Alfred stared at the dull bronze numbers on the door. This is going to be easy, he thought. This is going to be easy. Keep repeating that and it’ll all be fine. It’s only Phyllis; she’s really a harmless, sweet old lady.
He snorted. Who was he fooling? That bag of wrinkles could never be construed as sweet. Or harmless. In fact, Alfred couldn’t remember ever having one decent encounter with the old bat. And today was going to be worse; he had bad news for her. Lifting a weary hand, he thumped his fist against the peeling paint.
“Oh good, it’s about time you arrived. Where’ve you been?” the old woman demanded, throwing the door open immediately, her tartan purse clutched in one hand.
“Good evening, Phyllis,” he replied, eyeing the diminutive woman cautiously.
“I’m supposed to be at the community centre by 6:00. You know that,” she continued, oblivious to the niceties of conversation. “And it’s not like you have a long way to drive, either. You live downstairs.”
Sighing, he glanced down at his scuffed black boots, collecting his thoughts. “Phyllis,” he said, “I’m sorry, I won’t…”.
“We’re going to be late if you stand in the corridor dithering,” she interjected, stepping out into the dank hallway and slamming the door behind her. Alfred instinctively took a step back. “You’re already two minutes late and we’re never going to get to my bingo on time if you stand there like a baboon. We still have to pick up the other ladies.”
“Phyllis, we won’t be able to go to bingo tonight,” he blurted, avoiding her eye. Might as well get it over with. Her temper was renowned on all three floors of the council flats and the sooner she started screaming the sooner she’d stop. He hoped she’d stop, anyway. That was debatable.
“Alan,”
“Alfred, actually,” he muttered. She can’t hear me anyway, deaf old fart.
“You are the community bus driver. You are paid to take me to my bingo every Tuesday evening and every Thursday evening. Now, let’s go.” Turning, she limped towards the lift without a backward glance to see if Alfred was following.
“The lift isn’t working,” he called, catching up with her easily. “It’s broken… again. But I’m serious,” he babbled as she prodded the down button anyway, the arrow worn away through over-use. “The bus has broken down. Have no idea what’s wrong with it, but the company’s taken it in for repairs. I tried to start it this afternoon and it wouldn’t. Just started smoking.”
Phyllis reached out a shaky finger, pushing the non-existent arrow again. Alfred closed his mouth. It was pointless; she wasn’t listening anyway. Standing in the dimly lit corridor, he wondered what to do next. Maybe he should just leave her there and take the stairs back down to his ground floor apartment. She wouldn’t be able to follow, thank goodness; he knew all about her bursitis by now. She’d told him enough times. Her knees would probably give in halfway down.
“It’s really broken, isn’t it?” The question cut into Alfred’s thoughts.
“Yes, Phyllis, the council doesn’t pay much attention to us poor people.”
“No. The bus.” She turned away from the lift, peering up at Alfred. “It was bound to happen you know; that contraption has been rattling since you started driving it. You really should take better care of it next time,” she cautioned. “So what are you going to do now?”
“Well, as I mentioned, the company’s taken it in for repairs,” he repeated, louder this time.
“Young man, that’s not what I meant.” Young man, Alfred thought, smiling slightly. Maybe she isn’t so bad after all. But then again, everyone’s young to her. “What I mean is, you’ve got some free time on your hands now. So I’ll make you a cup of tea. Come on.”
When he didn’t move, she pulled at the sleeve of his stretched grey sweatshirt. “Come on,” she repeated. “I don’t have a lifetime to wait for you, you know.” Keeping her hand on his sleeve, she headed back to her flat. Alfred had no choice but to follow her.
Casting furtive glances up and down the gloomy corridor, he prayed that someone would rescue him. And soon. Once he was behind the door, it would all over; he would be doomed to an evening with someone who smelt of sour milk. But it was too late. Phyllis had managed to dig out a single key out of her purse, unlocking the door. Digging her talons into his arm, she pulled him inside.
The first thing that hit him was the stink of dust, a spilt second before he realised the room was in total darkness. It reminded him of being inside a vacuum cleaner. She can’t have opened a window in years, he thought, choking in the stale air.
He could hear her shuffling steps somewhere to his right, and soon, a light snapped on. Blinking, the first thing he saw was a sagging bed pushed into the corner of the small room and a couple of worn chairs placed carefully at right angles. “I know it’s not much,” she said, “but it’s all I’ve got.” For a few seconds, they stood side-by-side, surveying her shabby furniture.
“Fancy some Earl Grey, then?” she asked. “I think I may have some left over from the last time my son was here.” Alfred glanced at her in surprise. He never knew she had children.
“Don’t look at me like that, lovey. I know what you’re thinking,” she said, putting a rusted kettle on the stove to boil. “I have one child. My son lives in Australia now. He’s been there for – oh, how many years now? It must be about 20. Doing very well for himself and his family. A dentist, you know.”
Alfred waited, wondering if there was more. But when no further information was forthcoming, he took to exploring her virtually empty room while she busied herself with the tea.
There wasn’t much to look at, and soon, rather at a loose end, Alfred plonked himself in a sagging chair. It was then that he noticed the faded ballet shoes hanging on the wall. “Were you a ballerina when you were younger?” he asked as Phyllis handed him an enamel mug. Glancing up to where Alfred had been looking, she nodded, lowering herself into the vacant chair.
“Yes, I was,” she replied. “But that was ages ago now. Before my daughter was born.” It almost seemed as if she had said too much, however, because she quickly closed her mouth again. Another child? But she had said she only had a son.
Curious now, he sipped his milky tea, wondering if he should ask her about it. But he needn’t have worried. Phyllis hadn’t had an audience in years, and the unexpected company loosened her sharp tongue.
“I will be turning 70 this year,” she started slowly. “That would make it 51 years ago that I last danced professionally. 19 years old should actually be the start of your career, but it was the end of mine. 19 years old, and my life fell to pieces.” She took a deep, shuddering breath, not looking up.
“I haven’t told anybody about this,” she continued, staring at the floor. “Everyone thinks I have just the one son. The only person who knew was my mother and she was the reason why this whole thing was covered up in the first place.” A few moments passed as Phyllis collected her thoughts, and finally, she looked up. Meeting Alfred’s eyes, she continued carefully.
“When I was 19, I lived in a very conservative mining community with my parents. They expected me to grow up to be the best, nothing less. So when I got accepted into to an important ballet company after grade 12, they were delighted. Their only daughter was certainly something to be proud of. They could show me off to all their friends. But…” she stopped, hesitant to continue.
Looking at her, Alfred could see it was hard to say all this; her shoulders were hunched, her mug shaking in her wrinkled hands. For the first time, he felt a surge of sympathy for the old woman. She really is a harmless, sweet old lady! he realised suddenly, giving her a warm smile. Tentatively, she smiled back.
“It was shortly before I was due to leave that I fell pregnant.” A little more confident now, she continued. “My mother, horrified at the indecency of it, sent me off to a home where I could have my baby in peace. It was easy for her to explain away my absence; I was supposed to be at the ballet company anyway.
“Eight months later I gave birth to a baby girl. Five days after that, the adoption papers had been signed and I was on my way home again. I never saw her.” The facts flowed easily and Alfred could see she had re-lived the experience many times in her mind.
“Everyone thought I was back on vacation, and my mother had me convinced that I shouldn’t tell anybody about it. The shame, the scandal if it should be found out!
So I kept my feelings hidden from my father, my sister, my friends… I just pretended that I was any normal young woman, enjoying the time off before heading back to ballet training. It was as though it never happened.
“But in reality, I was hurting so badly. I kept telling myself that she was doing alright, that her new parents would be doing a far better job than I could ever do. But all I wanted was for my baby to be with me. Even some sympathy, some understanding would have helped… But how could other people understand? They didn’t know.”
Phyllis stopped in her story, her eyes staring blankly at the wall behind Alfred, her mind lost in her thoughts. “I couldn’t go back to dancing after that,” she continued. “Everyone had told me at school that I had so much potential, that I was a born dancer. But every time I tried to put on my points again, the memory of what had happened to me came back. It was as though the grief was wrapped up in those shoes.”
“Why do you keep them, then?” Alfred asked, looking over to where they hung on the wall, collecting dust. There was a moment’s pause.
“They remind me of my child,” she answered. “If I throw them away, I may throw her away too. I know that doesn’t make much sense…” she trailed off. “But that’s how I feel.” She shrugged helplessly.
“I’ve never seen her before, although I managed to contact her adoptive parents when I was 25. They said she was doing well; a beautiful blonde girl with blue eyes and a happy-go-lucky personality. But they also asked me never to get in contact with them again. I never have.
“She’ll be 51 now. And although I’ve learnt in many ways to deal with what I’ve been through, and realised that I may never see her, I think about her constantly. I just hope that she’s happy.”
Finishing her story, Phyllis seemed to shrink into her chair, the effort of speaking having taken it out of her.
It’s quite amazing that I’ve known this woman for three years, Alfred thought guiltily, and I’ve never bothered to sit down and listen to her. It was then that Alfred put his empty mug on the scratched side table next to him, heaved himself to his feet and reached for Phyllis. For a few brief seconds, they hugged each other tightly.
She soon pushed him away, however. “It’s time for you to leave, young man. I’m tired. Don’t forget to close the door behind you.”
