Chapter 2

March 2nd 1995

This is my first ever diary. I say ‘diary,’ although there are no dates printed in the book. Perhaps it should be ‘The journal of Eleanor Risby.’ I believe that’s what people call them - not that I would know what others think. Ever since I ceased working, I never mix. But, there I go again, wandering from the point. I must try hard to control myself and keep to the subject.

I’ve never written a diary, even when I was a child. Mind you, nothing ever happened in my infancy, at least nothing worth writing about. When I was three my parents were killed in the car accident and from then I lived with Uncle Tristram and Aunt Julia. They didn’t seem to understand children, had no idea of what I wanted and ... Oh dear! I’m off on a tangent again.

There’s one reason why I’ve started this diary. It’s intended as a cure, hopefully to stop me talking to myself throughout the day. Following the death of Aunt J and more notably after I quit work, I’ve noticed my incessant chattering. Not simply that, but quarrelling with myself, and even worse - losing most of the arguments. I’m sure such behaviour isn’t normal. Do other people do it? How would I know?

So, here goes. I’m hoping that by recording my thoughts and ideas I may save myself from going nuts. Or is it crackers?

March 10th

I haven’t written for over a week, probably because there’s been nothing to write about. For entertainment I prefer my books, however I have a lot of time to fill and it’s impossible to read all day. Mostly I watch quiz shows and programmes like Esther and Jerry Springer which allows me to meet people without having to actually meet them. Hope that makes sense. However, best of all are the soaps. As far back as I can recall in my childhood, I’ve watched Coronation Street, but I now find there are many more. The guests on Esther and similar shows are interesting, however their lives are boring compared with soap people.

March 20th

Sorry! I’m forever forgetting to write my journal. Mind you, it’s not because I’ve been lazy as I’ve doubtless written more than I’d ever planned to scribble in my diary. I’ve written letters instead. I don’t have friends or relatives to correspond with, in spite of that I have far more exciting people to contact - stars and celebrities. I’m sure you’ve guessed by now. Yes! The soap stars. I rang the BBC and the others - ITV etc - and the switchboard ladies gave me the addresses. Two dozen letters have winged their way to my favourites and I can’t wait for the replies.

Last weekend as I was putting out the milk bottles I saw my neighbour, Mrs Willis, a dumpy matronly woman with straggly snow hair gathered and tied in a bun. I’ve seen her from time to time over the years and we always waved, but this was the first time we chatted. She seems a pleasant old dear. She wondered why we’d never had a chit-chat before and I suggested it was because, when I worked, I was away from home most days. I’ve promised to spend time with her.

March 28th

Did a stupid thing today. I can only hope Mrs Willis doesn’t gossip with anyone in the street. As I begin to scrawl down the details I’m shaking with shame as I relive the event.

Martha - Mrs Willis - invited me around for tea at four. Her semi is identical to my own, large rooms with high ceilings. The lounge is dominated by the original fireplace, an ugly monstrosity painted stove black. The room is chock-full with antique furniture and knick-knacks, the walls cluttered with sepia and black and white photographs of her and her family, many in their original mono and others tinted. On every flat surface where there’s space, are plants of all sizes housed in a multitude of pots, including an aspidistra, tall to the ceiling with long rubber-like leaves. The room reeked of an aura of a past without a future and I wondered if this would be me in forty years. I shuddered when I realised it was likely to be sooner.

She’d laid out the best china and the silver cutlery and after she’d fussed around serving the tea and cake, she settled herself beside me on the flower covered settee.

“Well, this is nice,” she said.

“Yes,” I agreed, peering through the net curtains onto the street directly outside her window.

“Are you enjoying the cake?”

“It’s delicious. Thank you.” I picked a crumb from the corner of my mouth. “Did you make it?”

“Yes. I take pleasure from baking, even though my hands struggle with the mixing. It’s the arthritis you know.”

I smiled sympathy.

“I haven’t liked to say so before my dear, at least not outside in the street, but now we’re in the privacy of my lounge and there’s just the two of us.” She drew a deep breath. “I would like to offer my condolences on the demise of your aunt.”

It was five years since Aunt J died and I suspect ‘belated’ was inadequate after so long a period, nevertheless I expressed my gratitude. “Thank you. You’re most kind.”

“As I say, I would have wished to have offered solace earlier, except it seemed best to leave it until we were ... indoors. You know, a private chat.”

“Of course.”

“I don’t remember your uncle,” she said, clearly trawling for gossip.

“No, you wouldn’t. He left us many years ago,” I told her curtly.

“It’s none of my business, although I did hear it was another woman.”

The bitch had done her homework. A short while after my eleventh birthday, Uncle Tristram abandoned us, my aunt said it was for a ‘bit of totty.’ Overnight my lonely, albeit cosy existence, became clouded and miserable as my aunt grew moody and bitter. She began the complaint that was to continue until her death, to moan and berate men as scum, interested in no-one except themselves.

“I’m surprised you knew,” I spat. “It happened long before we moved here.”

“I didn’t know that my dear,” she lied. “Men can be so cruel and insensitive. Not accepting their responsibilities.”

I grunted. I’d heard it over and over before.

“It must have been very difficult for your aunt to bring you up on her own, you being an orphan.”

It was at that point my reason deserted me. “Why did you call me an orphan?’”

“Well, my dear,” she explained smoothing a patronising hand along my arm. “Because of your aunt.”

“You’re ignoring my parents.”

I was elated. She was immobile with her flabby mouth half open, her cup frozen in mid-air.

I allowed my statement to settle slowly before I continued with a triumphant climax. “My parents are Jack and Vera Duckworth.”

The tea cup almost fell from her grip and I allowed another interim of silence before my ongoing destruction of the ancient conceit. “Naturally,” I puffed out, “they toured in rep for many years and now work in Manchester for most of the week. It was convenient to stay with my aunt and then when I was employed it was convenient for me to stay in London.”

Martha recovered a modicum of her composure and was keen to learn more. “When you say ‘The Duckworths,’ you obviously mean the actors?”

“Yes indeed.” I was thankful she didn’t expect me to refer to them by name as I confess, I have never known their real names. Why should I?

“There is one thing that puzzles me.”

“Perhaps I may assist,” I offered with a greater confidence than I should have had. This was an exceptionally cute lady, especially for her age.

“I’ve never seen them call upon you.”

I have no idea of the origin of my lie, nonetheless without a moment’s pause I had my retort. “You won’t. They guard their privacy. We have a unique security system that allows them freedom of entry and exit to my home.” Where did that come from? “Martha, I’m sure we can rely upon your discretion. If the press were to find out about the arrangement Dad and Mum would be forced to relinquish their trips. Once the media knew, no amount of concealment would suffice.”