IN THE KINGDOM OF THE BLIND

by
Sarah Chair

I met Mrs Fruscelli at the doctor’s. I’d been having dizzy spells and was waiting for the results of a blood test so I was feeling a bit light-headed. Mrs Fruscelli must have been sitting there a while but I hadn’t noticed her. She was a plump little woman in a blue denim baseball cap and a pair of those funny Morland sheep skin boots that Ena Sharples wore, circa 1963.

‘Have this’’ she says to me, handing me a used tissue.

‘What’s this for?’ I ask her.

‘Chuck it in the bin for me,’ she says ‘I’m blind.’

You wouldn’t know to look at Mrs Fruscelli that she’s only got ten-percent vision in one eye and virtually none in the other. She looks sharp as a shovel.

‘I know why you’re here,’ she says. ‘It’s that chronic exhaustion thing.’

‘How can you tell?’ I ask.

‘By the way you scraped your feet on the floor when you came in. I can read a person’s feet like nobody on earth’.

I’m no expert on visual impairment but I’ve always found it a bit intriguing. My Uncle Robert had tunnel vision but still managed to leg it down to Old Trafford every other weekend to watch his team play at home, as well as being able to describe every foul and substitution in nut-numbingly tedious detail afterwards. I suppose that’s what attracted me to Mrs Fruscelli. She seemed to have this preternatural knowledge. A kind of inner eye I found fascinating and repulsive at the same time.

I picked up a battered copy of ‘House and Home’ and flicked through it. A spiral of dried snot hung decoratively from a staple in the centre pages. Already I was beginning to feel a lot better. It’s strange how twenty minutes in a surgery waiting room can be such a cure-all. I was just getting up to leave when Mrs Fruscelli tapped me on the leg.

‘Aren’t you going to see me home?’

Normally I would have said no. I’m not someone who likes to pick up strangers as a matter of course, but this was different. She was blind. My car was outside so I gave her a lift. She smelt a bit funny, like she’d just been embalmed, but she was nice enough.

‘You’ll have to direct me,’ I say.

‘158 Ebola Court’ she says. ‘If you wouldn’t mind stopping off at the vegetable shop on the way there.’

While I’m in the fruit shop Mrs Fruscelli takes the liberty of adjusting the passenger seat so she’s almost horizontal. She’s staring up at the sky like she’s in an Apollo spacecraft, preparing for lift-off.

‘I’ve got some vision’ she says. ‘But only when I lie down, and even that’s misty. It’s like lying in a pool of sharks. Did you get the pomegranates?’

Mrs Fruscelli’s flat turns out to be very nice. It’s in one of those weird mansion blocks where time seems to stand still. All art deco hallways and a wood panelled lift.

‘I’m on the top floor’ she says, fumbling with her white stick. ‘You get a better class of person up there.’

She’s got a talking budgie and a scabby brown cat with a microscopic head.

‘That was a pleasant change.’ she says, ‘being driven home in style like that. I usually come back in an ambulance and get wheeled down a ramp in full view of the neighbours. Doesn’t do much for my self-esteem.’

Eventually I make my excuses and leave. It’s nearly three by now, and if I include travelling time I’ve been tied up at the doctors for over three hours.

‘You’ll be alright won’t you?’ I ask her.’

‘Write your number down’ she says. ‘I’d quite like to see you again.’

‘But how will you read it?’ I ask.

‘My son drops in’ she says. ‘’When it suits him.’

Next evening I get back from work and Mrs Fruscelli’s left a message.

‘Phone me.’ She says ‘It’s urgent.’

I pour myself a drink and take a handful of the vitamins I got from Dr Poe, all the while wondering if should phone Mrs Fruscelli. It crosses my mind I’m worrying too much.

It’s not like it’s a first date. She probably just wants a friendly chat. It must get lonely up there with only a budgie and an anacephalic cat for company. Her phone’s barely rung before she’s picked it up.

‘It’s Carol’ I say. ‘I met you at the surgery.’

‘I know who you are’ she says. ‘You sound a bit depressed.’

‘I’m fine I say. ‘Just had a hard day at work.’

‘What you need is a break,’ she says. ‘A bit of a hobby. I’ve got just the thing.’

‘What’s that Mrs Fruscelli?’

‘Line dancing’ she says. ‘Pick me up tomorrow at seven. And don’t eat before you come. I don’t want you being sick.’

I’m starting to wonder about Mrs Fruscelli. Who exactly is she? And why do I find myself next day in a city department store, trying on cowboy hats. Hoping no one will recognise me. It’s best to have one though. I’ve heard they don’t let you in if you’re wearing the wrong gear. I stuff it on the back seat of my car, praying I won’t need it.

At ten to seven Mrs Fruscelli’s waiting on the step. Dressed to the nines. Gold studded boots. Frayed denim waistcoat. Great thick pair of yellow shades. I feel a bit ticklish. Nervous even. Maybe she’s right. I do need a break.

‘Where are we going?’ I ask as I steer her towards the car.

‘The Sally Army building’ she says, ‘it’s at the top of the hill.’

Mrs Fruscilli looks like one of the mob, sitting next to me in her large glasses and cowboy hat. Like she’s leading me off on a heist.

‘Have you got your hat on?’ she hisses as we reach the car park.

I’m not wearing my hat, but there’s something about Mrs Fruscelli. Even though she’s blind I can’t lie to her. It’s like she’s an all-seeing eye. I put it on. It’s got elastic under the chin so I feel like the ‘Milky bar kid.’

‘I hope no-one sees me doing this’ I say, cringing with embarrassment.

‘Who’s going to see you?’ she sniffs.

I guide her through a grimy foyer, into the main hall. Mrs Fruscelli is leaning against my arm and everyone seems to be staring in our direction. The old. The grotesque. The maladjusted. The downright sinister. She grabs my right arm and waves it in the air.

‘This is our new leader,’ she announces. She’s going to give us our dance cues.’

Everyone applauds. I feel like the Messiah.

‘Really’ I protest. ‘I don’t think I’m cut out for this. Can’t you find someone else?’

‘Rubbish’ she says. ‘Don’t you realise. You’re the only sighted person in the room.’

An old bloke with a red nose and a DA gropes at my right breast. He spins round to show me the back of his jacket. A Hannibal Lecter-like face leers out from the back.

‘Give it a good feel’ he says. ‘I painted it on myself.’

‘Who is it?’ I ask.

‘It’s that Bill Clinton,’ he beams proudly. ‘I done it myself with Braille spray paint. You can buy it in Homebase.’

Mrs Fruscelli nudges me. ‘See,’ she says. ‘You learn something new every day.’

Actually, it wasn’t that bad, as bad experiences go. It was like being a parking attendant, standing there barking out instructions as a long crocodile of people crashed into the walls on one side, and then propelled themselves across to the other side of the hall ad infinitum, to the strains of Johnny Cash’s ‘I Walk the Line’, and a succession of Garth Brooks medleys. And at least no one could see me, which was quite liberating. Quite jolly really. Except when my mobile rang. It was my friend Janis.

‘I’m in town’ she says, ‘Fancy a quick drink?’

‘I can’t’ I tell her. ‘I’m a bit tied up.’

‘What are you doing?’ she asks conspiratorially. ‘Hot date is it?’

‘Blind line dancing’ I say. Then I wished I hadn’t.

‘So.’ Asks Mrs Fruscelli, as I’m driving her home ‘How did you find it?’ She stinks of booze. She’s obviously been tanking up in the ladies.

‘Mrs Fruscelli’ I say to her. ‘There’s something I really need to tell you.’

‘What’s that?’ she says.

‘I’m getting married’ I lie. ‘I can’t be here next week.’

‘That’s a shame’ she says.

All the way home she’s very quiet.

I know it’s horrible but I really felt I’d bitten off more than I could chew. I hate cowboy gear. I’m not seventy years old. I don’t wear a toupee and I’m not blind. I’m sorry for Mrs Fruscelli, but in future she’ll have to find her own entertainment. I see her to her door.

‘Aren’t you coming in?’ she asks.

‘Sorry Mrs Fruscelli. I have to go for a fitting.’

I’m at work a few days later, going through a pile of case notes when one of the girls in the office prods me.

‘Do you know that person?’ she asks.

‘What person?’ I say.

‘That person at the window.’

I look over to the ground floor window, and peering in at me, the peak of her denim baseball hat just visible over the windowsill, is Mrs Fruscelli.

‘No’ I say. ‘ I’ve never seen that person before in my life.’

That night I’m home alone and the phone rings. I’ve got a feeling it’s her so I ignore it. It rings five times in the space of an hour. Eventually I pick it up.

‘ Mrs Fruscelli,’ I snap. ‘I know you’re blind and all that but I’m up to my ears here.’

There’s a pause. It’s my friend Janis.

‘Are you ok?’ she asks. ‘You sound a bit stressed.’

‘I’m fine’ I say. ‘Have you been trying to reach me?’

‘All evening’ she says. ‘I was worried about you.’

At half past ten it rings again. This time I answer straightaway. It’s Mrs Fruscelli.

‘What are you doing?’ she asks.

‘I’m just about to have a bath’ I say. ‘Bit tired after work.’

‘How was the Greek salad?’

‘What Greek salad?’

‘The one you had for lunch.’

‘Mrs Fruscelli, I say to her in a solemn voice.’ ‘Have you been stalking me?’

The line goes dead.

I like Mrs Fruscelli. She’s witty. She’s funny. But she’s a stalker and I’ve been there once already. The first time I got stalked I was seventeen. A pixie faced Welshman in a green balaclava who took me to see ‘Last Tango in Paris’ and ushered me out of the cinema like a scoutmaster in the first dirty bit, which was the only reason I’d gone in the first place. For the next year he’d jump out at me, regular as clockwork from under the station viaduct.

I felt rotten about it, but next day I called in at the police station. My nerves were frayed to ribbons. I thought I might be able to get some sort of restraining order.

Just a mild one. I didn’t really want to see her banged up, but it’s best to make them aware just in case she turns up at my door brandishing a sharpened bible or something. The policeman on the desk seemed terribly helpful.

‘I’m being stalked’ I say.

He takes me into a small back room and pulls out his note-pad.

‘You ok?’ he asks sympathetically.’

‘I’m fine,’ I say. ‘Just a bit shaken.’

‘I need to take some details,’ he says. ‘What does this person look like?’

I thought I‘d get straight to the point. Save beating about the bush.

‘She’s about four foot eleven’ I say. ‘And she’s blind.’

He puts down his pad and sticks his pen behind his ear. He’s looking at me a bit warily.

‘She doesn’t wear a red duffle coat by any chance?’

After that I didn’t see Mrs Fruscelli for a few months. In a way I kind of missed her, and if she was stalking me I suppose it was pretty half hearted really. I think she was just lonely. A couple of times I thought about calling to check she was alright but sometimes it’s best to nip these things in the bud. Then, in the run up to Christmas she rings me.

‘I hope you don’t mind me ringing you’ she says.

‘Not at all’ I say. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch. I’ve been so busy.’

‘It’s Danny’ she says.

‘Not Danny the budgie?’ I say.

‘No. My Danny. You remember.’

‘I’m sorry Mrs Fruscelli. I’m not with you.’

‘Danny my son. He’s dead.’

My heart went out to her. All alone. Not a friend in the world. What could I do? I whizzed round there that same evening with a box of her favourite orange crunch creams. She’d put on a bit of weight. I think she’d been drinking a fair amount too.

‘He was my eyes and ears’ she says.

‘How old was he?’ I ask.

‘Fifty seven’ she says wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. ‘Fifty seven years, three months and four days.’

I agree to drive her to the crematorium.

‘Do you have any pictures of Danny?’ I ask. ‘I never got to meet him’.

‘All destroyed’ she says. ‘In the fire.’

There’s quite a crowd in the Chapel of rest. Danny must have been quite popular. We’re a bit late so we have to sit at the back. There’s some kind of spiritualist choir at the front and a couple of bongo players. I’m looking out for the line dancers. Can’t see them anywhere.

‘Was Danny well travelled?’ I ask.

‘Well. I never saw much of him’ says Mrs Fruscelli.

Mrs Fruscelli seems so alone in the world, I decide there and then I should make more effort to see her from time to time, this tiny, vulnerable old lady who’s been through so much. Two world wars, debilitating illness, and, now, to cap it all, the cruel loss of her only son.

‘They’re closing the curtains’ I whisper. ‘Do you want to say a valediction before he goes into the flames?’

‘I’ll just pray,’ she says bravely. ‘They’ll be plenty of time for all that afterwards.’

As the coffin sails off to its final resting place Mrs Fruscelli lets out a loud moan, like a cow at an abattoir. For a brief moment I think she’s going to faint. I take her hand. A chorus of drumming starts up. Danny was obviously well tuned to world music.

We leave the chapel of rest and Mrs Fruscelli’s pace begins to quicken. I look around for some signs of support from the other mourners. I know she’s blind but no one seems to have acknowledged her existence, let alone offered their condolences for poor Danny.

We’re in the hospitality suite behind the chapel.

‘Are there many people here you know?’ I ask.

Mrs Fruscelli doesn’t seem to be listening.

‘Quick get me a plate’ she says. ‘There’s some sandwiches along the back wall. I can smell them. Egg and pickle.’

I pick out a couple of sandwiches and pass them to her. She’s hunched over her paper plate, chewing thoughtfully. She opens one out and sticks it in front of my nose.

‘Is this cress?’ she says ‘Have a look. I can’t eat cress, it gives me wind.’

A huge black woman in a brightly coloured knitted shawl knocks up against her. It looks deliberate to me. Mrs Fruscelli topples like a skittle. For a moment I think she’s about to go over. I put an arm around her to steady her. She’s dropped her sandwich.

‘Careful’ I snap. ‘Don’t you realise who this is? This is Mrs Fruscelli. She’s just lost her son!’

The big woman is advancing towards me. She pins me against the tea urn.

‘That’s funny’ she says, glaring at me suspiciously. ‘So have I.’

I look over at Mrs Fruscelli and she’s sporting one of those winsome, toothless smiles that can be so endearing in the very old or half-witted. Bereaved or not, it’s time to confront her.

‘When did you last see your Danny?’ I ask her.

‘I didn’t’ said Mrs Fruscelli. ‘But I’m sure that was him. Back there.’

‘And was Danny black?’

‘Might have been. How the fish should I know. I’m blind.’

I’m livid with Mrs Fruscelli. I’ve always known she sailed a bit close to the wind, but this is the final straw.

‘Admit it Mrs Fruscelli.’ I say ‘There is no Danny. You’ve made him up.’

‘There must have been a mix-up,’ she says. ‘With the coffins.’

A few of the other guests have turned round to listen. A large tear rolls down Mrs Fruscelli’s cheek. A young man in a black suit and dog collar cuts in between us.

‘Hey. Steady on,’ he barks at me, placing a protective hand on Mrs Fruscelli’s shoulder. ‘This woman’s just lost her kid.’

There’s more people crowding round her. Someone’s pouring her a large scotch on the rocks and handing her a tissue.

‘Did he have any identifiable marks?’ asks the young man. ‘Maybe a scar or something?’

‘Well he had a stigmata,’ says Mrs Fruscelli. ‘But he didn’t like to talk about it.’

A hush descends on the crowd. The rest of the guests are moving towards her. One woman starts to wail, holding her arms out and circling the floor like a whirling dervish.

‘Praise the Lord!’ she screams.

‘She’s blind,’ shouts another one.

I take a step back. Already they love her. Under that scabby brow and cheeky peaked cap lurks the razor sharp mind of a demon Einstein. Perhaps her son is the new Messiah. Maybe later that afternoon he’ll rise from the dead and take her line dancing. Treat her and her new friends from the church of the Holy Cross-to a slap-up meal. But that’s it for me and Mrs Fruscelli. The final nail in the coffin, so to speak.

I toss her a farewell glance and I swear blind she returns it, standing there, her mouth stuffed with egg and pickle, looking around, smiling at everyone. There’s a glow about her now. Like she’s just won a bloody Oscar.

That night I decide to drown my sorrows and put Mrs Fruscelli behind me. I tell my friend Janis about her.

‘She’s nothing but a wee-stained, crem-hopping little Hitler.’ I say venomously, after my seventeenth glass of wine.

‘She sounds a bit like my Mum’s old neighbour Mrs Burnside’ says Janis. ‘She used to stand in the road outside the DSS and flag down the cars, trying to bum a lift to the library. She told everyone she was the Andrex heiress.’

‘What happened to her?’ I ask

‘She got run over,’ says Janis. The worse thing was she hadn’t even bothered to put any pants on. Turns out she wasn’t an heiress at all. She’d been living on dog-food and deep fried Weetabix.’

Trust Janis to make me feel guilty.

Next morning after breakfast I ring Mrs Fruscelli.

‘Just checking you’re ok’ I say.

‘I’m so glad you’ve rung’ she groans. ‘I’ve been in this chair all night. Think it’s a trapped nerve.’

‘I’ll come over’ I say. ‘Need anything from the shops?’

I can hear blurred snatches of conversation in the background. It sounds like she’s listening to ‘The Archers.’

‘Just a tin of cat-food’ she sighs wheezily. ‘And a small bottle of Gordons. If it’s not too much trouble.’

I feel a bit dizzy all of a sudden.

‘Of course it’s not too much trouble’ I say. ‘Anything for you Mrs Fruscelli.’

© Sarah Chair
Reproduced with permission

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