PANTOMIME - Short Story by Margaret Wilde

PANTOMIME.

Jenny could not sleep, and had not slept for many nights this winter.

The night-wind shook at the doors and walls, seeking some crack or crevice to get into the over-heated house. It howled outside her window. In her mind’s eye she had seen the house shiver and brace itself against the onslaught. She had drawn the bed-clothes higher and shivered sympathetically, though the temperature in the room could not have been less than 70ºF. Her gas bills were always high, her windows and doors always tight-shut, and she might perhaps, at some time, in a facetious moment, have been moved to describe herself as a distinctly chilly mortal.

The icicle slid along the roof overhang, detached itself and leaped smoothly through the closed window of her room. She watched, unamazed, with raw, red, puffy eyes, as it fell to the floor, rolled along and jumped into her bed. Only then did she become alarmed.

“What the hell am I doing?” she said aloud. “Conjuring up icicles! God, what’s to become of me? How can I exist without sleep?”

Fretful, she rose, shrouded herself in a thick, candlewick dressing gown, and plodded to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. Through the kitchen window she surveyed the same cold scene that lived inside her head. It seemed to her that she carried winter around with her.

She sometimes rang the Samaritans for something to do as much as anything. What did you do when night after night you couldn’t sleep and were tired to death?

She dialled their number in an absent-minded sort of way, holding the receiver some way from her ear and only marginally aware of the ringing tone. - Sometimes people said glibly, “Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you, won’t you?” But they wouldn’t appreciate being rung at three in the morning. She had once or twice in desperation over the years rung up friends in the night but they’d never answered, and indeed might not have had sufficient time to answer, because she would ring off, unable to contemplate the futility of the likely conversation: “But what do you expect me to do? It’s not my responsibility! Isn’t there anyone else you can get to help? I’ve got to get my sleep. I can’t manage without sleep. (As if she could!) There must be someone else. I’ve got my family to think of. Why don’t you ring the Samaritans? Why don’t you take some sleeping tablets? Have a milky drink. Look, I must ring off; I’ve got to get my sleep; I’ve a heavy day tomorrow.”

And then talking about her next day: “Do you know, Jenny rang last night in the middle of the night! - I ask you! – No consideration. And then she wonders why we don’t go to see her!”

Ringing the Samaritans was a wearying business. It was always someone different who answered.

“Hello? Yes.” Her voice was low. “I don’t know how to get through the night. I can’t sleep and I’m so cold. – Yes, that’s right. – Yes. My name is Jenny. – Well, no, I’m not upset exactly. I can’t sleep, you see. – Well, really you have to experience it to understand how dreadful it is.”

Hey, this was a good one. The fellow was insisting that she’d feel better if she went out and helped other people! Just who would be out and about in this biting wind, at three in the morning, needing the assistance of a frozen, exhausted, weeping woman, she found impossible to imagine.

Abstractedly she put down the phone. Christmas was the popular time for suicide. But she wasn’t really suicidal, was she? - Just in pain and so very tired and cold.

She was relieved when it was morning, and pleased that there was the phone call to make. – She rang Elaine. - These days she found it difficult to dial. Her fingers were so cold that they often would not move independently and she had to use the whole hand’s clumsy movement to accomplish what formerly she had used one finger for. She’d had to buy a press button phone.

It seemed as though the phone was answered, but it didn’t sound right. A small voice was cross.

“You shouldn’t have done it! Get up at six and then… “

“Elaine! Are you there, Elaine? Is that you?”

Elaine’s voice: “Oh, Jenny. - Yes.”

“Were you talking? Were you talking to somebody? Talking to the cat or something?”

There was a very long, uncomfortable pause, then the tiny, cross voice again: “No more silly phone calls! Auntie Freda will be cross.”

“Elaine! Is there someone with you? We seem to have a crossed line.”

“No. – It’s me. I was talking to myself.”

“But, Elaine, It’s very disturbing. I don’t know whether you’re there or not, or whether the phone’s going wrong.”

“Yes, it is naughty of me. Did Anita get you to ring me? Did she tell you I was going dotty?”

“No, of course not. Don’t be silly. I’m ringing because on your Christmas card you invited me to go to the pantomime with you.”

“Oh, yes. Yes. Shall we go? Would you like to stay the night here afterwards?”

She was not happy about staying the night at Elaine’s but allowed herself to be persuaded. Elaine was certainly in need of company.

They went to the pantomime and were travelling back to Elaine’s in her car. It was nerve-wracking for Jenny. Her companion was behaving so oddly. She was driving very slowly, hands frequently off the wheel, - rubbing her eyes, tugging her hair in distress, banging on the car-roof in anger. She was talking to herself again, and occasionally to Jenny. Fortunately the road was free of traffic.

“Must stop this dreadful behaviour. What will Jenny think? She’ll tell Anita. They’ll talk about you.”

Cold with fear, Jenny pictured the car skidding on the black ice she imagined to be on the road. She closed her eyes, face screwed up tight.

“Jenny! Talk about something happy! Flowers, sunshine, singing, dancing…”

“It’s very difficult, Elaine. I don’t know what to say.” She bore in mind that Anita had been absolutely certain Elaine was OK to drive. But she wasn’t, surely?

“I think perhaps I’d better go home after all, Elaine.”

“No, I’ve got everything ready. – Made the mince pies. – We’ll let the New Year in. – You were always so jolly in the old days. – Must have a better year next year. – It’s been hard, looking after Mummy for so long and not getting out. I’ve got out of touch.”

“Yes, well, now you’ve only yourself to consider, you can get out a bit more, can’t you, dear? - Take up old hobbies. - Do more singing.”

It was a profoundly distressing evening for Jenny. She dreaded nights away from home, away from her comfortable bed, duvet and soft pillow. Knowing she would not sleep. Especially in this bitter cold weather. And Elaine’s behaviour was disturbing, frightening. The tiny, strange voice kept speaking with Elaine’s lips. And unfortunately Elaine seemed to have reconciled herself to behaving strangely.

Nor was she best companion for Elaine, who desperately needed to be cheered up. She wasn’t at all well herself and was so tired and cold and hadn’t energy to be cheerful for two. – Between them they dragged the day to midnight and beyond, and wished each other a Happy New Year.

Her night was a sojourn in an individual frozen Hell. She did not know what to do with her dead, white, stiff, rough-skinned fingers. They were so icy cold that they were agony. She tried them in bed and they stayed cold. She tried them under the pillow and they remained stiff. She put her gloves on and with difficulty wrapped the poor things up, one in her towel and one in her scarf. They did not seem to be part of her. They simply would not get warm. She thought of the hot baths in which she sometimes immersed herself and how strange it felt to be immersed in warm water and yet remain cold. It seemed to defy the laws of physics.

The morning was an improvement. Elaine’s little voice had gone away and she was contrite about frightening Jenny the night before. A civilised and quite cheery breakfast was followed by an uneventful drive back to Jenny’s.

She rang Elaine the next day to thank her for the outing. There was the tiny voice again. She could not get Elaine into proper conversation. Perturbed, she wondered whether Elaine was safe on her own. What would she do when she put down the phone? Would she be all right? – She was still muttering away. Jenny decided to go over there. She would leave the phone off the hook and leave the radio on and hope that Elaine would keep on talking till she got to her. She donned her overcoat, old college scarf and sheepskin mittens, covered her thin hair with a warm bonnet, and trudged out.

She came to where the paths diverged, and stiff with unreflecting weariness, her feet took her along the more familiar one. She reached the house and without acknowledging Anita’s father, who was mowing the lawn, she knocked at the door, staring unseeing at the colourful bedding plants in the planters on the porch. By now she was wondering about the cost of the call. It had taken her so long to get there. Anita answered the door.

She struggled to speak with chilled, cracked lips that had not spoken for a long time. They pressed close to her teeth, and it was a monumental effort to operate mouth and tongue. The slow, husky voice strove for clarity: “What time is it, Anita? – I’m worried about my phone bill.”

“And I’m worried about you, Jenny! Goodness me! High summer and you’re wrapped up as if it was winter! How are you? No-one’s seen you since Elaine’s leaving party and that was months ago. You’re looking rather pale. Are you still having your medication?”

Oh dear. She shivered, teeth chattering. Pain clutched at her breastbone and she stiffened. That icicle was there again. It was on Anita’s face. She lifted a mittened hand and slapped the face to remove it for her.

“How dare you insult me by referring to my medication! Are you trying to say I’m crazy?”

Margaret Wilde © 2007