Parallel Lines - Part 1 by Chris Lloyd

Cordelia McArthur was the only child of Margaret and Henry Soames, both of whom worked in Government departments in the sprawling offices of Whitehall. They, like most other Whitehall-ers in their plain dress sense, travelled in from the suburbs every weekday along with thousands of others who seemed to walk quickly, as if they were in competition, to reach their respective departments first.

They had married in their late thirties six weeks after meeting at a seminar called “The Disappearing Commonwealth”. They were passionate about their work which they “took home” and were somewhat surprised when Margaret fell pregnant. As the pregnancy progressed, Margaret bloomed, became talkative and interested in things that she had never been. Towards the end of her term, having at that juncture left her job, she began suffering from bouts of fainting and sickness. Her doctor, a friend of the family, insisted she completed her time in hospital in order that medical staff could keep an eye on her.

She had three weeks to go when she suffered a seizure from which she did not recover. The medical team immediately performed a Caesarean Section and Cordelia was born healthy and well. Henry was delighted with his daughter but devastated by the loss of Margaret. He had no idea how he was going to look after or cope with his new darling girl. He took a three month leave of absence from his job and tried to settle into his new life but he missed his work and the buzz of interacting with colleagues. He considered his options and decided to employ a person to look after Cordelia.

Anabelle McArthur fitted his requirements perfectly. Her references were outstanding. He actually went so see two of her previous employers who confirmed that the references were correct. She settled in to Henry’s house and the two of them formed a good friendship. In some ways, even though he missed Margaret terribly, the arrangement worked like a marriage but without any entanglement. For Henry it was ideal and Anabelle looked after Cordelia with loving care. Life was happy and settled until fate silently spread her wicked hands.

Cordelia was three years old when Henry was killed crossing a road near Westminster tube station. He was five minutes from his office and had Cordelia’s birthday present tucked under his arm.

When a police officer knocked, Anabelle knew Henry would never walk through that door again. She was suddenly on her own with Cordelia, not knowing how she was going to carry on looking after her. However Henry, an only child, and being the meticulous Civil Servant he was, had provided for Annabelle and his daughter by leaving his entire estate in trust to Anabelle just three months before he met his end. This she found out when looking through papers in his desk. He had labeled an envelope with her name and the name of his solicitor.  She contacted the solicitor who arranged the formalities of setting up the Trust in her name which would transfer to Cordelia when she was eighteen. Anabelle would draw an income in her own right.

Anabelle brought Cordelia up as her own and the two of them had a warm, happy relationship and she officially adopted Cordelia and changed the child’s name to hers. However, there was one final hurdle to jump and Anabelle had put it off until she thought Cordelia was ready.

Cordelia was seventeen when Anabelle asked her to sit down. She had grown into a vivacious young woman and was hoping to go to university the following year.

They sat side by side, mother and daughter, as they had from the beginning. It was not a happy Cordelia who listened to her life story. Like most children, she thought it could not be true, but in her heart, she knew it must be. Her “Mum” would never tell lies. She had no idea what to do or say. She was shocked to her core and was feeling dizzy as she collapsed on to the floor. She had suffered a seizure and was, to all intents and purposes, dead.

For the next six months Anabelle sat at Cordelia’s bedside ten hours a day talking to her about Henry and Margret’s love for her, keeping her own story in the background. The doctors treating Cordelia were not hopeful for her recovery but they continuously monitored her because her vital signs were working as if she was normal. There was never a doubt in Anabelle’s mind that Cordelia would pull through.

One morning Anabelle was talking to Cordelia about Henry and Margaret when she heard her say: “Tell me about you, Mum.”

The doctors were at the bedside immediately. Anabelle was crying and Cordelia’s eyes were fluttering. It was a further six months before Cordelia was allowed to go home permanently.

As she settled back into home life, it became apparent that Cordelia was not her previous self. She had become less tolerant of small things like dust, imperfect creases in clothes, bread not cut perfectly. However, she was recovering and Anabelle forgave her complaints. Cordelia was still having to complete an exercise class each day which was given by a specialist, in order to regain her strength. It was something Cordelia did not enjoy but knew that it was vital to regain and build muscle strength.

It was 10:35, an hour into Cordelia’s exercise routine and both Anabelle and the specialist were encouraging her to push on for the last fifteen minutes. The next thing they witnessed was Cordelia falling to the floor, shouting at both of them. She got up, assaulted the specialist and turned on Anabelle.

“Leave me alone, you are not my mother, you can’t tell me what to do.” She curled into a ball and started thrashing her body around to the point of causing injury. After three minutes she was rigid, her eyes staring into space, breathing hard. The specialist grabbed his bag and injected Cordelia, who then slowly lost her rigidity and regained her normal breathing.

Anabelle was devastated but in the back of her mind she knew the tirade would happen, it simply needed a trigger. As Cordelia came back to reality, Anabelle knelt down and put her arms around her and hugged her and talked quietly about all the good times they’d had. She slowly came back and threw her arms around her mother, sobbing and apologizing. That episode and others like it taught Anabelle that if Cordelia became angry, there was a possibility that she would, one day harm herself and those around her. Just before she passed her A Levels, Cordelia was offered the chance of medication which would control her anger. Anabelle jumped at the chance to let Cordelia try it.

Cordelia went to university, had no further attacks and obtained a 2:1 in English and found a good employer in the BBC. She became, over a period of thirty-five years, Controller of Special Interest Programming.

Anabelle died from cancer aged 56 and, although Cordelia had been at the BBC for thirteen years when she died, she never knew the real Cordelia who had become recognized as a ‘no holds barred’ interviewer. Few people knew of her affliction which she still controlled by the same drug and a cast iron will but at 10.15 pm one Thursday night, she was interviewing a man about coping with mental health who was determined to tell all about his sexual urges.

           “…. yes I realise that is the case, Jeffrey, but tell me and everyone watching how you control those urges. It must be …..”

“The same way you control yours, with drugs. It’s alright for you with your big fat salary, fancy house. You have no idea what we, the people who pay your ……”

“I can take your questions offline, Jeffrey. Now to our next…”

“No, here and now you stuffed up bitch, why don’t you want people to know you’re a fucking head case?” The studio shut the programme down and went to a pre-recorded episode of “House or Apartment?”

Cordelia flew into a rage, leaped from her chair and tried to strangle Jeffrey who was saved by the quick thinking of the lead camera man.

The BBC were good enough to give her six months’ salary along with an explanation that was couched in words that were basically useless. Her BBC pension and her mother’s legacy were more than enough to live a decent life. The only ‘must do’ she had after the BBC incident was to remember to take her daily tablet; something she did not always want to do.

Cordelia, at age 63, was still a fan of the BBC and was listening interestedly to BBC Radio Four where a discussion revolved around the trials or otherwise of keeping a marriage together. Her decision not to be married was, in her mind, vindicated, when she listened to these “heart of the matter” programs. The presenter was someone she had not previously heard. She sounded very young. Cordelia wondered if she was yet another token young person brought in by the BBC to give young people a “voice”. In fairness, the young sounding presenter had not uttered the word “like” inappropriately which was an improvement on the young voice on last week’s discussion.

Cordelia kept copious notes on these sorts of programs just in case there was anything she needed to complain about, which she did religiously every week. Sometimes she would write to the Controller of Radio Four directly so as to get straight to the top man immediately rather than have his minions, who were probably just out of Oxford or Cambridge with no experience of life at all, answer in his stead.

“You idiot child, that would never happen in a good marriage. What a statement to make.” She was losing her temper with the presenter who had calmly implied that in sexual difficulties, one or both of the married couple might take a lover. “Imagine Joanna Clarke saying that! She would have been sacked,” Cordelia shouted. Miss Clarke was retired by the BBC when it started to modernize itself early in the 21^st century but unlike Cordelia, Miss Clarke was presenting virtually the same programme except there ad breaks every ten minutes.

She knew that she must not get overexcited or angry but it was difficult not to with that sort of language. And another thing that was making her veer off piste was that they would all go to the Green Room after the program had ended and congratulate themselves on a job well done. She took a tablet to calm herself but her heart was already racing. She was wringing her hands. Sweat was rolling down her back, tickling her skin. Her whole body was itching. She was lost to her inner paradox and needed supplication to get her back. On that occasion help was not at hand.

When Cordelia eventually came back without the help of drugs, she realised it was a different day; she did not know what day. Whatever and wherever, it was raining. She was wet and lost. She didn’t recognize where she was precisely but hoped she was somewhere in London. As she became wetter, coldness started creeping in. She looked at herself in a shop window and jumped back at the sight that reflected back at her. She scurried along a narrow alleyway and tried to remember where she had been.