Everything is Beautiful

by Eleanor Ray

  She was very careful with her vases and bottles, of course she was. But every now and again, one decided that it had had enough of life and flung itself to the floor. Shards of broken glass had embedded themselves in Amy’s feet a number of times, until she’d made the wise choice to invest in rubber-soled slippers.

  She made her way down the stairs, holding tight to the handrail to make sure she didn’t lose her footing over the boxes and crates that had somehow ended up squatting on the staircase. Edging through the hallway and sighing at the sight of the newspapers littering the floor, Amy went into the kitchen to make herself a cup of tea.

  The choice of mugs was a favourite moment in the day. So many beautiful options lined her counters. She’d just decided that today was a china teacup with a gold rim sort of day, when the doorbell rang.

  It gave her a bit of a fright. It didn’t ring often and was never who she hoped for. It didn’t help that the bell delivered an ungainly rendition of the first bars of Beethoven’s Fifth that would make the great man turn in his grave. Amy added a new doorbell to her mental shopping list and decided to wait it out and hope whoever it was went away.

  The person outside, finding the bell ineffective, started pounding on the door.

  Then silence.

  Amy peered into the hallway in the hope that whoever it was had given up. A pair of brown eyes stared back at her, framed by her letterbox. There was a clatter as the eyes disappeared and a mouth adorned with a peachy shade of lipstick came into her rectangular field of vision.

  ‘I can see you,’ said the mouth. Of course it was all a lie; mouths can’t see. ‘Please open the door.’

  Amy debated opening the door only to the extent that the chain would allow, but that always made her feel like a paranoid old lady. She hadn’t yet turned forty. Instead she extracted her keys from her handbag, opened the door just enough to squeeze outside, then deftly swung it closed behind her before her visitor could see any more of her hallway.

  Her next-door neighbour, Rachel, was still crouching with her mouth pressed to where the letterbox had just been and it left the women awkwardly close, Rachel at crotch height to Amy. It was a position neither relished, and Rachel stood up and stepped backwards, looking put out.

  ‘Can I help you?’ enquired Amy, with the least helpful tone she could muster.

  Rachel made a sighing sound that reminded Amy of a horse. ‘Smudge found another mouse,’ she said. ‘He dragged it across our new ivory carpet last night and left a trail of blood. I can’t get it off.’

  Amy glanced at her front garden, deciding that it was time to water her potted geraniums again. The plants had grown leggy and the flowers, once postbox red, were rather brown, but the glazed pots they lived in were still a beautiful shade of crimson. Her rose had little green buds of promise that matched its own green pot and she could smell her honeysuckle, clinging to the front of her house as it snaked up from the large, deep blue pot that reminded her of the ocean.

  ‘Amy!’ said Rachel. Amy looked back at her neighbour. ‘Are you even listening to me?’

  ‘I’m sorry for the mouse, poor little thing,’ Amy replied eventually. ‘But Smudge is your cat. I really don’t know why it’s got anything to do with me.’

  ‘You know why.’

  ‘Of course I don’t,’ replied Amy, wondering why Rachel blamed her problems on Amy. Too much time on her hands, she suspected.

  ‘I’ve had enough. It’s the final straw. Things have to change.’

  ‘You’re getting rid of Smudge?’ suggested Amy.

  ‘No,’ said Rachel. ‘I’m going to call the council. The mice are coming from your house. I know they are.’

  Amy was sure Rachel could know no such thing, unless she spent her evenings tracking mice through the cellars of Ivydale Close. The walls were thin enough for Amy to know that that was not what she did of an evening. She argued with her husband, watched EastEnders and then had noisy sex, presumably with said husband. The smell of cigarette smoke used to follow all three activities, but recently Amy had smelt something sweeter. She wondered briefly if Rachel had made the unlikely transition from smoking to baking, until she realised it was the saccharine flavour of a vanilla vape wafting through the air.

  ‘I’ve never seen a mouse in my house,’ Amy replied.

  ‘They’ll be hiding under all your rubbish.’

  ‘There is no rubbish in my house,’ said Amy, with pride. Her house was fairly full, of course, but that was because it was filled to the brim with treasures.

  ‘We both know that’s not true,’ replied Rachel.

  ‘And I’d thank you to keep that cat away from my property,’ continued Amy. ‘I hate to think of the damage he could do to my birds.’

  Rachel rolled her eyes at the mention of Amy’s birds and opened her mouth, but her words remained unspoken. Both women were distracted by the growl of a large engine. Their little street of suburban terraced two-up two-downs rarely saw much traffic, and they both turned to watch as a large moving van pulled in.

  ‘Old Mrs Hill’s place. It must be,’ said Rachel. The women enjoyed a temporary truce as they watched the van attempt to park.

  Amy missed Mrs Hill. She’d been a perfect neighbour, quiet and undemanding. Even when Amy had shared the house with Tim and Chantel, they’d never made it beyond a gentle nod of greeting and an occasional muttered ‘hello’ if either was feeling particularly gregarious. In fact, she didn’t even notice that Mrs Hill was gone until her grown-up children turned up one day to fill up their cars with her possessions. Sad as she’d been, there followed a glorious time with no neighbours at all on that side, a luxury rarely afforded in the area. Then the ‘For Sale’ sign was replaced with a triumphant boast from the estate agent. Sold.

  And now, here they were. Her new neighbours.

  Well, not exactly. Two men in bright blue overalls emerged from the truck and opened it up. ‘I’m going to see if they’d like a cuppa,’ said Rachel, trotting over to the van. She turned back to Amy as she went. ‘Sort out the mice or I will be forced to report you. I mean it this time.’

  She watched Rachel smiling at the removals men while trying to get a good peek inside the truck. Amy went back into her house. She couldn’t help but want to nose too, but she decided to take a subtler tack and headed to her living room.

  Even she had to admit, this room was at capacity. Boxes were piled up like pyramids. Some had mirrors leaning on them, some had vases still waiting for flowers. There were several clocks that had long since ceased to tick. Lighters were scattered like confetti on what little floor space there was.

  Many boxes were adorned with birds.

  Amy kept as many of her birds out as she could. It seemed cruel to have them cooped up in darkness when they loved the sunlight, but Amy couldn’t make space for them all to be free at once. She’d kept the sofa mostly clear to give herself a rather indulgent place to sit, and she’d also made sure she had a thin walkway to the window. She traversed her miniature ravine, then turned back to admire the room.

  Hundreds of little china eyes peered back at her. She’d quite a collection in her aviary, as she liked to call it. Inquisitive blue tits, exotic parakeets, diving swifts, angry jays, proud kingfishers. Perched on shelves, on boxes, on the windowsill.

  Exquisite.

  She felt she shouldn’t have favourites, but she couldn’t help herself. She approached the windowsill and placed a gentle hand on Scarlett’s back. Amy still remembered the moment she’d found her in the bargain bin of Amy’s favourite charity shop. The china body of a robin, her breast bright red and her eyes gleaming. Full of hope. But her delicate legs were broken and her feet were nowhere to be seen.

  Amy had frantically rummaged through the bin, to the amusement of the volunteer staff, until she emerged triumphant with the robin’s china perch, complete with spindly feet still tightly gripping the branch. She’d bought the bird at once and rushed home. Some glue and a nervous wait later, and the robin was whole again
, albeit with legs that would forever be crooked.

  That didn’t matter to Amy, of course. She loved her all the more for her imperfections. She pulled the curtain to one side and they looked out of the window together.

  Rachel was flicking her hair around and laughing at something the younger of the two removals men had said, and the older man was unloading chairs from the van alone. He had a round belly and nasty cough. Amy peered at the chairs. There were four: wooden and nondescript. Not much to be gleaned about the new neighbours from that.

  Amy had barely noticed it at first, but the area, once having rather a grimy edge, had gradually become desirable. Laundromats had been replaced by artisan bakeries and the price of a cup of coffee had gone up fourfold. Couples and young families were snapping up properties like organic croissants. The houses were small and terraced, but came with gardens and an easy commute into the city. Amy supposed that she should be pleased that her house, which she had scrimped and saved for when her landlord wanted to sell it, had gone up in value. But the truth was it made no difference to her. She couldn’t imagine ever moving.

  What if Tim came back?

  She watched Rachel walk past Amy’s house and back to her own. Amy was pleased to see that the older man had the help of his companion again. They lifted a table out of the van, then unloaded something garish, bright yellow and plastic. Amy strained her eyes, trying to work out what it was.

  A car. She looked again. No, a bed in the shape of a car. A child’s bed.

  Damn.

  It was inevitable, she supposed, and there were other children on the street. But right next door? Her hand found Scarlett again, and for a moment, she imagined the robin to be quivering with fear. Children were breakers. They both knew that. Silently she promised Scarlett that she would keep her safe.

  She watched more furniture as it was paraded past her window. A futon. Bean bags. A number of house plants at various stages of dehydration. Numerous boxes, their contents a mystery.

  Rachel emerged from her house clutching a large plate with what looked to be a Victoria sponge sitting on top. She certainly hadn’t had time to bake it – she must have run to the local shop. Amy leaned forwards, pressing her forehead against the windowpane. Sure enough, Rachel was panting as she made her way past Amy’s house to old Mrs Hill’s place. Amy couldn’t see the door from her house, but she heard the bell ring and a woman answer. Not one but two children emerged from the house and into her field of vision.

  Both were boys. Amy couldn’t help but feel that was even worse news. A nursery rhyme about slugs and snails and puppy-dog tails started to play in her mind.

  The older child might have been eight or nine and began kicking a red football at the side of the removals van. Footballs could cause a lot of damage. Amy watched him kick, wondering if he had enough power to get it through her window. The younger child was perhaps three, and was watching his brother and sucking his thumb, and every once in a while throwing a little air kick.

  ‘Charles Frederick, stop kicking that football at once,’ commanded a woman’s voice from inside the house. ‘You’ll break something.’

  It was exactly what Amy had been thinking, and she was pleased to see that the boy obeyed her. He nestled the ball under his arm and bent down to pet Smudge, who’d left Amy’s front garden to entwine himself around the boy’s legs.

  The men left a pile of boxes on the pavement and all the adults disappeared inside the house. The voices stopped. Presumably Rachel and the men had been invited in for tea and maybe a piece of the cake. Amy found she was hungry herself and almost wished she’d been friendlier and could join them all. She decided to prepare a snack. She was pretty sure she still had a lump of cheddar in the fridge, and some crackers somewhere. She’d eat with Scarlett. She watched the older boy attempt to pick up Smudge, but the cat made a run for it.

  She heard a thud. The heartbreaking sound of something being smashed. Amy closed her eyes and put her hand to her head, fearing the worst. A sob broke out.

  It all came from outside, she told herself. Not her house. She opened her eyes and looked. Sure enough, one of the boxes had fallen. The smaller child was on top of it, his face crimson and his mouth bellowing in anguish. He must have tried to climb the boxes and had knocked one over.

  Amy hated the thought of anything at all being broken, but at least it was nothing of hers. The larger boy abandoned the cat and the ball and grabbed his brother in a big hug. The little boy held out his hands and his brother inspected them and dusted them off. The ball rolled away, making its escape from the scene of the crime.

  ‘Charles Frederick!’ Amy watched as their mother charged out of the house, ignored the small crying child and started to lambast his older brother. ‘What did I tell you about kicking your football here?’

  The boy muttered something inaudible, but Amy could tell from the hang of his head that he was taking the blame.

  ‘It’s the last straw,’ the woman continued. ‘I warned you. Didn’t I?’ Amy listened. There was something in the tone of voice that she didn’t like at all. For a moment she hesitated, wanting to keep the neighbours at arm’s length. Then she rushed out of her house, forgetting to close the door behind her.

  ‘It wasn’t him!’ she declared to the woman, who scowled at her for a moment before turning her gaze to the smaller child. He was holding his brother’s leg and had a little scrape on his knee that attested to his guilt. Amy found herself temporarily distracted by his T-shirt – a dinosaur sniffing anachronistically at a lighthouse.

  ‘Daniel Joseph!’ said the woman. ‘Was it you?’ The smaller child cowered and started to cry again. Amy felt terrible. This little boy getting in trouble wasn’t what she intended, even if he was to blame. A trickle of clear snot joined forces with the tears on his face. He paused from his crying to lick it up and Amy found herself feeling a little nauseous.

  His mother looked momentarily sickened too. ‘Get your brother a tissue,’ she said to the older boy.

  ‘It was me,’ said Charles Frederick, wiping his brother’s nose with his sleeve. ‘I knocked over the boxes. That woman is lying.’

  ‘You mustn’t accuse strange women of lying,’ said his mother. She turned to Amy and squeezed out a smile. ‘I’m so sorry about that. I don’t know where he gets his manners from.’ She wiped her hands on her jeans and reached one hand out to Amy, who was wondering what to feel about the ‘strange woman’ comment. ‘I’m Nina. These two are my partner’s children.’ She shrugged a little, looking as though she was feeling better now Amy knew that they were not her offspring.

  Inspiration struck Amy. ‘It was Smudge,’ she said.

  ‘Excuse me?’ said Nina.

  ‘Smudge knocked over the boxes,’ she said triumphantly. ‘Rachel’s cat,’ she added in explanation, seeing Rachel emerge from the house at the commotion, with a little cream at the corner of her mouth.

  ‘Oh gosh, I’m so sorry,’ said Rachel. ‘Of course I’ll pay for any damage.’

  ‘No need, I’m sure it’s nothing,’ said Nina pleasantly. Amy looked at the two women, uncomprehending. How could they be so relaxed when something could be damaged? ‘Let’s go back inside.’

  ‘Don’t you want to check the box?’ asked Amy. ‘What if one of your things is broken? A bottle, maybe, or a glass? You might need to repair it.’

  ‘What if it’s one of my diggers?’ asked Charles, looking anxious.

  ‘It’s not going to be urgent, is it?’ laughed Nina. ‘Will you join us for cake?’

  Amy’s stomach rumbled but she declined. ‘I’d really feel better if you checked in the box,’ she said. Rachel gave Nina a knowing look, and Amy had the impression that she’d already been a topic of conversation.

  ‘This is your new neighbour, Amy Ashton,’ said Rachel, sounding apologetic.

  ‘Can I look in the box?’ Amy was feeling increasingly sick. ‘I have some glue . . . ’

  Nina shrugged and walked to the box. ‘A few mugs and some to
ys were all that was in here,’ she dismissed, as she opened it. ‘Nothing valuable.’ Amy followed her, peering over her shoulder. A jumble of little yellow cars looked back at her. No, not cars. Diggers.

  ‘Are my JCBs okay?’ asked Charles, rushing over to the box and leaning in so far it seemed he might tumble inside. ‘My remote-controlled metal die-cast excavator was in there!’ He began to take out the toys one by one, including several still in their original boxes. He lined them up on the pavement. Smudge came over and gave them a curious sniff.

  ‘We’re trying to move into the house, not onto the kerb,’ said Nina. ‘Take those inside.’

  ‘They’re all OK,’ said Charles, looking relieved. ‘Tough machines, JCBs.’ He smiled at Amy.

  Amy looked at what remained in the box. An assortment of mugs, one clearly damaged. Nina followed her gaze. ‘Only one mug broken,’ said Nina cheerfully. ‘No real harm done.’

  It was no wonder a mug had been broken. The packaging was a couple of sheets of loose bubble wrap, woefully inadequate. Amy looked at the casualty. It was a beautiful shade of yellow with a pretty sheen to it, like butter melting on a summer’s day. The handle had come off and the mug itself was broken in two. It would always have a hairline scar down the middle, but all the pieces were there. Amy was sure she could fix it.

  ‘Stop,’ she exclaimed, as Nina went to toss the pieces into a large wheelie bin. ‘I can repair it.’

  ‘It’s just a cheap mug,’ said Nina. ‘Don’t bother.’

  ‘Let her,’ said Rachel. ‘It’s easier.’

  ‘Fine.’ Nina passed her the broken pieces and Amy cradled them carefully. ‘Thanks,’ Nina added, clearly not meaning it.

  Amy hurried back to her house. The door was still open, which was lucky as she’d not brought her key. It still made her uncomfortable. What if Smudge had crept inside? It could have been carnage for her birds. She vowed not to forget herself like that again.

  But despite her hurry, she could hear Rachel talking to Nina. ‘She didn’t used to be like this, apparently,’ she said, the excitement of gossip audible in her voice. ‘Poor Amy. It’s tragic, really, what she’s been through.’