‘The Council’ had evidently explained that she was dead. The flat vowel in ‘lonely’ disclosed that Mrs Dixon was not a Londoner. Her accent had been softened, but the northern intonation in that one word was unmistakable. Before Nick could think of what to say Mrs Dixon spoke again.
‘She came here every week, on a Friday and we talked … mainly about me, and my family’ Delicately Mrs Dixon raised her cup. ‘She was full of questions, but it did me good to get things off my chest. It’s not good to keep things in, that’s what I say.
‘Absolutely.’
‘You’re a doctor, aren’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well done,’ she exclaimed.
Nick sipped his tea, wondering how soon he might reasonably make his exit. But Mrs Dixon’s confidence had grown. There was something predatory about her delight. A biscuit?’ she said, pointing at the stand.
‘Thank you.’
Mrs Dixon settled back in her chair, her teacup and saucer resting in the middle of her chest. Looking over the top, she said, ‘I told her so much about myself, but I never asked about her … Do you mind telling me a little?’
‘What would you like to hear?’ asked Nick.
‘Well … anything really. Something that explains where she came from … Like I did, with her.’
Nick surrendered to the circumstances, as his mother must have done, when she’d first realised what she’d let herself in for. Mrs Dixon’s question, however, was so broad that he didn’t know where to begin. And then he thought of the photograph.
‘We have this family portrait at home,’ he said thoughtfully ‘It shows my mother as a child with her parents.’
The picture was in the sitting room at St John’s Wood. As a boy Nick used to study the sepia faces of the solemn man and his proud, buxom wife. They were stiff and unsmiling, in a happy sort of way obedient to the formality of their time. His neck was bound in a wing collar, and she was packed into a polka dot dress. Elizabeth was in the middle, her long hair scraped back and held by ribbons. An affectionate hand from her father had strayed onto her knee, unnoticed by the cameraman. There was a clock in the background and a tall dresser. Elizabeth used to say that her self-understanding — where she’d come from, who she’d become, her dispositions and their provenance — had been captured in that one photograph, with one explosion from the flash. It was her way of explaining to Nick why as he’d grown older, she’d become more reserved; and why there was a melancholy even in her smile. As a teenager, her quietness, her lack of bounce, had sometimes irritated him and, being a teenager, he’d told her. It made him sad, now, to think he could ever have held her to account, given the tragedy that overran that prim family in the photograph.
Nick found himself explaining to Mrs Dixon how events had wiped clean his mother’s expectations before she was fifteen. That her father had died suddenly before her eyes.
‘What happened?’ asked Mrs Dixon, blinking over her teacup.
‘He just passed away like a light going out.’
‘But how?’
A weak heart.’ Nick understood now, because Doctor Okoye had made the diagnosis.
‘What was her father like?’ asked Mrs Dixon after a moment.
‘My mother rarely spoke of him,’ replied Nick. ‘She once told me that not a day passed without her calling him to mind.’ Nick sipped his tea — it had gone cold with his talking — and then he said, strangely moved, ‘She said I was just like him …’ In saying that sentence to this dolled-up stranger, Nick, for the first time, understood his own adolescence, and his mother’s anguish as a parent. She’d tried to tell him why they’d fallen out of kilter, but he hadn’t understood.
‘And what of Elizabeth’s mother?’ said Mrs Dixon. ‘How did she fare?’
‘Not very well.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ He paused, not wanting to divulge much more. ‘She died too — shortly afterwards, from septicaemia.’
Mrs Dixon seemed visibly shocked, and Nick felt a stab of irritation, fearing that his mother’s life had become an episode in a kind of soap opera.
‘Thank you for telling me what happened to Elizabeth,’ said Mrs Dixon, placing her cup on the table. ‘I now understand why she came to look after me.
‘Really?’ asked Nick, curious now.
‘Yes … You see … I, too, have had my mishaps.’ She picked up a paper napkin. And I know what it’s like to lose someone and want them back. Of course, the Council had all this information in their files, and they’ll have told your mother. So when she knocked on my door, thank God, she didn’t bring just pity, she brought … herself.’ The napkin tore in her hands.
Nick was ashamed of his earlier irritation with this poor woman who was genuinely distressed. He would have liked to leave, but now was the obvious time to put the one question that had brought him here. He said, ‘Before my mother died, she made a telephone call … to you.’
Mrs Dixon nodded. Her mouth was set, and her eyes were suddenly vacant.
‘Do you mind telling me what she said?’
‘Not at all.’ Mrs Dixon appeared tragically isolated in her chair, the only one left at the garden party. ‘Elizabeth said … “I’m very sorry, but I won’t be coming any more.”’
Nick was dumbfounded. The latter part of his mother’s life had been devoted to a scheme wholly personal in its objectives and significance. But her last words had been said to a forgotten woman halfway up a tower block who dressed up for a cup of tea; to the person who probably needed her most.
5
At the mention of going home, George whispered, ‘Can I?’ Are you ready?’ asked Anselm.
‘Yes.’ His features showed both desire and dread. He shifted in his seat.
‘If you forget my going,’ said Anselm confidently ‘I’ll surprise you when I get back.’ No truer words, he thought, had ever passed his lips. He was sure that Emily Bradshaw would be with him.
More out of excitement than impatience, Anselm banged the knocker to the terraced house in Mitcham. A figure came to the door, fragmenting in a globe of dimpled glass.
Emily Bradshaw stood at the bay window while Anselm, by the arm of a settee, felt the rigour of hesitation. She’d walked to her post without a word, without offering a seat. When the past comes to an end, thought Anselm, you panic. He knew exactly what he was going to say He’d chosen his words carefully on the Underground. ‘You told me last time that nothing comes of nothing.’
Emily moved a net curtain with the back of one hand —just an inch. ‘I got it from The Sound of Music.’
‘Sorry?’
‘The Sound of Music. The Captain and Maria sing it in the garden when everything falls into place.’ Emily spoke with immeasurable sadness. The hand fell to her side.
Anselm became strong; these moments could be overcome. He sat down and spoke towards a happy ending. ‘I have seen George. He’s ready to come home.’
‘Yes, I know’
‘Pardon?’
‘He came back.’ She raised a net curtain once more, looking out hopelessly.
And he left?’
‘Yes.’
‘But why?’
The gate tapped shut and the front door opened. Anselm’s empathies dropped. They’d been tailored for a happy ending in Salzburg. He felt the coldness of real compassion. In the hallway feet stamped, shaking off the week. ‘Bloody hell, it’s cold. But it’s Frida-a-ay’ It was a reassuring sound, kindly and rooted. A zip hummed down its line.
Emily moved to the middle of the room. She did not sit, so Anselm remained standing. She said, ‘George’s place isn’t filled. Don’t think that, please. I can’t understand our life together, that’s all. And if you can’t understand something, it’s …’
A round freckled face, smudged with grease and surprise, appraised Anselm. ‘Oh, hullo, sorry about the swearing, like –’