I opened the back door for them and they just stood and gawped. The snow had blown halfway up the door and stuck there. From their height the world had been blocked off into a frieze of glittering white. Doughnut bumped his nose on it and Gordon gave an anxious whine.
‘Come on, boys,’ I said and we went through to the front. The sun shining through the green stained-glass fanlight mottled my bare feet. I opened it and the cold blasted in. The snow was deep but not drifting in the front and the two dogs went out to do their stuff.
I made a tray of tea and biscuits to take up to Doggo in bed. Waiting for the kettle to boil, I remembered that during the night he’d had a nightmare. He had woken me up, twitching and whimpering and making frightened sounds like bits of chopped-up words. I’d held him. It didn’t stop the dream but I liked to hold him. Maybe it was of some help, subconsciously. I whispered things like You are safe. He hadn’t properly woken but eventually calmed down and lay quietly in my arms.
My feet were numb. Walking up the stairs with the tray of tea I noticed how the hairs on my legs were bristling out with cold. I thought maybe I should shave them. Or just wear trousers all the time. When I was halfway upstairs the phone rang again. I hesitated, nearly left it, then put the tray on a step and went down to answer it.
It was the hospital to say that Mr Dickens was dead. He’d had another stroke in the night. They thought I was Sarah but what difference does that make? They asked me what I wanted to do and I had no idea. They asked me to ring them back later when I’d got over the shock. Do you understand? a woman kept saying, as if I was subnormal. I put the phone down and stood there staring at it.
I took the tea up. Doggo was still asleep but I pulled the curtains to let in the snow light. Doggo put his head out from under the covers, squinting. He had a delicate crust of dried blood round his nostrils. When he saw the tea he smiled. My stomach went soft at his smile. I climbed into bed and he flinched at my icy toes.
‘Still lying?’ he said and I swallowed. What did he mean lying? Then he said, ‘The snow,’ but he gave me a blade of a look.
‘Deep,’ I said quickly. ‘We’re practically snowed in.’
‘You going to explain?’ he said.
‘I think it’s to do with atmospheric conditions,’ I said but he didn’t laugh. I tried to but my throat was closing up.
‘You going to tell me what’s up with you?’ he said.
‘I’m gay.’
‘No you’re not.’
‘How do you know?’
‘You said so. Anyway … Try again.’ He waited. He slurped his tea then looked at me sharply. ‘You got Aids or something?’
‘No!’
‘You just don’t fancy me then. That it?’ he said.
‘No, no,’ I said more quickly than I meant, ‘no it’s not that.’
‘You do fancy me.’
‘Well … yes.’
‘Ta.’ He grinned. ‘So what the fuck’s up with you then?’
‘I …’ I couldn’t bring myself to say it. He waited.
‘I’ve run out of ideas,’ he said. ‘Unless you’ve taken holy orders.’ That nearly made me laugh. He held my hand between his gentle murdering hands, stroked my fingers, pinching the ends the way I love.
I took a deep breath. ‘OK then I’m frigid,’ I said.
He put his head on one side. ‘Frigid.’ He considered the word, said it slowly like it was a strange new taste. ‘Frigid. Fucking hell. Why?’
I shrugged. I was getting fed up with the subject, all the questions. ‘How am I supposed to know?’
‘Were you mucked about with as a kid?’
‘Don’t be stupid,’ I said.
He let go of my hands. ‘So, sex isn’t an option then?’
There was no way I could answer that. I couldn’t even nod or shake my head.
‘What do you want then?’ he said. ‘Why are we together in this bed?’
To say For your warmth would have sounded stupid. Your warmth and your heart beating by my ear and your arms around but nothing else. That sounds too stupid to be true.
But once we got downstairs it was OK again. He was like a kid about the snow, worse than me. I borrowed a pair of Wellies from the cloakroom, maybe Zita’s, and we pushed our way through the drifts of snow against the door. It was so perfect the way the snow had traced the edge of even the smallest twig and covered the muddy wreck of the garden with curves and dips of white. The sun came out even though it was frosty cold all day and everything sparkled, with shadows blue and mauve.
‘Oi,’ Doggo said and before I could turn round there was the splat of icy cold on my face. It stung, the ice crystals sharp against my skin.
‘Ow!’ I put my hand up to my cheek and he pelted me again, this time it hit my ear. I wanted to go in.
‘Get me back then,’ he said.
I crouched down and gathered up a handful of snow, but when I flung it, it just powdered up mid-air.
‘Pathetic,’ he went and threw another one that thumped against my chest. It really hurt. I felt like crying. Gordon was eating the snow. Doggo laughing like it was all some big joke. I tried to laugh too. I picked up more snow and squeezed it hard between my hands until it made a solid ball. I threw it but he jumped aside. It missed and smashed against the wall. He kept on throwing. He got me on the head and then the thigh. I couldn’t believe how much it hurt like he was throwing stones at me. Like hurt is what he really wanted, to hurt me.
My hands were raw and numb and almost orange from the cold. I made another one and flung it and this time it hit. It clocked him on the cheek and bits of white stuck in his beard. He paused, I flinched – but he just laughed. ‘She’s got it!’ he said and punched the air. He was exactly like a little kid. I got him once more but only on the arm.
‘Let’s make a snowman,’ he said. I tried to help but my hands were frozen solid. I don’t know how he stood it. He made a small ball and started rolling it about. It gathered up the snow quickly, a growing globe of white. He rolled it further down the garden and soon the perfect snow was messed with streaks of mud and mud mixed with the snow and instead of a pure white ball it was grey and stuck with torn-off leaves, bird-shit and squashed berries. He never finished it. He soon got bored. The sun went in and the sky turned to a giant pink bruise. We went inside.
He fetched a bottle of wine up from the cellar. I was thinking mulled wine would be nice, my mum used to do that sometimes but I didn’t know how, so we just drank it cold. We were thawing our fingers and toes out by the fire when Doggo said, ‘What about visiting Mr Dickens?’
‘Tomorrow,’ I said. ‘He wouldn’t expect us in this weather.’
But when he’d said that the snow started sliding off the roof, like a spell had broken. Yes, in the night the thaw began and snow slid with that awful whoosh and there were creakings and drips and the fire didn’t want to burn, it hissed with the drops trickling down the chimney and the wind got up and boo-hooed outside.
We sat up late because going to bed was awkward. We didn’t need to sleep in the same bed but I wanted to. Just to be close beside him while he dreamt. Just to be near his beating heart. I thought if I went up first he might stay downstairs and sleep by the fire or maybe in Mr Dickens’ bed or Sarah’s. I was nodding off before he finally got up and stretched. He shoved the dogs out for a minute, then he went upstairs. I followed. He didn’t mind. At least he didn’t say.
It was freezing because nobody had thought to light the fire. It was too cold to undress. With most of our clothes on we slipped between the icy sheets. Doggo immediately turned his back but didn’t go straight to sleep. He didn’t ask me to do anything or even kiss me. He was in one of his talking moods. He lay and talked into the dark, explained about the dogs.
When he’d got out of prison, jumping from a transfer van, he’d gone straight to his gran’s. They were her dogs. She was confused and ill. She didn’t know he’d escaped or even been in jail. Nothing stuck in her memory for more than five minu
tes. She kept saying to him, ‘Look after my doggies,’ because she needed to go into hospital for an operation on her hip. There was nobody else to take care of them. And if she went into hospital they’d have had to be put down or anyway, that’s what she thought. Doggo promised he’d mind them for the few weeks she was in hospital and the few weeks were nearly up. I thought it was strange to take on two dogs when you’re lying low. ‘Too fucking right,’ he said. ‘Who’d think to look for a man with dogs.’
His gran had promised not to say a word. Not that anyone would have taken notice if she had, she was that loopy. After his mum had left he’d spent a lot of time with her. She had called him Doggo ever since he was a little kid, because he was so soft on dogs. Now it was up to him to tell her about Norma’s death. I could see that would be hard.
‘If I get taken in,’ he said, ‘would you take Gordon back to her and explain? Tell her it weren’t my fault.’ I said of course I would. I was honoured to be asked.
I asked him why the dogs were called such funny names. I could hear the smile in his voice as he told that his gran’s sister had been called Norma and she had pretended to everyone she was married to a reclusive man called Gordon. When she was found dead there was no husband to be seen, but they did find about a million Gordon’s Gin bottles, all nicely washed and stacked in the shed. Her whole marriage one weird joke. His gran had named the dogs after that marriage, in her sister’s memory.
I was glad he’d told me one of his family secrets, even if it was so strange. Told me more than he’d told Sarah. I put my arms round him from the back but so lightly I don’t think he would have noticed and got the wrong idea.
In the night I heard a noise. It was drips splashing on the floor by the bed. I could see a shiny wetness on the carpet. I got out of bed and put the potty in the right place to catch the drips. I lay still all the rest of the night just listening to Doggo’s breath and the leaking roof.
And remembering something. The phone had rung during the evening and I’d had to answer it because Doggo was there listening. It was Sarah. We talked about the snow. It was even deeper where she was. She’d had to help dig a Shetland pony out of a field. She asked how we were getting on, how Mr Dickens was. I said everything was fine, he was rapidly improving. She said, ‘Great,’ sounding as if she’d been let off the hook. Well, that is what she wanted to hear, isn’t it? There was no point her rushing back.
Twenty-nine
It was Mrs Banks next morning. I would have forgotten. The days were losing their order with everything in life so altered. But Doggo said something about his mum and that reminded me. I was curious to see her now I knew so much, to see if she looked different.
Walking was awful. Zita’s boots were wet inside from yesterday and my jeans damp too. Everywhere snow was rushing and shushing to the ground, the paths slithery with deep fudgey slush. Gutters were blocked and cars swished along the roads sending up muddy waves of slop.
It was weird seeing her face to face. She’d turned into a different person in my head – but here she was, the ordinary same. She looked surprised to see me. Apparently I’d not come when I’d last been meant to. ‘Lamb! Come in,’ she said. ‘Get those wet things off. Have you been ill? I’ve been worried. Could you give me a phone number so I could get in touch?’
Worried.
‘Sorry, I haven’t got a phone,’ I said.
Roy was making a snowman out of green plasticine on the kitchen table. ‘I maded a real one yesday,’ he said, ‘and I gived it a carrot for a nose and one of Daddy’s cigars.’
‘Daddy wasn’t too impressed with that idea, was he?’ She winked at me over his head.
‘I made a snowman yesterday too,’ I said, ‘with my boyfriend.’
‘You’ve got a boyfriend? Good.’ She sounded almost relieved. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Oh … Derek,’ I said. I don’t know where that came from.
‘Been together long?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘What shall I do?’
‘Have a coffee before you start? Nursery’s shut today so I’m taking a sickie.’
I sat down at the table. The table mat had been moved and the burns were there for anyone to see but she just poured the coffee and went on about this and that. How they might get the lounge decorated only she wanted peach and Neville wanted green, well not green, a hint of mint it’s called. She got out the colour-cards to show me and I agreed that peach was better. ‘I’ll tell him that,’ she said and grinned in a way that was so much like Doggo I had to look away.
I watched Roy making his plasticine man, black hair sticking up, tongue nipped between his teeth with such fierce concentration, his strong grubby little fingers squeezing and pressing.
‘We’re going to decorate the tree later, aren’t we, Roy,’ she said; ‘so there’s no point hoovering, anyway.’
‘Yeah, tree,’ Roy said, grinding his fist into the plasticine man. ‘Now.’
‘No, we’ve got to wait for Daddy. Shall I put Pingu on for you?’
Her mention of the tree gave me an idea. Doggo and I could have Christmas. We could get a tree and even have a Christmas dinner. We could pull crackers and watch telly and be traditional. We could be just like everybody else.
She started gabbling on again about making curtains or buying them or what about Roman blinds? but the words that were coming out of her mouth were not the ones in her eyes. I watched her face, trying to imagine her being beaten up. I listened and hardly said a word except for yeah, and mmm.
‘I got my handbag back by the way,’ she said suddenly, and it was like another voice cutting through. My face went hot. I’d forgotten all about the bag.
‘Yeah?’ I said.
I only had to stay cool. There was no way she could know I had anything to do with it. No way.
‘A few days ago. All there. Someone left it on the doorstep.’
‘That’s weird.’ I gulped down the last of my coffee, thinking I’d scalp Doggo when I saw him.
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes, it is weird, isn’t it?’ My coffee was finished so I didn’t know what to do with my hands, apart from chew my nails. There was a long sloppy drip from the gutter. I shivered.
‘It’s funny,’ she said, ‘a funny thing to do, I mean, stealing the bag and then returning it. I wonder what possible motive …’
What did she want me to say? I mean I wouldn’t mind if I had even taken the bag in the first place. ‘Maybe you lost it,’ I suggested, ‘and someone found it.’
‘I don’t think so, Lamb. More coffee?’
I shook my head. I was practically sticking to the ceiling as it was. I got up. ‘So what shall I do then?’ I have never wanted to get on and clean so much in my entire life.
‘I want to have a word with you first.’
I sat down again thinking, what now? I waited but she paused. I searched my mind for what I’d done but apart from the bag and a few baths – which were while I was cleaning it anyway – there was nothing. My eyes fixed on the burns but it wasn’t about the burns.
She cleared her throat. ‘I had a phone call from Margaret,’ she said. I waited, thinking who the hell’s Margaret?
‘Margaret Harcourt,’ she said.
‘Oh.’
‘She told me this frankly incredible story … advised me to send you packing before you got up to any of your tricks here, as she put it.’
She waited for me to say something but I just shut my eyes and felt the edge of the bath against the back of my knees and pictured the thick pink of Mr Harcourt’s flesh and started to cry. It was warm runny salt on my face, wet as the melting world outside.
‘Oh Lamb, I’m sorry.’ Mrs Banks put her hand over mine like a soft cup. We sat there for a minute while tears ran down my face. ‘Would you like to tell me about it … as a friend,’ she said.
Friend. A friend. A fried fiend. Part of me wanted to tell her where to stick her friendship. I mean I was her cleaner. Paid peanuts to do her dirty work. But she was Dog
go’s mum too and in her eyes I could see Doggo’s eyes.
‘What did she say?’ I said.
‘Well, she said that you, well you seduced Mr Harcourt. He was ill in bed and you were poking about where you shouldn’t have been, as she put it, and he challenged you and you offered him your … well.’
I snatched my hand away. ‘That’s a lie,’ I said.
‘I’m quite sure it is.’ It was like Brands Hatch or something in my head while I tried to think. I didn’t have to say anything. She couldn’t make me say a word. It was none of her business anyway. I could just go. But I didn’t want to go. I wanted to say something. I didn’t want her thinking that.
‘It wasn’t like that,’ I went. ‘He … Mr Harcourt … he tried to rape me.’
‘Oh Lamb.’ She got hold of my hand again and squeezed.
‘I was terrified and he tried it on but I fought him off then he offered me a thousand pounds to shag him. And then he …’
She shook her head and squeezed harder.
‘Ow.’
‘Sorry.’
‘But I never took it. I never did it.’
‘Of course you didn’t.’
‘It’s worth a grand to me not to have done it.’
‘I’m sure.’ She sat there, shaking her head, the corners of her mouth pulled down. Probably wondering who to believe. Sometimes it’s hard to remember what is the exact truth when there are so many possible versions. The easiest thing to do was cry again. She handed me a tissue and got up to put the kettle on.
‘What I’m wondering,’ she said after a while, ‘is what we should do.’ We? I thought. ‘I mean whether we should tell her. She should know what her husband’s like. Would you be prepared to face her? You could even press charges.’
‘The police?’ I said. ‘No way.’
She looked at me for a long time. ‘All right. But you can’t let him get away with it.’
‘I just want to forget it.’
‘I’ve never liked Bruce,’ she said. ‘He’s that type that undresses you with his eyes.’ Roy came running in with wet all down his legs. ‘Not again,’ Mrs Banks said. ‘Please tell me when you get the feeling.’
Now You See Me Page 18
