fears

1

She is old now, her chair by the window. Much of the day she spends there. Looking out from behind the lace curtain, a shadow to those on the street. It is the people she likes to watch passing on the pavement. More often than not they are people she does not know. She finds this hard. There was a time when she knew just about everyone. Even the younger couples, the children. Now they have moved on, they have gone.

The most difficult days are the rainy days in winter. The combination of wet and cold, the unyielding grey sky, the damp face of the red-bricked houses.

It is not as it used to be. Before people stayed where they were, people knew who you were. That has changed. Now everyone leaves as quick as they can. They all want a new house, a house away from the city, one of those funny estates with affected sounding names. She has lived in this part of the city over all her life, has seen it change first hand, seen the neighbourhood empty, seen it lose its character. She is one of the last left. It was only the next street up where she was born. Some days she remembers it just as it was then.

Yesterday's newspaper is lying on her knee. She takes her glasses from around her neck, her hands unsteady as she brings them to her face. Her hair is grey and wound tightly into a bun on top of her head. Her face is wrinkled and sad. Her eyes, once bright blue, eyes that once sparkled, are now milky, faded.

As she reads, her brow furrows, her concentration wavers. She mouths the words to herself, holds one finger above the inky page, her hand grasping tightly onto the side of the newsprint. She stops, looking puzzled. She calls out to him.
“Jack, have you seen this in the newspaper?”.
There is no reply.
“Jack,” she repeats, this time trying harder to make her voice carry, “Jack, Jack, are you there love?”
There is still no reply. Where he can be? Has he gone to do the morning’s shopping and not told her? No, that would not be like him. Maybe he told her but she has forgotten.
The clock ticks steadily from the mantlepiece. She cannot make out correctly what it says. Trying to remember if she has recently heard it chime, she calls out again.
“Jack, Jack, are you there love?”
She moves in her chair, putting the newspaper to the side, preparing to get up. Where can he be? Her arms shake as she lifts herself forward, as she attempts to stand. For a moment she thinks she is not going to make it, is going to fall and then she feels her legs frail but on the floor. She reaches for her walking stick, leaning against the table. Her thin, bony hand grasps its edge, attempts to move it out in front of her. She is just about to start for the door when she hears footsteps from the hallway.
“Jack, is that you? Jack pet, is that you?”
A voice answers.
“Are you calling me dear? I’ll be there right now. Just a wee moment.”
Again she tries to move but feels unable to. He comes into the room, his steps slow and measured. He is carefully rolling up his sleeves. His eyes fix on her standing by the chair, the newspaper now fallen to the ground, her stick in front of her. She looks at him.
“Yes I was. I didn’t know where you were...you didn’t answer...I was coming to look for you.”
“Ah here, sit down, would you. What is it you want?”
He quickly moves over to her, taking her firmly by the arm, gently manoeuvring her back to her seat by the window.
“I was just out back for a moment. I was talking to old George. He’s lost that cat of his again. Doesn’t know where it’s got to this time.”
She trembles as he sits her down.
“Are you alright now? Take it easy. Here, get yourself comfortable. Do you want your newspaper?”
Bending down slowly, he picks up the paper and hands it to her. She looks up at him.
“That cat of his is gone down to them other people. You know the ones. There at the end on the corner. Sure he forgets to feed the thing all the time. It’s no wonder it's off.”
“Aye, maybe. What was it you wanted me for anyway?”
She turns to the window.
“I can't remember now.”

He does the buttons on his coat. His fingers are stiff and awkward. There is a rattle as post comes through the letter box. The shadow behind the glass, broken in the dimpled pane, moves away again. Its steps recede down the pavement. Slowly he gets his cap out of his pocket and picks up the shopping basket from under the stairs. Putting his head around the door of the front room, he says, “I’m just going out to do some shopping. I’ll be back in about an hour.” She looks at him sleepily and replies, “alright,”
“Why don't you have a little snooze?”
She does not answer. He steps back into the hallway and closes the front door gently behind him.

Years ago he wondered which of them would come to this first. Now that they are both in their mid-seventies, he no longer needs worry about it.

Taking the cautious, measured steps his age permits, he closes the front garden gate. He too feels the creaking limbs, the shortness of breath, the trying way in which objects seem to elude his power. Some days it takes just about all his energy to get around the house.

When she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s, he had already guessed. He had heard about it from others, the slow decline, the difficulty in even walking a couple of steps. That was over a year ago. In reality he was living with it longer than that. He had already seen the gradual deterioration, the fall from the grace of mobility, the shakiness, the lack of control, the forgetfulness. He had seen it all set in, all long before any doctor pronounced it official.

She more or less gave up. It was like something inside her decided there was nothing else to do but sit and wait until the end. Social Services offered him someone to help. He found that difficult. Admitting that he was unable to cope. All his life he has prided himself on his sense of independence. Now, a young man with a funny haircut comes in two mornings a week and does some cleaning. The messy stuff is always left for him.

There are times when he wonders how long more he will be able to care for her. Her doctor has talked about a home for the elderly. He feels guilty about it. It goes against the grain. How would he cope if he were left living on his own? How would he cope with visiting her, the travelling to and fro? Yet that is not the real issue. The real issue is...is, well if she were, ...if she were to pass away, then he would feel somehow he had not been there for her. A home for the elderly, it seems to him, robs her of what little dignity she now has left. Still he is a practical man.

They have been married forty nine years. Their children have long since gone, one to England, the other to Canada. There are always the letters, the occasional visits, at least from their daughter in Bristol. He knows they have their own families, their own lives. Sometimes it makes him sad, sometimes he would like to see more of his grandchildren. Yet he understands this is the way things have to be.

She finds it much harder. She always looked forward to being a grandmother. He realises there is a part of her that does not want to face the reality of things, does not want to accept that life has changed since they were young. There is a part of her that is angry at the altered world around her. He understands that too.

He remembers the day he first saw her. Then he was a young apprentice in the shipyards. He has never forgotten how she looked. Slight, with clear, blue eyes. She always appeared fresh, fashionable. Sometimes he can still see a resonance of that look in her. It is no memory, but something that has kept him there, that has kept him going all through the years.

Before they were married, she worked behind the counter in a small shop off Donegal Square. He would often go to pick her up at closing time on a Saturday evening. Sometimes a crowd of them would go dancing.

It makes him sad when he thinks of that, it all seems so long ago. Now you would not recognise parts of the city centre. Now all those places have gone.

2

She is standing on the pavement in front of him, smiling. A young girl about ten years old. Her freckled face and inquisitive eyes stare.
“Do you live down there in number six with the old woman?” she asks.
“Indeed I do,” he answers.
“What's wrong with her legs mister? My brother says she’s a cripple. Is that true?”
“Your brother doesn’t know everything.”
She falls into step alongside him, giving a little skip.
“He does mister. He knows just about everythin’. He's goin’ to go to Uni next year. Says he’ll get a grant. Says he wants to be an engineer, you know, inventin’ things and that.”
“Does he now? Maybe he knows everything about inventing but nothing about old ladies.”
“No mister. He says she’s a cripple. He read about it in a book.”
“Is that so?”
“It is so mister.”
Something about her movement, her manner catches him. For an instant he feels he is not looking at any young girl, but at her, that she is skipping lightly on the pavement in front of him, her legs firm and strong again, her voice sure, her eyes full of hope and optimism. He feels confused, troubled.
“Run on with you now you cheeky wee thing. Should you not be in school?”
She darts ahead of him.
“Aye, I should, but my daddy’s on holiday for a week. My Ma says I can stay off school to see him,” she calls back.
Waving goodbye, she disappears around a corner.
Must be one of them from number fourteen, he thinks. He has heard about them from George. The father is a security officer somewhere up off Ravenhill, works nights. “You know,” George said, “used to be in the police force but couldn’t take the stress. A bit fond of a drink I hear. A good man when he’s sober, but...ah, well you know how it is.” Jack agreed. It’s a bad situation he thought, it must be hard on the children. Still, she seems a sprightly young thing.

He comes out onto the main road. The sky is overcast. It will probably rain later, he thinks. His hip aches. Passing along the wall, he slows and coughs hoarsely into his clenched fist. He stops a moment to catch his breath. A mother and a young child pass, the child looking about eagerly. He notices the mother's hands clenched tightly, almost white on the handles of the buggy. Where is she going in such a hurry? Did people look like that when he was young? Now they always seem tense, always to be on their way somewhere. Sure where could you be on your way to here, he wonders. What could require so much urgency?

Crossing the street he turns and goes into the local newsagent. A teenage girl comes out from a small room behind the counter.
“Yes?” she says.
He has never seen her before.
“I’ll just have today’s paper, if you don’t mind.”
“The Telegraph?”
“Yes, please”.
She lifts a newspaper from a pile in front of her and hands it to him. He turns to walk away. She coughs lightly.
“Ah! That’ll be eighty pence, please.”
“Put it down for the end of the week, if you will. Tell Mrs McAlpine I’ll settle up on Friday morning.”
“Oh, she knows you then, does she?”
He is taken aback.
“Oh yes, oh yes, that she does.”
He smiles. She eyes him suspiciously.
“You know, it’s just that I’m new here. I’ve got to be sure. You’ve already arranged this with her have you?”
“I have. The name is Parker. Mr Parker from around on the Gardens.”
The girl writes something on a slip of paper and opens the plastic cash register.
“Ok Mr Parker. I’m sure that’s alright now.”
She looks blankly at him. He hesitates.
“Yes, well...ah...goodbye now,” he says.
He again turns to go but stops.
“Will Mrs McAlpine be here herself tomorrow morning do you know?”
“What’s tomorrow, Thursday? She will an’ all.”
“Ok. Thank you.”
There is the sound of a telephone being dialled as he closes the door behind him.



3

She sighs to herself. He looks up from his newspaper. The room is quiet. The only other sound is the ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. His glasses fall to the end of his nose.
“Are you alright dear?” he asks.
She does not answer.
“I said are you alright dear?”
She turns from the window, her head moving slowly.
“Aye, I am. I’m fine just now.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
“No. I'm fine.”
“I bought some of them Mr Kipling cakes you like.”
“No thanks. Not now.”
She seems a bit grumpy. He folds his newspaper over, the pages rustling as he smoothes them out.
“I met Mildred when I was out. She was with her daughter in the car. She was asking for you.”
He pauses.
“She says that Jim had a bit of a fall last week. They had to take him up to Dundonald for some X-rays. He’s ok. There’s nothing broken.”
“Oh!”
He puts his hand in the pocket of his waistcoat. She moves a little in her chair.
“Were they out doing the shopping together?”
“Aye, they were. He’s a tough old one, is Jim, always was. Sure you know yourself.”
She lifts her hand to her mouth.
“He must be getting on now.”
“He's still got a couple of years on us dear so he has.”
She can see him fiddling with his hand, trying to get his pipe out. She pulls at the cardigan around her shoulders.
“He used to have an eye for Margaret White.”
“What’s that you say love?”
“I said, he used to have an eye for that Margaret White.”
He looks mildly surprised.
“Did he now? How can you remember that?”
“He did. She was a pretty, young thing then. I think she had a bit of a thing for you Jack too.”
“No, I don’t remember at all.”
“Aye, she did and all.”
From the corner of her eye she watches him hold the pipe between his hands, run his fingers around its rim, and tap it firmly against the side of the ashtray.
“I don't remember any of that. I only remember Jim and how stubborn he could be. Once during the war we went over to play rugby in England, some club in the Midlands, he was nearly the only one left standing after the match. All the English lads wanted to buy him a drink, but he refused. You know how it went, ‘I’m a teetotaller myself. Thank you very much now, there won’t be a drop going over my lips.’ Someone suggested he mustn't be Irish at all, at which point he stood up and started to sing. And mind you he wasn’t a bad singer either.”
“It was different then.”
He crosses his legs, leans back in the chair. Reaching over to the small table, he picks up his pouch of tobacco.
“Aye, it was different then. You’re right there.”
Pressing the dark, thick strands down into the pipe, his fingers knead it firmly, years of repeating the action giving it a reassuring familiarity. He looks thoughtful.
“You know I was just thinking the other day about the time we went down to Donaghadee. Do you remember that? We stayed in that hotel along the seafront there.”
She stares at him.
“No.”
He pauses.
“You must. I think it was shortly after we got engaged.”
His eyes look at her expectantly.
“Was that the time after Anne was born?”
He sighs.
“No dear. I just said it was shortly after we got engaged. You must remember.”
Turning around quickly, she looks indignantly at him.
“There’s no need to be sharp with me.”
“It was when my brother was the curate in that wee church,” he adds, raising his voice slightly.
“It’s alright, you don’t need to shout either. I can still hear. I may not be able to walk, but I’m not deaf.”
She turns back to the window.
“Yes, yes, dear, of course. I remember us sitting up on the hill above the harbour. It was a fine September day. I remember watching the boat that used to sail out to the island there. What was its name now? Copeland, I think. Copeland island. Aye. I was thinking of that the other day. The war was just over. I remember how you looked. The way your hair was done in that new style. I remember how you were wearing lipstick. It was something you had picked up that time you were in London. I remember how some of the woman in the hotel gave you funny looks. I remember one making some reference to you being `a shameless young thing’. That all changed when they discovered Will was my brother.”
He stops, holding the unlit pipe out in front of him. His eyes cloud over. His face looks hesitant. She remains silent, gazing out the window.
“Aye, indeed. Poor Will. He eventually went out to Australia. Didn’t want to go on with the church. I remember he once confided in me he found it trying. That it was no life for a young man.”
He pauses, fiddles again in his pocket, looking for his matches.
“He did alright out in Australia. Not that we heard much from him really. The one time he came back he had changed so much. I remember I was struck by the way his skin had changed. It had become mottled from the heat, had a sun-beaten look. I was surprised by his voice. There was no trace left of his accent. He seemed to have come from a different world. He had I suppose. It’s so far away. Maybe that’s why he wanted to go there. Maybe the distance. Maybe it was the only thing he could do.”
Striking a match he lets it slowly burn. The clock suddenly chimes. He checks his watch. It is three thirty. Lifting his pipe to his mouth, he begins to light it. She remains still, her sad eyes fixed on the window. A cloud of smoke floats across the room.
“Whenever I smell your pipe,” she says, “it reminds me of my father.”
His eyes stare down into the fireplace. He stretches his hand out towards the electric heater. The room is beginning to darken.
“Are you cold dear?” he asks.
She pulls her cardigan tighter around her shoulders, shakes her head.
“I always remember my father sitting in the corner of our small living room. That was when I was older, thirteen or fourteen, I think. He would sit there, his shirt sleeves rolled up, holding his pipe in one hand, the other propping up his head. Sometimes he would ask you a question and then seem not to listen to the answer. I was always puzzled by that.”
He puffs on his pipe.
“That was when you still lived on Lombard Street.”
“Yes. That was before John died.”
There is a rasp, a catch in her voice.
“When John went, well, he never really got over it. Not that he got bitter, just that...well it sort of took the wind out of his sails.”
This is something to which he has become accustomed. The way she sometimes seems to remember things down to the last detail, the way her mind suddenly becomes clear, strong. Often it is events from her early childhood. Sometimes he is surprised by the strength of her recall.
“It was a tough blow.”
She tightens her lips.
“It was.”
Moving her arm, she tries to sit upright in the chair.
“In those days consumption was a serious illness.”
Her voice wavers.
“I’m not saying it isn’t still mind you, only then they didn’t have the medicines to treat it the way they do now. In a way John was his favourite. That’s why he took to you Jack. He thought he’d got a son back. But he was already dying himself then. I have often wondered if he knew that, but just never said.”
He nods his head.
“Who knows? He wasn’t the type of man to talk easily about things like that. He was too proud.”
“You know I remember the exact way that room looked. I remember everything about it, the way the kitchen ran off it, the picture above the fireplace, the way the door would sometimes stick, the way the small back yard looked through the window on a sunny afternoon.”
“Aye,” he says, “can't say I do. I remember that time we took him to Dublin though.”
He moves forward, smiles to himself, waving his pipe in front of him.
“Do you remember him standing on College Green, asking that policeman, if there was a post office on Sackville street? Aye, and this tall, fine looking country fellow, with a heavy accent, his face turning red, saying, ‘I think you mean O'Connell Street sir.’ And your father saying, ‘no I do not. I mean Sackville Street.’ We had to almost drag him away. I was afraid he would get us into trouble. Oh aye. I remember how he could get going on that alright. His sister still lived there. I remember she was like some poor creature stuck between two worlds. She always seemed to be a little too eager to tell you that, yes, she was quite happy.
For a moment he looks lost in thought, remains motionless, his pipe smoking up into the small room. Then he shifts forward in his chair.
“Are you sure you don’t want some more heat on dear?”
“No. No, it’s alright this way.”
“Fine, whatever you say.”

He returns to his paper. She hears him breathing in and out, the tapping of his pipe every now and then against the edge of the ashtray. She stares out the window, stares through the lace curtains onto the street. The street lights have just come on. They cast a glow on the pavement, their light falling in on the room. Her eyes catch the contour of a figure, a head moving slowly through the pale triangle, a cap pulled down tightly to its face. She looks again, trying to recognise the features, trying to find a name. She cannot explain why she suddenly thinks her father is out there, cannot explain why she thinks that it is her father walking along the pavement. Yet she clearly sees the features, the distinct, grey eyes, the round nose, the straight eyebrows, the solid head pressed firmly forward, the slow, methodical walk. She tries to get up, to move nearer the window, but cannot. She wants to call out, wants to say, “daddy, it’s me. Norma. Can you not see me? I’m here, here at the window. Just turn your head. I’m waving to you...daddy, daddy,...please, please answer me. Don’t just walk away like that. Daddy...”
“What is it love? Who are you trying to call? I’ve been here all the time.”
“J...Jack. Oh, Jack. I, I...where am I?”
“You’re ok dear. You’re here. Calm yourself now.”
He stands over her. The light is on. There is a look of anxiety in his face. He waits a moment.
“Jack,... I must have been dreaming. I...must have, I...”
“You just dozed off love. I’ll pull the curtains there if you move for a minute. It's getting dark now.”


He opens the back door and shivering, steps out onto the small patio. The night is cold. There are no stars to be seen. The sky is a deep brown. He looks across the fence into the neighbouring kitchen. There is a dim glow from behind the curtained window. The muffled sound of a television drifts over. George must be watching the snooker, he thinks, has the sound up too loud again. Probably fallen asleep in front of the thing.

He breathes in sharply. The air is cold and raw. Vague clouds form when he expels, their various shapes hanging in the damp around him. There is a rustle from the end of the short garden. His body tenses. He has read in the local paper how there has been a spate of robberies in the area recently. The broom handle is right next to him. It leans against the wall. Quietly, he lifts it. Its surface is cold, is covered in dew. He waits, strains his eyes to see. Peering down into the garden. He has just about made out the vague shape of the hedge, the apple tree, when suddenly two shining spheres appear out of the darkness. Flashing, they move quickly forward, darting first to one side then to the other. They keep low to the ground. He follows them until they come into the arc of light falling from the door. It is George’s cat. Stopping, it holds one paw in the air and meows. He chuckles to himself, calls to it, but it remains standing. He puts the broom back against the wall. “You daft thing,” he calls out quietly, “you had me going there for a moment.”
Just as he is about to turn, go back into the house, a loud crack, a sharp, black noise rings out across the roofs and gardens. He stops for a moment and listens, looks up into the sky. There is nothing, just the wintry silence. Then a siren. Again he calls to the cat but it scurries off towards the other house. He closes the door behind him.
“Sure you'll never get in,” he mutters to himself, “either way if George is asleep or with the noise from that television, he’ll never hear you scratching the door?”

His back aches as he steps into the living room. She is already in bed. He looks at the clock. It is just before eleven, time for him to call it a day. Yawning, he switches off the lights and walks stiffly down the hallway. Remembering he has not checked to see if the front door is locked, he turns irately back. The catch is on the door and the chain is across it. I must have done it earlier, he thinks.

There is the sound of shouting and scuffling from the street. He bends with difficulty, his legs creaking, his back stretching awkwardly and peeps through the letterbox. There are a couple of young lads standing there. He watches them. The draught from the moist air stings his eyes. He hears their talk, their excited, loud voices. They all have scarves wrapped tightly around the lower part of their faces, their hair cut short and close. He is shocked by their language. Adjusting his hands, he tightly grasps the slat of the letterbox. We would never have used words like that in our day, he thinks, would never have even thought of things like that. His watery blue eyes stare at them. They are pushing, jostling each other on the pavement. From somewhere in the distance comes the drone of an army helicopter. With a sense of disbelief he recognises one of them.
“That’s that wee fellow, what’s his name now, the one who used to work up there behind the meat counter in the supermarket. Right enough, I haven’t seen him now for some time,” he mutters.
He stands up, trying to straighten out his back. It cricks, a pain running the length of it. “Oh dear,” he says to himself, “I think I’ll have to go the doctor one of these days.” He pauses, takes a deep breath, winces, grabs onto the bannister. “But that young fellow now, used to be ever so friendly to you. Always had a smile for you. Aye, who would have thought he’d be hanging around with that sort of crowd. You never know these days I suppose. It’s just in the times. Probably just the world they grow up in. Wouldn’t have happened in my day, no. Still, now it’s different. Now nothing is for sure.”



4

She looks up at the ceiling. The dim shape of the lampshade hangs there. Her eyes focus on it. Beside her, she can feel the weight of his body. His snoring echoes around the room. He has been asleep for some time now.

She heard him come up the stairs muttering to himself. As he slowly undressed, she listened to him, wanted to say something but hesitated. Then she drifted off to sleep.

When she awoke again she had no idea how long he had been there. It was later but she did not know how much later. She wanted to get up to look at his watch lying beside him on the tall, square table, but could not. In the darkness and the cold it was really beyond her capability.

She thinks of it again. It comes back into her mind. Suddenly her thoughts seem to become more lucid. He is asleep. What if she could not wake him? What if she were just to go now, if she were just to slip away and he would sleep on beside her? There he would be in the morning, getting up, discovering that she was no more. He would be in the house on his own, smoking his pipe, the rooms empty, talking to his memories. And her children. Would they come and see if he was alright? Would her son make it home from Canada?

For a moment she would like to see them now more than anything, to hear their voices. She tries to wake him, tries to shake him. He only turns slightly, rolls a little more to his side and goes on snoring. She calls his name. There is no answer.

She feels herself panic, tries to lift herself up, tries to turn herself over to get to the bedside-light. What’s the use, she thinks. I cannot. I cannot get up properly, I have not the energy to even reach out and find the switch.
She lies there, looking up into the ceiling. The silence presses down.
“Jack, Jack, Jack dear,” she whispers, “Jack I’m afraid. I know I shouldn’t be, but I’m so afraid of dying.”

Copyright (C) Peter Millington. December 1996.