The Telling Time : A Historical Family Saga Read online

  Nikola leads them up the small flight of stairs to the double entrance doors. The air-con box clatters and rattles. The policeman at the front desk rubs at his eyes and speaks to Nikola in hushed tones. Perhaps he’s been awake all night too? He motions for them to follow him past the front desk, through the room with four desks, and out through a rear door. Down the corridor he pushes open a door and switches on a light. They gather inside a tiny room that resembles a packing crate, ply-thin walls and no windows. A bare bulb dangles spider-like from a long cord, and a small ornate crucifix hangs from a nail on the wall. The policeman speaks, and Nikola translates.

  ‘He will call the doctor. Luisa. Your clothes, from the waist down please. You must lie on the bed. Bex, come now for the paperwork.’

  ‘I’ll come soon,’ says Bex curtly, ‘after Luisa’s settled.’

  Nikola and the policeman leave the room and Bex bustles around, gathering up the sheet folded at the end of the bed. ‘Last step, hon. Get yourself undressed. Use this sheet to cover you.’ She sounds like a nurse and Luisa does as she is told. A means to an end. All she wants is to have a shower and wash that bastard away. When Bex drapes the sheet across her half-naked body it seems farcical. She’s never felt so exposed. Bex leaves, and Luisa lies there — tired, sore, scared. How could Bex leave her again?

  She needs air so wrenches herself up, causing the mattress to crackle. Leaning back on her elbows she studies the crucifix on the far wall. Plastic comfort. It’s the Greek Orthodox style, all four arms rounded off, and brightly gilded with religious icons. Mum is in her head — the prayers she would recite — but Luisa won’t tell her. This is something she must deal with herself. Mum has led such a chaste life and this would break her heart, rock her to her Catholic core. Worse that it’s happened in her beloved homeland. Besides, Mum would be far too quick to fire the shots at Uncle Josip, linking what’s happened with him being a conspirator and laying blame for encouraging Luisa to visit. The venom would fly, given Mum’s reaction when Uncle Josip decided to put Baba Ana in a rest home — trivial compared with this. Luisa couldn’t do that to her uncle. She wants to heal her family, not increase the rift by dragging them further apart.

  She shifts again, trying to get comfortable. Even this slightest movement makes the mattress complain, taking her back to the many times she’s slept in tramping huts back in New Zealand, back when she still felt clean. She slams her fist into the bed. There’s no point in letting her mind wander — she can’t escape her disgust. Why can’t she have a shower? Is that too much to ask?

  Minutes tick by. Rape. Always her worst fear, carried secretly once she understood what the horrible word meant. She had dodged the reality until now. How many times had she left the pub, or a friend’s house, keys clenched ready for attack and walked home alone? She was always relieved to push her door open. Always lucky. But not anymore. At least she’s done something right by staying on the pill. Regardless, she counts back to her last period. Antalya. How many weeks since they were there? Turkey feels a lifetime ago. Three at least. Past the danger zone, but is there a chance she forgot one of those tiny tablets? She’s so careful but there’s always a risk. Oh, God — that dodgy stomach in Turkey. Her mind is muddled and she can’t remember the timing. She can’t deal with that now. Only one thing is certain: they won’t have the morning-after pill in this place.

  A short little man, thinning hair, tired brown suit, the doctor, Luisa presumes, strides into the room shadowed by Bex. He taps her brusquely on the shoulder, indicating with a rolling hand that he wants her lying on her back. She complies, and the mattress crackles again. Her body aches, as though all the stiffness has been carried through her on spidery threads, a giant web transporting the dull pain to her furthest-away nerve endings. The smell is back.

  Bex sits and squeezes her hand. This doctor has no interest in pleasantries. He lays his suitcase on the other bed, clicks it open and rummages through the contents, muttering to himself. Luisa shudders at the rubbery screech as he pulls first one hand then the other into disposable gloves. He turns back towards the bed, sniffing loudly as he approaches.

  Luisa stares up at him and it’s as though she’s glued inside a movie. He takes her by the chin and shines a bright light at her face, twisting her head from side to side. With a stethoscope he listens to her chest, then lifts the sheet and pushes on her stomach, listening and muttering to himself. When he moves to the foot of the bed he taps at her ankles then moves his arms as though they are held by an invisible elastic band. She knows the smear-test drill: slide your ankles up, bend your knees, splay your legs wide.

  The doctor sniffs and extends his index and middle fingers, holding them like scissors. Luisa tenses. Her breath escapes in short, sharp bursts and Bex squeezes her hand. It all happens so quickly. He inserts his fingers inside her vagina. The pain is hot and searing, and she squirms. Her eyes fill with tears and she yelps, a small animal sound. The doctor doesn’t seem to notice her discomfort, continuing to poke and prod. When he withdraws his fingers, he speaks but it’s like a bark. ‘No married?’

  Bex shakes her head. ‘No. No.’

  The doctor leans in close, staring at Luisa, frowning. He enunciates each word. ‘Not. First time. Then?’ Not a hint of compassion.

  ‘Bloody hell! What’s the difference?’ Luisa erupts. ‘He raped me!’

  Bex leaps up. ‘You’re here to swab for semen. Get out!’ She points at the door.

  The doctor rips off the gloves and tosses them on the floor. He snatches up his bag and marches from the room. Luisa turns towards the wall.

  ‘Hon, I’m so, so sorry,’ says Bex. ‘I thought it was for the best. I should have stopped him.’

  Just words. Fruitless, futile words. ‘Get me in the shower,’ Luisa snaps.

  As the warm water courses over her body, she stares at the evidence washing down the plughole. She doesn’t care. It’s the price of feeling clean. All she wants is to bury this experience — the memory of it, together with her shame. When she steps from the shower box she expects to feel some change, but there is none.

  Bex is still treating her like a child, handing her clean clothes, helping her dress. Luisa’s body feels disconnected, as though she’s made up of disparate parts. Bex tugs on her hand and Luisa focuses on not shuffling but the stiffness is worse now. Her mouth feels dry and she runs her tongue over her lips, flinching at the patch of raw at the side, remembering his bite.

  Back in the office, Nikola straightens from his slouched position over a desk where he’s talking to a policeman. Luisa is not sure if it’s the same policeman they saw earlier. They all look the same, these officials in their blue uniforms. Maybe that’s what Kosta’s mother and sisters roll out on demand at the factory where they work? Overtime rates for hierarchy.

  ‘We have no choice with the doctor in Macedonia.’ Nikola says, resigned.

  The policeman stares, looking baffled. Uncomprehending.

  ‘When’s this disaster going to end?’ says Bex, sounding exhausted. ‘Is the paperwork complete?

  ‘Not to worry,’ Nikola says. ‘I have asked. A few more details. Coffee now. Please. Come next door.’ He plucks a piece of paper from the desk.

  It is the same place: a cafe by day, and a bar at night. It’s deserted now except for a table of four middle-aged women in the centre of the room. Nikola leads them to a table by the window. Bex pulls Luisa into the seat beside her. Nikola sits opposite. Luisa can’t bear to look across at where they were sitting last night. She gazes out the window instead and Bex reaches for her hand but Luisa pulls away. She’s had enough of people touching her.

  ‘What happens next?’ Bex asks Nikola, her voice low.

  ‘I’m not sure. First you must complete the papers. Then the policeman speaks to Kosta.’ He pushes a piece of paper across the table, pointing at the gaps on the form. ‘Here. Please.’

  Luisa glances at the form. Only some of it is in English.

  ‘What’s this?’ Bex asks, po
inting to a scrawled note at the bottom. ‘Is that the doctor?’

  Nikola turns the paper and translates. ‘It says, patient healthy, no injuries and . . .’ He squints at the paper. ‘No virgin,’ he says uneasily. ‘Luisa must write here. Kosta here,’ he rushes.

  A burst of laughter explodes from the group of four women. Luisa looks across, and the one wearing a bold red headscarf turns away, back to her group and their laughter. They seem engrossed, the pitch of their voices rising and falling in sync with their moving heads. Luisa can’t help comparing them to Mum and her friends at the Dally Club. If only Mum was here . . . She blinks hard. Perhaps she’s now the latest juicy morsel of gossip? She snatches at the officious form, screws the paper into a ball and tosses it across the room. How dare they reduce her harrowing experience to this? Red headscarf moves to get up, but the others pull her back, returning to their huddling and whispering.

  Bex launches in again. ‘With doctors like that I’m not surprised this happens. He should be banned.’ Enough. It’s too much. Luisa’s shoulders slump and the tears are back. Bex puts her arm around her, pulling her close. ‘He should be shot for the way he handled that examination.’

  The waitress approaches with their coffees and Luisa feels compelled to cover her face with her hands, to disappear.

  ‘My mama says the same but we must make do. This is the small town. We have no choice.’ Nikola sounds exhausted.

  Bex scrunches Luisa’s shoulder. ‘You should ring your parents, hon.’

  ‘No,’ Luisa snaps, shaking her head. ‘They don’t need to know.’

  Bex pulls back and stares. Their silence might as well be broadcast from a loudspeaker. ‘You can’t just carry on as if nothing’s happened,’ she says. ‘That’s crazy talk, even from you.’ She rubs Luisa’s back as though she wants to push her opinion in. Make it stick.

  What would it achieve? Luisa’s mum is one issue, but there’s also her dad. He doesn’t need more heartache. She knows about his alcoholic first wife — not that he confided in Luisa, Mum told her when Marko was going through a rebellious phase and drinking too much. Dad’s heavy-handed reaction to her brother had seemed so out of character. Dad is such a gentle man and it made sense when Mum explained. Why can’t Bex understand? This is yet another example of Bex only scraping the surface. No wonder she felt justified in changing her plans back on Samos.

  Nikola reaches across and touches Bex’s hand but she scowls at him, pulling away like a spring recoiling. And yet they were so close last night. It is all just a game, thinks Luisa, Bex selling her heart for short-term gains. She must feel guilty, surely? This wouldn’t have happened if Bex had listened to her last night, if she’d been true to her convictions about the way she relates to men — but perhaps it will always be a problem for Bex. Some people never change. Luisa learnt that lesson with Mike, and she should have trusted her instincts about Bex, resisted when Niamh was making such an effort to convince her that it would be okay. But then, how well do you ever know anyone?

  ‘I have the idea,’ Nikola says. ‘My aunt Helena. She is the teacher of English at the university. In Skopje. Maybe she can help. First I must telephone. Everything is possible from there.’

  ‘What do you think, Luisa?’ Bex asks.

  ‘Anything. Just get me out of here.’ She’s grateful to Nikola for taking control.

  ‘I do what I can,’ Nikola stammers, scraping back his chair. He’s nearly out the door before he calls out again. ‘I come back, when I know. Wait here.’

  The group of women push back their chairs too. Red headscarf stops outside the cafe and stares through the window, a mirror perhaps? Luisa can’t help wondering how many of these women have experienced the same.

  ‘What is it with these people?’ says Bex.

  Luisa doesn’t answer. She’s thinking about Mum again, and whether red headscarf knows Nikola, or Kosta’s mother. She hopes Nikola won’t tell his aunt about what’s happened, that he’ll be discreet. She takes a swig of coffee, trying to protect her sore mouth. It’s stone cold and she swallows hard, flinching at the bitter aftertaste.

  A crowd of flapping, head-scarfed women closes in as their bus pulls up to the terminus. Even from inside the bus Luisa can hear their squawks. She and Bex have spent the afternoon travelling from Bitola to Skopje. Nikola returned to the cafe just before midday having organised everything: tickets for the bus, and the promise of accommodation with his Aunt Helena. Luisa and Bex have sat side by side in prickly silence for the duration of the trip — four long hours. The acerbic cigarette fumes saturating the air did nothing to improve their mood. It seems they’ve run out of things to say, lost all common ground. Bex spent most of the trip reading her book. It baffles Luisa how she could concentrate. All she could manage was listening to music on her Walkman: Tracey Chapman, Billy Joel, Toni Childs, but with each new tape the lyrics gained new meanings: problems, it seems, are what songs are inspired by. She scans the faces below and wonders which one is Helena, whether there will even be an Aunt Helena.

  ‘Come on,’ says Bex. ‘Time to move.’

  They step onto the platform and the women rush forward, tugging at their clothes. ‘Best room! Best price!’ they shout, each trying to out-yell the other in their frenetic bidding war. ‘Six US dollars! Five! Five!’

  Bex nudges Luisa forward. ‘Keep moving,’ she says, sounding hassled.

  Luisa grits her teeth and hugs her daypack close. Her big pack is in the hold and she shoves her way towards the rear of the bus, flicking her arm at the women and raising her hand like a stop sign. A diminutive woman with dark brown hair, cut short like a skullcap, pushes her way through and tugs at Luisa’s sleeve.

  ‘I’m Helena,’ she says, just as Luisa tries to shake her off. ‘Nikola is my nephew. Come.’ Her button eyes gleam behind her gold, wire-rimmed glasses.

  There’s something reassuring about this woman who they follow without hesitation. In a no-nonsense manner, and with a few harsh-sounding words, Helena shoos all the vultures away. Thank God for Helena, in her tweed suit spliced with olive tones, and her sensible brown shoes and thick nylons. She leads them out of the station and over to a white car. The same box shape as the Zastava. After loading their packs into the boot, Luisa takes the front passenger seat — she’s had enough of second-best — and Helena pulls away from the kerb.

  ‘I’m truly sorry,’ says Helena, turning to Luisa. ‘The bus was early. Unusual for here.’ She grimaces. ‘Could have saved you from all that rabble.’

  It’s a relief to hear English again. Luisa has a strong sense that Helena will take control.

  ‘And which one’s Luisa?’ Helena asks.

  Luisa puts her hand to her chest and Helena responds with a warm smile. It doesn’t feel necessary to speak and Luisa is grateful.

  Helena turns towards the rear. ‘Hello. Then you must be Bex?’

  ‘Hi, and thanks. Jeepers. That was full-on back there. Is there always a welcoming party?’

  Good old Bex, doing her job, smoothing the way. She’s so bubbly now and yet on the bus she couldn’t manage more than a few words.

  ‘Afraid so,’ says Helena. ‘I apologise. It’s happening more and more with the inflation. God rest Tito’s soul. Our great leader must be turning in his grave. People offering their homes as hotels for the price of bread on the table. I wonder what this country’s coming to.’

  ‘We didn’t realise it was so bad,’ says Bex. ‘Thanks so much for having us to stay.’

  ‘Nikola tells me you are his friends and need my help. I’m happy to do this. We can talk through what’s needed at home. Please know that you are very welcome. It’s just me, so you won’t be disturbing anyone. You can stay for as long as you need.’

  Luisa’s relief feels like stepping into a cosy house on a blustery day, but the irony is not lost. If only they had paid one of those head-scarfed women back in Bitola for their accommodation. Even on the bus Luisa was labelling some of the men as potential thugs. She stares out
the window at the grey concrete buildings.

  ‘I’m not sure what you know about our history,’ Helena says. ‘We had a major earthquake back in the Sixties. Our city’s almost completely rebuilt.’ She sweeps her arm as though she’s throwing away her words. ‘We got rid of the old, and the city’s more organised now — modern shopping malls and the like — but I fear we’ve lost some of our charm.’

  They pull into a wide street with no footpaths. Most of the houses sit close to the road behind low concrete fences. Helena stops outside a small rectangular house with a flat roof. Two large square picture-windows sit either side of a bright yellow wooden door. Underneath the front windows are garden strips of massed pink pelargoniums, their pretty ruffles and white centres a welcoming sight. It’s a clever way of brightening an otherwise austere exterior. That same tug for home returns. Dida Stipan had a knack for making things grow and he would have approved of Helena’s efforts, thinks Luisa.

  Helena insists on carrying Luisa’s backpack and although Luisa feels guilty, she’s grateful. How much has Nikola told Helena? Perhaps it’s the sight of this house and Helena’s kindness but Luisa feels as though she’s wearing an overcoat and carrying rocks in her pockets — one for every trauma over the past twenty-four hours. Helena leads them through her front door, past the two front rooms, and into a small bedroom. There’s just enough room for two single beds covered with pretty patchwork quilts in cerise and grey.

  ‘There’s just the two bedrooms,’ Helena says. ‘Are you happy to share?’

  ‘Of course,’ says Bex.

  Luisa’s too tired to speak. She thinks about the collection of rooms they’ve walked into over the past four months, staying for one, two nights, three, at the most. She wishes this was just one of those times, but nothing will ever feel normal again.

  ‘Join me in the kitchen at the far end of the hallway,’ says Helena. ‘Just when you’re settled.’

  ‘Helena?’ Luisa says, struggling to find the right words. ‘I’m feeling a little sick. Would it be rude if I went straight to bed? I’m so sorry.’ All she wants is to crawl into the bed and make this day end.