by Janet Ellis
‘Right, here we are.’ Sheila was at my shoulder. She dabbed with a cloth. The table top was a shade lighter where the coffee had been spilled. The room smelled strongly of lily of the valley. There were no real flowers anywhere. I felt as if I’d been caught writing a lewd poem on the wall. ‘There we are.’ Sheila set the ornament back in its place. ‘The crime will go undetected.’ She followed my gaze as she replaced the picture. ‘There he is again,’ she said, ‘Adrian. Before domesticity sprang its trap.’ She smiled at his image.
Had he ever been here, in this room? I tried to imagine Adrian sitting on the Dralon covers. You didn’t stand close enough to someone to throw confetti at them without being quite a good friend. He’d look very untucked beside her, if he stood here now, with his uncuffed shirt and voluminous coat. Sheila’s clothes behaved themselves. I suspected they weren’t placed in a wardrobe, but stood waiting for their wearer in rows in her bedroom, still assuming her shape.
‘May I use your . . . toilet?’ I asked, cursing myself for my hesitation. I hated the word, but lavatory seemed rather personal.
Sheila looked momentarily annoyed, as though she thought I should have gone home to use my own facilities. ‘Yes, of course. Pop upstairs,’ she said, after too long a pause. ‘Alan’s re-tiling the cloakroom, so it’s out of bounds.’
‘Thank you. It’s – um?’ I pointed to the ceiling. I didn’t want to open any door but the right one.
‘Round to the left at the top.’ Sheila put the coffee cups on the tray and plumped a hostile cushion.
The bathroom was entirely pink. There were enough towels to dry a cricket team. A packet of Radox sat beside the bath taps, but other than that there was nothing on display. I was tempted to open one of the mirrored cupboards and examine its contents, but I thought Sheila might be acutely aware of how long I would – and should – be gone for, so I sat down and regarded the back of the bathroom door instead. A man’s striped dressing gown, the only sign of Alan anywhere, hung from a fish-shaped hook.
The bar of soap on the basin was so new that the little raised label on top was pristine. The towels seemed to absorb no moisture and left a fluffy rime. When I came out, Sheila’s mother stood on the landing, so close to the door that I almost collided with her. ‘You were in there a while,’ she said. There was something slightly cockney in her delivery.
‘I’m sorry.’ I tried to step round her, but she took up quite a bit of space. She seemed to be wearing several dressing gowns at once. ‘Have you been waiting?’
‘I got me own facilities,’ the woman said, still not moving. ‘I’m just having a wander, that’s all.’
Close to, it looked as if several different pieces of creased flesh had been applied over existing folds and wrinkles on her face. Her eyes were deep-set, and the lower lids sagged to reveal a pink, inner curve. She blinked constantly, to clear tears that gathered and spilled in the corners.
She leaned towards me. ‘Want to hold hands?’ she said. She extended one arm. ‘You could be my friend,’ she said. She took my hand in hers. Her skin was soft and barely warm. She closed her fingers round mine in a tight grip and raised her arm. ‘Look,’ she said, forcing her fist close to my face, ‘nice and red.’ Each nail was scarlet and filed into a neat oval.
‘That’s lovely,’ I said.
Her grip relaxed. ‘I’m allowed,’ she said. ‘Because I’m a big girl now.’
I stroked my thumb against each glossy tip. ‘You are,’ I said. ‘And you’re a clever girl.’
Her expression changed. It was as if the years unwound from her like wool from a spool. ‘Am I?’ she said.
I nodded. I squeezed her hand. ‘Very clever.’ I could see her struggling, clutching at her thoughts as a swimmer surfacing on to wet stone gropes for a purchase.
‘I am,’ she said eventually. She dropped my hand. ‘I was.’
‘Now, Mother.’ Sheila took the stairs at a surprising trot to reach us. ‘What are you doing out here? It isn’t lunchtime.’ She turned to me with a small laugh, one hand on her mother’s overstuffed elbow. ‘She doesn’t know what time it is.’
Her mother undid one of the many sashes and cords at her waist then retied it, grunting with effort. ‘I’m a prisoner,’ she whispered to me. ‘They won’t let me out. I shouldn’t be here.’
‘Oh, Mother, really,’ Sheila said and raised her eyes at me, not letting go of the old woman, shuffling nearer to keep hold of her. They clung to each other like boxers at the end of a bout.
‘What have I done with my life?’ The old woman crumpled where she stood. Sheila dropped her mother’s arm, which hung down at once, as if it were only loosely fastened at the shoulder. They stared at each other.
‘Mother,’ Sheila said, ‘come back to your room. Let’s look at your photograph albums. You’ll see exactly what a marvellous time you’ve had. Again!’ This word was flung at me, with another eye roll.
The old woman gathered herself, pulling flapping material and sashes into place. It was like watching a marquee buffeted by high winds.
‘The only thing I’ve achieved,’ she said, to neither of us in particular, ‘the only thing I’ve achieved is not dying young.’
I watched Sheila guide her along the landing. The way to the stairs – my escape route – was clear.
‘Just a moment, Marion,’ said Sheila without turning round, as if she read my thoughts. ‘I’ll see you out. Two secs!’
It was not negotiable.
‘Where are you off to, then, did you say?’ Sheila came down the stairs brushing her hands together as if they’d been dusty. The little box of medical wares was gone. Perhaps she’d been performing some sort of procedure.
‘I need to get some nice biscuits.’ I thought of the uneaten trio Sheila had offered. ‘Bridget’s coming.’
‘Oh, well, I don’t think I’ll come with you on that outing,’ Sheila said, as though we’d made a plan. ‘But next time you’re off to town, let me know. Once I’ve got things sorted here’ –
she gestured towards the ceiling – ‘I’m a free agent. I’ll tell you a funny thing . . .’ She took two steps towards me, glancing about her as if all the rooms nearby were full of people. ‘You know that little coffee bar in the middle of Temple’s?’ She paused to give me time to imagine it. It was a functional, plain space on the ground floor. ‘Do you know who loves going there?’
I shook my head.
‘Adrian Cavanagh. I know!’ she said, seeing me react. ‘Imagine him and all the ladies. Usually it’s just somewhere for a drink and a bun when you’ve finished buying bras, isn’t it?’
I felt hot. Why did Sheila want me to know that? It was odd enough that he chose to spend any time in the rather gloomy café in the middle of the entirely gloomy department store. It was even stranger for Sheila to tell me this with such glee. ‘Does he?’ I said, as lightly as I could. ‘I only really go there for school uniforms. It’s not very glamorous.’
‘Adrian doesn’t mind that,’ Sheila said. ‘I don’t think glamour is high on his list of attributes.’
I couldn’t tell which was more upsetting, the ownership of Adrian’s desires or his choice of location.
‘Anyway,’ she said. ‘Next time you’re in there, pop in. See if he’s there. Say hello. And if you fancy company on the train, let me know. We could have lunch at Wooller’s.’ She rubbed an invisible mark on the glossy paintwork. ‘I’ll be round for you to sign our petition as soon as it’s printed.’ She opened the door. ‘I meant to say,’ she said, ‘Sarah’s growing up, isn’t she? I saw her setting off the other day – I presume she was meeting some of her friends, she wasn’t wearing her uniform. In fact, she was hardly wearing anything at all. If skirts get any shorter . . .’ She turned to face me. ‘It must be a bit peculiar to have a young woman about the place; she’s not a little girl any more, is she? My mother didn’t like it at all, when I started growing up. Too much like competition. Anyway.’ She brushed her hands together again, dismissing the topic
and me. ‘Anyway, mustn’t keep you.’ She opened the front door and hurried me out.
I wanted to get on a train, right away, and go to Temple’s and try to find him. ‘For goodness’ sake, Marion, stop it,’ I said aloud. ‘Just go and buy your bloody biscuits.’
Chapter 35
30 September
There’s a little drawing of Mum tucked inside the cover of The Naked Ape. She’s hidden the book in her dressing table drawer because it’s got some dirty stuff in it. I don’t know why she’s hidden the picture. It’s a small sketch of the top half of her – you can just see her bare shoulders. Her hair is spread out to one side; it’s long and wavy. I don’t remember her ever having long hair. When I first saw the picture, I put it away quickly. I felt as embarrassed as if I’d seen her naked. You can sort of tell whoever drew it couldn’t stop looking at her. Her eyes are closed. Properly closed. Like if you’re really sound asleep. Or when you’re dead.
We did levitation the other day. Isobel volunteered. We stood in a circle round her and chanted all the usual stuff – you shall rest, you shall sleep, you shall rise – then slid our hands underneath her. We managed to get her about a foot in the air before she wriggled and laughed and fell. But when she was lying down with her eyes shut, it made me think of that drawing of Mum. I suddenly thought she was waiting to be lifted, too. I don’t know why but it made me feel sorry for her, which I didn’t like. I think I broke the levitation spell because I was holding up Isobel’s fat bum and that’s the first place that hit the ground.
I didn’t see Adrian Mr Cavanagh until he stood in front of me. I was reciting the list of enzymes for the stupid test and I’d just got to maltase when he said hello. I jumped. He said I was obviously deep in thought and he was sorry he startled me, but he didn’t sound sorry. Some of the Upper Sixth girls came past us and he turned and watched them walk away. That made me feel cross, because he wasn’t concentrating properly on me. I said are you waiting for Bobbie and he looked at me for so long I went red. He said no, I’m waiting for you. He set off down the road and I had to walk quite fast to keep up with him. He said let’s get in the car. It was weird sitting there. I felt very close to him, as if I were actually breathing in air he’d just breathed out. He asked about stuff I did after school, if I’d got any day when I could meet him. We’d just do a sketch, he said. Wouldn’t take long. I said maybe Wednesday. My voice sounded high and wobbly, like those girls who flunk the Bible reading in assembly. He said okay, next week then and leaned right across me to open the door. I didn’t want to get out. I wanted his weight on me for ever, his hair almost touching my chin. Afterwards I felt as if I were separated from something that had been keeping me upright and I leaned against the bus stop so I wouldn’t keel over.
Chapter 36
23.03. Michael raises his arm as instructed by the nurse and holds it aloft as she wraps the cuff around it. His gesture is not without effort. He can’t remember a time when he could make any movement without preparing for it and working hard to carry it out. They wait together as the cuff inflates; he watches her note the numbers. It doesn’t matter what she writes down, he thinks. Unless it’s a matter of a slight acceleration of proceedings or – less likely – a slowing down, he’s aware of exactly where he’s heading. She takes his hand and replaces it on the cover, as if it had become out of place. He feels a perceptible jolt at the contact; it is rare that someone touches him now without medical purpose.
He thinks of Eddie, aged about six, falling from his bicycle. Running behind him, Michael accelerated towards his sprawled figure and had begun exhorting him to get up, telling him he was fine until he reached him and saw the blood running from his knee. Even then, Michael had chanted phrases about bravery and getting back in the saddle. Eddie cried with increasing vigour as he watched the red stream flow. Michael was crouching beside him, inspecting the damage to the bicycle as much as to his son, when Eddie flung his arms round his father’s neck and clung to him. Michael had held him before, of course, but only by arrangement. The baby Eddie was put briefly into his arms, just long enough for Michael to register the combination of wool and warmth and to feel slightly shocked, horrified, even, by his son’s tight, red face. The toddler Eddie had squirmed on his lap before someone – usually Marion – took him away. It seemed to him that he’d never before felt this chosen embrace, the texture of Eddie’s skin, his breath. Michael had felt grateful for his son’s unhesitating, uncomplicated need. It was one of the few moments in his life when he knew exactly who he was. Being this boy’s father was enough of everything. The way his small, slight body fitted alongside his own completed him. Eddie only let go when he wanted to examine his wound more closely. Michael didn’t hurry them home.
He will cut loose from this eking out of his days soon. He has really only himself to consider, after all.
Chapter 37
Sheila’s words repeated in my head. I had no reason to go to Temple’s. It was an expedition, involving trains and fares and plans. If I went and he wasn’t there, that would be half a day gone. If he was there, what would I do? I had a sensation of heightened tension, as if I were being watched. Or as if I were the spy, waiting for my quarry to reveal himself.
There was no one behind the counter of the Terrible Shop. The bell that sounded when the door opened was very loud. I looked without any appetite at the packets of biscuits. Did Bridget like plain ones or prefer chocolate? I’d better get both. Chocolate rolls in little foil wrappers and some digestives.
The shopkeeper emerged from somewhere in the far reaches of the space behind the counter. He was chewing a generous mouthful with elaborate circles of his cheeks. He wiped his hands over his mouth, one after the other like a cat. He was more bulldog than feline, his head large with full jowls. ‘Do you want a bit of light on the subject?’ he said. He reached for a switch on the wall and a neon bulb above him flickered into life. The shop’s contents looked no more appealing under this light.
‘Thank you.’ I handed him the packets.
He slid one hand the length of his brown overall before taking them. ‘Right,’ he said, continuing to retrieve food from his teeth with the tip of his tongue. The sound of it was unnerving, wet and sticky. The strip light buzzed. He wiped his other hand against his chest, then keyed in the price very slowly on the cash register in front of him. Each key pinged loudly as he depressed them, his index finger sticking out straight and pink. The numbers bobbed up behind the glass.
‘Plus VAT,’ he said sonorously. ‘Anything else?’
I shook my head. I was glad I had the exact money in my purse. I could drop the coins straight on to his palm. I was reluctant to touch his skin. He turned off the light as I left.
Bridget arrived with a flourish. She kissed me on the cheek, which I couldn’t remember happening before. She wore a fitted lime-green dress which stuck stiffly out at the hem, and her fringe was flattened across her forehead in little rows, like corn. ‘You haven’t seen me in a dress since for ever, have you?’ She hung her coat over the banister. ‘That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it, Maz?’
I laughed. ‘It’s nice,’ I said, ‘to see someone dressed up. Nobody bothers much in the countryside.’
‘You need a reason, don’t you,’ Bridget said. She breathed in sharply and bit her lip. ‘Oh, Marion.’ She looked away quickly towards the kitchen and the back door beyond, as though she thought she heard other visitors. I waited. Bridget seemed about to say something else but instead she went to the mirror and turned her head this way and that, examining her rigid hair.
‘Lunch?’ I said brightly. ‘I thought I’d just do a salad.’
‘Fine. I’m not very hungry.’ Bridget tugged at the waistband of her dress. It gripped her tightly; a little roll of flesh circled just above the belt. ‘This is new,’ she said, still wrestling. ‘Do you like it?’
I had the distinct impression my approval was not required. ‘It’s such a lovely colour,’ I lied. ‘It suits you,’ I added, heaping
another falsehood on to the pile.
‘I’d never normally wear this colour,’ Bridget said, her cheeks flushing, which didn’t help. Again, she seemed on the verge of saying more. ‘Anyway, I brought you this.’ She fished in the bottom of a carrier bag and retrieved a box of Terry’s All Gold. We both stared at it. ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, Marion. I really meant to get you something proper, but I’d left it too late and there was only this awful shop next to the station. I actually had to dust this packet with my scarf after I’d bought it. It must have been on the shelf for ages.’
‘I went to a terrible shop to buy biscuits, so we’re quits,’ I said. ‘The shopkeeper was very greasy, so I might have to clean the packets before I even open them.’
‘Marion.’ Bridget stood with her arms by her sides as though she didn’t trust herself not to make a sudden movement. ‘It’s no good. I’ve absolutely got to tell you something.’
‘Here?’ Standing in the hall felt awkward. Where was the best place for a confidence? ‘Shall I get lunch while you tell me?’
‘I can’t eat!’ Bridget flung her head back towards the ceiling, her little blonde bob tipped back in a solid clump.
Just as well, I thought, that I’m not hungry either. ‘Come in here,’ I said. The sitting room was untouched since last night. The Radio Times lay opened at yesterday’s page and some of Eddie’s toy farm animals were still in their knitting-needle-fenced enclosure on the rug. He’d raided the sewing box to create the farm: the little horses drank from a darning mushroom and there was a copse of bobbin trees. I knelt and gathered them up. Eddie would be angry when he found I’d moved them. ‘Sorry, I meant to tidy in here,’ I said, but I could tell from Bridget’s expression that even if we’d discovered a corpse, or the aftermath of a small fire, it wouldn’t have distracted her.
