by Jean Levy
Episode Three
The black and white cat had clearly decided to stay for the morning and was now asleep on a dining chair pushed halfway under the kitchen table. Its right ear was perhaps two inches away from the ridge of wood that ran between two table legs. It must have had to squeeze itself underneath, yet it was sleeping peacefully. I envied the way that cats were able to be comfortable in such uncomfortable circumstances. But then, cats have small heads containing small brains that have no room for the kind of worries that could congeal into frantic dreaming or reasons for not sleeping. I watched its fur breathe. What a declaration of confidence in my benign hospitality that this animal, so able to roam free, should sleep so soundly on my kitchen chair.
I stepped over and slid out the tray from beside the dresser, fetched two china mugs and the empty biscuit tin. Half-filled the sugar bowl. Checked the kitchen timer. Forty-five minutes. Filled the kettle. Forty-three minutes. I wandered through to the lounge at the front of the house. My desk was beneath the window that looked out onto the road outside. On its surface was a lined notepad open at the first page. A brief list was pencilled halfway down:
PIP
PIPPIN
PIPPED
It annoyed me, so I took a pencil out of the pencil pot, one that ended in a smudged eraser, and scrubbed out the bottom word. The eraser transferred its smudge to the paper. Now I was really annoyed. I ripped out the page and noticed that the page beneath still bore the imprint of the three words. I pulled that one out as well, screwed them both into a tight ball with that bottom word locked deep inside. I heard something, glanced up, and noticed movement through the narrow slits in the blind. I bent lower to get a better view of the pavement outside. It was old Miss Lewis from next door. And a woman, short and thin, exhaling cigarette smoke as she spoke. She was pointing her cigarette up towards the empty flat above mine. Miss Lewis was leaning away from her, shaking her head. I looked up at the ceiling. Sometimes, there were noises. I reached over to pull the blind closed, slowly so that no one would see it move. The woman was walking away towards a silver-grey car. Miss Lewis was watching her go. I glanced again at the ceiling then hurried back into the kitchen and threw the paper ball into the recycling box. Thirty-one minutes. The house phone rang beside me. I waited for the ringing to stop then copied the last incoming number onto the telephone pad, detached the sheet and hid it underneath the pile of tea towels in the tea towel drawer. Twenty-seven minutes.
When the timer said ten minutes I turned it to zero, went through to the lounge, sat down on the larger of the two sofas and watched the minute hand on the wall clock jolt towards twelve, then down towards the one. The doorbell rang. I hurried over and peered through the small peephole. A tiny, cone-shaped Mrs Parkin was on the other side; she moved her head towards the outer part of the peephole and her eye became bigger than the whole rest of her body. I opened the door before things got any worse.
‘Hello, Sarah,’ said Mrs Parkin. ‘I’ve had to park miles away. It’s a bit of a liberty those builders taking up your visitor parking like that. We ought to complain. How are we today?’ She always said that, but I don’t think she ever expected an answer. She stepped inside and waited for me to close the door. ‘Shall we have some tea?’ This was Mrs Parkin’s usual opening gambit. She probably imagined that it created a friendly atmosphere. It made me cringe each time she said it, which, at the moment, was every Monday and Thursday.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ I said.
She nodded her approval and followed me into the kitchen. The black and white cat was nowhere to be seen. I watched Mrs Parkin remove her coat and drape it over the back of a chair then investigate her bag for my case file. She was a tall, tight-skinned woman with bony hands and big feet. She invariably wore flat shoes, presumably to offset her height, but the shoes made her feet look even bigger. The overall effect was awkward. She also had a wide mouth, even when she was not smiling, which was most of the time, and, at some point in the past, she hadill-advisedly had her thin hair bobbed into a kind of choir-boy basin cut. She was probably about fifty but looked older. I turned away, emptied out the filled kettle, refilled it and switched it on. When I turned back Mrs Parkin was opening her folder onto the work surface.
‘So, how are you today, Sarah?’
‘I went to the supermarket.’ My eyes strayed towards the fruit bowl and the incriminating Braeburn, only inches from Mrs Parkin’s folder. I pointed to the windowsill. ‘I bought basil.’
‘How lovely. Did you speak to anyone?’
‘No.’
‘No little panicky episodes?’
‘No.’
She made a brief note. ‘Have there been any calls?’
‘No.’ The kettle flicked off. I made tea.
Mrs Parkin watched me for a moment before removing a packet of biscuits from her bag. ‘I thought we’d try something special for a change. Chocolate gingers.’
I took the biscuits, emptied them into the biscuit tin and placed it on the tray, then carried the tray the short distance to the table. Mrs Parkin picked up her folder and sat down.
‘And how was your consultation yesterday?’
‘Dr Gray was pleased,’ I said.
‘And Dr Williams on Tuesday?’
‘Fine. I had a note from the Indian restaurant on the corner, about removing a gate and re-fencing. I showed it to Dr Gray.’
Mrs Parkin checked her information. ‘Hmm, Dr Gray feels it’s best if your mail continues to be redirected.’ She glanced down a list. ‘There hasn’t been much. Mostly bills. And they’ll continue to be paid from funds. Is your allowance proving sufficient?’
‘Yes. I bought a microwave.’
‘I noticed.’ She helped herself to a biscuit. ‘Have you been able to use it?’
‘Yes. I’m OK with instructions. Mrs Parkin, I think my road tax disc has to be renewed at the end of the month. Will the funds cover that?’
She flicked a few pages. ‘It’s already seen to. As I’ve said before, we have arranged for all these things to be dealt with. According to your agreement. Shall we pour the tea?’
I poured. I could feel my blood pulsing past my throat. I needed to ask.
‘Mrs Parkin, I can’t expect to be paid for like this forever. My car, my rent.’ I handed her a mug. ‘Does my landlord know about me?’
Mrs Parkin helped herself to sugar. ‘Dr Gray is optimistic about your recovery. In the meantime there are sufficient funds.’
‘What funds? Is it the money from my books?’
‘Sarah, we have discussed trust, haven’t we?’
‘But there must be people who know what happened to me. What happened to make me not remember. Where are all the people who knew me?’
‘Trust, Sarah!’ Mrs Parkin sipped her tea. ‘Now, what about your writing?’
I resigned myself to not knowing. ‘I did some this morning.’
‘Good! That’s a good sign, I’m sure. Do help yourself, my dear!’ She leant over and took another chocolate ginger, bit into it and left a trace of pale, ill-chosen, pink lipstick deposited across the surface of the chocolate. I helped myself to a biscuit and took a modest bite and instantly experienced the strong sensation of what must have been ginger, curling around my tongue in advance of the luscious, dark chocolate. I closed my eyes and tried to remember these tastes from before but Mrs Parkin interrupted, asking me if I’d thought of leaving the house other than to visit the supermarket. ‘We could arrange an outing. To buy clothes or …’
‘I have clothes. And lots of shoes. I must have liked shoes.’
‘We could go back to three visits a week, if you’d prefer.’
Good God, no. ‘No, I’m fine,’ I said, trying not to sound ungrateful.
Mrs Parkin wrote notes. ‘Have you made contact with any more of the neighbours?’
‘No. Just Miss Lewis next door. Then there’s the house with the builders and the people next to that are still not there. She talks about the weather. Miss Lewis
.’ I took another small bite of the chocolate ginger. ‘Does she know what happened to me?’
‘Enough not to mention, which is for the best at the moment. Dr Williams thinks it’s essential for recovery. I think I’ll have a top-up.’
I refilled Mrs Parkin’s mug and handed her the milk jug, watched her fill her mug almost to overflowing then zoom in to suck up the first mouthful before it could throw itself over the side, watched her bottom lip deposit a pink smear across the china.
‘Today I remembered how my granny used to rattle apples,’ I said.
Mrs Parkin looked up from helping herself to sugar. ‘And why exactly did she do that, Sarah?’
‘To see if they were ripe!’
Mrs Parkin’s mouth puckered into a smile. The pink lipstick was now restricted to the peripheral regions of her lips, the rest was either consumed along with the chocolate, or left on her mug. I felt the need to look away.
The allotted hour staggered to a close. Mrs Parkin checked her watch.
‘Now, Sarah, as always, please contact either myself or one of the doctors if anything changes. You must keep our numbers with you at all times. And if you feel yourself remembering anything at all, call us straight away. That’s what we’re for.’ She closed her folder: ‘So, we’ve had a nice little chat. And I get the impression you’re feeling a little more relaxed about everything, so that’s super-duper. Next time we’ll …’
‘But, Mrs Parkin, I still don’t understand how I can do the things I can do, but I can’t remember most of my life.’
Mrs Parkin glanced again at her watch. ‘Sarah, Dr Gray has explained the difference between remembering how to do things and remembering your own personal experiences, hasn’t he? You really must trust his expertise. We can discuss this during next Monday’s session if you are still concerned.’
I realised that any further questions would achieve nothing, so I contented myself with watching Mrs Parkin pulling on her coat, walking her to the front door and watching briefly as she strode off in the direction of the Indian restaurant. I closed the door, paused for a moment to compose myself, then wandered through into my bedroom and on into the bathroom. As I stepped inside, I caught sight of my face approaching in the mirror above the sink, a pale face that offered me no explanation, apart from perhaps a sadness in the eyes. I stepped forward to take a closer look. I could make out an old chickenpox mark on my left temple, which was usually masked by my hair. I studied it and tried to capture some echo of a childhood sickbed, of warm tears and calamine. But there was nothing there. I brushed my hair smooth then stepped over to the wall cabinet, took out a slim make-up bag and sat on the edge of the bath to investigate its contents. Everything was unused. I poked around to find a thin maroon tube with gold writing: Autumn Kiss. Non-smear. I eased it open and returned to my pale face in the mirror and carefully applied a smooth covering of dull brownish red, snapped up a tissue and closed my lips over it. I assessed my appearance and watched myself smile. It suited me. It complemented the flashes of amber in my light-brown hair. Again, I closed my lips over the tissue then flushed it away, took another look at myself and then returned to the kitchen. The black and white cat was back, sleeping soundly, presumably taking advantage of any residual warmth left by Mrs Parkin’s thin bottom. I hurried to clear away the tea things, then picked up the biscuit tin, walked over to the sink and tipped the remaining rich, chocolate gingers into the organic waste. Ginger was probably something I didn’t like.
Episode Four
Friday came next. And, as on every Friday throughout that unusual springtime, Annie Dickson was to spend the two hours between ten o’clock and midday cleaning my lounge-diner, kitchen, bedroom and bathroom. I assumed that Mrs Dickson answered directly to Mrs Parkin and suspected that she wasn’t really a cleaner at all but rather some kind of middle-aged spy, obliged to report back each week concerning my state of recovery. But I didn’t mind the deception too much because Mrs Dickson changed the sheets and did all my laundry and ironing. She was much nicer than Mrs Parkin and not that intrusive, for a spy, although I remember always making sure I was in the same room as her, apart from when she went to the toilet, which was invariably just after she arrived and just before she left. I enjoyed our weekly chats about her last several holidays and her three grandsons and even her troublesome menopause. In fact, that Friday I was really looking forward to seeing her.
‘Hello, dear,’ said Mrs Dickson. ‘Can’t seem to make its mind up whether to rain or not. How’ve you been this week?’
I stepped back to invite her inside. ‘I’ve been fine. Shall I put the kettle on?’
‘That would be lovely, Sarah. I’ll just spend a penny, if that’s all right.’
By the time Mrs Dickson joined me in the kitchen, the tea was ready to be poured. She pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘No puss today? Just one sugar, please, Sarah, same as usual. Shouldn’t really but I like a little bit of sugar and those sweeteners leave a nasty taste in your mouth. Not that you’d know, slim as that. I wish I had your figure. Mind you, poor Mr Dickson would never find me if I was as thin as that.’
Mrs Dickson’s chatter always reassured me. And I liked the way she puffed her short, portly body around behind the vacuum cleaner, the way she rolled her sleeves up when she cleaned the worktops. I thought that she must be a perfect granny, the kind of granny one might expect to find living in a cottage in the woods, the sort of granny that a red-cloaked granddaughter might rescue from a grisly fate. I handed Mrs Dickson her tea.
‘One sugar, same as usual,’ I said. It was almost a joke.
Mrs Dickson chuckled, un-spy-like, then she reached into her bag and pulled out a plastic lunch box. ‘I’ve bought us a little treat. I know how fussy you are about what you eat, but I thought we’d try some of my chocolate cake. The little ones love it.’ She flipped off the lid to reveal a rectangular slab. Slightly squashed in transit, its surface was covered in a dense layer of chocolate sprinkles interrupted by an occasional silver ball. I froze. There was something not at all right about the way those little balls were embedded in the chocolate. They couldn’t possibly be edible. I’d be bound to breathe one into my lungs and suffocate. And Mrs Dickson would have to try and save me. I felt my fingers knitting together, tried to pull them apart but they were inseparable.
‘What’s the matter, dear? I thought you liked chocolate. We can put it away if it’s upsetting you.’
‘No! I do like … but I’m not hungry and …’
Mrs Dickson placed a fat hand on my arm: ‘Is it the little balls?’ She pushed the lunchbox away. Reproachful. ‘I should have known that would be a mistake. The balls, I mean. My boys always pick them off and throw them at each other.’ She patted my arm. ‘Why don’t you fetch us some tea plates and by the time you get back there’ll not be asingle ballleft.’ She frowned. ‘You do like sprinkles, don’t you?’
I went over to the dresser and selected two china plates, held them close to my chest, waited to hear the loose flap of the waste bin then got to my feet. Mrs Dickson was sitting the same as before. In front of her was a completely ball-less slab, its surface pockmarked with a few irregular craters, surrounded by sprinkles. It was excellent cake.
Annie Dickson commenced her cleaning routine. I followed her from room to room, listening, chatting. Perhaps four times in two hours was too many times to thank a person for a cake, but Mrs Dickson seemed pleased, so I felt it must have made amends for the problem with the balls. She was forcing the linen into the washing machine when the phone rang. It rang four times before she mentioned it:
‘Would you like me to answer it, Sarah?’
‘It’s nobody!’
The ringing stopped. Mrs Dickson glanced through the kitchen window and lowered her voice. ‘Did Mrs Parkin tell you not to answer the phone?’
‘She said it would be someone trying to sell me something.’
Annie Dickson nodded. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Then I’ll do your bit of ironing.’
I waited by my desk. The blind was open. Mrs Dickson always opened it. The traffic could be seen streaming past on the main road. I tried to imagine Mrs Dickson being caught short on her way home. I wondered where she lived. She often mentioned her husband’s allotment but I didn’t think Islington was known for its horticulture …
‘Ah well, another week over.’ She was pulling on her coat.
I stepped away from my desk. ‘Do you have far to go?’
Mrs Dickson paused, a brief indecision seemed to silence her.
I caught my breath. I had said a wrong thing. ‘I mean … do you have to catch a bus or something?’ I had made a mistake, crossed a boundary that should never have been crossed. ‘I’m sorry. I was just worrying. It might rain and you’d get wet. I …’
‘The number forty-one takes me right outside my door. Hornsey. Just past the High Street. Not far if you fly.’
Hornsey? A ripple of fear passed through me. I caught my breath. ‘Oh! I don’t know it.’
She frowned. ‘Anyway, Sarah, don’t you worry. A little bit of rain doesn’t hurt no one. It’ll make my hair grow. Not that I need any more hair. More than you can say for poor Mr Dickson. Bald as an egg.’ She picked up her bag. ‘Next week we’ll give the fridge a good clean. You never know, we might find some crumbs in there.’
