Full Circle

I vowed I’d never return to this street yet here I am.

With my mother’s soul hanging in the balance, the need to revisit has come swiftly like the blooming of flowers from a baobab tree at sunset. Or maybe I’ve lived too long in an emotional desert and am seeking resolution. A kind of remedy for my own soul’s pain. Even now when I think of mum, I think of a fighter. She’s always been a fighter. Or she was before her spirit got broken. I can only hope she’ll be drawing on that former resilience to aid her in the hardest battle.  

On the shortest day of the year, the morning sky is grey and cloudless. Stray clumps of leaves fall back onto a pathway dotted with puddled reflections from parked cars. Blocks of flats have sprung up along this avenue piercing the line of elms.

At the midway point, a hotel, set back a little, a relic of faded grandeur, is partially obscured by iron railings. Soon bluebells will cluster, peeping out like shy maidens from the foliage. Many of the redbrick houses have been turned into rentals.

I no longer live in the equivalent of a psychological war zone yet somehow feel like an invader stepping onto the old terrain. Like an orphan blown in by the wind, the past’s dark tendrils creep up, grabbing me unawares. Alert to every rustling, I’m reminded that even if I managed to escape my childhood traumas, in some sense I’m still a victim. I also know if I wait long enough, the shadows will subside. There will be no leaping out from bushes, no bending my will to another’s to save the woman who bore me from getting hurt.

Not anymore.

Is this what coming full circle means?

***

Breaths mingling with the damp smoky air, I stop midway. The red mailbox, while not exactly an old friend, retains a pleasing solidity. Forming a kind of greeting but refusing to give up its secrets.

All the time, there’s a kind of static in my head. I keep thinking of the doll. What happened after I …

Was it wrong to do what I did?

The wind-whipped sale sign, an unexpected snag, focuses my attention. Maybe if I wait here long enough, the sign will blow away the last of my mental cobwebs. Hovering like a heron beside a flood-swamped nest, it would be truly ironic to be reported for loitering.

Yet no one seems interested in a woman of indeterminate years dressed in black leggings and denim jacket, carrying a nondescript rucksack. I wince when a van splashes my ankles with cold muddy water.

The-house-is-here. Still! Here, in front of me!

But then, why wouldn’t it be?

***

On the face of it, a well-preserved place with modern double glazing, and a small stone wall sheltering the front. Already, snowdrops have sprung from a semi-wintry soil. Since I was last here, a reassuringly sturdy door has replaced the old one.

Should I knock?

The question is answered when the door unexpectedly opens and out steps a man attired in a wedding suit (father, grandfather or otherwise related to whoever’s getting married). Carrying a holdall, he’s followed by a woman in a blue and white polka dot dress clutching her hat against the wind.

The woman asks if she can help me.

Good question.

“Erm… well, I see you have your house up for sale.”

Sculpted eyebrows form polite question marks.

Quickly regrouping, I tell her I might be interested in buying it.

“Oh!” A thudding oh — leaving an impression of something unfinished. Judging by the unlined neck and peaches and cream complexion, somewhat younger than me. Either that, or she has a good surgeon.

“You’re clearly busy,” I say, stepping away.

She explains a friend’s son is getting married.

Chocolate brown eyes contrast with immaculate blond hair reminiscent of … but they can’t be. What am I thinking?

“Maybe now’s not the best time. I only wanted a quick look.”

“Hold on. Let me check with my husband.”

Desperate situations call for desperate remedies. Practiced in the art of deception, mothers and children sought refuge. Here. In this very house.

The woman in the wedding outfit explains she has a little time spare before heading off.

I tell her I’m Judy.

“Alice,” she says offering a slender hand.

She turns the key, taps numbers onto a panel and we are in. The chunky door chains have long since gone.

A long white corridor lies ahead. A dragonfly Tiffany lampshade dangles with hand-cut glass angels. Nothing like …

Still wondering about that doll, I offer to take off my shoes.

All evidence of the past has been erased.

“Normally, I’d have the light flooding in,” Alice says, letting me into the front lounge, “but I usually close the blinds if we’re out for the day.”

Even when it was day it was like night.

I really shouldn’t have put that doll in …

***

Crystals glisten like pendulous tears as Alice flicks on the light.

How can I not be impressed?

”I’ve always loved chandeliers,” Alice says. “My family could never afford….”

Her hand goes to her mouth, drops back down.

“It’s quite something!”

“Adds a touch of glamour, don’t you think? Makes up for…” Her laugh tinkles like wind chimes.

I check out the sofa. Comfort of the weary and heavy-laden.

“Want to try it?”

“Yes please.”

“Looks like you’ve found your spot there,” she coos.

“I feel like Goldilocks. Hopefully, no bears here!”

“I certainly hope not!”

Feet sink into soft pile carpet. Two figures locked in eternal embrace stare frostily from the mantelpiece.

Only the room’s dimensions are unaltered

Once heavy curtains enclosed three teenagers huddled together on a stained settee thinking they could take on the world. They were a brother and sister, and another girl called me. Ignoring holes made by the ashes from fag droppings (the workers never could stop people smoking in that room), they took turns to replace the needle when the record came to an end on the player. Hour after hour, they listened to this one brilliant album. Every so often an older girl came in, squirmed on the boy’s lap for a bit, then left.

I’m off to take a shower, the boy announced blankly.

His absence left a vacuum.

Doesn’t he like her?

Dunno. He’s always taking showers. Since… you know. Since dad started using him as a punchbag.

Yeah.

When he returned from his shower, the three friends resumed playing their album, dreaming of the future.

One day.

***

“Have you lived here long, Alice?”

“About fifteen years.”

“Ah.”

“I’m only moving to be near my youngest daughter. I always said when she had her first, I’d be on hand. We’re very close.”

“That’s great.”

“Do you have children?”

“No.”

A woman had stood on this very spot telling me the house was full, that we’d have to make do with this room. Then she’d gone to fetch pillows and blankets.

***

Leaving behind both room and memory, we renter the corridor; directly ahead lies a staircase, softly carpeted. A woman would survive being pushed.

Following Alice through the house that was once a refuge for women and children caught in the wake of domestic abuse, I’m mesmerised by the butterfly tattoo on the back of her neck.

The next part of the tour takes me to a shelved room with a desk and a wall of cabinets. Alice’s husband who is an accountant, plans to retire when they move.

The room had pulsed with key workers making fateful decisions.

“Are you married?” Alice asks out of the blue.

“Not anymore.” Not exactly a success in the relationship department.

“Ah.”

***

Now I get what bespoke means: Gleaming counters, sparkling knobs and a gas cooker hood fitted with circular lights. The kitchen has a chef’s sink with its gooseneck handle tap and pullout spray. I avert my gaze from the window.

Alice’s manicured hands suggest little time for cooking.

“I rarely get time. I mostly help my husband with his business. We usually eat out or get take outs.”

Sit here if you want, the woman of the past said, but don’t talk because I like to eat my lunch in peace. If it’s biscuits or pot noodles you’re after, they’re in the cupboard.

French doors open onto a patio, beyond which lies a garden with apple trees and a koi pond.

Suddenly Alice’s ring tones play out a burst of Gloria Gaynor’s “I will survive.”

Have I?

Survived?

“Be with you in a minute,” Alice checks her phone. “Sorry. Feel free to explore.”

Children’s toys lay abandoned in the playroom. Little ones played in the sandpit or bumped down the slide; forgetting their woes, young noses pressed against tree trunks; others swung on rubber tyres tied to poles. Overhead, the faint whirr of stag beetles searching for a place to land.

In the bathroom I imagine Alice indulging in a spot of ‘me time’ in the bathtub with the brass lion feet. A gilded existence from whatever troubles her. Black and white images of a girl in riding gear and a boy holding a skateboard adorn the walls.

No shower here but Alice informs me there’s one in the en-suite connected to the master bedroom.

“My husband prefers the shower,” she says, apropos of nothing.

Standing in the doorway, I observe the four-poster bed with its curtain drawn open, wondering how much she gives of herself to the man in the car who is waiting outside.

A catch of guilt for wasting her time.

But it quickly passes.

The room overlooking the garden is the final port of call. Once used by me and mum, it’s been converted into a dressing room with a vanity table and mirror encrusted with silver stones. Filled with shoes and handbags, many still with tags attached. Also, two rails jammed with clothes.

My mind races back.

No need to kip on the floor anymore. One of the rooms has come up. Lucky for some! You’ve only been here two days, and you get a room.

As if being displaced could ever pass for luck!

Unbidden memories: they come at me like cockroaches scooting from hidden corners.

I don’t know whether the doll lying on the bed actually had a malevolent stare, or whether we imagined it. At least all the pins had been removed. Maybe the previous occupants left it for us to stick our own pins in.

Mum, completely freaked, ordered me to get rid of it. Gingerly I picked it up, placed it in a plastic bag, muttered something about leaving her to unpack.

***

“Well?” Alice stands besides me.

“An amazing transformation, Alice.”

“I like to think so.”

“It’s incredible! How can you bear to part with it?”

“It’s time.”

She looks at me. Really looks into my soul looking at me.

“Can I ask you something, Judy?”

“Of course.”

“What makes you say the house has been transformed?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? I mean I…”

Something shifts between us – like petals unfolding in sunlight.

The phone interrupts.

“Sorry, I mustn’t keep you any longer.”

“No! Don’t go, Judy. Not yet.”

Alice’s eyes brim over. Realisation dawns, the years slip away, and once again we are two scared girls clutching onto one another.

“The voodoo doll? What happened to it? You never told me what you did with it. I’ve never forgotten.”

“You-are-Val?”

“Correction. You used to know a girl called Val. But I broke away from her. I wanted to make a fresh start, so I went by my second name. Alice. Tried to throw off the old me.”

“And did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Throw off the old you?”

She shrugs, takes one of the dresses from the rail, replaces it.

“It was harder than I thought it was going to be. You?”

“Me?”

“How did you fare?”

“The past has a habit of catching up …”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Maybe.”

“You still haven’t told me about that doll,” Alice says.

“The doll?”

 I’m playing for time. I never told anyone what I did with the doll.

“That awful doll you found here. Remember? You were scared it was cursed. You showed it to-us-both … you said you didn’t know what to do with it.”

“What about your brother?” I’m playing for time again.

Her face crumples.

“Not long after we left here and went back home, Joe couldn’t take it. He started drinking… I tried so hard to save him.” Her voice runs ragged.

“Oh…”

I feel ripped open hearing this.

“I’m so sorry. I liked him so much; you were both such good friends to me.”

“We all were to each other. But somehow, we lost touch.”

“And we were in different schools…”

“True.”

“What made you want to buy this house?” I ask.

“Funny thing. I happened to see it up for sale and curiosity got the better of me. It had been neglected, and I wanted to restore it.”

“Like rewriting the past.”

“Maybe.”

Val’s phone rings again.

“Sometimes I feel like chucking the damn thing out of the window,” she says, and we laugh like teenagers.

“What about your husband? Does he know? About all this …”

“I never told him. And I want it to stay that way. It makes me feel in control. He had a happy childhood. He’d never understand.”

“Do you love him?”

“He gives me what I need. Let’s not talk like this anymore; I have to go.”

“Keep in touch,” I plead, unwilling to allow the flower of renewed friendship to wither and die.

“Sure.”

***

Val heads for the the car, pauses, comes back.

“You never had any intention of buying the house, did you, Judy?”

 “No. Sorry to mess you around. I just needed to see it again. Before…”

The car horn hoots insistently.

“Before what?”

“Before I go and see my mother.”

Having made the decision feels like a weight off.

“I haven’t seen her for years. The other day she rang out of the blue saying she was ill. I couldn’t forgive her for going back to him.”

“They nearly always end up going back,” Val says. “We both know that. Is she still with him?”

“He died years ago.”

“Even more reason to go and see her,” she tells me. “Go and make your peace. Before it’s too late.”

She fishes out a glossy card from her bag.

“Meet up if you want. I haven’t much in the way of real friends.”

“Thanks. I’d like that.”

As she gets in the car and her husband is about to drive off, I call out to her.

“I panicked. I put the doll in the mailbox halfway down the street. I didn’t know what else to do. I just … couldn’t deal with it.”

Unlikely she heard me, but then a shaft of sunlight breaks through reminding me the shortest day is nearly over, and another year will soon begin. Admitting to myself I’m not perfect and never will be, is another way of coming full circle.