Fiction: A Build Up

Shelley was making pastry on the kitchen table when Charles came in with an invitation to the Rostons’ bar mitzvah. “We’re going of course,” he said, before she could speak. “You need to get out a bit now.”

He smiled that smile of his, but she couldn’t respond. After he’d gone, she lifted the rolling pin and bashed the table.

AT THE BAR MITZVAH party they were seated at the back, near the swing door leading to the kitchens. Charles was slightly put out, but Shelley was glad. Barely touching the food, she dipped her head and clutched her hands tightly in her lap, overwhelmed by the clatter of plates, the voices rising higher and higher, the klezmer band frenzy, the disco.

She tried to focus on their friend, Jenny Leon, who was sitting beside her, enthusing about her new on-line business Invitations on the Internet. For a moment, Shelley thought of the parties they used to have and wondered if she might buy invitations from Jenny, but then her mind slipped away. Asked if she wanted coffee, she nodded, “Please.” Maybe it would clear her head.

“How’s Claire these days?” Jenny said, wielding the cafetière, gold bracelets falling on tanned wrists. “She must be nearly 12.”

Shelley came to herself, and taking a deep breath, started to say: “She’s gone …” but Charles leaned over.

“Away at school. We’ve found just the place for her. Didn’t you know?” Jenny turned, eyebrows slightly lifted but Charles carried on, this time proudly. “They believe she has artistic ability.”

“That’s really wonderful.” Jenny maneuvered small plates of petits fours to return the coffee pot to its rightful place on the table. “Sorry to cut this short, but I’ve a big case tomorrow. Been telling Joe. No details of course.” Charles scraped back his chair. Joe Leon nodded. “Come on, Shelley. We must go.” He loomed over Shelley, fiddling with his cuff links.

She rose slowly as she caught sight of the great circles of boys and girls, calling and shouting to each other, as they began to move round the dance floor, ready for the hora. She quivered, almost losing her balance.

“I thought we were…” she muttered, but Charles had already marched up to the Bar Mitzvah boy’s table and she had to follow.

“BIG DEAL TOMORROW,” said Charles as they drove home. Then, “Did you enjoy it?”

“Jenny told me about her new business,” she said, watching the headlights beam through the November night.

Once home, they went straight to bed. Switching off his lamp, Charles began to snore gently, but Shelley lay awake, images from the evening pounding a track round her brain. I shouldn’t have drunk the coffee, she thought. She was almost asleep when she saw the words Claire’s Bat Mitzvah in gold Italic script, tiny but clear. Sighing, she turned onto her back and closed her eyes. But now the words appeared on a page framed with gold curls, a bunch of rosebuds nestling in a curve at the bottom. It moved gently in front of her eyes and the words trembled and gleamed in the dark.

Claire’s Bat Mitzvah. Was this an invitation?

Her heart pounding against her ribs, she dragged the duvet away from Charles, who grunted as he turned over. She sat up.

Her bat mitzvah. Her confirmation. Their daughter would be twelve on the second of February, in barely three months’ time, and they had done nothing about it. She wanted to shake Charles awake, ask him why they hadn’t remembered and what they were going to do. At once, she recalled what he’d said as they drove home: A Big Deal next day—his words for a serious criminal case, and she knew she dared not disturb him.

Closing her eyes, she slid back under the covers and counted slowly to ten. Maybe this would stop her frantic mind; she waited a moment, then opened her eyes carefully.

Claire’s Bat Mitzvah. The words danced and urged, filling her with such delight she wanted to reach out and touch them. Feeling warm and drowsy now, it came to her clearly what she must do. Tomorrow, without troubling Charles, she would begin to make Claire’s bat mitzvah.

WHEN SHE WALKED downstairs the next morning, he’d already gone. A note on the rosewood hall table said, “Big Deal. Back late.’

Scarcely able to swallow her tea, let alone anything solid, Shelley thrust on her coat, threw a scarf over her shoulders, and ran for the bus into town. It was so long since she had been to Manchester she was disorientated when she got off. Where was she? This wasn’t the city she’d known as a child. It looked differ- ent, strange. But as she walked, she realized that her work these last few years, as a family support worker in the suburbs, meant she had no need to come to the city. She recalled everything had been rebuilt in 1996, after the IRA bomb. Then the shape of Market Street where she had planned to begin her search came back to her. People rushed by her, breath curling upward in the dank air; she smelt burgers and chips, heard someone crying, “Buy the Big Issue”, saw African drummers, a cellist. For a moment she forgot why she was there, so taken was she by the sounds and movement of the street.

The precious words returned.

She set off. She saw a dress shop immediately to her right. Once inside, she found it was dark, a cavern lit with yellow lights. She made out a bunch of shop girls chatting at the back, skirt hems up to their thighs. The girls ignored her as she walked over to the racks of dresses and began to take one, then another, from the rack, but each had a neck so revealing, the skirt so short they would be more suitable for a … well, not for a girl of twelve. She resolved to approach one of the assistants.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for a dress for a girl’s … er… confirmation. It must have sleeves and a skirt to cover the knee, but I can’t see anything.”

“You won’t find it here. Best go to Debenhams, love.” The girl smirked and the others turned away to hide their smiles.

It was better in the department store. Shelley found two dresses that seemed suitable, one in rich red velvet, its sleeves gathered into a cuff trimmed with lace, the other one was black, with a straight skirt. She stood, holding the black dress away from her, to see it better. Then she recalled seeing the girls at Ben’s party last night—all wearing skintight black dresses, and even wearing makeup. At twelve? This dress was too sophisti- cated for Claire, she thought, shaking her head, and struggling to put it back on the hanger. But the velvet dress, an Alice in Wonderland dress was the very one for Claire.

Thrilled to have bought something so quickly, she stepped back into Market Street and stood still. A man bumped into her.

“Look where you’re going, silly cow.”

“I’m sorry…” she began, but he’d carried on to Piccadilly. She almost shouted something after him but thought better of it. She had stopped as she left the store because another thought had darted into her mind. Hats. Or a hat. Did twelve- year old girls cover their hair these days? Her back to the win- dow, she tried to recall the bat mitzvahs they’d attended in the past. She so much wanted to do the right thing for Claire. Then she had a reassuring thought—Claire had the same fair hair and blue eyes as herself, which solved the problem. She would buy a hat. If it wasn’t appropriate for her daughter, she’d wear it, and nothing would be lost.

She pushed through the doors of British Home Stores, to be greeted by a wave of warm air. Only after she had tried on ten, maybe twelve hats, did she become aware of her face, noticing how chalky white she was. She was beginning to feel faint. But shaking her head, she vowed not to give up, and then she found it, amongst an array of berets on a stand set back from the counter, the very match of the Alice in Wonderland dress.

She returned home, elated, hung the dress in Claire’s ward- robe and stowed the beret still in its bag, on the shelf above. By the time Charles had come home, the potato topping of the shepherd’s pie, their usual Monday supper, had dried out.

“A sandwich will be fine,” he said. “My fault for getting back at this ridiculous hour.”

Shelley smiled, allowing him to take the blame. But hadn’t she run upstairs at least four times to gaze at the beautiful dress, and forgotten to check the dinner?

“Back to work,” said Charles as soon as he had eaten. “Don’t know why I let myself in for this.”

He clumped into the study. He loves it, Shelley thought. That’s why he works all the time. In the lounge, seated on the edge of her chair, she began to wonder if she should tell him about Claire’s Bat Mitzvah, but again things swirled around her mind—buying the dress, the man in Market Street, the illumi- nated invitation and somehow the words stuck in her throat. Anyway, he would say, “Be systematic, Shelley, and such things wouldn’t happen to you.”

She would be systematic. She would tell him when he’d finished the case.

In the study, she knelt by Charles’ feet.

“What on earth are you doing?”

“Looking for something in the bureau.” She scrambled up and flourished a notepad. “I knew it was there, from my work with the families in Wythenshawe.”

ALL NIGHT, THE illuminated words danced before her eyes. Next morning, she wrote Claire’s Bat Mitzvah at the top of a new fresh page. Then: Clothes, Food, Rabbi. Under Clothes, she noted, Bought Claire’s. Buy mine. When she thought about the food, her mind was choc-a-block with questions. What would they have? Lunch, afternoon tea, supper? And where? At home? In a hall? In the synagogue? Shifting about in the chair, she pressed her clutched hands together. Thankfully, she could, should, discuss the food with Charles. As for the rabbi, a cold and distant man, Charles would have to approach him, which left her with buying her clothes.

She went to a smart little shop, hidden down a side street in the village. Narrow at the front, it stretched deep into the rear. She looked along the racks of bejewelled frocks; everything in her size was either in red, or black. She had bought a red velvet dress for Claire and black made her look gaunt.

“How about this?” said the saleswoman, close to her elbow. “You’re almost a size eight—like a teenager. How come you’re so slim?”

Shelley smiled uncomfortably. “I never wear black,”

“You’ll look fabulous. Why don’t you try?”

The dress was high at the neck, sleeves tapering to the elbow, embroidery around the hem. She stepped out of the cubicle and gazed at the woman in the mirror. Someone else stood there— thin, white faced, startled—but elegant as a model on a catwalk. She bought the dress.

CHARLES WAS LATE and Shelley had left a pile of sand- wiches ready on the coffee table.

“Good,” he said, “I’m shattered.” He glanced up. “Are you OK? You look rather pale.”

“Absolutely fine.” She smiled, and crouching over the pad, wrote, Flowers.

“Shelley, what are you doing?”

“Tell you later. When it’s all sorted out.” She felt heat rising to her forehead.

He frowned, uncertain. “Well, all right.” Sinking back into the armchair, he closed hie eyes and was immediately asleep.

Shelley had to look at the black dress again. Jumping up, she knocked the newspaper from the arm of his chair but didn’t pick it up in case she disturbed him. She had reached the lounge door when he said, “Where’s my paper?”

“On the floor,” she said sharply. “You must have knocked it off when you fell asleep.” Going back, she bent and passed it to him.

“Are you all right?” he said, taking the paper from her. “Have you forgotten your—?”

“No, I have not!” she shouted. Marching out of the room, she slammed the door behind her.
But she slept deeply that night. Next morning, she knew it was time. She was going to show her daughter the beautiful things she had bought her. A colleague was driving Charles to the Law Courts since he liked to be focused when he was defending a big case. She had the car.

Her hands were shaking so much she could barely insert the key into the lock. She breathed deeply and counted, “One, two, three. Hold, two, three. Let go, two, three,” several times until she was calm. Then opening the door, she put the bags on the back seat and climbed in. Again, she practiced her breathing. When she was sure, she set off.

It took less than an hour through the Cheshire countryside to reach Elmway School. She parked the car and ran to the front door. Hilda Benson, in her green apron, unlocked it.

“Shelley, how good to see you. What a surprise.”

“It’s ages since I’ve been,” said Shelley, her face alight, eager. “Is she okay?”

“Beautiful, as always.”

Shelley couldn’t wait; she ran down the corridor, through the dayroom with its high windows, toys stacked around the walls, into the room where she knew Claire would be waiting.

She flew to her daughter.

She was there. Claire’s blonde hair shone in the thin light from the window. She laughed as she lay on the bed, legs twisted, hands tangled together above the pillow. She shouted sounds of greeting.

Shelley staggered; the room swirled around her. The bags she was clutching slid to the polished floor. Her beautiful daughter would never stand before the congregation in her red velvet dress, never read the sacred words. She would be twelve in three months’ time but in her mind, she was barely…

“Shelley, what on earth’s the matter?” Someone’s solid arms encircled her. “Here, sit at the desk. Put your head down.”

She was being led to the nurses’ station; sinking into the chair, she dropped her head into her hands. Tears fell hot on her fingers, but she made no sound.

“Drink this tea,” said Hilda, a few minutes later. “I’ve put your packages on Claire’s bed.”

Shelley sipped the hot sweet brew. Hilda remained standing, saying nothing, watching her carefully.

Hearing Claire call her, Shelley tried to stand up.

“Stay there, Shelley,” Hilda said. “You’re a bit shaky still. She can wait a moment.”

Shelley sank back. “I’ve been a fool,” she said slowly. “Worse, I think I’m—” She hesitated.

Hilda nodded encouragingly.

“Hilda, I think I may be,” she closed her eyes, turned her face away, knowing if she was going to say it to anyone, it would be

to Hilda. She opened her eyes and whispered, “I might be going mad. How could I do all that?”

“Whatever it is, you’re not mad.” Hilda sat down behind the desk. “You’ve been ill, you’ve had a—.”

“A breakdown. You can say the word.”

Hilda smiled, lines curling around her broad, comfortable face. “Not a breakdown, Shelley. A build up. That’s what I call it. Happens to so many, but everyone hides it.”

“A build up?” Her attention caught, Shelley leaned forward.

“Of course. After this, you will be stronger. You just need to talk to someone.”

Shelley said nothing for some moments, then, “Maybe you’re right, Hilda. Thank you.” Suddenly she felt better. “I’ll go and see her.”

Claire had wriggled so much in her efforts to catch Shelley’s attention she was spread-eagled across the bed, her knees scraping the wooden bed surrounds.

“Hello, my darling.” Shelley lifted Claire, supporting her back. “I’ve something special to show you.”

With Claire on her knee, she took the dress from the bag and held it up. The velvet rippled in the sunlight. Claire wriggled, shouting “Dress,” and reaching out to touch the skirt.

Resolved, Shelley took a deep breath and looked at Claire, “It’s for your birthday. Isn’t it beautiful?”

Claire shouted and smiled. Hilda appeared, drying her hands on her apron. “Aren’t you the lucky one, Claire Lewis? Your Mummy brings you lovely things, not like some people I could mention.”

Together they put the dress on Claire’s thin, awkward body. “That dark red makes her hair look almost white,” said Hilda admiringly.

“Alice in Wonderland,” said Shelley. “So she is.”

WHEN SHELLEY COULD bring herself to leave, she kissed Claire, who immediately began to cry.

“Take no notice of them tears,” said Hilda. “They’re going over to school now. Can she keep the frock on? Just to show them?”

“You know she can,” Shelley said.

Driving home, she reflected on Hilda’s words. A build up. The therapist she’d been seeing had tried to indicate this, but it took a woman’s simple kindness to pierce her frozen heart.

On her return, she took the black dress from the wardrobe and drove to the village. She hesitated on entering the shop but reminded herself of Hilda’s words, a build up.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she told the saleswoman. “Black really doesn’t suit me. Have you anything else?”

“As it happens, we have new stock in.”

She indicated a rail of dresses. Shelley picked one in royal blue, with a round neck and flared skirt. “This is lovely, so rich. I’ll try it on.”

It might have been made for her. She inhaled deeply, conscious of how different she felt, how bright she looked. I’ll wear it next year, she thought, for Claire’s birthday.

Starting her writing career at 60 in 1999, Susan Stern is now working on a sequel to The Girl from Kyiv, her latest novel inspired by her Russian anarchist grandmother, Sophia Krichevska.