"It wasn’t that she disliked anyone in the Museum - in fact she was well-liked. Nor did she dislike the office. It was more that she wasn’t the type for small talk."
(1) by Dorothy Feaver
Nat and her fiancé were very much together, although they hadn't set a date; it was hard, on their combined income, to do themselves justice. James had pulled his thumb out and started a law conversion course, and in the meantime Nat was putting her PA skills to personal effect. She had fixed on brownies over the traditional cake, and had found her dream dress, which was, in a way, awful, but had set her hunting for a more realistic alternative. It was only sensible to set up an eBay alert for wedding dresses.
Monday afternoon seemed like an age ago. Nat had been on the phone, looking out over the Museum drive, at children with permanent markers colouring in the shard of Berlin Wall. 'Natterbox' to friends, she had been saying, yep, she was just back, it was another girl from uni, and the wedding was gorgeous, beautiful and gorgeous. She was saying all this on the phone to the boss, who was increasingly absent with migraine, but liked to be kept abreast of things.
'My friend's got really into this book, Think Yourself Well, and it's about getting into good routines.'
'Oh yes?'
'You wouldn't believe. Every morning she's waiting for the tea and she's like: My head is calm and clear. My head is calm and cle-yar. And it's amazing; the headaches have gone.'
'Goodness. And how long has that been?'
'Over a week now. I've ordered you the book on Amazon!'
'Natalie, you're a star. What would I do without you? Now while I've got you on the line, could you remind Anna about the revision of email contacts? I can't get hold of her and I need it first thing.'
All the while, Nat was to be observed alternately twisting the phone cord into figure '8's and stroking a lapel - her new habit. (She had found a lump in the autumn and, with breast cancer in the family, had not taken it lightly.) Her mind was on those details about the weekend that weren't right to let on, namely that being a wedding guest was eating away at savings for her own big day.
'You know, this trip can count as our summer holiday,' James had said, over tuna sandwiches on the plane. And she thought, 'God I want to marry you.' James had a face that inspired confidence. The newer wrinkles above his forehead were like guidelines, and next to him Nat, anxious, had a tracing paper look. Before turning to Anna, she sent a quick text from her message templates: x X x : )
Anna had just got back to her desk, behind Natalie on the other side of the window. She preferred, if possible, to take her lunch hour at two, minimizing the chance of bumping into other staff. Similarly, she got to work before everyone else and left at four thirty every day, as she had done for nearly twenty-three years. It wasn't that she disliked anyone in the Museum - in fact she was well-liked. Nor did she dislike the office - its codes and formalities rather suited her. It was more that she wasn't the type for small talk. She favoured a dry style and kept correspondence respectfully blunt; certainly no 'x' to sign off; rarely 'best wishes'. Anna was responsible for Veteran Liaison, which largely meant deleting names from the Museum's mailing list when post was returned to sender. She took comfort in the fact that at least if the post was being returned, then the address had a new inhabitant; there had been cases where letters went through letterboxes and would lie on the doormat for days, weeks even, as an old man lay dead in another room. Certain informations were still only in the orbit of hard copy.
That Monday was out of the ordinary for a couple of reasons, one being that Anna stayed late. The new list of email contacts required a series of brief but interminable phone calls, only to confirm that few veterans had established an online presence.
She usually enjoyed the commute home, having her book to herself all the way down to the bottom of the Northern line, as it inched its way south, like a dribble of black paint. Uninterrupted, she could get through a Mankell in three days, and was well into her current one. How odd it is, she'd thought on her way into work that morning, how odd that it never wears off, the little shock when you come across your own name in a book, as if the author were flicking a lighter your way. That evening, however, she found herself pressed between the bags and brogues of rush hour, and forced to familiarise herself with a cartoon dog advocating life insurance.
Her son would be at home. There would be washing-up in the sink. The mince or the fish pie she'd got out from the freezer would be sitting in its pool of lightly coloured liquid on the sideboard. Most days were the same. She and John usually had dinner together at six thirty. She wondered if he'd gone ahead without her.
'Hell-uh-oh', Anna called, and heard nothing. Leaving her bag on the banister, ready for tomorrow, she walked through to the kitchen and returned the milk to the fridge. She picked up a pair of trainers, like elephant hooves, from the middle of the floor and put them on a rack by the washing machine. They took up the whole rack. Like his mother, John was exceptionally tall and his arms hung down like parentheses around his body. He'd not been up to much in the last six months - been in the house a lot, committed to The Wire. He'd let a beard grow, but it didn't change the fact that he had one of those blurry faces, difficult to remember. At university he seemed to be forever introducing himself to people he'd met several times before. Since graduating he had been unsure about everything. That might be normal for his age, Anna thought. She would have liked to encourage him in something, but couldn't put her finger on what exactly. He was a singular boy, somehow.
She went upstairs to find John lying on his bed, his back to the door, an old copy of Private Eye drooping over the edge.
At the end of the week, the fiancés went for tapas; the cab home was an unnecessary expense, but it was Friday, and he was sleepy with sherry, and she did hate the tube. They were nearing Canada Water, with Nat wedged into the crook of James' arm, looking at her reflection in the black of the window, and liking the way that her cheekbone was picked out by the glow of his BlackBerry. She twitched, and said,
'Oh baby, I haven't told you, have I?'
'What, my love?'
'Oh God, I am such a fool. I sent out an email today, to everyone in the department, about Anna's son.'
'Poor, poor woman.'
'I know, and I thought I had to tell them all before she comes back, because she would be mortified to have to break the news herself, you know. She's that shy.'
'Sure. But isn't it up to the boss to do that stuff?'
'She's off still. Migraine. Anyway, I kept it short, no details or nothing, just that the funeral will be next week, but God James, I only went and sent it to the whole department - the whole mailing list. Anna included.'
Anna had stayed at home the rest of the week, her bookmark in Before the Frost stuck at chapter twenty-three. She was not-sleeping and over-sleeping, and only getting up to log on to her work email, which had become a lifeline. The computer was on its last legs. It had been John's; they bought it at Micro Anvika after his A-level results. It took a deal of whirring and clicks to get started and Anna could make a cup of tea in the meantime. So maybe it was only a little earlier than her usual lunch hour when she sat down, on that Friday after the Monday, HMS Belfast mug to one side, and guided the mouse to the inbox.
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Dorothy Feaver read English at Oxford University and lives in London.
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Thursday, 25 February, 2010
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