The Last Girl

by Penelope Evans

  The Last Girl

  PENELOPE EVANS

  Text copyright © Penelope Evans 1995

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter One

  They've found a new girl for the second floor.

  All I can say is - what took them so long? I mean, two weeks since the last one left; Ethel has never gone that long without taking rent in her entire life. You've got to look at it this way - she is a professional, a land-lady in the same way that some women are matrons or prison officers, right down to the uniform, which in her case is the statutory flowered pinny the sort your granny used to wear. Your money goes into the pocket in the bib, along with all the peppermints and shopping lists, so that you tell yourself she's bound to lose it one of these days. Which only shows how much you know. That pocket runs straight down into the lining and the money you've just handed over has as much chance of being lost as the pattern coming off your plate.

  Anyway, back to the new girl. I heard them moving about downstairs, her and Ethel, and reckoned it was about time to put in an appearance and, more to the point, see what was new. Not that I was expecting anything different. Always the same these girls are. You'd think Ethel had a mould turning them out. But there, you live in hope.

  It's twelve steps to the middle landing, not counting the turn in between, but I haven't come down more than two of them before Ethel, sharp as ever, pipes up with: 'Ah, here's the gentleman I've been telling you about.' Followed by: 'Come on down, Mr Mann, so we can see who we're talking to.'

  Two things to notice straightaway: first, 'Mr Mann' she calls me. Not Larry, or Lawrence even, but Mr Mann. Forty-three years we've known each other and we're still not on first-name terms. The same goes for Gilbert, or the Living Skeleton as we used to call him, eighty if he's a day, and nailed to his chair by the gas fire these last ten years. I doubt if he even makes it to the toilet by himself any more. Anyhow, that's as maybe. Ethel and Gilbert they are to me, and always have been, even if it's never to their faces. They may own this house, but we were here long before them, Doreen and me, the only reason they could afford to buy the place at all. Naturally she did everything she could to get rid of us - especially after June came along - but she never did succeed, and here we all stayed. Now there's just me, all on my ownsome up here, a sitting tenant, and there's not a thing she can do about it.

  Second thing to notice: seeing that that's the case, Ethel is driven to getting her own back in all sorts of other, nasty little ways. Like now, when it's plain as a pikestaff that I was coming down anyway, she deliberately calls up for me to do it all the same. What she wants is to make it look that she only has to say the word, and I'll jump to it like I was born to obey. Small things, but the sort another man might allow to get to him. Me, I don't even notice them.

  Meanwhile, Ethel is repeating word for word what she told the last girl and the girl before that. 'Now, you and Mr Mann will be sharing the little-girls' room and the bathroom, but I don't think you'll find that a problem. Mr Mann is a gentleman of very regular habits. Is that not right Mr Mann?'

  'Right as rain, Mrs Duck.'

  Mutt and Jeff they should call us really. What she's saying is, in a house where the habits are regular, there's no reason why the paths of anyone should ever meet - except on rent day when we all beat the same path to Ethel's kitchen door. So there's nothing new in what Ethel is saying. However, something is afoot. Hard to say what exactly, only that for some reason the woman is looking as pleased as Punch about something, and take it from one who knows, that is quite definitely not like her. Mind you, it could always be a trick of the light - what there is of it. We're all standing here in the gloom- me, Ethel and the, so far, invisible new girl, with only a forty-watt bulb to throw any light on the subject.

  Suddenly Ethel Duck herself drops a clue. 'Why don't you come a bit closer, Mr Mann? You can't expect Miss Tyson to see anything of you over there.'

  It's there, in that 'Miss Tyson'. Two words to make me prick up my ears and wonder what on earth has got into Ethel. 'Miss Tyson' is what she said, not Miss Gupta or Miss Patel, or whatever. It's been five years since Ethel discovered that Indian girls make the best tenants, being quieter, more respectful, and generally easier to boss around. So it's been one Indian after another ever since. Don't ask me how she finds them. The name of Duck must be famous in New Delhi or wherever it is they all come from. Except that the supply must have dried up suddenly because after the last one left, nothing. Two weeks with an empty floor, and now this - a girl with a name you can actually pronounce.

  Naturally, Ethel knows when she's sparked my interest, which is why the moment she tells me to come a little closer, she manoeuvres herself right into the middle of the landing to make sure that without a periscope being handy, Miss Tyson stays as invisible as ever. Still, Ethel remains a talking-point just in herself. The thing you can't help but notice each time she's opened her mouth is that she's using the voice normally kept in reserve for the doctor, or taxmen knocking on the door wanting to know what she does with all that rent money.

  'You'll find Mr Mann a very handy gentleman to have around. He'll do anything if you ask him nicely. Isn't that right, Mr Mann?'

  I can't answer. I'm too busy marvelling. There's enough cut glass here to decant a sherry keg. Not even the Queen could talk like that and breathe at the same time.

  The other girls have always found him wonderfully obliging. You see, dear, he's one of those lucky folk who, unlike many of us, has got a world of time on his hands.'

  And with that she lets out a sigh, the sort that goes on to speak volumes and is supposed to remind you that she for one hasn't had a moment to herself for the last ten years, what with Gilbert needing his special feeds, medication round the clock, not to mention visits to the toilet, all to keep the old bugger alive against the odds. Doubtless Miss Tyson will have got to know of this within two minutes of walking through the door.

  Yet even Ethel couldn't have expected what happened next. The answer she gets comes, not from me, but from the other side of her, where it's still dark, and there's only Ethel's word that there's anyone there at all. From out of the gloom, there comes a noise to take us both by storm. In actual fact, it's absolutely tiny - more a suggestion than real, less than a squeak, but more than a sigh. Yet the effect is deafening. Because it was the sound of someone being sympathetic. Here, in this house.

  And even Ethel is silenced by it. Ten whole seconds must have passed before finally she picks up again and says, doubtless to give herself more time, 'Well really, Mr Mann. Are you going to stand there all day and never say a word to anyone? Miss Tyson is going to wonder what sort of unfriendly house she's come to.'

  And, at long last, she steps aside.

  A girl is standing there, small, barely high enough to reach my shoulder, and I'm hardly what you could describe as over-tall. Victorian shoulders, by which I suppose you could mean drooping, underneath her mac, and above, dark hair, lots of it, dead straight falling right across her face. The temptation is to call it untidy - I mean you would in anyone else - but for the moment it makes you think of
a curtain you want to lift aside, politely, so as to discover what's going on behind. And, more importantly, find out just what sort of person it was who made that surprising, sympathetic noise half a minute ago. Only you can't go pulling the hair of perfect strangers, so for a few seconds all I can do is stare, until suddenly, as if to oblige me specially, she lifts up a hand and pushes it aside. And that's when I see her face.

  And for a moment, I'm almost disappointed. I mean, it's a very pleasant face. It's just not what you could ever term pretty. Although I will say that it only wants a few rollers and maybe a touch of colour and she wouldn't look any worse than some of the other women you see on the street. And her eyes are nice big and brown, looking straight at you with a really lovely expression in them. The sort you'd expect in someone who could make that sort of noise. It's just that she's so pale; you can't help but notice it; even in this light, and way too thin, like she wants feeding up. All in all then, absolutely nothing special looks-wise.

  Only who's interested in looks? People used to tell me Doreen was attractive, and see where that got me. And what's wrong with Pale if it comes to that? Pale can suit some people; Pale even stands out better on dark landings when normal colour simply leaches into the background There's nothing wrong with Pale.

  This is what's going through my head when out of the blue comes the most surprising thing of all. A voice reaching out of the dark, no more than a whisper, yet clear as a bell 'Lighten our Darkness, oh Lord.'

  Surprised is hardly the word for it. Especially when it's obvious from the faces of the two opposite that neither of them have heard a thing. Trouble is, there's no time to think about it, not with Miss Tyson smiling at me, and Ethel already getting restless. A moment later, they're both squeezing past me on the way to the bedroom and there's only space for another quick, dare I say, shy smile from Miss T. And they're gone. What was more, in all that time, I'd never heard so much as a pip from her apart from that first little noise. That's what happens when you have a woman like Ethel making all the running. Yet if I'd only had my wits about me, I could have winked, let her know there'd be plenty of time for a chat later. But what with words floating in from nowhere and Ethel doing her worst, I never had the chance.

  Funny thing is, I'm not a bit downhearted. Don't ask me why, but suddenly I feel as if there's gong to be a change in this house. And all thanks to this girl. There's something about her that's different - not just from the Indian girls, but all of them, by which I mean Doreen, June, Ethel and anyone else you care to mention who belongs to the female tendency. She's not like the others.

  Now Larry's not a man to get carried away, but you know what? I'm shaking.

  I thought about waiting for them till they came out of the bedroom, then worried that it might look a bit odd, me loitering with intent as it were. Besides, as I told myself on the way back upstairs, there's going to be all the time in the world. The girl is here to stay. She's only got to look at the place to know it's a one-off. You simply can't find anywhere in London nowadays with a whole floor to yourself for twenty-odd pounds a week. Of course, she'll discover the drawbacks later, when she's all settled in, and realizes she can feed the meter to bursting to keep her gas fire going but nothing's going to stop the draughts, or the noises in the walls (Ethel will look at her straight in the eye and swear it's just the pipes), and that nothing happens in this house that Ethel doesn't know about in the end. Those are just the small things; there are others, but really it will be too late. By the time she finds out about those she'll have got used to paying half the rent of everybody else and won't have the heart to move. The odd thing is, the Indian girls never did seem to mind, not about anything. Not even when you tried to draw them out - maybe by suggesting that they'd fit in better if they left off filling the house with the smell of curry and made do with a boiled egg like an English person would. They would just smile and carry on - or curry on. I was only trying to be friendly, but they were all how can I put it - offish. You'd never get more than a good morning out of them, if that. Yet I could have done them any number of favours. I know where to find all the cheap electrical goods this side of Finsbury Park. They'd have found that useful when it came to loading up to go back to the Subcontinent. They only had to be a bit more friendly.

  But it's not going to be like that with this one.

  All the same, there's no harm in getting the ball rolling. Know what I'm going to do? I'm going off to Harry's stall right this minute. I'm going to buy her a whole load of fruit - apples, oranges, all kinds, and give them to her straightaway, with my compliments. A little moving-in present. That would be worth ten good mornings on the stairs if you ask me.

  See, the more I think about it, the more I reckon we're going to be the best of friends, me and Miss T. You mark my words.

  ***

  As we used to say in the army, however - the best-laid plans and all that. I'd swear I wasn't out more than half an hour, and that's even with Harry never content simply to pass the time of day. Then it was straight up those stairs to the middle landing. And I didn't mess around, gave her lounge door a good hard knock, reckoning that even if she was in the bedroom which is next door she'd hear me. No answer. So back I went to the top of the hall stairs, to her kitchen. Knocked there. Still no answer. Well I was disappointed of course, but hardly surprised. I just thought she must have gone out to buy a few essentials like tea and sugar. I only wished I'd managed to see her before so as to tell her I had more than enough upstairs to tide her over. As it was, I just nipped inside to put the fruit down on her kitchen table along with a note on the back of an envelope saying 'Welcome to Colditz!!!' That was my little joke. I tell it to all the girls, even if I have to end up explaining it. The trouble with the Indians is that they haven't seen half the TV that we have.

  So I was quite happy to leave it at that for the time being, until out on the landing again, it occurred to me - what if she smokes? I'd have given my right arm to have known there and then. Remember the old days? All sorts of things used to happen once you'd offered a stranger one of your cigs. Naturally, I'm talking more about the films than real life, but the hope was always there that one day it would work for you - that you would bowl someone over with the way you handed them a smoke. Not that I was looking to bowl anyone over here - perish the thought. But something to break the ice would be nice, set the scene so to speak. Anyway, the upshot is, no sooner has the thought popped into my head but I'm turning to go back the way I came, meaning to hotfoot it to the newsagent at the end of the road to get something a bit more suitable than my Old Holborn.

  Only, you might have guessed, who should be waiting for me at the bottom but Ethel. Obviously been keeping an ear out from the moment I got in.

  'Off out again, Mr Mann?'

  To hear her with that little tiny voice you'd think butter wouldn't melt, or to look at her either with her-old lady's curls and hankies stuffed up her sleeves. But don't be fooled. For one thing, she's hardly what you would call old, not at seventy-two - my age exactly which anyone would tell you is nothing nowadays. For another, it's all part of the act, and what's more an act that should be the envy of senior citizens the world over. You should see what that little tiny voice can do for her - free eggs at the market, the last seats on the buses. Shopkeepers rounding off the price of every mortal thing to save her scrabbling for change. She must have made a small fortune just from that. Some folk don't come into their own until they're old, and Ethel Duck is one of the breed. But what I'm saying is: I know the sound of the real Ethel- well I could hardly help it, not after the times I've stood outside her kitchen door listening to her barking on at Gilbert like a regular sergeant major. Poor old Gilbert - you could almost sympathize. You never would have found him in khaki doing his bit for his country. No, he stayed at home, nursing a weak chest. Yet who's the one who's ended up under orders? The Old Skiver, that's who.

  Best to answer quickly, for the sake of peace.

  'You know how it is, Mrs D. No rest for the
wicked.' (So how come Doreen used to fall asleep the second her head hit the pillow?)

  And that, you would think, would be the end of it. No more to be said. But not today, not when Ethel is still hanging on to the banister, making no sign of moving, which can mean only one thing. She wants something. Which in turn means I can forget about the cigarettes until she's told me. Always did have first call on me, did Ethel. Doreen was forever saying it, and for once she was right about something. The trouble was Gilbert: he never did know how to change a fuse, not even in the days when he could still have made it up a ladder. That left Ethel with two choices - either she got someone in and paid him, or she turned to yours truly who would do it for free, and not have so much as a penny cut off the rent at the end of the day. Which naturally begs the question of why ever do I do it. I'll tell you why. Because every time she has to ask, she's having to admit that the one and only reason this house is still standing is in the person of Larry Mann. And she hates it. Wonderful, isn't it?

  Except that today, there doesn't seem to be any list of orders. Ethel is hanging around because, as sometimes happens - like once in a blue moon - she just wants to talk.

  'You know what, Mr Mann, I can't help but worry. If Mr Duck doesn't have an extra specially good rest today, I wouldn't like to be held answerable for the consequences.’

  Sometimes Ethel lowers her voice - usually when speaking about Gilbert. She wants you to think the one thing keeping him alive is an optimistic front. When her voice sinks to a whisper - as now - it's only to let you know how bad it really is. As if that same whisper wasn't loud enough to be heard from halfway across the Albert Hall. Mind you, maybe she has a point because it's just at this moment that Gilbert can be heard coughing up what sounds like his heart and soul. And I'll be the first to admit it sounds nasty. Only watch Ethel, she doesn't turn a hair. And says;