Windows to the Soul

I ring the doorbell, my suitcase hunkered beside me on the footpath, a black, sullen thing. After a few moments, the door swings open. Jane, my eldest, looks surprised to see me.

“Mam,” she says. “What are you doing here?” No how lovely to see you or I’ve missed you. She hasn’t come to see me once since she left, years ago. She eyes my suitcase on the pavement.

“I’ve come to stay,” I say simply.

“Stay?” she says, not understanding. “With me?”

I nod.

“For the weekend?” she says.

I shake my head. “For as long as you’ll have me.”

We look at each other in silence for a long, heavy moment.

“You’ve left him.” It’s a statement, not a question. You can see the wheels turning in her head, like cogs of a machine that are slowly creaking to life.

I nod.

She pulls the door wider, and stands back to let me in. “You’d better come in.”

I slip by her, pulling my resentful suitcase behind me.

“I want to buy a suitcase,” I say, apropos of nothing. “A yellow one. You can buy all sorts of colours nowadays.”

She looks at me, silent. She must think I’m mad, talking about yellow suitcases at a time like this. But it’s important, I feel.

“A yellow one,” I repeat. “I wanted to buy a coloured one. Before. But it wouldn’t have fit in. I knew it was right to buy a black one. A black one would fit in.” I’m rambling, but I can’t let go of the thought of this yellow suitcase.

She nods, as if she understands, but I don’t think she does. She gestures down the narrow hall to the room at the back, and so I go, my black suitcase bumping along behind me. She trails behind the case.

The kitchen is small, with evening sunshine streaming in through the back window. I look around. It’s immaculate. The electric hob gleams, the counter tops are bathed in sunshine, not a speck of dust picked up by the rays of light. She keeps it perfectly.

She hovers beside the table. I stand awkwardly beside the fridge. It seems wrong to sit down without an invitation.

“I suppose you’d like a cup of tea,” she says, no enthusiasm in her voice, politeness forcing the words.

“Yes please,” I say. “May I sit down?”

She nods and busies herself, pulling out a mug - one mug - turning on the kettle, opening a cupboard to pull out a box of Barrys’ tea bags. The silence stretches. She places a mug on the table in front of me, neatly, on top of a coaster that shows a scene of a mediaeval village.

“You have a lovely house,” I say. “You keep it well. It’s a credit to you.”

She nods dully and pulls a chair out on the opposite side of the small table. Her hands move on her lap and then join together on the table in front of her. She takes a breath and releases it slowly.

“You can’t stay here, Mam.” The words are bald.

Not what I want to hear. Not what I need to hear. I open my mouth to reply, to tell her I have nowhere else to go, that it won’t be for long, just until I figure things out, but I don’t get the words out.

She’s shaking her head. “You can’t. It’s not possible.”

“Why?” I say simply.

“You just can’t.” She opens her mouth as if to say more, but the sound of the front door opening catches her words. Her eyes swing behind her to the hall. Soft footsteps come down the laminate floor and the door opens behind her.

The man is slight, small for a man, wiry but strong. His hair is tightly cropped, one of those half beards graces his jaw. He wears a slim-fitting pair of denims and a bright blue North Face fleece. His face is flushed from the cold air. He regards me curiously across the room and goes to stand behind Jane, placing his hand on her shoulder.

“Hello. Who do we have here?” His voice is mild. He bends to drop a kiss on top of Jane’s head. She doesn’t move.

“This is my Mam,” she says. “She was just passing and dropped in for a cup of tea.”

“Your Mam,” he says, straightening. He looks me straight in the eye and then leans across the table, smiling. “Nice to meet you Mrs. Hayes.”

I take his hand. It’s an ordinary handshake - not a limp, fishy shake, but not one of those bone-crushing, aggressive handshakes either.

“Una, please,” I say. “And you are….?” My voice trails off, embarrassed to not know his name. This man who kisses my daughter’s head.

He seems to think the same thing. “Neil,” he says, his eyes dropping down to Jane, a slight frown on his brow. “Janey, Janey - don’t you talk to your Mam about me?”

Jane’s cheekbones turn red. “Mam and I don’t talk much,” she says shortly.

It’s true. She’s never called and I don’t know her number. I know her address, but have never visited, until now. I wrote occasionally, always sent a Christmas card and a birthday card, but never heard anything back. Over the years, I hoped - checking the hall mat on birthdays, or Christmases, every Mother’s Day - but nothing ever arrived. Then I stopped hoping.

Neil looks at me. I sense criticism. What sort of a mother am I that I don’t talk to my daughter, his eyes seem to say? But maybe that’s my guilt rather than his censure. He looks at my untouched mug of tea, cooling on the table.

“Will you not have something to eat with that?” He moves to the cupboard. “We have biscuits here, somewhere.”

I nod, politely. “That would be lovely.”

Jane hasn’t offered, and I’m hungry after the bus journey.

He shakes his head. “Janey, Janey,” he says with a laugh, almost as though to himself. “Where are your manners, not offering our guest something to eat?”

He pulls out a packet of bourbon creams and two side plates, setting one in front of me and one at the empty place. He opens the packet and offers one to me, before placing one neatly on his own plate. He folds the top of the biscuits carefully and sets the packet in the middle of the table. He moves around the kitchen, making himself a mug of coffee. He places it on a coaster that matches mine, and pulls out the chair, sitting down.

“Well,” he says, smiling as he looks from one to the other. “This is nice.”

I smile, reflexively.

Jane’s face moves slightly - it may have been a smile - I’m not sure.

“So Una, you’re just passing. I see your bag,” he nods at the suitcase behind me. “Are you off somewhere nice? Anywhere exotic?”

Jane’s eyes meet mine, across the table.

“Uh, no, nowhere exotic,” I say slowly, my mind racing. “I’m going to stay… with my sister…” My voice trails away.

“Ah, your sister. That’ll be nice.” He takes a small bite of his bourbon cream, the biscuit snapping loudly. His teeth are white. Sharp. “Won’t it, Janey?” He smiles at my daughter.

“Yes. That will be nice,” she says, parroting him. Her eyes drop to the table again.

I can’t figure her out.

I didn’t expect her to clasp me to her bosom and greet me like a long-lost friend, but I did expect a bit more interest, encouragement - I don’t know. Something. Her bloody partner is more excited to see me than she is. I feel a flicker of annoyance. No, stronger than that - anger. I deserve more than this unwelcoming disinterest. I put up so much over the years, to protect this ungrateful child, and for what? To get this? A daughter who is a stranger?

I push my chair back, my tea barely sipped, my bourbon cream untouched on the blue side plate.

“Anyway, I’d better get going,” I say, rising to my feet. “My sister will be expecting me.”

“So soon?” His eyebrow raises in protest, but he rises too. “I was looking forward to chatting with you. To hear more about Janey when she was growing up. She doesn’t talk too much about her childhood. About you, or her Dad, or her friends” He looks at Jane, as if she is a mystery to him, and then smiles affectionately, his hand straying to her shoulder again, before moving up to caress her neck.

She doesn’t look at him, or me. After a moment, his hand stills and she gets up. She doesn’t protest at my premature departure. As she slides from her chair, her knee knocks the table. My full mug of tea wobbles, the liquid slopping onto the shining table, a puddle of beige sadness.

Neil tuts his irritation but says nothing. He moves to the sink to get a cloth.

I hesitate, then move out of the kitchen towards the front door, my suitcase and Jane behind me. When I reach the door, I open it, turning to say a curt goodbye.

She surprises me by grabbing my wrist tightly.

“You go, Mam,” she says, her voice an urgent whisper. “Go. And don’t look back.”

I look at her, surprised. This is the first flicker of animation I’ve seen. Is she pushing me away, or lauding me for leaving her father? I open my mouth to ask her. Then, before my eyes, she dims, and I wonder if it was a figment of my imagination.

Neil appears behind her and stands, his hand slipping around her waist loosely. He smiles at me.

“Una, it was lovely to meet you,” he says warmly. “I’m just sorry it was so short. You’ll have to call again.”

I nod. I look at Jane again, sharply, to see if I can see a glimpse of that animation.

She looks me square in the eyes, no hint of anything. Dull lifeless eyes that look strangely familiar.

“Bye Mam,” she says. “Safe travels,” and pushes the door closed.