Then there were the toys. You wouldn't believe them. Toy cars buzzing underfoot, toy trains chugging through papier-mâché mountains, lights winking at you, tiny silver wheels moving, and from elsewhere, the gleam from the polished sides of robots. Everywhere you look, something seems alive. You have to stand back a moment, with the solid wall behind you, and remind yourself it's all clockwork.
Did I say it was paradise? Not quite. You see, there were the kids, hundreds of them it seems like, screaming and bawling, running riot as you'd expect when parents turn their back on their responsibilities and let the rest of the world take the brunt. They'll bring the place down, these kids, treating it like a council playground, and no-one, not even the shop assistants, raising a finger to stop them. If I weren't in such a hurry, if I didn't have a good idea of what I'd get in return, I'd be tempted to say something, really I would...
Well, no matter. At least I was here, and the thing to do now was find and take the best of it home with me.
Only once again, and how often had it happened now? I had to get my bearings, think about why I was here. Young and innocent as a child she may be, but that didn't mean I had come in search of a nurse's outfit or a box of Lego. That would have been daft. I wasn't here to buy a toy, so much as something that was going to reflect back at her the very essence of what she was, something to remind her of her own true nature. And it certainly wasn't going to be here, amongst the remote-control toys. So what I had to do, having somehow stepped right into the middle of them, was get away. But even a simple move like that turned out not to be so easy. The blasted things followed you around. I hadn't gone five steps before a chieftain tank crashes into my ankles, nearly tripping me up. And don't try telling me that was an accident. Not when there was some bright spark not six feet away with a joystick laughing his head off. He knew what he was up to all right.
The worst thing about wall-to-wall kids, though, was you couldn't navigate. It was no good trying to walk in a straight line when they were there, every few feet, crowded round some toy or other, blocking the way. Which probably explains why after getting out of the robot displays, and passing through the computer section (computers for kids - no comment) and travelling past the board games, and taking in other bits and pieces on the way - I ended up right back among the remote controls, where I'd started. There was even the same kid there waiting for me, pushing his joystick in the direction of my feet.
Suffice it to say, my one thought was to get out of there as fast as I could. I didn't stop to choose a direction this time, half expecting a certain small thug to be following me whichever way I went. But he didn't, which was one thing to be grateful for. On the other hand it hardly looked more encouraging here. Now I found myself walking between walls of babies' toys, or rather one hundred different species of rattle for the nipper who has everything. All the same, the further along the rows you went, the more the rattles and tops started to give way to things that had faces and hands. And with that, an idea began to dawn. In other words, something deep down began to sit up and take notice.
You see, I was coming to the place where they kept the dolls. A few more steps, and they were all around, and that vague inkling hardened, turned into something you could almost describe as hope.
Now, don't laugh, you don't have a clue of what I had in mind. Neither did I for that matter. All I knew was underneath my vest there was a faint pitapat that told me I was getting warm. Something was out there, out of sight, maybe, but waiting for me. All I had to do was find it. So I slowed down, and started to use my eyes.
If asked to explain what I was looking for, I think I might have said this. Years ago, Harry and Molly went on holiday to Majorca, the only time they ever went abroad. But they always said they'd never forget it because they had the flamenco dancer to remind them. Near enough two feet high she must have been, all scarlet and black, right down to the red of her lips and the little curl on either side of her cheek. She used to stand on the piano and June loved her. Not that she ever so much as touched her. She just liked to look, tell everyone that she was going to be a flamenco dancer when she grew up. So though it was a doll, you could hardly say it was a toy - more an ornament, a thing of beauty, to keep and admire, a souvenir of the past, and in June's case, you could even say, of the future. Well, maybe that's what I had in mind - a doll that could do the same for Mandy as it did for June.
The trouble is, they don't make dolls like that any more. I know because I looked. I walked up and down those shelves, and then did the same all over again, but I didn't see anything remotely similar. I didn't even see the other kind, the big fat baby dolls with eyes that rattled in their head and who went 'Mama' when you held them upside down. That's not to say they didn't have baby dolls. They had them all right - the sort I'd never seen before and, frankly, hope never to see again. Too real to breathe, they were, in their little boxes, faces pinched and ugly, like the newborn, curled up under polythene. Don't ask me what they made me think of. June wouldn't have liked them.
Of course there were other dolls of a different kind altogether. Only, believe me when I say that these were the worst of the lot. These were the dolls I didn't even want to be seen looking at. Grown-up they were, and when I say grown-up, I mean just that - all bumps and curves, and not even dressed some of them. There's a word for what they represented, no doubt about that. Otherwise, why make them that way? It was almost too much, looking at them and thinking about the damage that must be going on in innocent young minds.
Yet though I'd walked the same shelves three or four times over, I couldn't quite believe it, that what I was looking for was not there. That pitapat had turned into a racing trot and even the backs of my hands were tingling. It was as if I'd got caught up in a game of hide and seek, and Mandy's present was there, almost within reach, just waiting to be found. Calling to me.
But not from amongst these dolls, not from the latex babies and the good-time girls, or from the rag dolls with blown-out moons for faces and spots for eyes or the half-size children in frilly clothes who could walk and talk and probably go to school without anybody noticing. There was nothing here for Mandy. And not for me either.
And as finally the pitapat started to fade and the hairs flattened on the backs of my hands, I could feel all the strength ebbing out of me. Like a bad dream it was. Suddenly I wasn't excited any more. Just tired, and with the tiredness comes the thought, out of the blue, impossible to ignore: I might as well have bought a dozen heated rollers and saved myself all this. Because, forget about the damage to young minds, what was it doing to mine? Here I was, stranded four floors up above a city gone mad, suddenly too tired to move, and with nothing to show for it. Better if I'd stayed at home. Better if I'd never dreamed up the idea of Christmas. Maybe even better if I'd never ever met her...
And then it happened. Almost the worst sound I'd heard in my entire life. A scream, slicing through all the rest of the racket, piercing to that very place behind your eyes where the headaches start, sparking one off right now. And if that wasn't bad enough it was followed by another and another. Of their own accord, the eyes swivelled round in my head, pulling the rest of me with them.
And there they were, a mother and her child, no more than a few yards away, beyond the dolls. The girl, who must have been three or thereabouts, was staring straight ahead of her and pointing, getting ready for another scream. Her other arm was being pulled high above her head, one small fist clenched above another, that gripped it by the wrist. Because all the time the mother was tugging at the kid, trying to drag her away from whatever she was pointing at. But she wasn't going to budge, not willingly. You should have seen the mother's face, though: white-cheeked, mouth set like a boxer's. You could hear her, pleading with the child, telling her that they had to go, that she was tired, that they were both tired. That she couldn't take much more, not today.
Do you know, I could almost sympathize.
'But I want it. I want IT!' The kid had finally found the words to go
with the screams. They didn't do her a bit of good. You could see it happening, how the screams were bad enough, but this was the last straw. I watched the mother drop the girl's hand suddenly, so that she could raise her own, high above her head, saw her bring it down, fast, so it met the kid's cheek with one good hard resounding slap. Then without another word she turned and marched away, leaving the little girl standing there exactly where she was.
If you could have seen the look on the child's face. It was almost comical. What with the shock of that slap and then her mother just walking off, she could hardly believe it was happening. Only that wasn't all. Though she had one hand free to rub her eyes in disbelief, the other continued to point, even though there was noone left to see - except me. The look on her face now was pure terror - a child's fear of being left alone and abandoned for ever. So why didn't she run, as fast as possible, after the mother who already had disappeared? In another second, you could see her child's brain telling her, it was going to be too late. So why didn't she run?
Because whatever had started the tantrum in the first place was still continuing to hold her now, though by this time almost against her will, against her own small good sense. For a few brief seconds more a miniature war was going on, and all you could do was watch as she stayed there rooted, wanting to run, yet unable to leave. Then, out of the blue, one side won. She opened her mouth and shouted (not screamed) 'Mum!' and sprinted off in the direction she had seen her mother last.
Which left only me. There was no-one else about, not here. Probably her screams had cleared this area of the store as efficiently as a fire alarm. And I was about to leave as well, as best I could, with exhaustion creeping through my legs, and the sap all gone from me. But one thing kept me. I couldn't leave before I'd seen with my own eyes what it was that could keep a child fixed to the spot even despite the nightmare of having her mother walk out on her. I'd hardly have been human otherwise.
So I walked those few extra yards, left behind the dolls which had promised so much, and turned out to be worse than useless. And found I was standing in a menagerie of stuffed animals. The cuddly sort.
And there it was: the cause of all the trouble.
It was a great big brown bear, way too large for any shelf, so that it was sitting on the ground propped up against a partition. He had the blunt bear's face of any normal teddy, only ten times bigger, and with a body so large his eyes must have been at the exact level of the little girl's. And that I reckon was half the reason for all the fuss. Because when I bent down to tie the lace on my shoe, I found myself gazing straight into those same brown eyes myself, and it came almost as a shock. For there we were, the two of us, suddenly staring at each other for all the world like we were real people who had just met. And when I looked closer still, there was me, mirrored in his eyes, two perfect little Larries, in cloth cap and polyester tie, out for the day.
And it was then I knew that I had found what I'd been looking for.
Now for it. Why, Larry? What on earth makes you think that a great stuffed bear is going to be the present of your dreams? You may as well ask why women like babies and some men like dogs. The fact is I don't know. But show me a girl who never had a bear. And not just little girls. They're all over the place, girls and their bears. From the covers of children's comics to the pin-ups in the dirty magazines. Especially the dirty magazines. Girls clutching them, covering their modesty, hoping you'll think they're good girls really; or the game-show girls almost weeping because they want to be the ones to lift them off the conveyor belt and take them home. Even Doreen went 'ah' once over one she picked up in a shop to show me, before we were married, nearly letting me hand over the little bit of money I had just to please her. See what I mean? Women. They all like teddy bears. I reckon it's in their nature.
But give a bear to the right person, and not only is the same just as true, but ten times as true. Give it to someone who's young and sensitive, and you've done more than given her a present. You've given her a friend. That's not putting it too strongly. What else do you call someone you share your bedroom with, cuddle up to even, in the middle of the night, whisper all your secrets to, and turn to when no-one else is there? The one who understands that underneath it all, she's nothing more than a kid in a nasty world? A friend. No other word will do. Other people can give her bottles of perfume, and they'll just stay on the dressing table and not mean a thing. But give her a great big brown cuddly bear and the only thing she'll like more will be the giver.
Seek and ye shall find. That's what the good book says, isn't it. And here was the living proof.
Yet even now, at the very end, it wasn't over. Not quite. You could say the biggest test was still to come. Because hanging off his ear, not half so decorative as the scarlet ribbon round his neck, was the price tag, and when I turned it towards me I found I was looking at triple figures. I'm not joking. Buying that bear meant I'd be paying over what I'd spent for Christmas so far and then some.
I'd like to say that that didn't stop me for a minute, that I just reached out my arms and picked him up regardless, but it wouldn't be honest. For a bit I was just like that little girl, torn between what was sensible and what was not, with one voice plain in my head saying, 'Don't do it, Larry. Buy a smaller one. It's the thought that counts,' while another part of me simply didn't listen, stayed with the adding and subtractions, working out how I could swing it.
Then I caught his eye. And once again, it was like looking into another person's. Far from being glassy, they had a look in them that spoke volumes. And what's more they were speaking to me now.
'It's no good, Larry boy,' they were saying. 'You've seen the rest, now take the best. You know there's not another bear to touch me. I'm the one and that's all there is to it.'
And do you know - he was right.
(Only, just for the record, let me say that he wasn't being pushy or cocky. All he was doing was stating a fact.)
So that was that. The bear was coming home with me. For a second, then, I thought I could just stand there, letting the relief wash over us both. Then another thought hit me. What if that woman had caved in? What if the screams had become too much for her, and she was on her way back this very minute? She could march up here and snatch him right out of my arms. I've seen it done, hundreds of times, in the sales. She only needed to appear and Mandy would never see her bear.
Straightaway I started to look for her. But it was no good, she could have been anywhere. She could even be at the cash desk as I was standing there, handing over the notes while someone else was on his way to wrap him up.
I never grabbed anything so fast in my life. Believe me, if there's an Olympic medal for picking up giant bears and fighting your way through a crowded store, I'd have won it. And it was rather like one of those hurdle races, with kids getting under my feet and near enough sending me flying a couple of times. It didn't seem to occur to anyone, least of all their parents, that an elderly man in a hurry weighed down by a bear nearly half his size could have done with a bit of helpful space. But in the end it didn't matter. Despite them all I made it to the cash desk and not a sign of the woman anywhere.
'I want this bear,' I said. 'And if anybody says a word, tell her I saw it first.'
I'd shouted because of all the din, but even so, I’ll admit surprised myself a bit. They must have been able to hear me down in men's tailoring. But to be honest, I was past caring. Still, you don't expect people to stare at you like that. Not that it made any difference: the girl at the counter could spend all day squinting at the light through my twenty-pound notes, the money I handed over was as good as the next man's, and half a minute later the bear was mine.
Actually, he was too big to wrap. Silly of me to have thought otherwise. Still, what better way could there be of laying claim to something than walking out with it for all the world to see? I even thought I should keep a look-out for the mother and daughter, smile at them as we passed just to show there were no hard feelings. And sure enough there they
were, not far from the way out. The only trouble was, I couldn't seem to get them to look in my direction. The little girl was trying her best to shake off her mother's arm while pointing at a display of rainbow-coloured ponies. And from the look on her mum's face, you could see what was coming next.
Chapter Twenty
Back down in the street, it occurred to me that I was the only one who had come out today and got what he wanted. Otherwise how to explain why I was walking towards the bus stop with a grin spread like butter over my face while everybody else looked as if all they had got for themselves was a cold? Not that I could see much, not with a big furry brown head two inches from my face, but I knew for certain there wasn't a soul down there walking with the same spring in his step.
It had finally hit me - I'd got everything I set out for in the first place. It didn't matter what happened now; Mandy and me were ready for Christmas. I'd done it all, and the best bit of it was sitting in my arms. And what had it cost me? Only money. It wasn't even an effort carrying him. He might have been as heavy as a small child and twice as bulky, but nothing would have made me put him down, not once I'd picked him up. He even had a way of making you comfortable as you walked along, with your nose pressed into the fur at the top of his head. He had his own smell too, warm and nylony, like a man's shirt that's just been taken off. Not like a toy.
The funny thing was the way other folk reacted. You'd have thought there'd be titters at the sight of an OAP strolling through the West End with a giant stuffed toy in his arms, but that's not how it was at all. On the contrary, getting on the bus, and wonder of wonders, actually finding a seat, you could see people falling under his gaze and actually smiling. As for me, I just sat there, with him on my lap and a smile of my own, and drifted, not even thinking, into the future.
The Last Girl Page 20
