“That’s a problem, all right.” Barbara peered beyond the child again, into the flat. “Isn’t your mum here, then?”
“My mum’s visiting friends. In Ontario. That’s in Canada.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“She hasn’t sent me a postcard yet. I expect she’s busy, which is what happens when one visits friends. Her name’s Malak, my mum. Well, that’s not her real name, is it? It’s what Dad calls her. Malak means angel. Isn’t that pretty? I wish it was my name. I’m Hadiyyah, which I don’t think is nearly as pretty as Malak. And it doesn’t mean angel.”
“It’s a nice enough name.”
“Have you got a name?”
“Sorry. It’s Barbara. I live round the back.”
Hadiyyah’s cheeks formed little pouches as she smiled. “In that sweet little cottage?” She clasped her hands to her chest. “Oh, I wanted us to live there when we first moved here except it’s far too small. It’s just like a play house. Can I see it?”
“Sure. Why not? Sometime.”
“Can I see it now?”
“Now?” Barbara asked blankly. She was beginning to feel a shade uncomfortable. Wasn’t this how things began just before an innocent suspect was charged with committing a vile crime against a child? “I don’t know about now. Shouldn’t you be in bed? What if your dad wakes up?”
“He never wakes up before morning. Ever. Only if I have a nightmare.”
“But if he heard a noise and woke up and you weren’t here—”
“I’ll be here, won’t I?” She offered an elfin smile. “I’ll just be at the back of the house. I could write him a note and leave it on my bed in case he wakes up. I could tell him I’ve just gone round to the back. I could tell him that I’m with you—I’ll even use your name, I’ll say I’m with Barbara—and that you’ll bring me back when I’ve seen the cottage. Don’t you think that would do?”
No, Barbara thought. What would do would be a long hot shower, a fried egg sandwich, and a cup of Horlicks, because a single strip of grilled ham and a dollop of cheese with a fancy French name didn’t count for dinner. And afterwards, what would also do, if she could keep her eyes opened, would be quarter of an hour’s literary discovery of exactly what Flint Southern had throbbing for Star Flaxen in those sculpted blue jeans he was wearing.
“Some other time.” Barbara slipped the strap of her bag on to her shoulder and heaved herself from the wooden bench.
“I expect you’re tired, aren’t you?” Hadiyyah said. “I expect you’re dragging.”
“Right.”
“Dad’s like that when he gets home from work. He flops onto the sofa and can’t move for an hour. I bring him tea. He likes Earl Grey tea. I can make tea.”
“Can you?”
“I know how long to seep it. It’s all in the seeping.”
“The seeping.”
“Oh yes.” The little girl had her hands still clasped at her chest as if she held a talisman between them. Her great dark eyes were so beseeching that Barbara wanted to tell her brusquely to toughen up, to get used to life. Instead, she flipped her cigarette to the flagstones, crushed it out with the toe of her trainer, and put the butt in the pocket of her trousers.
“Write him a note,” she said. “I’ll wait.”
Hadiyyah’s smile was beatific. She spun. She darted into the flat. The slash of light widened as she went into the room at the back. In less than two minutes, she returned.
“I stuck the note on my lamp,” she confided. “But he probably won’t wake up. He doesn’t, usually. Unless I have a nightmare.”
“Right,” Barbara said and headed for the steps. “It’s this way.”
“I know the way. I do. I do.” Hadiyyah skipped ahead. Over her shoulder she called, “Next week’s my birthday. I’ll be eight years old. Dad says I can have a party. He says I can have chocolate cakes and strawberry ice cream. Will you come? You don’t need to bring a present at all.” She shot away without waiting for an answer.
Barbara noted that she still didn’t have on shoes. Great, she thought. The kid would get pneumonia and she’d be to blame.
She caught Hadiyyah up at the patch of lawn that lay between the main house and Barbara’s cottage. Here, the child had paused to right an overturned tricycle. “It belongs to Quentin,” she said. “He’s always leaving his stuff outside. His mum goes quite distracted and shouts at him from the windows, but he never listens. I expect he doesn’t know what she wants from him, don’t you?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She pointed to a collapsible canvas chaise longue and after that to a white plastic table and two matching chairs. “That’s Mrs. Downey’s. She lives in the bed-sit. Have you met her? She’s got a cat called Jones. And those’re the Jensens’. I don’t much like them—the Jensens, that is—but you won’t say, will you?”
“Mum’s the word at this end.”
Hadiyyah’s nose wrinkled. “You’re sort of cheeky, aren’t you? Dad doesn’t like me to be cheeky with people. You got to be careful when you meet him, okay? It’s important that he likes you. So that you can come to the party. The party’s for my birthday. It’s—”
“Next week. Right.”
Barbara led the child to her front door and fished in her bag for the key. She unlocked the door and flipped on the ceiling light. Hadiyyah stepped past her.
“How sweet!” she exclaimed. “It’s perfect. It’s like a doll’s house.” She dashed into the middle of the room and twirled about. “I wish we lived here. I wish. I wish.”
“You’ll get dizzy.” Barbara set her bag on the work top. She went to fill the kettle.
“I won’t,” Hadiyyah answered. She twirled three more times and then stopped and staggered. “Well, perhaps a bit.” She looked about. She rubbed her hands down the sides of her nightgown. Her glance flitted from one object to another. She finally said with studied formality, “You’ve made it quite nice here, Barbara.”
Barbara stifled a smile. Hadiyyah was hovering between good manners and questionable taste. Everything in the room had either made the trip from her parents’ home in Acton or been dug up in a jumble sale. If the former was the case, the article was smelly, tattered, gouged, or abused. If the latter was the case, the article was functional and little else. The only piece of furniture that she had allowed herself to purchase new was the day-bed. This was wicker, its mattress covered by a line of motley pillows and a bedspread decorated in an Indian print.
Hadiyyah skipped to the bed and inspected a framed photograph that stood on the table next to it. She bounced from foot to foot so much that Barbara was tempted to ask her if she needed the loo. Instead, she said, “That’s my brother. Tony.”
“But he’s little. Like me.”
“It was taken a long time ago. He died.”
Hadiyyah frowned. She looked over her shoulder at Barbara. “How sad. Are you sad about it still?”
“Sometimes. Not always.”
“I’m sad sometimes. There’s no one hereabouts to play with and I don’t have any brothers and sisters. Dad says being sad is okay if I examine my soul and decide it’s an honest feeling inside me. I’m not quite sure how to examine my soul. I tried to do it by looking in the mirror, but it made me feel all queer when I looked for too long. Have you ever done that? Looked in the mirror and felt all queer?”
Barbara laughed wearily in spite of herself. She dragged the bucket out from beneath the sink and examined its meagre contents. “Most days,” she said. She scooped out two eggs and put them on the counter. She reached inside her bag for her cigarettes.
“Dad smokes. He knows he shouldn’t, but he does. He stopped for a whole two years because Mummy didn’t like it. But he’s taken it up again and she’ll be quite miffed with him when she comes home. She’s—”
“In Canada.”
“Right. I told you that already, didn’t I? Sorry.”
“That’s okay.”
Hadiyyah bounced to Barbara’s side and inspected the em
pty spot in the kitchen. “That’s for the fridge,” she announced. “You mustn’t worry about the fridge, Barbara. When Dad gets up tomorrow, he’ll move it back here for you. I’ll tell him it’s yours. I’ll say you’re my friend. Is that all right? If I say you’re my friend? It’s a good idea, you know, if I say that. Dad’ll be only too happy to help out my friend.”
Eagerly she waited, on one foot with hands clasped behind her, for Barbara’s response. Barbara gave it and wondered what she was letting herself in for. “Sure. You can say that.”
Hadiyyah beamed. She whirled across the room to the fireplace. She said, “And this is sweet too. Do you think it works? Can we toast marshmallows in it? Is this an answer machine? Look. You’ve had a call, Barbara.” She reached out towards it on its shelf by the fireplace. “Shall we see who—”
“No!”
Hadiyyah yanked her hand back. She sidled quickly away from the machine. “I oughtn’t to have…” She looked so chastened that Barbara said, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap.”
“I expect you’re tired. Dad snaps sometimes when he’s specially tired. Shall I make you some tea?”
“No. Thanks. I’ve got the water on. I’ll make it myself.”
“Oh.” Hadiyyah looked about, as if seeking further employment of some kind. Seeing none, she murmured, “I ought to be off, then.”
“It’s been a long day.”
“Yes, it has, hasn’t it?” Hadiyyah moved towards the door and Barbara noticed for the first time that the tiny hairbows that tied up her plaits were white. She wondered if the little girl changed them each time she changed her clothes. “Well,” she said at the door. “Good night, Barbara. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” Barbara said. “Hold on for a moment, and I’ll walk you back.” She poured hot water into her tea mug and dunked a bag into it. When she turned to the door, the girl was gone. She called, “Hadiyyah?” and walked out into the garden.
She heard her call, “Good night, good night,” and saw the flutter of her white nightgown against the house as she scampered back the way she had come. “Don’t forget the party. It’s—”
“For your birthday,” Barbara said quietly. “Yes. I know.” She waited until she heard the sound of the ground-floor flat’s door shutting. She went back to her tea.
The answering machine beckoned her, a reminder of the second obligation she’d failed to meet that day. She didn’t need to listen to the message to know who it was. She picked up the phone and dialled Mrs. Flo’s number.
“Why, we were just having a nice cup of Bourn-vita,” Mrs. Flo said when she answered. “And a little snack of marmite toast. Mum’s taken to cutting the bread into bunny shapes—Haven’t you, dear? Yes, that’s very sweet, isn’t it?—and we just slip it into the toaster as easy as anything and keep our eyes on it so it doesn’t burn.”
“How is she?” Barbara asked. “I’m sorry I didn’t get out there today. I got called out on a case.”
There was the sound of shuffling, of footsteps on lino, of Mrs. Flo saying to someone, “You’ll watch that closely for a moment, won’t you, dear? Yes, stand right next to it like that. Well done. You know what to do if it starts to smoke, don’t you? Can you tell me, dear?”
Mumbling came in response. Muted giggles followed. Mrs. Flo said, “You’re being the naughty one tonight, aren’t you?” And then with the word, “Barbie?” the timbre of her voice changed, not so much with mood but as if she’d gone into a smaller room.
Out of the kitchen and into the passage, Barbara thought. She felt a moment of disquiet.
“I’ve just got back from work,” Barbara said. “Has something…How’s Mum?”
“You work far too hard, my dear,” Mrs. Flo said. “Are you eating well? Taking care of yourself? Getting enough sleep?”
“I’m doing fine. Everything’s fine. I’ve got a refrigerator sitting outside my neighbour’s flat instead of inside my kitchen, but other than that, nothing’s changed in my life. How’s Mum, Mrs. Flo? Is she better?”
“She’s had another grumbly tummy most of the day, so she was off her food, which worried me a bit. But things are looking brighter now. She’s missing you, though.” Mrs. Flo paused. Barbara could picture her standing in the dark passage that led to the kitchen. She’d be wearing one of her spotless shirtwaisters with one of her many flower-shaped brooches pinned at the throat. The tights on her legs would match some colour in the dress and her flat-soled shoes would be buffed to perfection. Barbara had never seen her attired otherwise. Even when she worked in the garden, Mrs. Flo dressed as if expecting the Princess Royal to drop by for tea.
“Yes,” Barbara said, “I know. Hell. I’m so sorry.”
“You’re not to worry and you’re not to feel guilty,” Mrs. Flo said firmly. Her voice was warm. “You’re doing the best that you can. Mum’s nearly right as rain at the moment. Her temperature’s still up a degree, but we’ve got her eating her marmite toast.”
“She can’t survive on that.”
“She’ll do very well on it for the present, dear.”
“May I talk to her?”
“Of course. She’ll be happy as a little lark when she hears your voice.” Her own voice changed again as she went back into the kitchen, saying past the mouthpiece of the receiver, “We’ve a special phone call here, dearies. Who do you suppose is phoning especially to talk to her mummy? Mrs. Pendlebury, what are you doing with that jam? Here, dear, it goes on top of the toast. Like that. Yes. Very nice, dear.”
A moment passed. Barbara tried not to think of marmite toast, of jam, of food of any kind. Her mother wasn’t well, she had failed to visit her, and all she could think of was cramming something remotely edible between her lips. What kind of daughter was she?
“Doris? Dorrie?” Mrs. Havers’ voice quavered uncertainly at the other end of the line. “Mrs. Flo says there’s no blackout any longer. I said we must cover the windows so the Germans can’t find us, but she said there’s no need. There isn’t any war. Did you know? Has Mummy uncovered the windows at home?”
“Hello, Mum,” Barbara said. “Mrs. Flo told me you’d had a bad day yesterday and today as well. Is your stomach in a rumble?”
“I saw you with Stevie Baker,” Mrs. Havers said. “You thought I didn’t, but I saw you, Dorrie. He had your dress rucked up and your knickers pulled down. You were making a sausage roll with him.”
“Mum,” Barbara said. “This isn’t Auntie Doris. She died, remember? During the war?”
“But there isn’t any war. Mrs. Flo said—”
“She meant the war ended, Mum. This is Barbara. Your daughter. Auntie Doris is dead.”
“Barbara.” Mrs. Havers repeated the name so thoughtfully that Barbara could visualise the wheels of her disintegrating brain painfully creaking in her head. “I don’t know that I recall…” She’d be twisting the telephone cord in her fingers as her confusion grew. Her glance would be darting round Mrs. Flo’s kitchen as if the key to comprehension were hidden there.
“We lived in Acton,” Barbara said gently. “You and Dad. Me. Tony.”
“Tony. I’ve a picture upstairs.”
“Yes. That’s Tony, Mum.”
“He doesn’t come to see me.”
“No. Well, you see…” Barbara suddenly felt how tight was her grip on the telephone receiver, and she forced herself to loosen it. “He’s dead as well.” As was her father. As was virtually everyone else who had once formed the circumference of her mother’s small world.
“Is he? How did he…? Did he die in the war like Dorrie?”
“No. Tony was too young for that. He was born after the war. A long time after.”
“So a bomb didn’t hit him?”
“No. No. It was nothing like that.” Far worse, Barbara thought, far less merciful than a split second of flash, fire, and flame and an endless hurtle into eternity. “He had leukaemia, Mum. It’s when something goes wrong with the blood.”
“Leukaemia. Oh.�
�� Her voice brightened. “I don’t have that, Barbie. Just a grumbly tummy. Mrs. Flo wanted me to eat soup this noon, but I couldn’t. It didn’t want to go down. But I’m eating now. We’ve made marmite toast. And we’ve blackberry jam. I’m eating the marmite. Mrs. Pendlebury is eating the jam.”
Barbara sent a mental thanks heavenward for the moment of lucidity and grasped it quickly before her mother faded out again. “Good. That’s very good for you, Mum. You need to eat to keep up your strength. Listen, I’m dead sorry I wasn’t able to make it out today. I got called onto a case last night. But I’ll try to get out there before next weekend. Okay?”
“Will Tony come as well? Will Dad come, Barbie?”
“No. Just me.”
“But I haven’t seen Dad in ever so long.”
“I know, Mum. But I’ll bring you a treat. Remember how you were talking about New Zealand? The holiday to Auckland?”
“Summer’s winter in New Zealand, Barbie.”
“Good. That’s right. That’s excellent, Mum.” It was odd, Barbara thought, the facts remembered, the faces forgotten. Where did information come from? How was it lost? “I’ve got the brochures for you. You’ll be able to start putting the holiday together next time I come out. We can do it together, you and I. How does that sound?”
“But we can’t take a holiday if there’s a blackout, can we? And Stevie Baker won’t want you to go off without him. If you make sausage rolls with Stevie Baker, something bad will happen, Dorrie. I saw his sausage, you know. I saw where he put it. You thought I was playing jacks in the kitchen, but I followed you. I saw how he kissed you. You took your knickers off yourself. And then you lied to Mummy about where you’d been. You said you and Cora Trotter’d been rolling bandages. You said you were practising for when you were going to be a Wren. You said—”
“Barbie?” Mrs. Flo’s soft voice. Overpowering it, in the background, Mrs. Havers was continuing her recitation of her sister’s adolescent sins. “She’s getting a bit agitated, dear. Not to worry, however. It’s the excitement of your phoning. She’ll settle right down once she has a touch more Bourn-vita and toast. And then it’s a brush of her teeth and off to bed. She’s already had her bath.”
Playing for the Ashes Page 31
