Pillow Talk

by Freya North

  ‘Very nice area,’ Jonny nodded sagely. ‘Where did you grow up? Where were you living when we were all at school?’

  ‘Well, my teenage years were spent in a flat on the poor man's side of West Hampstead.’

  ‘Very des-res now,’ Jonny remarked.

  ‘But up until then, my family home was in that odd area between Hendon and Cricklewood.’

  ‘It's not so odd now,’ Jonny said. ‘Randoline Avenue.’

  ‘Randoline Avenue?’

  ‘You won't know it.’

  ‘I very do, my dear, I very do. I have currently two or three properties for sale there.’

  ‘Well, we lived at number 43.’

  ‘Number 43 is currently for sale,’ Jonny said, having not stopped nodding.

  ‘Yeah right!’ Petra laughed.

  ‘On those last hairs on Arlo's head do I swear that I have number forty-three Randoline Avenue, London, North-west two, on my books for sale. It is a three-bed, 1930s semi, with off-street parking. It came on the market a couple of months ago. We are sole agents.’

  ‘Bloody bloody hell!’ Petra marvelled.

  ‘Fifty-foot rear garden facing south-east, sizeable conservatory.’

  ‘Oh, can't be the same place – we didn't have a conservatory.’

  ‘The vendors put it in a couple of years ago.’

  ‘Did they? That's rather grandiose.’

  ‘It's added thirty grand to the price. I'll take you round if you like,’ Jonny said. ‘Nothing like a trip down Memory Lane.’

  Curiosity saw Petra taking up Jonny's offer on Monday lunch-time. Arlo accompanied them.

  ‘There it is!’ she said excitedly. ‘Fancy new drive. We had the front door red, not black.’

  But as Jonny's key went into the lock, Petra felt suddenly a little shy of the place. It had been almost twenty years. What memories could she possibly have, really? And what would be the point of unearthing new ones?

  Although she didn't recognize the smell of the place, the way the light bathed the entrance hallway from the tall window as the stairs climbed was immediately evocative. Arlo caught Jonny's arm swiftly, raised an eyebrow, and the men allowed Petra to take the lead. All the doors were shut. They had been stripped back to the bare wood though Petra distinctly remembered them as white gloss. Opening each was odd, in a Lewis Carroll way. With her hand on the doorknob, how the room used to look flashed across her mind's eye. When she pushed the door open, however, the interior was of course totally different. But seeing someone else's brown leather suite didn't cancel out the memory of her family's beige velvet one. And she could easily carpet over the current laminate flooring with an image of the rather pub-like blue-and-gold patterned wool mix of her childhood.

  ‘The kitchen's twice the size,’ she marvelled. ‘Blimey – and look at the conservatory.’ Everything was rather echoey. She turned to Jonny. ‘They don't have much stuff.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘they've already moved out. I just always suggest my clients part-furnish – or dress – the properties if they are empty. All this furniture is just hired while the house is on the market.’

  Petra led the way upstairs. All the doors were closed up there too. They were still the gloss white of her childhood and not stripped like those downstairs. ‘This was my bedroom,’ Petra said quietly, opening the door slowly and peeping through before stepping in. There was a single bed, in the same position hers had been. It appeared from the curtains and the wallpaper border that a boy had most recently had this room. The airing cupboard still jutted into the room from one corner and Petra wondered if it was the same hot water tank inside it, portly in its big red Puffa jacket. Did it still sigh and creak – as if to say that providing hot water for a family was so very onerous?

  Jonny and Arlo stood well back to allow Petra to continue her tour. Spare bedroom. Petra found her hand faltered. She moved on instead to the next room – the bathroom, now with corner bath freeing up space for a walk-in shower. At the front, her parents' room. Again, she felt herself waver before opening the door and going in. The same fitted bedroom furniture, which had been the height of Scandinavian curvilinear chic twenty-odd years ago. How bizarre to keep that, yet build such a fancy conservatory. She walked over to the window. Same old view, though the road seemed narrower these days. Perhaps because every house now had two cars. One in the drive. One on the street.

  Giving Jonny and Arlo a quick smile, Petra went back along the hallway, peered into the bathroom again, and shut the door. Went back into her bedroom for a few more minutes. Then shut that door too. Lastly, she did look into the spare room briefly but she didn't step inside and she left that door open before she went back downstairs, stood by the front door and said, Thanks, Jonny, that was – bizarre. Let's go.

  Petra was quiet and reflective for the rest of the afternoon.

  ‘There's so much I do remember,’ she said to Arlo, ‘and so much I sense I don't.’

  Later that evening, Petra went to bed early leaving Arlo and Eric to enjoy a beer and a rerun of The Office on TV.

  ‘Can I make a phone call, Eric?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Arlo dialled Jonny.

  ‘Hullo, mate! Please don't tell me you're going to put in an offer on Randoline Avenue, for old times' sake?’

  ‘No, but I am going to ask you for a massive favour,’ Arlo said to Johnny, ‘and I don't even know if it's legal.’

  Chapter Fifty-three

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘It's a surprise.’

  ‘I hate surprises, Arlo! Tell me where we're going?’

  ‘What kind of girl hates surprises?’

  ‘Well, it's not as if you are carrying a Tiffany bag, is it? That's a Tesco bag. What's in it? And don't say surprise.’

  ‘Supper.’

  ‘A picnic?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Oh good! Tell me where we're going.’

  ‘Dear God, will you just shut up, woman.’

  The winsome, petulant pout that Petra fixed to her face was soon wiped off and the stroppy wiggle she'd adopted fell to a snail's pace when she realized Arlo was taking her back to Randoline Avenue.

  ‘Why?’ Petra asked.

  ‘I'm not entirely sure,’ Arlo said. ‘It's a hunch.’

  ‘You have keys?’

  ‘I know the estate agent,’ Arlo said. He opened the door. ‘Jonny said to be discreet. No lights blazing, no rock-and-roll.’

  ‘But what's your hunch, Arlo?’ Petra stopped on the doorstep, caught his arm. Her face was criss-crossed with anxiety which, in itself, suggested to Arlo that he was doing the right thing.

  He put his hand on the back of her neck. ‘Look, this may sound simplistic – I just thought that perhaps if you came back here, stayed here, well, maybe you would remember stuff. Perhaps you might sleepwalk – you know, back in time? See if it was anything here which set you off in the first place?’

  Petra stared at him. ‘But I never know where I'm going and I never remember where I've been,’ she whispered. ‘All this feels – odd.’

  ‘But you see, when you were little, there wasn't really anyone here for you. Now you're returning as a grown-up – and you have me.’

  He put the key into the lock and then stopped. ‘We can go, Petra. We can go right now. You have only to say. I won't mind. I don't want to force you. It's probably a stupid idea of mine.’

  There was a moment's heavy silence. ‘It's OK, Arlo.’ The frown had gone from her brow. ‘Let's do it. It's crazy. But why not. If the sleep clinics in Harley Street and Loughborough Hospital could find no reason, then there's no harm in trying an alternative angle. But I think you're mad, Arlo – mad as a fish.’

  They spent the evening downstairs sipping red wine out of plastic cups, dipping pitta bread into a variety of dips and spooning Ben and Jerry's ice cream into each other's mouths. They didn't talk about the house in terms of her childhood but Arlo sensed that Petra was putting off going to bed. However, th
ough he'd got her this far, he certainly was not going to force her upstairs to bed. Eventually, she could not stifle a yawn though she blamed the red wine. Arlo yawned too.

  ‘Did you know, yawning is the most contagious thing on earth?’ Petra told him. ‘It's the same yawn – just going round and round the world. I'll bet you someone next door is now yawning and so it will continue, down this street, off into Cricklewood and on and on. The good folk of Yorkshire will catch it in a few hours. I did an experiment once – I yawned at my friend's dog and lo, it yawned too!’

  Arlo gave her a tender gaze that said, I know you're waffling, Petra, because you don't want to go to bed and let the night unfold. He went upstairs to use the toilet and suddenly Petra didn't want to be downstairs, by herself. He came out of the bathroom to find her there. She looked as though she'd lost a few inches in height.

  ‘You OK?’ he asked, lifting her chin to kiss her.

  She nodded. ‘I suppose I'm tired now.’

  They squeezed into the single bed in Petra's old bedroom and lay there, pretending to be perfectly comfortable. After an hour or so, Arlo made his apologies and moved onto the floor. It wasn't particularly comfortable there either but tonight was not about getting a good night's sleep.

  But Petra does sleep. And then, at three in the morning, she rises. Arlo has only dozed. Now he lies stock-still, sensing her sitting bolt upright.

  ‘What's that noise?’

  ‘Petra?’

  No answer. She is not awake. Quickly, he moves out of her way as she steps down from the bed. She's scratching her head and muttering about what that blinking noise is. There is no noise. The house is utterly silent. She pads across the room and Arlo follows. Out into the corridor.

  ‘Hullo?’ she says but there's no one to answer her. She's hovering outside the spare-room door, stepping lightly from foot to foot as if she's a child needing the toilet. She opens the door a little and peers in.

  ‘Uncle Jeff?’ She stops. Looks in a little further. ‘Uncle Jeff?’ She backs out, and continues along towards the master bedroom. She stays by the closed door. Then opens it a fraction.

  ‘Dad?’

  She appears to be rooted to the spot. ‘Dad?’

  Suddenly, she spins and runs on her tiptoes, fast back to her bedroom. Shuts the door in Arlo's face. When he goes in, he finds her in bed, way down deep under the covers, shaking.

  He sits on the edge of the bed and lays his arm gently over the mound of her.

  ‘Where did you go, my beautiful girl, what did you see?’

  What's that noise? I heard something. I definitely heard a noise. I think it's the middle of the night. I must go and see. I'm a bit scared, I am. But I'm sure I heard a strange noise. I'll just tiptoe out onto the landing and see what I can hear.

  ‘Hullo?’

  There it is again. It's a funny sound – like a bear or something. It's coming from the spare room.

  Listen.

  I'd better look inside.

  Oh. It's Uncle Jeff.

  ‘Uncle Jeff?’

  Why are you sideways on the bed, Uncle Jeff? Why don't you have any of your clothes on? Why are you crawling all over my mum, making those strange noises? It sounds like she can't breathe. Why are you wearing ladies' shoes, Uncle Jeff? You look silly. And you have a big fat hairy bum.

  ‘Uncle Jeff?’

  Why's no one answering me?

  I'd better go and find my dad.

  ‘Dad?’

  There's funny noises coming from that room too.

  Something's not right. What are the grown-ups doing? I didn't even know Uncle Jeff was staying the night. I thought he'd just come for supper. Him and Auntie Mags. And Auntie Anne too.

  The door isn't quite closed so I will look through the gap. Auntie Anne is kneeling on my mum and dad's bed. I see her red hair, pouring down her back. She has a baggy bottom and really yuk red pants. What is Auntie Mags doing and what is she wearing that for? That's not a bra, her bosoms are poking out.

  Is that my Dad?

  Why is Auntie Mags tying him up?

  They're all laughing and talking in funny voices. I can't hear what they're saying. If I open the door a bit more, maybe I will.

  ‘Dad?’

  Why aren't they wearing many clothes? This is not right. It's a silly game and I wish they would all stop playing it.

  Auntie Mags is turning around.

  I don't want her to see me. I don't want anyone to see me. I must go back to my room. Quick quick quick quick quick.

  * * *

  Petra was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when Arlo woke up.

  ‘Good morning up there,’ he said, chilled and stiff on the floor.

  ‘Do you remember those luminous stickers made for bedroom ceilings?’ Petra asked him. ‘I never had any of those. I always wanted them.’

  ‘I tried them once, a couple of years ago, when I was fed up counting sheep.’

  ‘Did they help you sleep?’

  ‘Far from it – I'd start faffing around in the God-forsaken small hours, trying to replicate the specifics of the northern hemisphere night sky.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Arlo rose from the floor. Petra turned to look at him. ‘Looks like you have cellulite,’ she said and Arlo inspected the puckering of his skin from a night on the carpet. He sidled into bed next to her. She nustled into his chest and he stroked her hair thoughtfully.

  ‘Who's Uncle Jeff?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘He was a friend of my parents,’ Petra said and her tone of voice tells Arlo that where she went last night, what she saw, was still vivid. ‘He was married to Maggie – Auntie Mags. God knows what happened to them.’ She turned to Arlo. ‘There was also Auntie Anne. I don't think she had a partner. They weren't real aunts and uncle – they were friends of my parents. They often came over. All of them.’

  ‘Last night—’ Arlo started.

  ‘I know,’ said Petra. A fat tear squeezed out from her eye and oozed down her cheek.

  ‘What did you see last night?’ Arlo whispered. ‘Was it what you saw when you were little?’

  ‘I saw them all at it,’ said Petra, covering her face. ‘Oh.’

  ‘I think my parents must have been – you know, swingers. How fucked up is that?’

  ‘Christ, Petra. How old were you? Can you remember?’

  ‘I must have been about eight, I suppose.’

  ‘Was that when you started sleepwalking?’

  ‘Yes.’

  After a breakfast of croissants and apple juice drunk straight from the carton, Arlo looked at Petra intently.

  ‘You need to make your peace here, you know, with all of that, before we leave here. God, the whole swinging thing, it must have been bewildering, disturbing, for a child to come across – but as an adult looking back, try to see it as bemusing or even amusing or just downright ridiculous. We're going to leave all of that rubbish here in the house. Closure without opening the door to your childhood memories any wider. Closure when we close this old front door of yours.’

  Petra shrugged.

  Arlo held her shoulders steady and looked at her sternly. ‘It's about putting the past to bed, Petra. In my case and in yours. You've shown me that. Look what you've done for me.’

  ‘They probably have no idea that I saw,’ she told him. ‘I wonder what they'd say if I told them.’

  ‘And I wonder what Helen's parents would have said if I had told them. Look what you've taught me about there being a time for silence.’ He cupped her face in his hands. ‘You can't cancel the past but if you lay it down gently enough, you can put the past to bed. Let it rest. Find your peace. Sleep well.’

  Petra looked at him and her expression said, Help me, then, help me if you can.

  ‘Do you know that Philip Larkin poem? Do you remember the Noble Savages singing it? Actually, we weren't allowed to sing it at your school. That poem – about your parents fucking you up?’ Petra nodded. ‘Well, Mr Larkin would have done well to have met so
meone like you, Petra – though anthologies of modern poetry might have ended up the poorer. I know you regret not having a close relationship with your parents. And Christ, what you saw when you were eight years old, what you experienced when they split up when you were a teenager, the kind of indifference you've faced from them ever since – it's a wonder you're not cynical, fucked up and bitter. But look at you, Petra. Look at what I see. I see this beautiful, beautiful woman who's so talented and so caring and so brave and so strong. And who, most important of all, knows how to love. You truly know how to love. It's a natural instinct for you.’

  Petra's head dropped. Arlo put his arm around her. ‘It doesn't matter what you saw,’ he told her quietly but emphatically, ‘because what you found makes no difference to the life that you're leading so well. You don't need to go looking any more, Petra. You don't need to go looking ever again.’

  Chapter Fifty-four

  It was early August when Petra announced that they really ought to go and visit her mother.

  ‘Has she phoned?’ Arlo asked.

  ‘No,’ Petra hesitated. ‘But there again, she never does,’ she said with a new equanimity.

  Melinda said she'd be delighted to see her daughter though she hoped this new beau didn't have a gas-guzzling car like that other bloke. When Petra told her mother that Arlo didn't even have a mobile phone, let alone a car, she heard her mother applauding down the phone.

  ‘She probably won't be in,’ Petra warned Arlo as the minicab from the station dropped them in sight of her mother's cottage. ‘Oh, and ask for your tea black.’

  But Melinda was in, as were half her hens, and they all seemed to squawk at Petra and Arlo when they entered. Arlo asked Melinda so many questions that she didn't have the inclination to talk much more about herself once she'd answered him. They'd talked about eggs and feng shui and carbon footprints and vegetarian shoes. So they sat and sipped their herbal tea and looked at each other. And Melinda thought she'd ask her daughter how her summer had been.