‘I slept in your room,’ she announced proudly, superior and calm: she was her real age again and he was just a little kid.
‘Why did you?’
‘Your brother made me.’
‘Then, I hope you didn’t break any of my toys. Did you play with my Dangerman?’
She had not seen a Dangerman.
‘That’s all right, then,’ said Thomas, going off to his class.
She was thinking that this little boy, so much younger, had spent the night in a strange place but it hadn’t mattered to him. As for her, the night had been like a door opening into prospects and places she had not even known were there. She was thinking, ‘I want my own room. I want my own place.’ She did not dare to think, my own house, my own flat, that was far beyond her, but if she had her own room she could hide in it and be safe. Those wild animals with their gleaming eyes in Thomas’s room were dangers that could get to her, find her. If she had her own room she could go to bed any time she liked instead of having to wait for auntie Marion to get tired. She could have a light by her bed and turn it off. ‘My own place, my own …’ was what she brought into her own life from that night, which had been like a wonderland. But not entirely comfortable or even pleasant. She had behaved like a little girl instead of a big one, and she was ashamed to think what Edward must think of her. She had not missed his surprise when she had told him she was nine.
That afternoon, when the dark came, she stood near the gate to the street, waiting for someone to come and take her home. She was hoping that Edward would come for Thomas, and planned to smile at him, like a big girl, not all crying and stupid, and she’d say, ‘Hello Edward,’ and he would say, ‘Oh, there you are, Victoria, it’s you.’ But another woman came, who had a couple of older kids with her, and Thomas rushed towards them, shouting. Victoria was so hungry: at lunchtime she had gone over to Mr Pat’s, who would give her a big bag of crisps and let her pay tomorrow, but he wasn’t there, only a girl she didn’t know behind the counter. If her aunt’s friend Phyllis came perhaps she would buy her a bit of chocolate or something. But it was Phyllis Chadwick’s daughter Bessie, older than she was, and Victoria was ready with apologies for the mixup others had caused, but Bessie said, ‘Shame, poor little thing, your auntie’s very sick, you’re going to stay with us till she gets home.’
Running along beside the big girl Victoria said, ‘Please, please, have you got some chocolate or something?’
‘Didn’t they give you anything for lunchtime?’
‘They forgot – they didn’t know,’ Victoria begged, all apology for noble Edward.
Bessie swerved off into a fish and chips, bought chips for both of them, and they ate as they walked along.
Mrs Stevens, auntie Marion, came home from a stay in hospital an invalid, her formerly large body already gaunt. She was always being rushed back for treatments that left her sick and weak. Victoria looked after her. After school she did not go to other children’s homes to play, but came straight back to be a nurse. At school she was diligent and often praised. Victoria’s evenings were spent doing homework or watching television programmes that told her about the world.
One afternoon, she was sent by her aunt to fetch urgent medicine, and she took a wrong turning and found herself in a street she felt she knew. The house of that evening when the tall kind boy had looked after her was in a part of her mind that corresponded to her dreams of it, floating in another dimension, nothing to do with the quotidian, the ordinary. She remembered warmth and glowing colour, a room piled with toys. Sometimes she stopped in front of shops in the High Street and thought yes, it was like this, the richness, the abundance.
If that house had a geographical location, then it was far off, in a distant part of London. Her legs had ached – hadn’t they? Edward had pulled her along – oh, for ages. Yet wasn’t this the house, just in front of her, not ten minutes’ walk from her aunt’s flat? Yes, it was that one, that very one there – was it? – yes; and at that moment a child came running along the pavement towards her but he turned in at a gate and up the steps. Thomas. He was larger than he had been, no longer a little kid. He reached up to a bell and almost at once the door opened and he dashed inside. She had a glimpse of that room she now knew was a hall, from seeing them on films, full of light and colour. After that she often secretly went to the house and stood there, or walked up and down outside it, hoping no one would notice her, as much as she wished that someone would. This was not an area where black people lived, or not in this street. Once she saw Edward, who was even taller. He strode along not seeing her or anyone, passing so close she could have touched him. He bounded up the steps, letting himself in with his own key. Well, she had a key, Victoria did, tied around her neck on ribbon, so that her aunt wouldn’t have to get up and struggle to the door. More than once she saw the tall woman whose hair she remembered as being like Goldilocks, but now it was in a heap on top of her head. She was untidy. She was always worried, seeming in a struggle to keep hold of her bag, shopping bags, parcels. Victoria was critical, feeling that from this house only perfection should come. If she had hair like that, she couldn’t let it be in a great lump, with wisps falling down. Then, again, she saw Thomas. They did not recognise her. What Victoria told herself was. They don’t see me. Once, as Edward came striding along, no longer a boy, to Victoria’s eyes, but a man – he was sixteen – she was tempted to call out, Look, I’m Victoria, don’t you remember me? Then she told herself that if he and Thomas had grown out of what she remembered, then she must have too, tall for her age, shooting up, no longer in the junior school.
To her the most extraordinary thing was that the house, a dream, so far away she had never expected to see it again, was so close – only a short walk away.
In her aunt Marion’s flat she still slept on the day-bed in the lounge. On nights when her aunt was poorly, she pulled it into the bedroom so she could be there when the sick woman woke and called for water, or a cup of tea, or said in her frightened thick voice, ‘Are you there, Victoria?’ Victoria had broken nights, and was finding it hard to keep up with her lessons. Her aunt’s best friend, Phyllis Chadwick, Bessie’s mother, came to see how things went along: she was supervising Victoria, on behalf of the Authorities. Victoria did not resent it. She longed for help, from anyone. Sometimes Bessie came, and sat with aunt Marion while she went shopping or just to get out. In the day when she was at school, home helps or nurses dropped in. But really, Marion Stevens should be in hospital, she needed proper full-time nursing: it was what Phyllis Chadwick said, and what Victoria thought. ‘If I wasn’t here, they’d have to do something, but I am here and so they don’t bother.’
Now four years had passed since that night when the tall boy had been so kind – so the event stayed with Victoria, in her mind and in her dreams – and her aunt was really very ill. Cancer. There was no hope, Marion herself told the girl. The nurse who came from Jamaica too, had said to her, ‘There is a time to live, there is a time to die. Your time is coming soon, praise the Lord.’
Marion Stevens had always gone to church, but not to the same one as this nurse. Yet they prayed together often and Victoria had even heard them singing hymns. She was not sure about praising the Lord, with this dreadfully ill woman here in front of her eyes day and night. She enjoyed church, when she had time to go, because she liked singing, but now she had to stay with her aunt. The nurse said to Victoria that she would be rewarded in heaven for what she was doing for her aunt, and Victoria kept silent: the things she wanted to say were too rude.
It was so difficult, all of it, trying to get to school, doing her homework, when she was being interrupted every minute by her aunt’s, ‘Victoria, are you there?’ Sometimes the sick woman could not be left, when it didn’t look as if the home help would come: she often didn’t, they were overworked, with too many helpless people on their hands. And often the nurses didn’t stay, they checked pills or perhaps washed that smelly sick body and then they were off. ‘I won’t be
a nurse, I won’t,’ Victoria promised herself. At school they suggested she could easily be a nurse, she could manage the exams. She was clever, they said. ‘It’s time to think what you want to be,’ they told her. Bessie was going to be a nurse. Well, let her, Victoria would rather die, so she told herself.
The teachers were proud of her: not so many children at that school were likely to be anything much – on the streets, more probably. When she couldn’t get to school at all, they forgave her and made excuses. They knew what her situation was, asked after her aunt and were sorry for her. One teacher offered prayers, and another actually dropped in to visit, to check on her of course, the girl knew, but it meant Victoria could go out to the shops. The home help never seemed to get things exactly right, though Victoria left lists on the kitchen table, in her neat handwriting, headed Food, or Medicines; and what had to be fetched from the chemist was longer than from the supermarket.
‘You’ve got to eat, girl,’ said Phyllis Chadwick, bringing her bits of this and that, some soup, some cake, but Victoria felt permanently nauseated from the smell of her aunt’s illness. Sometimes she felt she was slowly submerging in the dark dirty water, that was the illness, down and down, but up there, far above her head, was light and air and good clean smells. When she could no longer bear it, she told her aunt she would be back in a minute and she ran through the streets and stood outside the Staveney house and thought about what was inside. Space, room for everyone. She had understood by now what had been so confused in her mind, and for so long: in that house was one family, the fair woman, who was the mother, and Edward, and Thomas. She had never questioned that there hadn’t seemed to be a father. None of the families she knew had fathers, that is, real fathers, who stayed.
Her aunt Marion had never had a husband. When she had been well enough to be interested in her own story, she had said to Victoria that she had no man in her life but then she had no grief either. And that was as far as her explanations had gone. But if there had been a man around, Victoria thought, even an uncle, he could have helped her. She had to do everything, remember rates bills and the electric and the gas and the water, staying at home from school so the meters could be read, fetching her aunt’s money from the post office. ‘You’re a good girl,’ Phyllis Chadwick told her. ‘You are a very good girl.’
But surely she was getting too old to be told she was a good girl? She was nearly fourteen. She had breasts now. She was not a little girl, but she was sleeping on the day-bed, with her possessions, such as they were, in a suitcase that had a cloth over it to make it look like a seat, and her clothes on a rail in a corner of her aunt’s room. One day, prayed Victoria, I’ll have my own place, my own room. Her aunt would die and then she would move into her aunt’s room, and this would be her place.
For the last few weeks of her aunt’s dying Victoria did not get to school. She was simply there, by the deathbed, and so much identified with the illness that she even had pains in her stomach: stomach cancer. It was all a long dark bad-smelling bad dream, the nurses coming and going, medicines, making cups of this and that which cooled untouched by her aunt’s bed, while she cried with pain and Victoria measured out another dose of painkiller. Victoria said to Phyllis Chadwick, ‘Why can’t aunt go into hospital?’ but it was put to her that this wouldn’t happen until the very end, and meanwhile Victoria was being such a good girl. ‘And she gave you a bed and a place. Don’t forget that, Victoria. She did that for you.’
At last aunt Marion was in hospital and Victoria visited her, for most of the day, though it was doubtful if her aunt knew she was there. ‘But you never know,’ said Phyllis Chadwick, and the nurses agreed. ‘You never know these days if they are conscious of what is going on or not.’ These days referred not to a recently acquired capacity of dying patients, but to new ideas about patients, who could be suspected of knowing everything that was going on around them, even if in a coma or half-dead. Or even dead?
Aunt Marion died and it seemed it was Victoria’s responsibility to see to the funeral arrangements, supervised by Phyllis, though the actual signing of forms was done by a social worker, because Victoria was too young. She thought, If I’m too young to sign the forms, how is it I wasn’t too young to look after her?
Victoria was in the empty flat, and she opened windows to let out the smell of dying and of medicines. When everything was fresh again she would move into her aunt’s bedroom … there arrived a man who was consoling and respectful about aunt Marion’s death, and her being all alone in the world, but asked where she planned to go, and she said, ‘I’m staying here. In auntie’s flat.’
‘But you’re only fourteen,’ said this man. ‘You can’t be by yourself
Victoria was not really taking it in that she couldn’t have this flat, have her own place, until Phyllis Chadwick came to say she had better come home with her. ‘We’ll make some room,’ she said. ‘We’ll put you in with Bessie.’ She had three children already.
‘But I want to stay here,’ persisted Victoria, and she went on protesting, and then begging and weeping and refusing to leave until one day Phyllis Chadwick, who knew the officials concerned (she too was a social worker) arrived at the flat with a senior official, who was going to put a lock on the door, to keep it empty until someone the right age arrived to live in it.
And now Victoria was dumb. She was numbed by the injustice. She had looked after her aunt for years, had remembered to pay everything, remembered times for medicines, and kept the place clean. No one thought her too young for that. Now, just like that, she was being taken to the door, Phyllis Chadwick on one side, the man with the keys on the other, both holding her by an arm, while Victoria shouted, ‘No, no, no,’ and then went silent again, her lips tight closed. On the pavement outside the flats – she had to look up ten floors to see her auntie’s windows – they let her go, and Phyllis said to her, ‘Now, Victoria, that’s enough, girl.’ But Victoria hadn’t said one word all the way down.
She was frightening both these people: she trembled with rage and with the shock of it, it seemed she could explode. Her eyes were mad, were wild. ‘Victoria, surely you couldn’t have thought you’d be allowed to live by yourself – a girl of fourteen?’
But that is exactly what she had thought and was thinking now.
At last she went home to Phyllis Chadwick, and she was shown another pull-out bed in Bessie’s room, who was being nice, but was furious. She had only just achieved this room, a little one, but her own, and now she had to share it. This flat had three rooms, apart from the kitchen and the lounge, all small. The two younger children, noisy boys, slept in with Phyllis Chadwick, in her room. Another room was used by Phyllis’s grandfather, who was very old and dying of something or other. Victoria didn’t want to know. She had had enough of illness and dying. The two boys had been in the little room but Bessie was taking exams and needed quiet. It seemed Phyllis didn’t deserve quiet, and had to put up with the boys: it was this thought that persuaded Victoria to be grateful for what she was being offered. She reported back at school, and the teachers said she could stay an extra year, to make up. No more was said about scholarships and university – she was too far behind. She could go to commercial college and take book-keeping. She was good at figures.
Being too old for the class she was in isolated her. She was alone too because of her experience of illness and responsibility. The others in her class seemed like children to her, and the whole school had shrunk, as people and places do. The playground, which on that long-ago night had seemed to her a vast and dangerous place, with shadows full of muggers and knives, she now saw was a pathetic paltry place, so small that at break there wasn’t room for the children to play. Victoria knew now how bad a school this was. That playground summed up everything for her. Grey cement and damp old brick walls, you’d think it was where prisoners were let out to exercise. Good enough for us, she thought, bitter, and then, I bet Thomas and Edward don’t go to a school where the playground is like a prison yard. Yes,
they were taken swimming once a week in the summer, but that was about it. Good enough for class 5 people. Good enough for the under class. That’s us. She got this language from Phyllis Chadwick’s pamphlets and social-working guides.
She knew she should be grateful to Phyllis Chadwick, who was a good woman. Without her, she would have been taken into Care. ‘You must think of us as your family,’ said Phyllis. ‘You must call me Auntie Phyl.’
Now, coming home from school, Victoria made detours to pass the Staveney house, and one day saw a tall, fair boy coming up the pavement and turn in at the gate. She thought: Edward, and yearned for that long ago kindness but saw it was Thomas. He did look very like his brother. He noticed Victoria, frowned, and went in. Victoria did not at all resemble the skinny little black girl, with her sticking-out plaits. She was tall and slender, and Phyllis Chadwick had sent her to a hairdresser, who was a friend, and now Victoria had a neat soft Afro round a pretty face that had a pointed chin and a full mouth that Bessie told her was her best feature, ‘Wow, now make the most of that.’ But Victoria thought her big eyes were her best feature.
Thomas had not been at their school for three years. He was at the kind of school people like the Staveneys would send their sons to: she knew enough to know that.
Now she buckled down to exams, and sometimes sneaked looks at the Staveney house, but she did not see Thomas.
She passed her exams well enough, but nothing like as well as had been expected of her, before her aunt’s illness. She at once found a job. Mr Pat, who had always liked her, said that his brother, who had a little dress shop, needed an assistant, and someone to keep his books. She would earn enough to give something to Phyllis Chadwick for her keep, but very far was she from a place of her own, and this was what she dreamed of, always. She was not the only one. Phyllis herself had two rumbustious boys in her room every night and, while sometimes they were separated for everyone’s peace’s sake, one sleeping in the lounge, and one beside Phyllis, the two of them could make the little flat sound like a fairground with noise. Bessie, who was going to be a nurse and needed space for her studies, used the table in the kitchen, where the light was good, but was always being interrupted by the boys. She and Victoria were friends, but Bessie knew that without Victoria she could have had a room to herself. The old man, Phylliss grandfather, occupied a whole room, with his little television and radio and piles of magazines. He had had a stroke and was part paralysed, and just as for Victoria’s aunt, nurses and home helps came in and out when Victoria and Phyllis and Bessie were out working. He sat in a big chair, his body dwindling away into cavities and lumps, under a great head that looked like a lion’s. Beside him on the floor was a flask always filled with strong-smelling dark yellow pee. There was a commode in a corner. His old thin knobbly legs stuck out in front, on a stool, and there were cracks in the black skin, which seemed to have grey ash in them. Phyllis oiled his feet and legs, but that didn’t help. Everyone secretly thought that it would be best if he died and took his miserable and unenjoyed life away, and then there would be a room, a whole room, where the boys could make their mess and noise and shut the door.