Clowns Can cry
Madge stared blankly from the window as the van pulled away, wrapping her dressing gown tightly around her gaunt figure. The April morning was bright, but early frost still sparkled and she shivered when she caressed the smooth wood of her daughter’s bureau which had just been delivered.
Sarah’s death was painfully fresh. It had been on a day such as this just over a year ago, when, through the slight brushing of snow, the green swords of daffodil leaves stood defiantly. The day had started so brightly, a day for looking forward, only months after David, Madge’s husband, had died.
She had listened to an item on Woman’s Hour about retired women becoming Volunteers in developing countries. The volunteers had sounded exhilarated, declaring it had given them a new lease of life. It was a long time since Madge had nursed, even before Sarah was born David had insisted she gave it up.
“You don’t need to work,” he said. “I earn a good salary. If all goes well I’ll be Manager at the Bank and it wouldn’t look good to have a wife out at work.”
It had been the opposite for her daughter when she married. For five years Sarah continued working and she and her husband enjoyed an extravagant lifestyle, until Gary was born.
“Peter wants me to go back to work,” Sarah told her mother. “But I want to stay home. I told him to keep you out of it when he said I’d be just like you.
“You must do what you think best, Sarah. I suppose I just took the easy way out.”
David even got his way once Sarah had left home. Soon after Madge had been to the hospital to discus her return, David was diagnosed with MS, and she needed to care for him. Even after years of subjugation she had no feelings of relief at his helplessness, doing all she could to avoid irritating him. He insisted she always looked smart and was furious when she’d bought some trousers to wear! They’d ended up in a second-hand shop.
After his death she had felt guilty anticipating the start of a new life, but with Sarah’s encouragement, had sent for information about nursing with Charities abroad, in what was called ‘The Third World’, though that term wasn’t used so much any more.
Whilst looking at the information she’d sent for, the phone rang.
“Gran, come over quickly. It’s mum. I’ve called an ambulance.”
Madge was surprised to hear her grandson’s voice as she thought that he had already left for the new term at University.
The verdict was suicide; no doubts, no possibility of an accident. The rope had been firmly fixed around the loft beam and the robust stool deliberately kicked away — it could not have fallen over. Sarah must have known what the brutal consequence of her action would be. The most horrific sight was Sarah’s heavily made up face to look like a clown, thick red lipstick creating a mocking mouth. It was too late for the ambulance, and the police had been called. Gary and Madge held each other as they waited, and she remembered Sarah plonking a clown puppet on David’s bed after they’d had a row many years ago.
David had given the clown to Sarah when she was a child. Madge could hear her voice calling, “Come and play with me Daddy! Let’s play secrets.” She’d giggle as he chased her up the stairs.
“What’s the secret then?” Madge wanted to know, and David said it was just a puppet he’d bought her. When she saw it she disliked its sinister face and let them get on with their games. Sarah had been happy, shouting impatiently when she ran up to bed, “Come on Daddy, I want Popo to tickle my tummy! Then I can have my sweeties.”
From the moment Madge saw her daughter’s broken body until after the funeral, she moved like a robot under orders. David’s death had not been a shock, the words ‘a blessing’ were on peoples’ lips even as they commiserated with her. Madge had been hurt by Sarah’s initial indifference but then concerned when Gary, home for the Easter break, told her that Sarah wasn’t going to work regularly.
“She seems really depressed, Nan.”
“It could be delayed reaction, Gary. She couldn’t cry when David died.”
Madge wondered if the clown still existed and turned her attention to the bureau. Gary had only recently sold the house and the furniture, except for that bureau. He hadn’t wanted to throw away its contents until she had looked through it.
“Do what you want with it all, Nan,” he said. “I haven’t touched anything.”
“It’s so private, Gary, I don’t know if I want to pry through Sarah’s papers.”
But Sarah was dead.
Everything in the top two drawers was neatly organised: photo albums, fashion catalogues, the usual family mementos. So many photographs were of Sarah and David together, from the time she was born until her teens. How pretty she had been, with her fair curly hair. They had been devoted, spending many hours together.
Looking through one of the later albums Madge was shocked at the unhappy thirteen year old schoolgirl glaring at the camera. Then she realised that the only one with Sarah with David together, after that time, was on her wedding day. He looked ill at ease and Madge was disconcerted at the triumph on Sarah’s face.
The change in their relationship seemed to have come overnight.
“She’s just finding her independence,” Madge reassured her husband, distressed at his daughter’s rejection. “ She’s not a little girl anymore.”
Then there had been a terrible row after Sarah had fixed a bolt to the inside of her bedroom door.
“I want some privacy!” Sarah shouted and flounced out saying she was staying with a friend. The girl, who was from the local comprehensive school, had flirted outrageously with David, then she and Sarah had giggled hysterically. David had been furious with Sarah making friends with her instead of the girls from her private school.
“How do you think you’ll end up?” he’d stormed when she refused to stop seeing her.
“Oh, do you want me to end up like you then?” Her normally pretty face was distorted with hatred, “You just want to keep me locked in my room. I’m not there for you any more.”
There had been a spell of outright hostility which Madge at first assumed was normal with teenagers. As her angry outbursts became violent Madge decided to seek help.
David said they could sort it out themselves but Madge stood up to him and welcomed the GP’s referral to a Child Psychologist. Sarah first went weekly, then monthly. Both David and Sarah were adamantly against family therapy.
“I’m not talking in front of you two, in no way!” said Sarah.
Sarah attended spasmodically until she was sixteen, then refused to continue with an adult Psychologist. She said if she was considered to be an adult, she’d start work. David wasn’t at all pleased when she had insisted on leaving school, getting a job in a supermarket. They both had hopes of her going to University.
Her first purchase was the bureau. Clipping the key onto her charm bracelet she declared, “Now I can keep my secrets locked up.”
It wasn’t only Sarah who was giving Madge concern at that time as David began to have bouts of unexplained illness. Instead of sympathy, Sarah taunted him with the clown, making it dance in front of his eyes.
“Poor little Daddy! Where’s the big strong Daddy!” she mocked.
In a way, Madge was relieved when Sarah found her own flat. She had settled well into her job and even David was pleased when after about two years she was asked to start training for management.
Things went smoothly until she met Peter, a newly trained Supervisor from another Branch, who had also left school at sixteen. When they said they were going to marry, Sarah answered their unspoken question.
“And no, I’m not pregnant!”,
“You’re only eighteen, I won’t let you! He’s only a shop worker,” said David.
“But that’s what I am, father,” she had replied scornfully. “And you can’t stop me.”
When Sarah had been promoted they were able to buy their own house. It had been a sadness for Madge that she barely saw Sarah, though that changed when Gary was born. At first Sarah enjoyed being at home looking after the baby, but in less than a month her happy smile had gone.
“Peter’s hardly at home, Mum, and I’m so tired.”
When Madge offered to babysit, Sarah said they hadn’t enough money to go out. Madge tried tactfully to suggest that she started to take more care of herself, and witnessed an argument between them when Peter returned from work to find her still in her dressing gown.
“You’ve got to pull yourself together, Sarah,” he said.
“But you’re never here, Pete.”
“And why should I want to stay in with you. You’re just a misery.”
When Gary was five years old they parted, later divorcing. He’d started school and Sarah seemed much happier when she began working again. Through his primary school years Gary spent a lot of time with Madge who watched with pride as he progressed through his teens, with far fewer problems than she had experienced with Sarah. It was a proud moment for her when he started at University.
Sarah was still an attractive woman so it came as a surprise when she said she wanted cosmetic surgery for her fortieth birthday.
“But whatever for?” asked Madge.
“I don’t want to look old. ” She shuddered as she stroked her smooth face. “All round my eyes, and my sagging neck.”
“You don’t need it, Sarah,” said Madge. But she agreed to pay for it and arrangements were made. By that time David was very weak after many bouts of illness, and he didn’t notice the subtle changes. Unable even to use his mobility scooter or speak clearly he was dependant on Madge. His decline continued painfully for another three years and after his death it distressed her that Sarah was not more affected, not seeming to grieve.
Putting the photo albums aside, Madge opened the bottom drawer of the bureau, quickly stepping backwards at the sight of the clown staring at her. It looked slightly different from how she remembered it; then she realised that silvery tears had been embroidered under its eyes. Kicking the drawer into place, she stumbled to the kitchen to make herself a coffee. Sarah’s charm bracelet lay on the table, and amongst the tiny replica silver keys a larger one beckoned Madge. She hesitantly unclipped it and inserted it into the keyhole of the bureau’s flap. It looked empty, and she sighed with relief until she saw the batch of letters in one of the compartments. She took them into the sitting room, perching on the edge of the settee.
They were letters from cosmetic surgeons; not just one, but three different Consultants offering appointments over four years. Another letter was also from a surgeon, a woman, but instead of offering an appointment for an operation she suggested that Sarah seek counselling. This was dated just a few days before her death.
Then she saw the sealed envelope addressed to herself. Inside was a folded newspaper article.
“CRITICISM OF THE BEAUTY INDUSTRY.
A leading Psychiatric Consultant has criticised cosmetic surgeons who agree to repeatedly operate on young women, saying they should be referred to a psychiatrist. She believes that they are likely to be very disturbed, with low self esteem, and possibly the victims of sexual abuse.”
Madge crumpled the letter and shut the bureau lid, but she could not shut out the image of Sarah’s increasingly fixed smile.
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