The Last Girl

by Penelope Evans

  'Ah,' I say. 'You're probably talking about the picture.'

  Ethel narrows her eyes. Obviously thinks I'm trying to have a joke at her expense. All the same, she answers me, slowly, as she would for a dying idiot at his last gasp of understanding. 'Yes, the picture, Mr Mann. It wants cleaning. We have to get it off the wall. Mr Duck can't do it. So we're asking you.'

  What comes next is a final desperate attempt to enter into the spirit of the thing. 'Cleaning,' I say. 'Well I don't know about that. It looks the same as it ever did.' I should know, seeing it was me who had to lug it home for her from Woolworths all those years ago.

  'Well that's just where you're wrong, Mr Mann. We were talking about it when Francis was here. I said the colours weren't what they were, and he said all it needed was a touch of white spirit. Five minutes and it would be as good as new...'

  The rest of what she said just seemed to trail off into nonsense. And it didn't matter how hard I listened, it only got worse.

  '... He said in a few years' time, a picture like this would be a collector's item, so it was only sensible to take care of it. Apart from which, it gave a whole new vista to the room. Told us he could practically feel the alpine breezes in his hair. Lovely way he had of speaking. I don't suppose Amanda's had the chance to introduce you yet?'

  She was asking me a question, and a serious one at that, namely who'd been first in the introduction stakes. But it was no good trying to answer her. The words wouldn't have come. All I could do was stare blindly from one to the other, until I finally came up with a question of my own.

  'Mrs Duck. You've got to put me straight. Are we talking about the same person here? You've actually met, I mean, had words with this man, this so-called friend?'

  Ethel bristles ever so slightly, a sign of worse to come. 'Well of course. Amanda brought him straight down this morning, just like she said she would. And really, since we're on the subject, I can't see any call for rude names. And certainly not when it's a man of his sort...'

  This was too much. 'But Mrs D. That man stayed here last night, here in this house. Are you telling me you didn't know that?'

  I was shouting by now, a thing unheard-of in Ethel's domain. The effect on her is frightening to behold. She has a way of literally expanding before your eyes, like a great she-cat lifting her fur, turning itself from a fireside tabby to a wild thing red in tooth and claw.

  'Mr Mann.' The sound of her voice is the hiss in the undergrowth, the noise that tells you not to take one step further. 'Mr Mann, I hope you're not trying to suggest that anything immoral has been going on in this house.'

  If I tell you the very room had shrunk around us it would be no lie. Even Gilbert was disappearing into his chair. Yet I held my ground. Waited for what was coming next.

  'This is a respectable household Mr Mann, and I'll thank you to remember that. There's never been anything of that nature gone on under this roof, not ever. Do you understand me. Only once have I ever had to worry about such a thing. Only once, a long time ago. But of course, you would know all about that, wouldn't you?'

  And suddenly everything went quiet. Ethel, who you might have expected only now to be getting into her stride, had stepped back and folded her arms. A moment before she had had an entire book to throw at me, now, instead, she was satisfied just to leave it there. All she needed to do was sit and wait for what she had said to sink in. Gilbert too. The pair of them were looking at me with the self-same expression on their faces. Smug, that's· the only, way to describe it. The look of people who know something you don't. Then all at once it clicks. Something that happened here once, something that I should have known all about...

  Out of the blue then comes the old cold feeling, the one that used to come and go, but mostly stayed. Doreen - did she, did she ever, here, with him? The one in Waltham Abbey: Maybe even not just with him either. What about Gilbert? He'd have had a lot more strength then. And I'd seen where Gilbert's interests lay. Suddenly what I needed was to sit down.

  The good Lord only knows where all this might have led if Ethel hadn't butted in, ruining her own triumph so to speak. Surprisingly, it was to return to the original subject, as if none of the past few seconds had happened. What's more there's not even any malice left in the voice, or none so you'd notice. 'What I'm saying, Mr Mann, is, you're not to go thinking the worst. It does you no credit at all. But then again, if Amanda hasn't told you, then you're hardly to know. That young man of hers couldn't be more respectable if he was the cousin of the Queen herself. Doctor, he is. Surgeon. Like her father.'

  Oh, this was the worst trick of all. Of course he was a doctor. What else could have had this effect on Ethel? He must have walked through the door with his testimonials round his neck. Ethel would have been there, laying down the red carpet.

  And as for me, it's back to the old days, of feeling like the only decent person left on earth, the single righteous man, the only one who cares about the difference between right and wrong. And whose fault is it? His fault, that's whose. He turns up, and in one short night tips the whole house and everybody in it on its head.

  There was no sense in staying, no sense in talking even. I got the picture down for them and went back upstairs. But there was no peace that day. How could there be? With a man like that in the house. But really, you could almost forget about him; it always came down to Mandy. The best you could say for her was that she was taken in, like Ethel and Gilbert. But the worst...? It's not that hard to put into words. That she'd gone the way of all women, and Larry was right all along.

  But there's one more thing before you think the worst, before you raise your voice to call her rotten like the rest of them, before you go telling Ethel you don't mind whose suitcases you help drag down into the hall and out the front door.

  Which is why I'm lying here in my bed, doing what I should have kept myself awake to do last night. Listening.

  Remember what I said about June's bed? The one you only have to touch to have creaking and groaning like a train grinding to a halt? Some nights I've lain up here counting the times Mandy turns over. If she turns over tonight, if anyone turns over tonight, I'll hear it. It's as simple as that.

  They came in about an hour and a half ago, just as I was climbing between the sheets. They made a lot less noise than when they went out, but I could hear them all right, strolling back and forth on the landing like it was the middle of the day, before, almost the last thing of all, one long whispered conversation outside the lounge. But it's quiet now. A couple of doors closed for the last time, getting on for an hour ago, and after that, nothing. Not even a squeak. The only sound is of the lorries rumbling away in the distance, ironing out the litter that drifts across the Holloway Road, heading north.

  Half-past two - that's what it says on my clock (digital, like the one I bought for her, only the numbers on mine are green and instead of standing still, turn somersaults all the night long). And it only goes to show. It doesn't matter what others would have you believe, you really should always think the best of people.

  Chapter Eleven

  Waking up this morning, it's as if nothing has changed. The same din as yesterday, with the conversation at full volume, and doors banging loud enough to wake the dead. Yet instead of jumping out of bed and fretting, I just lay there and let them get on with it. Hardly surprising seeing as it must have been well after four when I finally did drop off. Shocking, but there you are: some things are worth staying awake for.

  So that was one reason for feeling better this morning, but there was another to go with it. Today was Sunday, and Prince Charming had to go home to his wife. And his children. That's what I decided last night, with all those hours to think about it. There are bound to be children, after all. We're talking about a man of over forty, and just in terms of statistics, there are bound to be kids. Pretending otherwise isn't going to make things any easier for Mandy.

  Two children then. Boys. Ten and Twelve. Poor kids.

  I've decided Mandy doesn't know
about any of them, not the wife or the children. You've only got to think about it calmly for a minute. There's no way a girl of her calibre would be going about with a man she knew was married - even if she is completely different when he's around. The tragic thing is, it won't always be like that. One day she's going to have to find out, and that will be the day we see a sadder and wiser Mandy.

  In the meantime though, lying there in bed, with all the clatter going on, it seemed that the best way of getting through the rest of the day was by seeing as little of the two as possible. Him especially. No point in letting them get under my feet.

  Then again, it was just as well that things went wrong. Otherwise I would have missed the one bright spot of the weekend.

  Hearing the front door slam, I naturally thought they'd gone out, and that was my chance to creep downstairs so as to get a breath of fresh air and the newspaper. I was only halfway down the hall however when suddenly the front door bursts open, and it's him, breezing in with what looks like a ton of newspapers under his arm. Apparently some folk can't make do with just the one copy of the Sunday Express. They have to go and buy the whole shop.

  The thing is, then he tries to carry on breezing, right on past me without so much as a good morning. Now call me old-fashioned, but that is not the sort of behaviour you expect in your own house. What you would term insult added to injury. Then outside, in the street, I had a thought. What if Mandy had been telling him about the two of us and what we get up to when we're by ourselves? It would be all Larry this and Larry that till he was sick of hearing it. Which means you could see now why he would do all he could to put me down, in other words, ignore me the way he just did. The man was eaten up with jealousy.

  So there you are. If I hadn't met him, how else would I have known that- or been able to picture his face as Mandy chatters nineteen to the dozen about none other than her old Larry?

  Which brings me to the best part of all- namely this evening. Half an hour ago I heard Mandy come in, and this time she was by herself. I don't think she can have raised so much as a particle of dust on that landing, she was so quiet. And that's how I knew his-nibs had gone home, leaving the real Mandy behind him.

  Already there's a different atmosphere in the house. Well nearly. It's not what you'd call perfect silence, not with all the racket coming up from a certain room that just happens to be situated below mine. It's Mandy of course. The silly girl is down there sobbing her heart out. Apparently it hasn't occurred to some folk that there are people trying to get some sleep in this house, people who might even be tempted to pop downstairs and point out that a little consideration in this area might not go amiss, but Larry's not like that. The way I see it, girls will be girls, and there's no call to gripe just because they like to act daft every now and then.

  I don't know how long I can keep this up though, making excuses for her. Listen to this - it's been three days now - that's Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and has there been any sign of Madam? Has there ever. Yet she's been home - I've heard her, creeping around like she always does. Quite active really, so she can't even give the excuse that she's ill.

  You know what's happening of course. It's him up there, His Lordship. He's got to keep her away from her old Larry or she'd start enjoying herself again and forget all about him. You can just imagine him, trying to think of all kinds of ways to keep us apart. The worst you could say for her is that she's just doing what she's told.

  But it's not good enough. Simple decency should be reminding her of who her real friends are. And they could be lying up here dead for all she knows.

  Added to which, I can't stand waste. I've still got half the stuff I bought when I thought - thanks to her fibs - we were expecting another girl. I can't keep it all for very much longer. As it is, she's missed her chance of a Viennese whirl. I polished those off last night. And was I sorry? Not a bit of it.

  Put simply, the worm's finally beginning to turn. A man can only take so much. Then it's time to start thinking about dealing out a drop of the same medicine. If she wants to turn the cold shoulder on old Larry, then he can do likewise, and every bit as well as she can. Granted, reserve isn't in my nature, and it's not how you'd want to behave to a friend in the normal way, but there, sometimes it takes a friend to point out the error of your ways.

  Starting from tomorrow, Mandy's going to see another side of Larry, one I daresay she never dreamed existed. No more smiles, no more asking her how her day has been, no more offers of sherry. She'll hardly know what's hit her. I'll be polite, but distant. And dignified. I'll keep it up for days if I have to, until finally, when she can't stand it any more, she'll turn on me and beg to know what it's all about. And that's when I'll tell her. The whole story. There'll be no mincing of words, just the plain truth - pure and simple.

  I reckon we'll need a few handkerchiefs around here then - a box of them probably. Rainbow colours. Because there's no getting away from it. Sometimes the truth hurts.

  Now do you want to hear what actually happened?

  In the first place, I had the best night's sleep I'd known in days. Then I spent the entire morning working out how I was going to say this to her, and then how I was going to say that, until by lunch time she was standing right there beside. me, tears starting out of her eyes, her little voice breaking as the words come out: 'Larry please oh please oh please Forgive me I have done such Wrong' and so on. It was after lunch though, that we came to the nub of the matter - about what to think of a young person carrying on with a man who was twice her age, and Didn't She Know He Was Married? I was in the butcher's by then, treating myself to a bit of steak and it's there, as I'm tucking the meat into the side of my carrier, I had second thoughts, told myself that maybe I'd do better to strike out that last question.

  The problem was this: I could picture her apologizing for everything else, for all the noise and commotion, all the fibs and general lack of consideration, even for not bothering to come and say hello to her old pal, but try as hard as I might, I couldn't imagine what she'd say to that last thing, about his being married. Doreen now - she would have been easy. She'd have just laughed, which shows the sort of woman she was, a perfect example of the breed. But Mandy? The shock might well kill her.

  Better to stick to the essentials then, carry on with giving her a bit of the old harsh medicine - and when it was all over, switch right back to the Larry she knows and loves and not one ounce of hard feeling between us.

  So there you have it - nicely worked out to a tee.

  Switch to this evening then. What happens is, I'm standing in my kitchen, by the stove. The steak is sizzling away beautifully in the pan, the chips have turned the right colour and all I'm waiting for now is the peas. Then from downstairs comes this little knock on the wall.

  It's a miracle I even heard it actually, I was that busy. Besides which, I simply hadn't been expecting her, not after the record of the last few days - which was partly why I was treating myself to a slap-up meal in the first place, a sort of consolation. The result is, hearing her now, not knowing she was coming, gave me a real shock, which goes a long way to explain what happened next. Without even stopping to think what I was doing, or why, I simply grabbed every blessed thing off the stove and threw it into the oven, out of sight. I was still turning off the knobs when she appeared in the kitchen door, with that sweet old Mandy-smile I hadn't seen in days.

  And me - what did I do? Nod and carry on as if she wasn't there? Offer a curt good evening and then start to let her have it - all the stuff I'd been rehearsing from the moment I woke up (barring the bit about married men), or in short order, simply tell her to get lost? Did I do any of these things?

  'Hello stranger,' is what I said. 'Fancy a cup of tea?'

  Two reasons: the first being that all it took was the sight of her, out of the blue like that, to make me forget everything I'd wanted to say; and second - she was standing there holding up a great big white cake, all icing and cherries round the top as if she'd copied it from a pictur
e in a kiddies' comic. And no prizes for guessing who it was for.

  It's not often that Larry's at a loss, but I'll own up. I was completely knocked out. 'Aye aye Mandy love,' was all I could manage, followed by, 'and what have we got here then?'

  For an answer she just looks at me, only it's in such a way I would never be able to put into words. Suffice to say it was between her and me only, and it was a look that said more than a hundred folk all speaking at once could ever say. It was a look that said, 'I'm sorry.'

  After that, her actual words, when they eventually came, seemed unimportant. 'It's a cake, Larry,' she says in that soft little voice. 'I made it for you.' I suppose I nodded, but to tell the truth I was barely listening. It was more the tone of what she said that captured the attention - contrite and sad. She should have left it there, really, with that impression fresh in my mind, instead of adding, 'I just thought, seeing everything you've done for me since I came here, that it was time I paid you back.'

  'With a cake,' I said. 'How very nice of you, love.' At the same time, though, already beginning to run through my mind was a whole list of other things offered in the other direction. Like fruit, cigarettes, cold platters, a clock radio. Now we have one cake...

  But there you are, as I always say, it is the thought that counts, and what was more, there must have been a fair bit of work gone into that cake. If she hadn't cheated and used a packet mix. For the moment, I didn't say anything derogatory. Besides, I reckoned I knew what was coming, and sure enough, as if to prove me right, she hurries over to me and plonks the cake down on the side - exactly where I would have been doling out the steak and chips if she hadn't turned up at just that minute - and says, 'Well, I'd better go, Larry.' And starts heading back for the stairs. But I was ready for her. One little hand on her arm was all it took to stop her.