And you can give her all the refugee leaflets and helpline numbers you like, if you think that’ll help. Oh, Debs, it would be such a relief to have a proper professional helping Rula.’

Good old Naomi. I can see why she’s such an effective businesswoman. So that, in a gullible nutshell, is why I’m loitering in the middle of Maxwell Park with my wee sister Gill as bodyguard and £500 in my purse. And maybe there’s some creeping sense of atonement too, but we won’t go there. It’s not my fault Rula ran away. I did nothing
wrong
. Fair enough, I did nothing at all. What is a sin of omission but a slipping instant which you could have caught, but didn’t? My bodyguard stamps petulant, neat feet. ‘Fecking May? Did nobody tell the weather? Och, c’mon, Debs. Can you not just phone and find out where she is? I’ve left Richard in charge of dinner –’

‘She doesn’t have a phone.’

‘Brilliant.’

‘Look, you go on. I’ll give it another half an hour.’

‘No you bloody well won’t. I’m not leaving you here on your own. We’ll give it ten more minutes then we’re going home. Right?’

I nod meekly. ‘Yes, miss.’

‘You’re too bloody soft, that’s your problem.’

‘Soft?’

Me? Me that is a wreck of flattened-out humanity, grinding my weary way on? Me, who can’t see beyond bitterness and regret?
I don’t think so, little sis.
When was the last time I was soft? When I wept at a roadside don’t don’t don’t when I held my son, oh yes, for a glittering perfect instant soft was the finest of all things I could be. When I nursed my husband, reeking stoic fortitude?

I have to say, Debs, you’re just so brave
.

A couple of Callum’s work colleagues had called to visit. That was the last time anyone called me soft. I remember because it was also the last time Callum would let anyone except closest family see him.

Soft hands too
. Mike, kissing my hand as he said goodbye. He was a sociology professor – and a little bit creepy.

Och, you know – hands that do dishes . . 

We had laughed, a dry rasp neither of us meant. The other chap, Gregor, was ostentatiously patting Callum’s shoulder, telling him in a too-loud voice THEY WOULD SEE HIM AGAIN SOON. Callum, staring at the fireplace in a huffy trance as the dribbles carried down his chin, bringing with them the last of the biscuit he’d insisted on sooking. While he’d alternately gnawed and choked on the mushy Hobnob I held to his mouth, I’d engaged his colleagues in conversation, skirting over all but the most mundane of our trials. We had tossed words back and forth like a desultory ball, none of us keen to hold the responsibility for very long. And then it was time for them to go and me to stay.
I don’t know how you do it
. Mike, all breathy, his quick hands pressing down on mine as my husband hung ape-like and inert. Both Mike and Gregor had been visibly shocked when they’d come in; it had been a few months since they’d visited last. Even then, Callum’s trembling mouth and limbs had been alarming. Now the spasms were held in check by his atrophying body, his thickened slurs incomprehensible. Communicating with desperate eyes. It could not be, would not be borne that these were the same eyes which laid claim to me twenty years ago in a trendy bar. When I could, I avoided looking into them.

Och, you just have to get on with it, don’t you?
I had moved to rescue Gregor, who seemed incapable of taking his leave.

Right, my love, time for a wee nap, I think, yes?
It was an innocuous, if insensitive, phrase and I’ll never know if he spasmed or it was a purposeful act, but Callum’s arm jerked furiously over the tea tray, the plate of remaining Hobnobs smashing on the wall.

I suppose if I’d ever gone to the Carers Support Group (never enough time, a fear of mass emotion and the wilful lack of apostrophe in the title ensuring I
did not
), there may have been some kindred spirit there who could empathise and explain that yes, familiarity
did
breed contempt, and it was gruelling routine which made us so, not cruelty. That when anger spilled as our loved ceded to their illness, it was justifiable, because every so often the delicate contortions of balancing more than our fair share were bound to send us spinning, and that dreams of pillows firm-pressed against the coming of another light were merely that. Bad dreams.

Och aye, a total soft touch, me.

‘Hoi! Dozy!’ Gill is smirking. Always a bad sign. ‘Earth calling Deborah! I said how’re things with your big black man then?’

‘
Gillian!
’

‘I’m joking! But when are we going to get to meet him?’

‘You’re not. For God’s sake. He’s not a prospective boyfriend.’

‘Hey, I wouldn’t be complaining if he was! Do you no harm at all to have a wee bit fun.’

‘Gill, just shut up, will you? God, I can’t believe you think –’

It is May. One year this month since my husband died. I haven’t been to the grave. I think if I did, I would climb in beside him. And then where would I be? One year. It’s for ever, and it’s nothing.

‘I don’t! I don’t! Calm down. I’m not disrespecting you, or Callum – or Azerbaijani . . .’ Gill’s annoying pointy chin comes to rest on my shoulder, arms arched behind her like a coquette.

‘His name’s Abdi.’

‘
Abdi
, then. Aah-b-di.’ Mouthing it in my ear. Then louder. ‘Abdee. Ab-i-deee! Time for bed, Ab-i-dee!’ Pretends she’s bouncing on a spring, twirling her fingers round an imaginary Zebedee moustache.

‘Christ Almighty. You are so immature.’ This is why I hide from her in cupboards.

‘But can I be the bridesmaid? When you get married?’

With anyone else, the heat in me would rise and I would – whilst not actually saying a single word – rage about their insensitivity. Luxuriating in the burn, and possibly ending with a big fat side-order of tears. That’s why people hide from
me
. I punch my sister on the arm. ‘Piss off. Anyway, I think the wedding’s off. He’s barely speaking to me.’

‘Ooh, gossip! Howso?’

‘Och, he asked me if I’d tutor his wee girl, and I just . . . I kind of dyked it.’

‘Why?’

Panic, I think. Simple panic. Not false modesty or reserve; it wasn’t me getting my own back because he refused my help before. Saying no was my first and visceral response. After all that effort to have Abdi ‘open up’, I got to see his insides torn and gaping, and I ran away. A kneejerk to the desperate rawness. It’s one thing to offer yourself in rationed measured doses, where you plan out how much and where and why you’re doing it – but it’s another to be seized. You can’t escape from that, and I know, I know all about great meaty mouths of need: they trap you. They
slobber
and sook till only your bones are left. And what if I couldn’t do it? Rebecca, that damaged wee soul relying on
me
? Wholly me to fix her? That kind of need can kill you. The damage I might make of them both. I’m not a teacher any more. I’m shapeless, pointless. Foolish, ugly, cowardly me – that’s what Abdi would find if he got to see my insides.

My sister’s waiting.

‘Och, loads of reasons . . .’

‘Scrape ’em off, Claire!’ Gill flares her nostrils, turns sidey-ways to creep like a pantomime villain. We both laugh. It’s a line from that film
Scrooged
, the one with Bill Murray. Our father (also Bill) was a ferocious Tory, much given to writing letters and shouting at the TV, and
scrape ’em off, Claire
was a phrase he readily deployed: at Mum’s request for extra housekeeping, whenever Gill argued about politics, the time I wanted to volunteer abroad for a year. He meant it in an ironic way, I think. Gill does not. The way she sees through me is chilling.

‘No! I mean, I was a secondary teacher, for one, not primary. And the wee one – Rebecca – has got communication problems –’

‘Deaf?’

‘No. Just doesn’t speak. Nothing physically wrong with her, as far as I can see.’

‘And you blame the dad?’

Do I?

‘No, I wouldn’t go as far as that. But I don’t think Abdi pushes her, put it that way. And I don’t think it’s healthy for a kid who’s indulged in her “not-speaking” to be shielded further. She needs to be in school.’

‘Where’s she down for?’

‘That’s the problem. She’s not.’

Gill opens her mouth and I can see a lecture coming on.

‘Just leave it, OK? I’m not going to teach her, but I’m not going to abandon her either. Let me work on it, and if I need your help, I’ll ask.
Ask
. Got that
?
’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Fine. Right, Mata Hari’s a no-show. Now can we
please
go and get some dinner?’

My head aches, I want to go home, stuff Naomi’s five hundred quid through her letterbox and pour myself a big glass of wine. But Richard’s making us steak.

My brother-in-law is a bluff and jovial chap, five years older than me, and with the flushed face of a rather naughty child – the kind who misbehaves in such an endearing way you can only laugh. He winds me up atrociously.