Missed Chances. In a bedroom in a boarding house Paul was pacing around the room. He was wearing worn pyjamas under a black dressing gown. He stopped and turned to face the mirror on the wall and then said to himself, Do you know what it’s like to have a secret and nobody to share it with? I mean, I could tell Peter I suppose, but he’d not understand and I’m sure he’d think me sailing a little too close to the danger zone of human thinking. And as for telling Mary, well that’s right out of the question. She’s too far out on a limb herself. She’d think me as crazy as she is and that’d be no consolation to either of us. He paused. He moved right to edge of the mirror and stared at his reflection. I must tell someone. I’ve got to get this damned thing off my chest or go completely cranky in the head. Do you want to listen to this? Do you? I mean, if not, I can always go and get into bed and drift off to some kind of sleep and hope this pain will go away. Look, I’m assuming you want to hear this, and so I’m going to start talking about it, and if you don’t want to know, then, just think of something else. He stood back and moved backwards a few steps. Now, I’m not a particularly religious man or not in the accepted sense of the term, but a few years ago, two years, five months and six days to be precise, I was riding my motorbike on the road to Doncaster late at night, when a light shone out at me and I skidded off the road and down a short embankment. He looked at his reflection closer. Are you with me so far? Well, I skidded and the bike went one way and I went another and as I lay there on the damp grass looking up at the few scattered stars I heard this voice say Paul, Paul, why are you persecuting me? And I thought I was going off on some kind of mind trip or maybe dying and I said who are you and where am I? The voice then went on about things I’d done and so on and so on, until suddenly, I hear other voices, and then there’s these people around me talking, and shouting, and a few moans and groans, and they poke me and touch me, and do all sort of things, and I just lay there listening to this other voice. And then it goes. The voice sort of goes off the air and I’m left with all this other stuff going on, with flashing lights and voices and whispers, and I’m lifted and the faces get closer, and eyes and more eyes, and then it all went blank. Black as pitch. He paused. Sighed then looked towards the door for a few moments then looked at his reflection in the mirror again. Now, how can I tell them that? I mean, hearing a voice just like that and the things it said and…No. I can’t tell them. Mary’s got enough to cope with and Peter’s the kind of guy who’d not understand and tell me to go see a brain man. I never quite got over that voice and what it said. I mean, I never quite understood what it was I had to do. The door opened and Mary entered quietly. She paused a few seconds and looked at Paul. Paul was unaware the door had opened or that Mary was there. I never changed my lifestyle. I never did anything different to what I did prior to the crash, but I felt that I should have done so. I ought to have been different. I ought to have done things differently and said things and not just slipped back into my normal way of doing and saying things. He stopped as he became aware that Mary was in the room. She looked at him and he turned and stared at her. You been here long? he asked. Mary said, No. She walked slowly towards Paul. Just popped in as you asked me to before supper. Paul said, Why did you sneak in like that? Did you knock? I came as you said, Mary said. She stopped by the bed. Paul stayed where he was. I didn’t want to knock in case Peter heard and wondered what I was doing. Shall I go out again? Paul moved to the other side of the bed and stopped. A soft knock wouldn’t have disturbed him. Mary said, He’s got the hearing of a bat. He wouldn’t have heard a soft knock, Paul said. Besides what’s it got to do with him if you’re in my room or not? He doesn’t own you. You’re not married to him nor living with him, so what the hell does it matter all this creeping around at the still of night and such stuff? Mary said, It matters to me. Why does it matter? Paul said. You ashamed of being here with me? Have you got some hang-up about you and me? No. Mary looked back at Paul. Keep your voice down. Paul said, Maybe I should whisper and walk tiptoe round my own bedroom, should I? What’s the matter with you? said Mary. And who were you talking to when I came in? What’s the matter with me? Paul said. Nothing’s the matter with me. Just hate people creeping around like damned mice. Mary sighed. Perhaps I’d better go. Perhaps you’d better, Paul said. Wouldn’t want to get you all hung-up on any relationship with me. Mary looked away from Paul and moved away from the bed. Paul sighed and sat down facing Mary. See what I mean? I haven’t changed. Not one iota. Not a jot. I’m still the misery I was before the damned crash. Mary said, I wouldn’t want to stay where I’m not wanted. She sat on the bed facing Paul. I’ve had enough of not being wanted. Paul said, It’s as if the voice never talked. For years after I got pregnant, no one wanted me near them, Mary said. Paul staring at Mary said, Yet it did talk. It talked and talked and I can still hear what it said. Mary looked at her hands. And the baby was taken away from me. It wasn’t allowed to want me. I wanted the baby. They never asked me if I wanted it, they just damned well took it away from me the moment it was born. He was born. They said it, not me. I always said he was my baby. They wouldn’t allow me to mention it. Paul said, I can still hear the voice at night if it’s very quiet and dark. I wanted the baby. Mary sighed. She stared at Paul. Paul looked at the window. Or if I sit out and look up at the stars, it seems as if I can still hear it. Mary said, But they wouldn’t let me. Said I was too young to look after it. Paul said, You should have knocked. I didn’t know you wanted me to knock, Mary said. Paul said softly, Just a little knock. A mere rata tat tat. Mary said, Peter might have heard. Damn Peter, Paul said. I don’t give a dog’s turd if he heard. He wouldn’t like it if he caught us, Mary said. Paul said, Caught us? He’d be ever so angry. Mary stared at Paul intently. Paul said, Angry with us. I wouldn’t like to annoy Peter, Mary said. Paul said, Caught. Angry? What’s it matter if he knows, or sees us, catches us or joins in, what does it matter in the end? He’s not your father or husband for God’s sake. He won’t spank you or beat you up because we’re together for the night or as long as we are together. He’s just a friend. Nothing more. Just a damned friend. Mary said, Not so loud. He might hear. She paused. I often thought I used to hear the baby cry at night after they had taken him away. Paul said, I ought to have done what the voice said and changed my lifestyle or the way I behaved with people. My father wouldn’t look at me for ages after that. My mother treated me as if I was a child of ten instead of thirteen, Mary said, staring at the bed. Paul sighed. I could have been different. Done something with my life. Could have been someone different or better. Mary said, The angel said things to me. Paul stood up and turned to look at Mary. You can stay if you want to. I mean, if you want to stay. Mary said, Should I have kept it? Kept what? asked Paul. My word, Mary said. Paul sighed deeply. Do you want to stay with me here tonight? Mary said, Things might have been different, mightn’t they? Paul nodded. Yes, things might have been different for both of us. Mary said, What did your parents want for you? Whatever it is parents want for their offspring, Paul said. Did they love you? Mary asked. Paul said, Define love for me and I’ll try and remember if that applied to my childhood and my parent's relationship with me then and now. Don’t you know what love is? Mary asked. I loved someone once. Paul said, They wanted what they thought was best for me. That was what they thought was best for me. He walked around the bed towards Mary. What was best do you think? Mary looked at Paul. The angel said things would be difficult. Paul embraced Mary. Nothing that was said to me that night has changed my life. But it could have done. It could have done. Ought I to have kept my baby? Mary asked. Paul muttered the lone voice in the night. Mary said, I ought to have been given the choice. Paul said, I could have been someone better. Mary said, I wanted to give him a name, but they wouldn’t let me. Could have given more and taken less, Paul said. Mary said, I wanted to have a name to put with his little face and arms and legs. Mary kissed Paul. Paul laid his head on her breast. I ought to have listened more, Paul said. Mary said, Just a name. But they wouldn’t listen. The light faded gradually as they climbed into the bed and the room became silent.
Copyright © 2011 Terry Collett |