Fantastical flights of fiction

Stories by Alexandra Wolfe

The Last Word

Posted on | November 11, 2009

CHAPTER FOUR 
 
‘An Earthly Shade Of Grey’
 
 
Deborah, supposing herself as canny as her mother ever was, had gone for the cheapest flight from London and had arrived in Tel Aviv, she believed, relatively unnoticed. Certain, at that point, no one would be watching this particular passport given she’d only just acquired it, in a rather devious manner, a few weeks earlier.

Taking into account the cost to get from Ben Gurion to Tel Aviv, an overnight stay in a seedy hostel in the notorious South district and bus fare to Jerusalem, Deborah knew she was playing the part of backpacking student laying low to the extreme. Albeit at the cost of comfort and, she suspected, a certain amount of physical safety. She didn’t care. She was where she needed to be, knowing she could take care of herself. Knowing she had taken care of herself. Rape wasn’t unheard of in hostels just like the one she chose, all across Latin and Southern America, which is where she had gone to ground these last seven years.

It wasn’t that she lacked money, quite the opposite in fact. Deborah had a trust fund her father had set up for her and, of late, she now had a considerable sum left to her by her mother. She could have flown first-class if she had wanted to. But rather than get freaked out by the amount of money washing around in various bank accounts, she had chosen to ignore it. Besides, the plan was not to draw undue attention to herself. Deborah was well aware of how to get by and had the scars and nicks to prove it.

Her mother had at least instilled in her the value of being a spendthrift, if not, the virtues of the Kirk’s strong work ethic. Or at least, Helen had, with regard to the latter.

Religion had been a focal point for both Helen and her Mother, each in their own way, and had also been the subject of many a night’s dinner table discussion. Her mother—for her part—had never been overtly religious in comparison to Helen who, Deborah thought, had enough piety for the whole of China. Nor had her mother been religious in any conventional sense, though she had said she believed there was a coherent plan in the universe and then? Had gone on to clarify her statement with her usual clarity:

“Though I’m not sure I know what the plan is for?”

They had discussed religion on many occasions but, on one particularly hot summer’s day where they’d taken refuge in the shade of a large oak tree out in the gardens, Deborah had once again broached the slippery subject. She was unsure about where God came into the scheme of things and, more importantly, her life. As a teenager at boarding school with a Jewish name, everyone expected her to act accordingly. Somehow she never manage to fulfil anyone’s expectations, let alone her own.

Her lineage was as complicated as one of her best friend, Ruth’s, mathematical string equations. As were the entire family’s religious background. Solidly Jewish on the one side courtesy of her father’s family, while stoically Catholic on the other via her mother’s. A strange heady mixture that didn’t sit well together, Deborah had always thought. Wondering, not for the first time, how her father had come to meet, let alone court and then marry her mother to begin with. Emily was the youngest of nine children who had been brought up by a Scottish father who held no particular religious beliefs, and an Irish mother brought up a strict Catholic who (likewise) had somehow managed to marry outside her own faith.

The concession Jack and Emily had given their only daughter was to bring her up not alluding to any one faith, or, to espouse any one particular belief to her. The young Deborah was, to all intents and purposes, a religious dilemma.

“Oh dear, I suppose your father and I could have been a little more forth coming, but—” Her mother had started while dabbing her face, that afternoon, with an embroidered handkerchief. “What we believe is important,” she continued, “but it doesn’t necessarily have anything to do with religion.”

Her mother could say the damnedest things.

“What you feel in your heart is all that matters, dear.”

Really? Deborah had wanted to say with an overwhelming urge to be flippant. Adolescence was that time in your life when you discovered an ability to be depressed. She had just turned sixteen and didn’t know if she believed in anything anymore since the death of her father a year earlier.

Her mother continued—unabated—warming to her subject, till, as the heat had risen, they moved indoors to the coolness of her mother’s parlour.

“Belief is, of course, a dominant force like love and hate, it orders the way our daily lives unfold.”

Helen arrived and lay out afternoon tea, as she always did at this time. A ritual her mother had adhered to for nigh on thirty years, if not more. Helen had quietly winked at Deborah, before leaving.

“You know, if enough people believe in something,” her mother poured tea, “it can be made to exist.”

“You mean belief can structure a medium through which chaos can be placed in some sort of order?” Deborah quoted something she’d read somewhere with the most innocent of smiles. Her mother looked up at her, sharply. And, with a barely perceptive shake of her head, sighed quietly.

“Yes, Dear, something like that I suppose.” The woman sat straight-backed staring at Deborah. The left eyebrow rose by a fraction.

“What do they teach you at that school?” Emily handed her daughter a cup of tea and eyed her suspiciously. “You know why your father and I never forced any religious beliefs on you or steered you towards any one church, because, well, we never wanted you to be—” her mother sipped at her tea and left the sentence unfinished.

“Brainwashed?” Deborah supplied the word with a hint of sarcasm.

“Well, that’s not quite what I meant, as you well know, but, nonetheless, neither your father nor I felt it wise or necessary, but—” her mother looked away for a moment. “But then, I had expected your father to be here, with me, to cross this very bridge, should these sort of questions arise. Still, I think you know what I’m going to say, don’t you?”

Strangely enough, Deborah did.

“Yes. It’s up to me to find out for myself.” She almost sighed aloud.

“Going to church doesn’t make you religious.” Her mother stated. Deborah made a face, she knew that one already.

“Believe with your heart but think with your head, that’s what’s important.”

A practical statement if ever there was one, from her mother, as usual.
 

* * *

Believe in your heart. Deborah repeated the words said to her almost sixteen years earlier. The funny thing was, there was nothing in her heart. It felt as empty now as it had ever done.

Deborah climbed aboard her bus in the crowded and remarkably noisy central bus station in the Neve Sha’anan neighbourhood of old Tel Aviv, for what she hoped would be a quiet (if not) scenic two-hour ride to Jerusalem. And finding an empty seat, sat by the window staring out at nothing in particular. The bus was already running twenty minutes late and, added to that, she had been told it would take them another thirty minutes to an hour, just to get out the city due to traffic congestion.

However, forty-six minutes later, the passing scenery began to bewitch Deborah. It was easy to let the bleached earthy colours wash over her as she had let everything of late, wash over her. She was sure she would have to pay the price for that, later, but for now, she thought about Helen and the afternoon of her mother’s funeral.
 

* * *

Fighting back tears, Deborah lay sprawled across her bed fiddling with an antique teddy bear. She couldn’t remember where it had come from. A knock at the door brought her upright. Tossing the bear to one side and quickly wiping at her eyes, she called out.

“Yes?”

The door opened to admit Helen.

“Some of the guests have left, some are leaving and—” Helen paused. She saw Deborah duck her head, hiding her tear-streaked face. She closed the door quietly and came to sit on the side of the bed, next to Deborah, taking the young woman’s hand. Never mind that it was bony, giving Helen the impression the child was starved of more than just warmth. It was cold.

“Bernard won’t leave,” Helen cleared her throat. “Bernard won’t leave till you’ve sung at least one song with him.” Deborah avoided her gaze.

Steeling for a fight, Helen took hold of Deborah’s chin with her free hand and looked into the young woman’s face, searching troubled blue eyes. Deborah pulled away from her. Helen followed her gaze to the computer and saw brightly coloured fish swimming across the monitor’s screen. She nodded to herself, realizing what Deborah had been doing for the last few hours. It baffled her why people could spend so much time watching TV let alone hours, alone, poised in front of a computer screen doing heaven alone knows what. Of course, Helen considered automatic teller machines only slightly less sinister.

She turned back to face Deborah who finally met her gaze. The young woman’s eyes were red but not so much as she’d hoped for. The flood was yet to come, Helen noted.

“Would he be mortally offended if I said I was indisposed?” Deborah spoke quietly. Helen reached out and took Deborah’s other hand and squeezed the pair.

“No, no I suppose not,” and then added, “I’ll tell him for you, if you like?” Deborah found a smile of sorts that flickered for a moment and was gone. She knew what Helen wanted, and what Bernard expected. She just couldn’t find the words.

“Your mother would like it. If you sang—” Helen added quietly, with a tight short squeeze of Deborah’s hands, talking about Emily as if she was downstairs waiting for them. Deborah looked at her sharply, eyes flashing.

So many thoughts, so many mixed-emotions, fought for Deborah’s attention. She wasn’t sure what to say. Why had everything seemed so much easier when her father had died? Was it because she had been so much younger then? Because she’d been away at boarding school when it had happened? Or was it harder now because she had spent her best to aid Helen, looking after her mother the last couple of months? Long agonizing months of bitter choices. Compromise. Leading inextricably towards a single conclusion. The loss of her mother.

Deborah suppressed a sob, as a sudden wave of grief threatened to overwhelm her. She looked up and stared into soft hazel eyes full of understanding.

“I have no choice, do I?” Deborah fought for control.

“There’s always a choice,” Helen began but Deborah cut her short.

“Maybe for the living!” Deborah snapped out, regretting it the minute the words left her lips. She was on the verge and Helen knew it. Neither spoke for a very long minute.

Steeling herself, Helen offered up a mental prayer. She so desperately wanted to take Deborah in her arms and hold her close. Hold her till the world ended and time stood still. But she knew she couldn’t. Knew that the young woman would never let her, that Deborah would find her own place and time to call God out and have words with Him. She wasn’t so sure who would win that one.

With a soft sigh she made to get up but Deborah held her hands.

“What does Bernard have in mind?” Deborah doubted she’d be able to get a single note out, let alone finish one song. Her throat was tight and dry, her chest constricted. Helen smiled at her.

“I think he’ll be happy with anything you choose.” The housekeeper tried not to sound too hopeful and standing, pulled at Deborah’s hand. They stood, Deborah hesitant. Helen simply waited till Deborah made her decision letting her follow her out onto the landing and down the stairs.

Deborah trembled as stood next to the piano, eyes looking anywhere other than at any of those who were left, anywhere than at Bernard who waited patiently for her, fingers poised over the keys, closed her eyes.

A voice sure in its reach yet choked with emotion soared to every dark corner of the house, filling it with pure sweet sound. It was a very private performance that left the assembled speechless and stunned with the emotion of it all, for several long minutes, before spontaneous applause erupted.

Acknowledging the praise of her mother’s closest that evening, Deborah opened her eyes knowing deep in her heart it wasn’t over, not by a long shot.
 

* * *

Stifling a languid yawn, Luc Besson scratched at the two-day stubble growth on his chin where it itched. He ignored the jumbled babble of conversations going on around him, in various languages, as his fellow travellers settled in for the bus journey. He glanced sideways at the petite blonde sat by the window, who had begun quietly humming some kind of tune under her breath. Within a heartbeat she’d begun to weave a spell over him. He felt his mouth pull into a crooked smile. For sure, she wasn’t his normal type, but then, he wasn’t sure what woman was his type. He’d only really had one serious girlfriend to date and then, he’d dumped her in favour of taking this year off to go exploring. And now? He found himself fantasizing about a complete stranger he hadn’t even met, based purely on, not her looks, which were quite ordinary, but—her humming?

How shallow am I? He thought, listening to his sister’s voice chastising him once again for how he had treated Lorraine. Still, he couldn’t help himself. The woman was small, had short blond hair and, as far as he was concerned, had the most important anatomical part just right: very kissable lips. Her skin was a soft burnished gold, adding, in his mind, to the woman’s fragile looking state. No doubt she needed a champion, a hero. Him. She would fall for his Gallic charm no questions asked, and he would—what?

Mindful not to stare, Luc continued to fantasize as the woman’s soft humming changed its rhythm. To his ears it sounded like she was singing a lullaby under her breath. It made him think of his mother singing to him and his brother, Antoine as kids and, at that thought, the fantasy dissolved.

Totally unaware of the effect she was having on her travelling companion, Deborah began to sing a little melody her mother had sung to her when, as a child, she couldn’t sleep at night.

It was also the same lullaby she had sung, under her breath, the afternoon she had sat with Helen in the family’s solicitor’s office, waiting for her mother’s Last Will and Testament to be read. Bernard had been there as were four other favourites of her mother. All would receive a parting gift ranging from money to items they’d expressed an interest in.
 

* * *

Deborah played with a small gold signet ring on her right hand, embossed with a coat-of-arms. Helen had given it to her the night before. It had been her mother’s, but her mother had not worn it in a very long time. Now it was the intense focus of Deborah’s attention as she only half listened to the solicitor’s monotone voice drone on about her mother’s last wishes.

There were no surprises. Her mother had discussed everything she had intended doing, for everyone, right down to the last detail. There was a sizable chunk of change for both Helen and Deborah. The amount of which had surprised Deborah. She knew her mother to have been shrewd with her money, just not how canny it seems.

Then there was the house.

Although her Mother had left it to Deborah, there was one proviso. It would always be both Helen and Deborah’s home for as long as either of them were alive. Deborah couldn’t sell, unless Helen decided to leave. Not that Deborah had even thought about selling. And besides, she had always felt Helen deserved the house, not her, after all, Helen had spent more time living there, than she had. The jungle, the desert, the high Andes were more home to her.

That long day became another in a string of difficult days, for Deborah.

The next came when she wanted to approach Helen, just a week after the reading of the will. She wanted to tell Helen she was leaving.

Although Helen had been her mother’s housekeeper, and friend, for nigh on thirty years, it didn’t mean that Helen would stay on at the house, regardless of the stipulations in her mother’s will. It was something that bothered Deborah, unsure as she was of what Helen felt and thought. They hadn’t really talked at any length, or depth, since the funeral. Even at the reading it had been Bernard who’d done the talking, for all of them. And now, she had to know for sure, before she vanished, once again into obscurity, that Helen would be happy to stay on and look after the house, as she had continued to do so far, as if nothing really, had changed.

Meals arrived, rooms were cleaned, and shopping was bought. But with every passing day, Deborah’s guilt deepened. It wasn’t as if she took Helen for granted, she told herself. She had tried to help Helen with the various day-to-day stuff.

Deborah need not have worried. Helen, astute as ever, knew what was coming. Even if Deborah didn’t know her own mind, Helen had already anticipated her. She knew Deborah had never stayed in one place for long. In fact, Helen surmised, the longest Deborah had staying rooted for any length of time had been at boarding school and then university. But even then, had maximised every available opportunity and holiday to go some exotic or find some obscure destination in the world to go visit.

The girl liked to travel just as much as her mother had, but for reasons unfathomable to Helen. Even Emily had never quite understood what it was that drove her daughter.

It seemed to Helen that Deborah had travelled to just about every possible point on the globe. That said, however, Helen knew she was about to find out she was wrong. There were still one or two places left on the planet Deborah felt a need to explore.

“So where are you thinking of going this time?” Helen asked stood by the Aga range she’d fired up earlier. She was making traditional Scots porridge with local grown oats, as she did most mornings out of habit. Deborah sat at the kitchen table. Helen was pleased to see a look of surprise cross the young woman’s face.

“What?” The single word escaped.

Deborah had spent days going through this moment in her mind. Working out what to say, and how to phrase it. Helen, anticipating her, hadn’t entered into the equation. She now stared intently at the Housekeeper’s back, momentarily at a loss for words.

“Well, I—” Deborah began and promptly stalled.

The older woman turned to face her, a smile hung on her lips. Deborah mentally chided herself. For a moment there she had actually forgotten that others watched her. So why not Helen?

Two plates of steaming porridge arrived at the table. Helen slipped into a chair facing Deborah, who now eyed her with a frown.

“Well? Is that all you can say for yourself?” Helen teased as she poured them both large mugs of tea. Deborah poked at some crumbs on the table as if playing imaginary flea football.

“Come on, eat up.”

Deborah looked up as Helen began salting her porridge, vigorously. She wondered what to say and deciding, got straight to the point.

“I thought about going to the desert.” She began.

“The desert?” It was Helen’s turn to be surprised. She hadn’t expected that and, bit her tongue least she ask, why? Deborah caught the look and offered up a fleeting smile.

“Somebody suggested something to me and the idea of it all appeals to me.” She teased the porridge with her spoon without eating. “I like the concept of all that—space, you know?”

Helen didn’t, but she smiled nonetheless in a way that said she understood perfectly as Deborah looked at her across the table.

“I guess the Sahara is a big space and—” And very easy to get lost in. Helen thought, but didn’t say so.

“The Sahara?” Deborah interrupted and then, did something that warmed Helen’s heart, she laughed. It changed the moment.

Helen reached out across the table. Deborah took the proffered hand and squeezed it.

“Not the Sahara, then?” Helen added slowly as she went back to her porridge.

“No. Not the Sahara.” Deborah smiled. “I was thinking more along the lines of the Sinai peninsula or Israel. I’ve never been to Jerusalem, you know.”

“Jerusalem?” Helen stoically absorbed this news around a mouthful of her breakfast as Deborah continued to explain her reasoning.

Deborah, on the other hand, wasn’t sure her reasoning was as sound as she articulated it to Helen over their breakfast. And later, alone in her room, wondered why she’d even thought Mother’s suggestion was sound to begin with. But she knew. Knew that Mother was only a part of it. She only played the fool. The only thing she was sure of was the nagging little voice in the back of her mind compelling her, as it always did.
 

* * *

Now that she had actually arrived in Israel, Deborah let a shadow of doubt creep in. She was winging it as she always did by the seat of her pants, sure now that her Watchers probably were as well. Trouble was, where would it all lead this time round?

“I must be insane.” Deborah muttered, audibly.

“Insane, really? For that, I cannot say? Maybe if I knew you better—”

A heavily French-accented male voice brought Deborah crashing back to the here and now with a sickening start, as she mentally chided herself for not paying attention. She twisted in her seat to look at the two-headed monster that sat next to her.

“What?” She queried it. It shrugged its shoulders and smiled at her. She hated it already. 
 
TO BE CONTINUED…

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