‘No.’ They sat in silence for a moment. ‘Maybe my Esther would have an idea of how to make it easier,’ said Maureen. ‘She’s very well qualified and she has a secretary.’
‘Aye, well,’ Jackie said. ‘It’s worth a try. But Anne will be moving out at some point, Maureen. That’s just a fact, hen, and you need to start preparing for it.’
Maureen was staring at the desk. ‘I saw some of the pictures she took when she was a young lassie,’ she said. ‘Unbelievable, Jackie. You really wouldn’t believe them if you saw them. Just taking an ordinary thing like an old sink full of dishes and making it, well, you know, I don’t know anything about these things.’
‘Beautiful,’ Jackie said.
‘That’s the right word: beautiful. As if life was just pictures. Like things you would see in an old magazine, you know? And when I asked her about her photography she said it was one of the things her late husband Harry did for her when they were young. He was a teacher and he taught her the new methods. She said it was Harry’s technique that made the photographs special.’
‘Is that right?’
‘That’s what she said. He knew about chemicals.’
‘Oh, my,’ Jackie said, ‘it’s great to have a man who knows things.’
Maureen replayed the conversation in her mind with the sound down and the mumbles coming through the wall. She didn’t know what she’d do if Anne ever left Lochranza Court. Maureen recalled when she saw her with a whisky in a crystal tumbler and thought, Good God, here’s Anne. A wee lady she is and she knows her own mind.
BEFORE THE WAR
The young man was nice and he made his own tea by pulling back the tape from the cooker and boiling a pan of water and finding a tea bag. Anne noticed his face was red but it calmed down. He looked like all the boys look nowadays with their cropped hair but he wasn’t wearing a boiler suit like before and his shoes were
polished. She sat down and said to herself that the fellows can certainly iron their shirts nowadays. He had things to say about the courage of the soldiers and he felt they were doing an amazing job and he said it took something special to sign up and go out there and fight.
‘They have to go,’ she said. ‘It’s the war.’ The boy put down his cup and adopted a serious expression, which caused him to blush again and look worried.
‘Mrs Quirk, I said something today and I shouldn’t have said that in front of you. I’m sorry.’
‘What’s that, dear?’
‘I said about the news. That a soldier from around here had died in Afghanistan. It was on the radio in the van. And I shouldn’t have said that, Mrs Quirk. I listened to the report again. I’m sure it’s nothing to do with you because they always contact the families first.’
‘The men have to show courage,’ she said. ‘And go and fight for their country.’
‘Mrs Quirk—’
‘That’s what Harry said. And he was right. You take it on the chin and that’s true, son. You have to stand up and be counted. You’re all the man you’ll ever be. And when you get the call, that’s you.’
‘I’m daft sometimes. And it’s been bugging me since yesterday …’
He looked a little bit like some of the photographers she used to know. They were always out on the streets, those guys. They wanted to get away from studios and portraiture, all that stuff, lights and props, airbrushing. They were always young and confident. ‘You work for the Council?’
‘That’s right.’ He was a nice-looking man. He looked like
the photographer Roger Mayne. She remembered seeing him in Manchester with Harry one time, this thin-faced, serious man with a lock of dark hair falling over his brow and these pictures he’d taken of children in London.
‘Those were fine pictures,’ she said.
‘They said the soldier who died was part of a big operation to do with a dam. I wrote it down.’ He took a note from his pocket and read from it. ‘The Kajaki dam. They said it was a big job to bring electricity to the Afghan people.’
‘I thought I was an old hand,’ she said. ‘Then I met Harry and all the younger ones. I’d been away from it for a while, looking after them in Glasgow. Then I came to Blackpool and met Harry. He changed the way the pictures looked. He showed me how to bring out the light, the eyes, the background, you know, and he taught everybody.’
‘Are you talking about your husband, Mrs Quirk?’
‘Harry. You remember him?’
The boy took his cup to the sink and ran it under the tap while Anne talked about them, the Young Meteors, the group of photographers surrounding Harry at Manchester in the 1960s. It did occur to Anne that the boy might be too young but he seemed part of it, the men who worked for
Picture Post
and for Kodak and … maybe she was boring him.
‘I’m really sorry, Mrs Quirk,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you and I should watch my mouth.’
‘You’re okay.’
He stared at her. It took him a moment. Then he stroked her hand and said he met a lot of elderly people because of his work for the council. His eyes were young. ‘I hope that wasn’t your Luke,’ he said. ‘My brother said they would definitely come
round and tell the family ages before it was on the radio.’ He stood up and picked up his keys from the breakfast bar. Anne hoped he would stay because she wanted to talk about what to do with the stuff that was still down in the darkroom. It was nice to take pictures of children, she thought: they were only small for a short period of time and then it was over, wasn’t it?
Maureen noticed it had gone quiet next door during the time she was on the phone to Alice. She didn’t feel guilty but she hated to think it troubled Anne. It wasn’t as if Maureen didn’t have a family of her own: they were a full-time job, three grown kids and grandchildren into the bargain, and she only phoned Alice to make sure she understood everything that was happening. Since the rabbit, some people, some neighbours, had said that Anne’s daughter was too absent. But Maureen understood families and she wasn’t afraid to use the phone to try and help. It was late in the conversation that she turned to the day before.
‘Have you heard from anybody?’
‘Should I have?’
‘Not especially, no.’ Maureen pursed her lips and gathered herself. ‘That nurse was in again this week,’ she said. ‘Yesterday. They like to get your mother talking about her childhood and all sorts.’
‘All sorts is right,’ Alice said.
‘The illness makes her confused.’
‘She’s always been confused when it comes to the past. The fact is, Maureen, my mother’s always had issues with her memory. That’s what makes this so …’
‘Heartbreaking.’
‘Sad, yes. It’s sad. Sad for us. Because it’s now too late for my mother ever to face anything. If I was being unkind, I’d say that her illness has caught up with her character.’ Maureen sometimes
felt a twinge at the idea that the criticism coming from Alice was general, as if Anne’s daughter was making comments about all mothers when she spoke about Anne and her problems. ‘Now she’s fantasising about a rabbit,’ added Alice, ‘but she was always fantasising about something. We’re used to it.’
‘The rabbit comes and goes.’
Alice responded with clarity. The people on TV, thought Maureen, are seldom so clear. ‘We’re used to my mother having relationships that keep us out. It’s one of her things. At least, it’s one of her things with me.’
‘You’re a mother yourself,’ Maureen said.
Alice swallowed hard and let the implication fade. She had never been the mother she wanted to be — it wasn’t allowed. And now she had to depend on the next-door neighbour to keep her informed about what was happening in her own family. It was pitiable, really. Anne had failed as a mother on nearly every front, but fantasy would carry her all the way. Everybody, including Alice’s own son Luke, would pity the sad life of sacrifice she had framed so perfectly for their eyes. Alice knew better. But why did that knowledge feel like a curse?