The Shameless Hussies

by Vanessa Lafaye

SALLY RINGWOOD  has just built a new life for herself, following her divorce from the useless COLIN. She is not a social animal, much preferring the company of her best friend, ELAINE, her cat ANGUS, and her garden. Somewhat estranged from daughter KATE, who is about to have a baby, her life is simple and predictable. It all is thrown into turmoil by her diagnosis of breast cancer. While a terrible shock, it also turns out to be a pivotal event in her life for totally unexpected reasons. During the aftermath of her treatment, she begins to embrace new experiences as never before which lead, through a complicated series of events, to a far more satisfying existence and the first real love of her life.

Sally dragged the last slippery sack of mulch to the edge of the border and slit it open. To the staccato accompaniment of rain, she raked the contents in a thick layer around the shooting bulbs and dead-looking clumps of herbaceous vegetation. 

            ‘What do I need a man for?’ she huffed. ‘I can do this myself.’

            Rain seeped around the hood of her waxed jacket, dripped down her cheeks.  Her mind, untethered, drifted randomly. Wonder what Kate will call the new baby.  I wouldn’t mind a grandchild with an unusual name.  The mulch glistened darkly like pools of treacle on the soil.  ‘A little Cedric maybe, or Bathsheba,’ she said, wiping her nose with the back of a gloved hand. What if I had been a Natasha, or Cordelia…or Barbie?  She leaned on her rake.  And why don’t they have real-life Barbies?  Single Mother Barbie?  Social Worker Barbie?  ‘What about Slutty Barbie?’ she laughed out loud.  I’m going to be a mad old woman who talks to herself in the rain.  Cheered by this thought, she pushed another mound of mulch into place.

            At last, she was forced to scamper under the porch for shelter, wet hair soaking her collar.  She looked up at the mud-coloured sky, breathing hard, and a fat raindrop caught her square in the eye.  Another splashed her nose.  ‘Thank you, so much,’ she said, and hurried through the thickening deluge into her cottage. The other cottages in the terrace spilled yellow light from their windows onto the cracked bricks of the path, but her windows were dark.

        Angus rushed past her through the open doorway, his luxuriant tail festooned with last year’s dead leaves.  ‘One moment,’ she commanded, ‘paws’.  He hesitated in the porch long enough for her to dry him with a towel kept on a hook for this purpose, his chocolate brown face a study of feline indignation.  She changed her waxed coat and wellies for bear feet slippers and followed him into the kitchen.

            At the sink, she towelled her face, flushed with exertion, enjoying the fatigue in her muscles and the operatic weather outside. The wind shrieked soprano, swirling leaves in shades of brown and grey through the trees only just beginning to bud.  The high stone walls that framed the garden were stained tea-coloured by the slanting rain.  As she dried her hair, Sally considered that most normal people would find the scene depressing, but she knew that a pageant was in preparation, just beneath the ground.  Like a troupe of performers in the wings, her plants were waiting for the sun’s cue to bring them on stage.

            ‘Look at the state of me,’ she said to her reflection.  The wind had styled her short, black hair into a disorganised, wispy crown.  The harsh overhead light cast sharp shadows on her features, accentuating her deep-set eyes and high cheekbones.  ‘Like I’ve been pulled through a hedge backwards.’  She smoothed her hair casually, then pulled the faded floral curtains closed to stop the draft. 

            ‘Your favourite person will be here soon,’ she said to Angus, who grunted contentedly at his bowl. A fresh pot of coffee and jug of milk joined some mismatched china cups on her old wooden tray, balanced on the flagstone hearth. She turned on the table lamps in the sitting room, where they glowed softly against the rough plaster walls and exposed bricks of the fireplace.  Stretched out full length on the rose-coloured sofa, the familiar room filled her with a deep sense of contentment.  The inglenook’s smoke-blackened lintel, the cherry-framed mirror which she had laboriously refinished, and the deep window seat with its William Morris curtains—they gave her a feeling of “home”, the first she had known in her life.  Just as she closed her eyes, the stamp of Elaine’s boots rang dully in the porch.

            ‘Left your keys in the door again, you daft thing,’ Elaine yelled. 

            ‘I’m in here,’ Sally yelled back.

            ‘Bloody awful day.’  Elaine stooped in the doorway, her light brown curls nearly brushing the ceiling beam, damp footprints on the tiled floor. ‘How are you?’

            ‘Feeling very pleased with myself,’ said Sally, getting up to lift the tray. ‘I’ve mulched the borders and nearly finished another manuscript. Come into the study.’

            Elaine made a space on the desk for the tray and took her usual place on the threadbare tapestry armchair.  Angus leapt onto her lap and rubbed his face against her chin.

            ‘Small victories, eh?’  Elaine touched the rim of her cup to Sally’s.  In the first few months after the divorce, Elaine had insisted that Sally count each new job, no matter how small—wiring a plug, cleaning the gutters—as an achievement.

            ‘To small victories,’ Sally said, warming her hands on the cup.

             ‘Now,’ said Elaine, as she leaned over to take control of the computer mouse, ‘let’s have some fun.’ The home page of TrulyMadlyDeeply.com appeared on the monitor, decorated with cheerful, well-groomed model faces.

            Over Sally’s protest noises, Elaine said quickly, ‘Come on, at least have a look.’  She clicked the mouse several times with obvious familiarity.  ‘See, here’s an interesting one.’

            Sally squinted at the photograph on the screen. A middle-aged man with frightened eyes and a nice smile.  He might be very pleasant, or he might keep severed heads in his freezer.  She simply had no desire to find out more, despite Elaine’s encouragement.  For the first time in her life, she answered to no one.    Elaine said, ‘He has a friendly face.  It says that he’s a retired police officer, is 5’10” and likes to keep fit.’

            ‘Yeah, right,’ snorted Sally, ‘Who ever told the truth in a personal ad? Give me the mouse.  There’s an art to it—’ She inhaled sharply.

            ‘What?’ Elaine pulled her chair closer to the screen.  ‘Something interesting?’

            ‘Not exactly.’  Sally stared for a moment, to make sure that it was him, then swivelled the monitor towards Elaine.  ‘It’s Colin.’

            ‘It can’t be.’

            Sally’s ex-husband grinned goofily at them.  His grey-framed glasses reflected the sun which shone through the thinning hair combed over his forehead.  ‘That’s one of our photos from Amsterdam,’ she said indignantly, ‘he’s cut me out of it.  Look, there’s a bit of my shoulder.’

            Elaine read from his profile, ‘“Fifty-something bird-watcher seeks chirpy companion with lovely plumage to share country walks, cosy nights in, and maybe more.”  Oh dear.’

            Sally made a mingled sound of disgust and embarrassment.  ‘Does it say anything about tedious conversation?  How about an almost religious devotion to the Antiques Roadshow?’  She looked out of the study window at the windswept garden, a view which normally soothed and inspired her.  Colin’s familiar grin drew her eyes back to the screen:  the face that had greeted her every morning for more than twenty years.

            Sally had not spoken to him for several weeks, possibly longer.  Amazing, she thought that one could live with someone for so long, raise a child, build a business, and then…nothing.  But Colin, on a dating website?  It was too bizarre. 

            ‘Are you OK?’ asked Elaine.

            Sally nodded.  ‘Yes, of course.  It just strikes me as indecently hasty, that’s all.’ 

            ‘It has been two years, Sally,’ said Elaine carefully. ‘And just look what you’ve achieved. This house, the garden.  You’ve changed careers—’

            ‘Proofreading is hardly a career.  I’m just getting paid to nitpick.’

            ‘You’re still surviving on your own, which is something to be proud of. You know,’ said Elaine lightly, ‘you could do the same thing as Colin.’

            ‘What?  Make an idiot of myself?’  Sally piled the plates and cups on the tray.  ‘I don’t think so.’

            ‘You hear about successes all the time, like Monica from my book group.  Won’t you at least—?’

            ‘Enough now.’  Sally led the way into the kitchen.  ‘I have work to do, and there must be some pregnant teenagers who need you.’

            ‘If they’re already pregnant then it’s too late for my help.  Speaking of which, how much longer until Kate is due?’

            ‘Only a few more weeks,’ said Sally.  ‘She’s huge and miserable.’ Kate had recently described herself as “Captain Ahab’s ride”.    

            ‘Surely that’s to do with her appalling husband?’

            Sally grimaced.  Elaine alone was privy to the full depths of Sally’s feelings about Peter.  He had always been entirely too wet for her liking.  Kate was such a strong character, he seemed an odd choice.  Not a bad man, but a compromiser, an appeaser.  Worst of all, he had only a vestigial sense of humour. ‘Kate says that he’s being wonderful.’ In an attempt at filial loyalty, she ignored Elaine’s disdainful eyebrows

            On the way to the door, Elaine said, ‘The Hussies and I are going to London to see a show on Saturday.  You’re welcome to join us?’

            Sally opened the door, pulled her cardigan tightly around herself against the chill wind.  ‘I don’t think so, but thanks for asking.  I’ve got a lot—’

            ‘I know, I know,’ Elaine was already walking down the path, with a backward wave.  ‘Maybe another time.’ 

In her study, Sally contemplated the thick stack of pages from The Collector’s Guide to Rubber Band Balls which still remained to be proofread. Collector’s Guides authors, she had learned in the past two years, had a passionate enthusiasm for their subject—be it Civil War bullets, air sickness bags, vending machines, or condoms—not matched by their command of English. 

            The text had become tedious in the extreme. The author was a stranger to the comma, but rejoiced in his use of the exclamation point. 

            ‘I need to get cleaned up before I can face this,’ she informed Angus, who snored softly beneath the ticking radiator.

            Under the streaming shower, she mused about what her own online profile would say:  “Fifty-something divorced grandmother, dislikes most people and social functions, relates best to cats and plants, seeks understanding man who can cook and won’t be around much.” 

            She rubbed shampoo into her hair. 

            Did Colin really imagine that he would meet a sweet young thing? “Lovely plumage”, for heaven’s sake. Silly old fool. 

            A mental image of her own face on the dating website floated before her eyes.  She shut them tight and let the suds wash away the picture. Although Elaine meant well, Sally’s new life fitted her like a couture gown. A relationship would be difficult to accommodate, if the unthinkable happened and she found someone whose company she could tolerate.  She had settled easily into celibacy.  Sex with Colin had been like cleaning the oven, the saving grace being that it needed to be done with roughly the same frequency.  

            She soaped herself methodically.

            Had it really been two years since she had bought Magnolia Cottage?  The house was exactly the kind of place that she had always wanted. Colin would have hated the sloping floors and iron-framed windows which never shut properly.

            I’ll open that cabernet, just right for a foul night like this. Then phone Kate.  Jessie will be in bed by now. Maybe—

            Her soapy hand paused in its familiar trajectory.

            It felt something strange, something which should not have been there.

            She froze under the warm water.

            Something hard, where there should only be soft flesh.

            Then she lost it, thought it was gone.

            There it was again.

            In her right breast.

            No.

            She stood completely still, willing her hand to be mistaken.

            No. No.

            Yes, it was there.  It was definitely there. She whipped her hand away as if the flesh was red hot.

            It can’t be.  No, please.

            It’s a cyst, people have them all the time.  Mum had several, and they all turned out to be fine.

            I’ve never had a cyst.

            She turned off the water and leaned on the shower dial.

            I should wait a few days, see if it’s still there.  No point in panicking, no point in upsetting everyone.  I’ll just keep an eye on it.  It might go away on its own.

            She stepped out of the shower and stood dripping on the bathroom tiles.  Her hand unerringly found the lump again, as if it knew already.  Clutching a towel around herself like a blanket, she sat hard on the toilet lid.  Her bowels felt loose, her breath came in gasps.  Head between her knees, she scrabbled for rational thought in the panic that rose like floodwater her head.

            Even if it is a lump, most lumps are benign.  It’s just my age.  I have no family history of…anything.

            Her last mammogram, done the year before, was clear.  She began to dry herself, tried to think of something normal.

            Did I defrost the chicken?  If not, I’ll have pasta.  But bile entered her throat at the thought of food.

            It’s nothing.  I’m going to be fine.  I AM fine.

            Then she thought of Elaine, what she had been through, what she would say if she knew that Sally had hesitated for even one day.

            ‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ she said to the GP’s receptionist on the phone as she stood by the night table in her bedroom.

            ‘In that case,’ said the woman with infuriating logic, ‘why do you need an urgent appointment?’

            ‘Just…because I…found a lump,’ Sally said.  Cold water trickled down the back of her neck.

            ‘Tomorrow, 10 am,’ said the receptionist.

            Sally sat on the bed in her wet towel.  Never before had she been able to get an appointment so speedily.  She started to shake, gripped her goose-pimpled arms.  A sob burst from her mouth, a primitive sound of pain which echoed in the empty room. She clapped both hands over her lips. 

            Stop it. I will be all right. 

            Mostlumpsarebenign.

            Mostlumpsarebenign.

            Mostlumpsarebenign.

She woke from a demon-filled sleep with the certainty that it was gone, that she would be able to cancel the appointment.  She had not told Elaine, or Kate.  To tell anyone would make it real, when she was sure that it could not be.  Real.

            Her faithless hand told her that she was wrong.  It was there.

            In exactly the same place as before.

            It was real.

            It can’t be happening to me.

            Her GP’s expression was neutral as he palpated her breast, but he scheduled her for a scan with an equally inscrutable radiographer.  Then came the biopsy.  It was all very quick and efficient.

            And then time stopped for Sally, while she waited for the biopsy results.

            For the next two weeks, she could find no rest, no comfort.

            I have cancer.  Me.  I have it.

            Each morning, of each day, while she waited for the results, she woke to terror.

            I’m going to die.

            It seemed distinctly possible that she could lose her mind.   Time slowed to a glacial pace.  Each day brought her closer to the knowledge that she dreaded yet craved.  She surfed the web for clues, for hope.  There were many support groups online, which she deliberately avoided.

            It will be something simple.

            I might need some treatment.

            I’m going to die.  It’s going to kill me.

Towards the end of the second week, Elaine found her sat on the floor of the living room, wedged between the armchair and the fireplace, knees drawn up to her chest.  It felt, to Sally, like a safe place to be.

            Elaine sat down on the Chinese rug facing her.  ‘Left your keys in the door.’

            ‘Thanks.’

            ‘What’cha doing?’

            ‘Waiting.’

            Elaine nodded.  ‘Mind if I wait with you?’

            ‘No, I’m glad that you’re here.’

            ‘This is the worst time,’ Elaine said.  ‘It was for me.  When you get the results, whatever they are, at least then you’ll know what you’re facing.  The treatment starts, and you’ll feel like something is happening.’

            ‘Unless it’s just a cyst.’

            ‘Oh, Sally,’ Elaine laid her hand gently on Sally’s arm, ‘they told you, after the scan, that it’s not a cyst.  They wouldn’t have done the biopsy if it was.’

            ‘They could be wrong.  Or, if not a cyst, then something else.  It might be.’

            ‘That’s true, it might be,’ said Elaine neutrally.

            ‘I tried to keep busy at first, you know?’ said Sally, rocking slightly forward and back.  ‘But now…I can’t work.  I can’t eat.  I can’t sleep.  Until I know.’

            Elaine said, ‘Fair enough.’

            The two friends sat like that through the darkening afternoon.  Elaine brought down the duvets from the beds and they slept on the carpet, side by side.

            Tomorrow, I find out tomorrow.