All the lonely people

I confess that my contact with M has been reduced to an annual posting of the family newsletter. We live on opposite sides of a large city. Our lives have diverged since we first met more than forty years ago.

M would sometimes drop into our old home – just passing – having ridden on her motorbike with her little dog Luna. The visits were semi regular so that she had met my children on occasions stretching from infancy to mid-teens. The kids loved Luna who was of an indeterminate breed, but always smartly dressed in her own scaled down leathers, complete with a miniature pair of goggles. She had a sweet temperament and loved everyone on sight.

M always had a sadness about her and I sensed estrangement from her family who lived somewhere in the northern reaches of California. She rarely made the trip home, stating she could not afford it. Whilst our ages and educational backgrounds were not dissimilar - we had both trained as teachers albeit in different countries - and emigrated to Australia at roughly the same time, nowadays we mix in very different circles.

Telephone calls were always challenging: pauses that extended beyond what one might describe as telephone etiquette. More than once I had been tempted to ask M whether she was still there. Perhaps it was guilt or some other reason, but early in June a few years ago, on a particularly cold day, I was prompted to call M, rather hoping that she would not answer the phone. I was about to hang up when the phone was answered.

Hello?

Hello M.Its Claire. I’m just calling to see how you are? I’m sorry so much time has elapsed.

I’m not well.

I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do to assist you?

No. You are too far away.

Can you tell me what’s the matter?

I don’t have any food and I can’t walk to the shops.

Are you not riding your bike anymore?

I haven’t ridden my motorbike since I lost my beloved Luna five years ago. Its not safe to ride my pushbike.

What about your van?

Its still in the driveway but the registration has lapsed.

What about your friends?

I only have two and they don’t come here. One is unwell and the other is too busy caring for her parents.

Have you been able to make a doctor’s appointment?

The last time I went he said there was nothing wrong with me.

How would you feel if I came down tomorrow morning if you would like? I am happy to bring some food.

All right, but just remember I follow a gluten free diet. You won’t be able to come in as I have nowhere for you to sit down.

Yes, I remember, about the diet. I will see you tomorrow. I’m sorry to hear about Luna.

The following morning I had to put M’s address in the satnav. It struck me that I had never visited her home. She had never invited me. I wondered briefly what she meant about nowhere to sit down and the thought disappeared almost as quickly as it came.

I made the trip in under two hours, having battled the tradies weaving in and out of the lanes around me and parked adjacent to her nature strip. It was neatly mown, unlike her front garden that was badly in need of a makeover. Her bright orange Kombi van leaned to the left, courtesy of two very flat tyres. Her motorbike was covered with a dusty tarpaulin. Curtains were closed on all visible windows. The two supermarket bags were heavy, but filled with staple foods, as I was still unclear why M was unable to shop. The front door bell was broken so I tapped on a window. The outer screen door did not permit any vision into the house.

M answered the door.

You’ve brought a lot of stuff. I won’t have anywhere to put it.

I’d better bring it in – it is very heavy.

As she opened the door, my first impression was the gloom made it hard to identify any rooms. I followed M as she walked like a snail, down a narrow corridor barely a tile wide. On the left, multiple coats were draped over a rack, in what was presumably a lounge room. There was no visible carpet and a lounge suite was piled high with stuff. To the right, full bookcases were double stacked. Between them were piles of boxed puzzles that towered above my head. Dead ahead, the corridor was blocked to ceiling height. I turned left into the kitchen.

You’ll have to put the bags on the floor. The cupboards are full.

A couple of things might have to go in the fridge?

Leave them out for the moment.

I noticed water in the bottom of the kitchen sink that had not drained away. The other side of the kitchen flowed into a family room. Items were precariously balanced on every visible surface. The small passageway led to a narrow arm chair with a sheepskin on it with line of sight to a television that was balanced on books. DVDs stacked twenty high surrounded the television and an almost invisible DVD player. Threadbare curtains were drawn at all windows and any light that penetrated the room was filtered through them.

You can sit on that stool if you like. I need to sit down. Could you make us a cup of tea? The bags are next to the kettle.

Yes of course.Perhaps you can tell me what has been happening to you? I was wondering whether you would like me to take you out for coffee?

Not today. I don’t know what is wrong with me, but in the evenings, when I am sitting in the chair, I feel very faint when I get up.

Would you like me to take you to the doctor?

I don’t want to waste my money.

I fill the kettle and rinse out a couple of mugs.

The tea bags are in the cupboard behind you.

I open the cupboard, noting a bowl full of hardboiled eggs, and find a cannister named tea. The cupboard is mixed use as a pantry and crockery storage. I open the fridge for some milk, observing a saucepan with contents - possibly a slice of lemon? - covered in mould. I’m thankful I like black tea. The milk smells off, but M assures me it is perfectly drinkable.

When you’ve finished with the tea bag don’t throw it away – I keep them in a plastic bag for the garden.

Okay.

I bring the mugs of tea over.

Just leave mine on the floor.

We sip our tea in silence. I am lost for words.

I’ve had a letter from the Council. They are threatening to sue me.

What for?

The neighbours have complained about the garden. I don’t know what to do.

Would you like to show me?

M rocks back and forwards in her chair before pulling herself up to standing, using the edge of the table to balance.

We continue towards the back of the house using the same tile wide corridor. Either side there are tables, pieces of wood, children’s toys, paint cans, tools, garden equipment, two more televisions. A broken hockey stick lies beside a vice. M pulls back the curtain as I get a first look at her backyard. I try to make sense of what I am seeing.

Apparently the neighbours think there might be snakes in the garden.

Yes, it’s possible …

In front of us, there is an expanse of yellow green. A broken Hills Hoist gives some perspective. The grass appears to have grown up to approximately half the height of the hoist, before bending over under its own weight. An urban jungle does not quite do it justice. We tread warily, heading towards a very large shed. M advises me it was originally a garage, although it resembles a small aircraft hanger rather than somewhere to park the car. M opens a door with some difficulty.

This is where I store some of my things.

I gaze with fascination.

Where did all of these things come from?

When Luna died I decided I was never going to let go of anything again. As you know I always like taking things of interest from hard waste collections. But I’ve run out of room in the house.

Where is Luna?

I have her ashes in a box in the laundry basket in my bedroom. When I die, I want my ashes to be mixed with hers.

Have you thought about getting another dog?

I don’t think I can do that. I killed Luna you know.

No, I didn’t know that. How, exactly?

I used to eat sticky buns in bed in the morning and would give her the sultanas and raisins. She loved them, but they made her sick. I still have all her bedding in the bathroom.

Where is the bathroom? I think I have drunk too much tea.

Its over there. You will need to turn on the tap at the bottom before flushing it. And turn it off again.

Thank you.

I wash my hands quickly at the basin. The water is very cold like the room. The bath is full of dog bedding that still has a faint scent of urine. The shower is stacked high with blankets.

I’ve noticed it’s a little cold here M.

I haven’t been able to get into the ceiling to fix the heater. I’m not going to pay somebody to do something I can do for myself, once I feel a little better.

Does it heat the water?

Yes, but I just boil up a kettle and use a bucket for everything. It saves a lot of money.

As a matter of interest, where is your doctor’s practice?

Why do you want to know?

I would be happy to come back and take you for an appointment if that would be helpful? I could ring now if you like?

I will think about it. The practice is just up the road. What can I do about this council letter?

Leave it with me. I will contact them and see if they will give you an extension of time to fix the problem.

When will you be back?

Give me a couple of days to sort out my calendar and then I will schedule some time for you, if you would like that? In the meantime would you like me to cook a meal?

I can manage.Don’t come too early and phone me first.

I will.Goodbye M.

As the door closed behind me I took a couple of deep breaths. The car beeped reassuringly. I had a choice.

Instead of driving to the end of the street and the freeway, I made a U turn and headed towards the doctor’s practice. I used all my charm to facilitate an urgent appointment. I had no way of knowing that it would take another 18 months, and many hundreds of hours, before the consequences of my reluctant phone call would be fully played out.