Something to Live For
Page 10
“Mmm,” Andrew said, batting a fly out of his face. Bearing in mind this was only Peggy’s second property inspection, she seemed to have acclimatized remarkably well, especially given that Jim Mitchell’s house was in an even worse state than Eric White’s.
Jim had died in bed, on his own, at the age of sixty. The flat’s kitchen, bedroom, and living room were all in one, with a separate shower room choked with mildew, its floor boasting an impressive range of stains whose origins Andrew tried not to think about.
“This is the sort of room my estate agent would describe as a ‘compact, chic washroom,’” Peggy said, sweeping a moldy curtain aside. “What the hell,” she yelped, stepping back. Andrew rushed over. The whole bathroom window was covered in little red bugs, like blood spatter from a gunshot wound. It was only when one of them flapped its little wings that Andrew realized they were ladybugs. They were the most colorful thing in the entire flat. Andrew decided that they’d leave the window open in the hope it would encourage an exodus.
They were dressed in the full protective suits this time. Peggy had specifically requested this outside so that she could pretend to be a lab assistant in a James Bond film, having watched You Only Live Twice the previous evening. “My Steve used to have a bit of Pierce Brosnan about him when we were first going out. That was before he discovered pork pies and procrastination.” She sized Andrew up. “I reckon you might pass for—who’s the baddie in GoldenEye?”
“Sean Bean?” Andrew said, moving over to the kitchenette.
“Yeah, that’s the one. Reckon you’ve got a touch of the Sean about you.”
As Andrew caught sight of his reflection in the filthy oven door—the receding hairline, patchy stubble, bags under his eyes—he suspected that Sean Bean might have been doing a lot of things at that moment in time, but he almost certainly wasn’t scrambling around on the kitchen floor of a South London bedsit with a Mr. Chicken! takeaway menu stuck to his knee.
After twenty minutes of searching they went outside to take a breather. Andrew was so tired he felt almost weightless. A police helicopter went past overhead and they both craned their necks to watch it as it banked and flew back in the direction it had come from.
“Phew, they weren’t after me then,” Peggy said.
“Mmm,” Andrew murmured.
“You know, I’ve never had to talk to the police before. I feel like I’m missing out, somehow, you know? I just want to report a minor misdemeanor, or be called on to make a statement—that’s the dream. Have you ever had to do anything like that?”
Andrew had zoned out.
“Sorry, what?”
“Ever had any encounters with the old bill? The rozzers. The . . . peelers, is that one right?”
Andrew was transported back to the record shop in Soho. The sudden awareness that the song playing over the speakers was “Blue Moon.” The blood draining from his face. Rushing to the exit and wrenching the door open. The strangled cry of the shop owner. “Fuck! Stop him, he’s nicked something!” Running straight into the man outside and bouncing off him onto the floor, lying winded. The man looming over him. “I’m an off-duty police officer.” The furious face of the shop owner coming into view. Being hauled to his feet. Arms held. “What have you taken?” The owner’s breath smelling of nicotine gum.
“Nothing, nothing,” he’d said. “Honestly, you can search me.”
“Why the hell’d you run then?”
What could he have said? That hearing that song crippled him with pain? That even as he lay winded on the pavement, the fading bars lodged in his head made him want to curl into the fetal position?
“Bloody hell,” Peggy laughed, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost!”
“Sorry,” Andrew said, but his voice cracked and only half the word came out.
“Don’t tell me—you got done for pinching chocolate from Woolworths?”
Andrew’s eyelid was twitching uncontrollably. He was desperately trying to stop the tune from coming into his head.
“Or some naughty parking ticket action?”
Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone.
“Oh, dear—it was littering, wasn’t it?”
She nudged him on the arm and Andrew felt the voice coming up from somewhere deep inside him, sharp and unstoppable. “Leave it, okay?” he snapped.
Peggy’s face fell as she realized he wasn’t joking.
Andrew felt a miserable wave of shame hit him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to snap like that. It’s just been a strange couple of weeks.”
They stood in silence for a long time, both of them clearly too embarrassed to speak first. Andrew could practically hear Peggy attempting to regroup, the cogs whirring as she decided to change the subject. This time he was going to be ready and attentive.
“My daughter’s invented this game, right?”
“A game?”
“Yeah. And I’m not sure if I should be worried about her or not, but it’s called the Apocalypse Game.”
“Right,” Andrew said.
“So, the scenario is this: a massive bomb has gone off and everyone’s been wiped off the face of the earth. It appears that you are the only person in the country to have survived. What do you do?”
“Not sure I understand,” Andrew said.
“Well, where do you go? What do you do? Do you find a car and go blasting up the M1 trying to look for people? Or do you just head straight to your local and drink the bar dry? How long before you try and make your way across the channel, or go to America, even? If nobody’s there could you break into the White House?”
“And that’s the game . . . ?” Andrew said.
“Pretty much,” Peggy said. Then, after a pause: “I tell you what I’d do to kick us off. I’d go to Silverstone and do a lap of the track in the Fiesta. Then, I’d either hit golf balls off the top of the Houses of Parliament or cook myself a fry-up in the Savoy. At some point I’d probably go across to Europe and see what’s what—though I slightly worry I’d end up having to be part of some sort of ‘resistance,’ smuggling people across the border and that sort of thing. And I’m not sure I’m a good enough person to get involved in that if there’s nobody left at home to see my Facebook status about it.”
“Understandable,” Andrew said. He tried to concentrate but his mind was blank.
“I don’t quite know what I’d do,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“Ah well. It’s not for everyone,” Peggy said. “By the way, if you fancy heading off early I’m sure I can crack on by myself.”
“No, I’m all right,” Andrew said. “Quicker with two of us anyway.”
“Right you are. Oh, I nearly forgot to say, I brought a flask of coffee today. Let me know if you want a mug. And I attempted brownies too.”
“I’m fine, thanks,” Andrew said.
“Well, let me know if you change your mind,” Peggy said, heading back into the house. Andrew followed her, a waft of fetid air hitting him before he’d even crossed the threshold. Luckily, before long, Peggy found something.
“It’s one of those Christmas ‘round robin’ things,” she said, her voice strained because of having to breathe through her mouth. She passed what she’d found to Andrew. The paper felt brittle, as if it had been crumpled up and straightened out countless times. In among the pages detailing uneventful holidays and unremarkable school sports days there was a photo of the family, their faces looking pixelated from where the paper had been scrunched up.
“I wonder how many times he nearly threw this out but couldn’t quite bring himself to,” Peggy said. “Hang on, look, there’s a phone number there on the back.”
“Well spotted. Right, I’ll give them a call,” Andrew said, reaching for his phone and turning it on.
“Are you sure you’re all right to?” Peggy asked, her tone deliberately casual.
“Don’t be silly,” Peggy said. “I’m just going to head outside for a second.”
“Sure,” Andrew said. “See you in a minute.”
Someone picked up on the first ring.
“Sorry, Brian, lost you there,” the person on the line said. “So like I said, this is just something we’ll chalk up to experience.”
“Sorry,” Andrew said, “this is actually—”
“No, no, Brian, time for apologies is over. Let’s clean-slate this one, okay?”
“I’m not—”
“‘I’m not,’ ‘I’m not’—Brian, you’re better than this, yeah? I’m putting the phone down now. I’ll see you in the office tomorrow. I don’t want to hear any more about it, okay? Right, good. See you later.”
The line went dead. Andrew sighed. This was going to be a tricky one. He hit redial and walked over to the living room window. At first he thought Peggy was doing some sort of exercise—she was squatting down and rocking on her heels slightly, as if she were about to bounce up into a star jump. But then he saw her face. She’d gone very pale. There were tears pooling in her eyes and she was taking in deep lungfuls of air. It was then that Andrew realized that of course she hadn’t acclimatized at all to being inside a house in this state. And then there were the coffee and the brownies and the games and the talking—all designed to cheer him up, without even a hint of patronizing him or doing the sad head tilt. All that time she’d been feeling awful but pretending not to, and he hadn’t even realized. Peggy’s kindness, her selflessness, was so overwhelming that Andrew felt a lump forming in his throat.
The man who’d answered the phone was letting it ring out this time—presumably letting poor Brian stew in his own juice. Andrew watched Peggy stand up and take one final breath before going toward the front door. He hung up the phone and cleared his throat, trying to get rid of the lump.
“Not good?” Peggy said, eyeing the phone in his hand.
“He thought I was someone who he worked with calling him back and he wouldn’t let me speak.”
“Oh.”
“And he used the term ‘clean slate’ as a verb.”
“What a cock.”
“My thoughts exactly. I’ll try him again later, I think.”
They stood still for a moment, looking around at the mess. Andrew scratched at the back of his head.
“I, um, just wanted to say thank you,” he said, “for, being here and chatting and the brownies and everything. I really do appreciate it.”
Some color returned to Peggy’s cheeks, and she smiled.
“No bother, pal,” she said. “So, back to the office?”
“You should go back,” Andrew said, not wanting Peggy to be there a second longer than she needed to. He pulled a roll of trash bags out of his rucksack.
“Is there not more to do then?” Peggy said, looking at the trash bags.
“No, it’s just . . . When it’s as bad as this I like to clear up the worst of the rubbish. Just doesn’t seem right to leave the place like this. Like I said, you can go back.”
Andrew wasn’t quite sure what the look Peggy was giving him meant, but he felt like he might have said something embarrassing.
“I think I’d rather stay,” Peggy said, arm outstretched. “Chuck us a bag.”
As they cleared up, Andrew willed his imagination into action until, eventually, he had something.
“I’d go to Edinburgh, by the way,” he said.
“Edinburgh?” Peggy said, looking confused.
“During the apocalypse. I’d see if I could drive a train up there. Then try and break into the castle. Or climb Arthur’s seat.”
“Aha, not a bad shout at all,” Peggy said, tapping her chin contemplatively. “I have to say, though, I still think I win with my Savoy fry-up or Parliament golf plan. Just saying.”
“I didn’t realize there was a winner,” Andrew said, folding up a pizza box that had chunks of greasy mozzarella stuck to it.
“I’m afraid there has to be. And given that I lose to my kids every single time, do you mind if I have this one, you know, to regain a bit of pride?”
“Fair enough,” Andrew said. “I’d shake your hand to congratulate you, but there seems to be quite a lot of moldy cheese on mine.”
There was a moment where Peggy looked at his hand in horror, where Andrew thought he might have said something far too weird, but then Peggy let out a huge belly laugh and said, “Jesus, what is this job?” and Andrew felt awake for the first time that day.
* * *
—
They’d worked their way through the majority of the rubbish when Peggy said, “I wanted to say I’m sorry, you know, about your sister. I just didn’t know when was the right time.”
“That’s okay,” Andrew said. “I’m . . . It’s . . . I don’t know, really . . .” He trailed off, caught halfway between saying how he felt and saying what he thought he was supposed to say.
“I lost my dad nine years ago,” Peggy said.
Andrew felt like someone had stuck him on pause. “I’m sorry,” he managed to say, after what felt like an age.
“Thanks, pet,” Peggy said. “It’s a while ago now, I know, but . . . I still remember afterward, there were days—especially at work—where all I wanted was to hide away, but there were others when it was all I wanted to talk about. And that’s when I noticed people avoiding me, deliberately not catching my eye. Of course I realize now they were just embarrassed about not knowing what to say to me, but at the time it felt like I had something to be ashamed about, that I’d done something wrong and was inconveniencing everybody somehow. What made it harder was that my feelings were all over the place.” Peggy gave Andrew a look as if wondering whether she should continue.
“How do you mean?” he said.
Peggy chewed her lip. “Let’s just say kindness wasn’t exactly in my dad’s DNA. The abiding memory of my childhood is sitting in the living room and holding my breath when I heard his footsteps on the drive. I could tell from how the sound varied what mood he was going to be in. He never hurt us, or anything, but he got in these moods where nothing me or my sister or my mam did was good enough, and he left us in doubt as to exactly how we’d let him down. Then one day he just up and left. Ran off with some lass from work, so my sister later found out. Mam never accepted that, though. That was the hardest part. She talked about him like he’d been God’s gift, as if he were a war hero who’d drifted out to sea on a raft never to be heard of again, despite the fact he was shacked up with this woman four streets away.”
“That must have been hard,” Andrew said.
Peggy shrugged. “It’s complicated. I still loved him, even though I barely saw him after he left. People think loss is the same for everyone, but it’s different in every case, you know?”
Andrew tied a trash bag closed. “That’s true,” he said. “I think when you’ve not been through that sort of loss you just imagine you’ll feel it in one big wave of sadness, that you’re immediately devastated and then it just goes away over time.” He looked up quickly at Peggy, worried that he was sounding callous, but her expression was neutral. Andrew continued. “With my sister, I sort of . . . well, it’s complicated, like you said about your dad. And the idea of people looking at me all sympathetic—I just can’t deal with that.”
“Yep, I hear you,” Peggy said, joining him to pick up the remaining rubbish with a litter picker. “I mean, their hearts are in the right place, but if you’ve not been through it, then it’s impossible to understand. It’s like we’re in ‘the club’ or something.”
“The club,” Andrew murmured. He felt a burst of adrenaline pass through him. Peggy looked at him and smiled. And Andrew, remembering his f
ailed attempts at properly saying cheers in the pub, suddenly found himself raising his litter picker in the air, an empty bag of Doritos in its pincers, and saying, “To the club!” Peggy looked at him in surprise, and Andrew’s hand wavered, but then she reached her own picker aloft. “The club!” she said.
After a slightly awkward pause they lowered their pickers and carried on with their tidying.
“Now then, Andrew,” Peggy said after a while. “Back to more important matters.”
Andrew raised his eyebrows. “Is this going to be about the apocalypse, by any chance?”
* * *
—
An hour later they were nearly done, Andrew having had a surprisingly enjoyable time clearing away rubbish and playing end-of-the-world-themed games, when Peggy said, “If you want a slightly more structured mental test, it’s that pub quiz I mentioned tonight if you fancy it.”
Maybe, actually, Andrew did fancy it. It would be something else to take his mind off things after all, and this way he could make it up to Peggy properly for snapping at her, if not with his atrocious general knowledge then with pints of Guinness.
“Yes, why not,” he said, trying to sound like this was the sort of thing he was always doing.
“Top stuff,” Peggy said, and the smile she gave him was so warm and genuine that he actually had to look away. “And bring Diane! I want to meet her.”
Oh yes. That.
* * *
—
Maybe Diane would magically appear in the bathroom mirror and find him a better shirt than this orange monstrosity. He’d panic-bought it after work on the way home, suddenly very aware that the last time he’d specifically bought clothes for a night out people were still worried about the Millennium Bug. He had no real idea what was fashionable these days. Occasionally he thought about replacing some of his particularly old stuff, but then he’d see someone young and apparently trendy wearing a shirt that looked exactly like one he’d hung on to since the early nineties, so what was the point? It was just lucky that his stubbornness and loathing of clothes shopping were neatly complemented by the cyclical nature of fashion.