by Janet Ellis
Even if Bridget’s choice of dress was an odd one, it had perked her up. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d shopped for frivolous clothes for myself. Michael had been amused to see me darning the elbows of an old jumper and he’d given me some money to get a new one before I’d even asked, but that was months ago. I looked down at my slacks; the knees protruded at an odd angle. I ought to get new trousers before buying anything prettier. Sarah and Eddie outgrew their uniforms before each term was out – I should consider that, too. I’d once come home with a little turquoise dress for Sarah, which I’d bought on an impulse from the charity shop by the bus stop. When she’d realised it was second-hand, she’d refused to wear it.
The telephone rang. Who on earth would be calling now? It wouldn’t be Bridget this quickly, surely, unless she wanted to put in a date for her tryst and had stopped to find a call box. Or perhaps she was going to ask me if I’d mind covering up for her for an entire month, or even two.
‘3262.’ I stood in the hall with the phone wire stretched to reach my ear. I twisted the loops, threading them round each finger.
‘Marion?’ It was Michael. Had something happened to Eddie? Why else would he call me? ‘How is your day?’ he said.
I’ve made a fish pie. I bought some biscuits. My friend wants me to say she’s with me while she stays the night with her lover. And I’ve been thinking about someone else all the time. Another man. ‘Oh, fine,’ I said. ‘Nothing much to report.’
‘I’m going to invite Don and Priscilla over, as you suggested. It’s a good idea,’ Michael said. ‘What about Saturday week? It doesn’t clash with anything, does it?’
‘Just some bullfighting and a visit to the undersea world of Jacques Cousteau,’ I said.
Michael laughed.
‘No,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t. Michael, can I get a new outfit to wear then, do you think? I know it’s a bit daft, minding what I’m wearing when they come, but I haven’t had anything new for ages.’
‘Of course, you don’t have to ask, Moo.’ Michael cut across me. He sounded embarrassed by the request.
‘I’ll take myself into town, I think.’ I felt my throat constrict with excitement. ‘I’ll probably go to Temple’s.’ In the musical of my life, I thought, the orchestra would come in here with a big, triumphant anthem.
‘Good idea. See you later.’ He hung up without saying goodbye. He’d never liked using the telephone, he regarded it only as a means of passing on and receiving basic information. He couldn’t understand how Sarah could chat for hours with her school friends. ‘What on earth do they talk about?’ he’d say. ‘They’ve been together all day.’
I wrote D and P in the little square for that Saturday’s date. We’d eat at the dining table, I couldn’t have them bunched up in the kitchen. That made me think of Adrian, his knees against the table. Everything made me think of him now. If Adrian hadn’t come today, there would be reasons: good, solid reasons. It couldn’t be because I hadn’t been in his thoughts as much as he was in mine. I could not admit that he might not even have thought of me at all. I felt a clutch of panic at the image of him and Sarah in even a brief conversation. I inspected the sensation, gingerly edging towards the most appalling conclusion. Supposing he wanted her? With relief, as if I’d turned off the timer on a ticking bomb, I dismissed the idea. She was a child, only just past the age of hopscotch and stuffed toys. That’s what he would see, too.
‘Right,’ I said aloud. ‘Hair wash.’ The bathroom cupboards were an assortment of shapes and sizes. Rubber things – hot-water bottles, the suckered mat for the base of the bath to stop babies slipping – were stuck together on one shelf. There were spots of black mould on each surface. I squeezed the shower’s little cups on to the taps and bent over the bath. I gritted my teeth as cold water pricked my scalp. Supposing Adrian came now? I covered my hair with a towel when I’d finished, twisting it like a turban, and hurried to the bedroom window. No car. There was someone standing there, though, looking up as if he’d been waiting for me. I darted my head back instinctively, but I knew I’d been seen. I looked out again, as if I meant it this time, and Tom Spencer waved and smiled. He put both hands in the pockets of his flimsy jacket and felt in them till he found a tightly folded piece of paper. He unfolded it carefully and held it up, but of course it was too far away to read. ‘I’ll come down,’ I mouthed, pointing to the door below.
He nodded.
When I opened the front door, he was already on the step. He hesitated, holding the paper against his chest. ‘Oh, Tom, what is it?’ I said. He looked past me, obviously wanting to come inside. I sighed. ‘Come in for a moment, then. I can finish this later.’ I gestured to my head.
He looked at me as if he’d only just noticed the towel arrangement. ‘Did you wash your hair?’ he said. He followed me into the kitchen and sat down at the table.
‘I’m being sponsored,’ he said, looking hard at his paper. ‘I’m going to walk ten miles and then I can give the money to the dogs.’
‘That’s a long way.’ I extended my hand for the paper. He smoothed it out on the table before giving it to me. Miles for Mates, I read. Support a Sponsored Walk to raise money for Man’s Best Friend. It was illustrated with cartoon dogs walking on their hind legs and wearing hats. Below were several columns, detailing miles it was hoped would be achieved and the amount promised and by whom. So far, only his mother had added her name.
‘Have you got a dog?’ I said, getting up to look for a pen.
He shook his head. ‘They’re a lot of work,’ he said. ‘They need exercise every day and you can’t just leave them and who’s going to look after it if we go on holiday?’
I smiled at his recitation; someone had taught him well. ‘That’s all true,’ I said, sitting back down. ‘It’s extra nice of you to raise money for them.’
‘They’re abandoned,’ he said, without emotion. ‘It’s to find them homes.’
‘Right, well, let’s help then, shall we?’ I wrote my name and matched his mother’s offer. It was very low, but it would have seemed presumptuous to exceed it. I looked up.
He was staring at me. ‘Is your hair all wet underneath? Can I see?’
I unwrapped the damp towel and ran my fingers through my hair. He watched passively, as if I were on a screen. Then he stretched out his hand and placed it on the top of my head. He held his palm flat against my hair. I stayed still for a moment, for several heartbeats, then I moved backwards in my chair. He pulled his hand away. He looked as fearful as when he’d touched my shoulder.
‘I expect your mother does this,’ I said. ‘Washes her hair, then waits for it to dry.’ I shook my head as if that would speed the process. My voice sounded too loud and too bright. His nervousness made me feel sorry for him. I didn’t want to pity him. I thought there were probably enough people feeling sorry for him already.
‘Yes, she does,’ he said, but I wasn’t convinced he knew if she did or not.
‘I’m going to make a cup of tea,’ I said. ‘Would you like one before you go?’ The chair’s legs scraping against the floor as I stood sounded aggressively noisy.
‘No, thank you.’ He began to fold the paper, carefully obeying the creases.
I shouldn’t have invited him in, but he seemed so lost, somehow, and trying so hard to behave as he should. We listened to the kettle’s accelerating roar together and he watched in silence as I ladled leaves from the caddy. ‘We’ve got that spoon,’ he said.
‘What?’ I looked down at the pink plastic spoon with a little teapot instead of a handle. ‘Oh, this. It was a free gift,’ I said, then hoped it wasn’t offensive to suggest Molly Spencer didn’t pay for things. ‘Useful!’ I said brightly.
To my relief, Eddie came in through the door in a whirlwind of flung blazer and dropped school bag.
‘Can’avesomemilk?’ he said, as if it were all one word. ‘Hello,’ he said to Tom, sliding on to the seat opposite him. He took the unexpected appearance of this person in his strid
e. Tom had the wary but tolerant look of an old dog with a puppy.
‘How was your day?’ I said. It was pointless to ask Eddie, really. When I asked him what he’d been doing, or even what he’d had for lunch, he could never remember. It was as if the school gates scrubbed away his day when he left, like a car going through the wash. Besides, he didn’t connect the outside world with anything that happened at school. He knew he had to be there each day and that was enough.
‘Fine,’ he said.
He accepted my proffered glass of milk and bread and jam without comment. ‘Thank you,’ I said, putting my hand briefly on his head as though I were blessing, not correcting, him. When he set the glass down, he had a thick moustache of milk on his top lip. He wiped it against the sleeve of his jumper. He stared at Tom, the milky beads still shining on his arm.
‘What’s the matter with your head?’ he asked conversationally.
Tom frowned. ‘Eh?’ he said. He twisted his jaw from side to side and each joint creaked.
‘Mummy says you’ve got something wrong with your head. What’s the matter with it?’
I felt as if the entire surface of my skin were being exposed to heat. Embarrassment flamed against my chest and head, scorching my back and burning the tops of my limbs. I knew my face was scarlet. The kitchen was entirely silent, except for the faint ‘tock’ of the clock on the wall.
Eddie breathed in as if he were about to ask something else, but Tom said, ‘I’m slow,’ before he could speak. ‘I’m just a bit slow. I can manage.’
‘Can you do sums?’ Eddie ran his tongue over his upper lip to catch the last of the milk stain.
‘I’m good at sums,’ Tom said. ‘And that is always a useful skill.’ His slight emphasis on the last two words suggested he wasn’t quite sure of their meaning.
‘Can you read?’ Eddie propped his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his hands and tugged at the skin below his eyes, exposing the pink inside his lower lids.
‘Course. I’m not stupid. I’m only slow.’
‘Have you read The Wind in the Willows? It’s a chapter book. Miss Cargill is reading it to us at school. But I’ve got that book at home, too. And it’s at school, as well,’ he added, in case there was any doubt.
Tom shook his head.
Eddie looked gleeful. ‘Would you like to borrow it? You can take my book. Mummy?’ He looked enquiringly at me, animated by his plan. ‘You can take it. It’s quite long,’ he warned. He was still in the habit of measuring his reading by density.
I watched Tom’s face. His expression was neutral.
Eddie was not deterred. ‘I’m going to get it. Stay here,’ he instructed, including me in his last sweep of the room.
‘Have you got time to wait?’ As soon as I’d spoken, I felt foolish.
‘I can wait a minute,’ Tom said, as if he might well be busy later.
Eddie was gone for longer than was comfortable, but I didn’t want to begin another conversation or start any task. I couldn’t think of anything to say without referring to Eddie’s embarrassing statement. I took tiny sips of tea from my mug, making sure I didn’t empty it. Once or twice, I caught Tom’s eye. His gaze was steady. I was the one who looked away. I was on the verge of offering him something to eat, to break the silence, when Eddie returned. He held the book close to him. I could tell he was reluctant to let it go now and that he was regretting his earlier generosity.
‘Tom will bring it back as soon as he’s finished it,’ I said, sounding as positive as I could. ‘Won’t you?’ I said.
‘Yes, miss, I will,’ he said. He took the book without a word and got up. ‘Thank you for sponsoring me.’ He put the slip of paper back in his pocket and went to the back door.
I watched him go. He held the book with no particular reverence. I looked round for Eddie, but he’d left the room. Moments later, he howled with disapproval as he discovered the dismantled toy farm. I heard him chatter to himself as he reassembled it.
I felt exhausted. Adrian obviously wasn’t coming now. I thought of his coat sweeping the floor, his large presence. I wanted him. It was so long since I had felt desire that when it first fluttered, then swelled, I placed my hands just below my stomach as if I could actually feel something through my clothes. The stout Crimplene of my slacks was as effective as a muffler. I was being ridiculous. It was only happening because I hadn’t really had a proper conversation with a man for ages. I was out of practice, that was all. Michael didn’t count. Husbands didn’t. Unless, apparently, they were someone else’s.
With renewed enthusiasm, I set the table and put a pan of water on to boil. We’d have frozen peas with the pie. And I’d let everyone have as much tomato ketchup as they liked.
Chapter 40
Eddie climbed on to the sofa. He still had his shoes on, but it wasn’t raining when he came home and he hadn’t trodden in anything, so that was okay. He sat down facing the wall and shuffled until his bottom was against the cushions and his legs towards the ceiling. He lay on his back for several minutes, enjoying the different view of the room from that angle, then he raised his arms above his head and wiggled backwards until his hands and head touched the floor. With a grunt, he swung his legs over, too. Then he pushed his legs back on to the sofa in a clumsy headstand. It was close to doing a real one, he thought. Lots of people at school spent the whole of playtime tumbling against a wall, the girls’ dresses falling to reveal their knickers. He couldn’t imagine being brave enough to swap the soft cushions of this landing for real concrete.
You could still see tiny brown dots where the dog died in the hallway, if you knew where to look. Although his mother had scrubbed at it, gaps in the parquet flooring held on to the dried blood. They’d called the RSPCA, who’d come and rolled the little body into a blanket and carried it away. Eddie had felt a sense of privilege that he’d been in the same room as a living thing that stopped breathing. He’d elaborated on the story at school, until he’d almost come to believe his father had tried to save the dog’s life – not just with his care and concern, but with actual surgery. The inevitable ending was still too sad to bear. He’d gone to the dustbin later and torn a strip from the bloodied newspaper the dog had lain on. From time to time he examined this trophy, noting with forensic concentration the way the colour deepened to a dark brown.
He tried not to believe in ghosts but his grandparents, long dead before he was even born, moved things in his room or troubled the hours before he fell asleep. He’d seen some pictures of them. Even though they didn’t look much fun – in fact, they looked either sad or a bit cross, as if they knew they weren’t going to be alive much longer – they looked normal in the photographs. But at night, they had skulls instead of faces and bleeding wounds which were visible through their clothes. He chanted times tables or sang hymns in his head to try to dislodge them. He whistled for the dead dog’s ghost as he walked, though, in case dog ghosts were real, too.
Chapter 41
‘How was choir?’ I asked.
Sarah regarded me coolly. ‘Okay,’ she said.
‘Nice pieces?’ I said.
‘I suppose so.’ Sarah pushed some peas on to her fork with her knife. ‘Something for prize-giving. ‘Agnus Dei’. Then we start Christmas stuff. Descants for carols. Handel.’ She lifted her mouthful carefully, keeping everything balanced.
‘Handel?’ Eddie seized on the word. ‘Like door handle?’
Nobody answered him.
‘I need a cardboard box,’ he said, wiping one finger in the pool of tomato sauce on his plate and licking it. ‘I’ve got to take one to school tomorrow.’
‘What for?’ I said. ‘Don’t do that, Eddie.’
‘A project.’ Eddie examined his finger for traces of flavour. ‘I don’t know. Making something.’
‘You must have known before now, Eddie.’ I sighed as I opened a cupboard to inspect the contents. I picked up and shook several packets in turn. ‘Nothing’s nearly finished.’ I regarded a half-full cereal
packet. ‘I suppose you could take this and I’ll find something to put the cornflakes in.’ I pulled the cellophane bag free.
‘You’ve definitely got some Tupperware,’ Michael said. ‘In fact, you bought enough from Franny to get her a car.’
‘Yes, I did,’ I said. My friend’s brief sojourn as a saleslady meant that I’d bought pretty much every shape of container from her, out of loyalty.
‘Here.’ Michael carried several assorted, yellowing boxes. They were as scratched as if they’d been used for target practice in a quarry and smelled strongly of plastic.
‘Cer-e-al,’ Eddie said in a sing-song voice, examining the empty box. ‘Do you ’member the pony contetition, Sarah?’ Eddie upended the box and shook it. Fragments as fine as dust fell on to the table.
‘Competition. Stop making a mess.’ Sarah stood up. ‘Can I leave the table?’
‘You were going to win a pony, ’member?’ Eddie persisted. ‘You said you were going to keep it in the garden. You said you were going to teach me to ride.’
Sarah ignored him. ‘I’ve got homework. Can I leave the table, please?’ She moved towards the door.
‘Oh yes, I remember that.’ Michael turned from the draining board where he’d been piling crockery. ‘I’m surprised you do, though, Eddie. You must only have been about three. That’s right, isn’t it, Sarah? You were about nine or ten. That was pretty much a gymkhana summer. You wore a riding hat all the time, squashed over your plaits. Have you still got all your rosettes?’
