The Last Girl

by Penelope Evans

  'Someone's going to love their grandad this Christmas. Who's it for- girl or boy?'

  Nearly jumped out of my skin, I did. The voice seemed to have come from nowhere. Then, craning my neck around the bear, I saw a woman - another senior citizen - sitting next to me. She must have got on while I was off with the fairies. Being caught by surprise like that, it didn't give me time to think. Still, I wanted to reply, seeing as she was only being pleasant. So I opened my mouth and said the first thing that came into my head.

  'Girl. A little girl.'

  'Lovely,' she said. 'Just right.' And she smiled at me all the way home.

  Coming in after a day like today should have been a let-down. But it wasn't. In point of fact, as I let myself into a house that was wonderfully quiet, it occurred to me that it was even a good thing that he was here after all. It meant that Mandy was unlikely to be around to see me as I carried her surprise up the stairs, while Ethel, having spent the morning imbibing in the company of what she would term The Upper Classes, was probably lying motionless somewhere in a sherry coma. Result - we got ourselves up to the safety of my kitchen without a murmur of interference, which is saying something for this house.

  What I wanted then was a cup of tea - for celebration and refreshment, but first things first. That's what I said to myself as I looked around for somewhere to put Master Bear. It was no good leaving him in the kitchen or the lounge because as sure as eggs, Mandy would break the habit of a lifetime and decide to visit while His Lordship was still here. Not that it was any great problem: there was ample space for him in the spare bedroom even with all the goodies that were already there; So, the spare room it was. Mind you, I made sure he was comfortable.The Christmas tree, the stand and back-up TV came off the bed so that he could lie there in state with nothing but Joey’s old cage to make him have to share.

  And only then did I get that cup of tea I'd been promising' myself. Yet, considering how I'd been looking forward to it all day, it didn't come up to scratch. Not that there was anything wrong with it. It was me. I couldn't seem to relax. Despite it all turning out the way it had, and it now being a case of full steam ahead to a blissful future for the three of us, something, somewhere was weighing on me, yet for the life of me I couldn't think what it was. It was the same when I started to get supper ready. Pretty near famished, I was, yet not even the thought of steak pie and peas could excite me.

  And then it came to me.

  It was cold in the spare room, and dark. And lonely to boot. A far cry from what he must have been expecting, what with me nearly busting a gut to claim him and then carrying him home like royalty. Well that was it. Think of me what you like, there was no way I was going to leave him there to languish by himself. I dropped everything. and made straight for the spare room. And in the first seconds after switching on the light I could have sworn that his eyes brightened at the sight of me.

  'Look here,' I said to him, not making any bones about it. 'You've got me acting like a big girl, fussing round you like this. Bloody good thing Doreen can't see me now. Splitting her sides she would be.' I was going to add 'and so would June', but didn't. You see, to tell the truth, I reckon June might have understood, long ago, in her younger days.

  The upshot was, I found myself carrying him into my bedroom and settling him down on the chair at the end of my bed. And that's where he stayed, looking as if this was where he'd banked on being all the time. He'd be expecting me to say good night next. One thing was for sure, though: come bedtime, neither of us was going to keep the other one awake with our snoring.

  After that, everything was fine. More than fine. I finished off peeling the potatoes, put the pie in the oven and went to watch a bit of TV and all as happy as a sandboy. And it didn't matter what I turned my hand to for the next hour, it always came out right; the gravy was perfection, the pie was cooked to a tee. And me, I just kept smiling. And do you know why? Because sitting in the next room, my own bedroom, was a certain big brown bear, making himself comfortable in my chair, keeping a watchful eye on my bed.

  I wondered what sort of name she was going to think up for him. There was always the obvious - the name of the giver. Larry One and Larry Two we could be then. But there could only be one Mandy.

  So what do you do to round off a perfect evening? Go to bed. Well yes, but what if the night is still young, and you're in a mood to keep going? To which thought could be added the reminder that elsewhere, certain other people were out and about making the evening last, indulging in all sorts of excess - probably - while you sat here, wondering whether to have a cup of cocoa before turning in. In other words, why bring a perfect day to an end before you have to? Why not go mad and stay up a while, live a little?

  If I was going to stay up, though, it wasn't just so I could drink more tea and watch more television. You can see the sort of mood I was in. What I really wanted to do was celebrate. So while breaking open a box of luxury biscuits might be a thrill at any other time, it wasn't enough, not tonight. Opening a cupboard in the kitchen however, gave me the idea. One clanking mass of bottles it was in there. Bottles of this and bottles of that, and I'm not talking about lemonade, or even whisky for the matter. I'm talking about another world, a veritable treasure house of novelty tipple. I'll explain: not knowing what Mandy likes - only that sherry doesn't seem to do a thing for her - I'd tried to buy one of everything that looked interesting. Bottles I'd never set eyes on before then. Expensive - yes, though not compared to what I'd shelled out today. The laughable thing was, however, I didn't even know what half of them contained. Of course, I'd read the labels, but they didn't tell you much, not with names like Ocean Paradise and Irish Milk. Most of them I'd only bought for their labels, or the funny colours shimmering unexpectedly through the glass. Yet what if Mandy wanted to know before she partook? A right Charlie I'd look; lining up all these sophisticated drinks. then having to show my ignorance.

  And that's when I thought - why not kill two birds with one stone, give each of them a go, and have that little celebration while I was at it? Then it would be off to bed, a nod to my old pal the bear, and a good night's sleep.

  Just bringing them all into the lounge took a time. Honestly, there were that many. Lined up side by side they took up practically the length of the coffee table. Then there were the glasses to go with them - an entire boxed set of them. You couldn't call them brand new; I'd had them for years but never even unpacked them till tonight. I suppose I should have given them a wash, but they didn’t have a fleck on them. Lovely little things they were. I could see now why I'd bought from that catalogue. Not one of them could have held more than a thimbleful, and each with a miniature old-fashioned motor car painted on the side. In other words you could fill all six to the brim, but with the amount any one of them contained, not even a teetotaller could have objected.

  For a minute or so, though, half the joy was just in sitting there, reading label after fancy label, admiring the detail on the little tiny cars, and thinking - this time next week, there'll be two of us here. Or three, if you count a certain large bear.

  Then it was down to business. Lucky for me, most of them had lids that twist off. I never was much of a one for a corkscrew. It was just, a question of which to choose first. In the end I plumped for Jamaican Orange Cream - for the simple reason that it was a name you would trust yourself with in a box of chocolates. It looked like cream, too, when you poured it out, thick and faintly orange, but you could smell the liqueur.

  Want to know what it tasted like? Heaven, that's what. You'd hardly know you were downing something alcoholic. I'd have had another glass straight off, but I had a duty to keep on and give them all a go. I needn't have worried, though. Waiting for me were peppermint, coffee and coconut, not to mention peach, cherry and almond, each one nicer than the last. Halfway down the line I began to laugh, suddenly thinking I was like Goldilocks, having a little taste of this and a little taste of that. Then I thought of Mandy doing the same and instead of laughing I almost f
elt like crying, only with sheer joy.

  And it's when I think of Mandy that I feel happiest of all. By the time I get to the end of the line it's somehow as if she's sitting there beside me, matching me, glass for glass. In fact I've decided that her favourite tipple is the very first, the orange cream, and that's the one I ended up drinking in her honour, meaning it to be my last.

  Not that having a small celebratory drink was the only thing I had in mind for the evening. Far from it. I'd got it all planned. A little sip of this and a little sip of that, and then it was over to the organ for a medley of the old favourites. I'd sort of neglected it of late. The trouble was, Mandy and I have that much to talk about as a rule, there never seems to be the time, And then, when she's gone, there's the problem of trying to catch up with what's on the box. There aren't enough hours in a day. At least, there haven't been since a certain young lady chose to come and live here.

  What I hadn't banked on though was how, in the end, all the exertions of the day were bound to take their toll. At one stage I did get up off the settee, meaning to make my way over to the organ, but I'm not joking, the room actually started to spin. Exhaustion of course, the direct result of all that running around, with hardly a thought for what it might be doing to a man of my age. So discretion told me to stop where I was, stick to something relaxing - like enjoying myself here, having what you could almost call a rehearsal for next week. And that's just what I did, until, round about ten, I started to notice that the light had got a mite strange. Everything in the room seemed to be turning in on itself somehow - like the table in front of you, solid enough, you'd think, yet not promising to be there if you touched it. Definitely a new light bulb was called for, before the light went altogether. Trouble was, standing on a chair and screwing was the last thing I felt like doing after a day like today. Either I sat there in what might soon be pitch dark, or took myself off to bed like a sensible chap. So that's what I did. Left it all as it was and headed for the land of nod.

  It wasn't until I was walking through the bedroom door that the memory hit me: Francis was here.

  How to ruin a perfect evening. At the thought of him, I had to throw out a hand to catch the wall, otherwise I might have fallen over. That's how the man can undermine a person, just by popping into his head like that. Up till then I'd been lost in a happy dream, one where there was only the three of us - Mandy and me and the bear - enjoying everything friendship has to offer. But what the thought of His Lordship does, of course, is remind me that it's just that, a dream, and that we were still here, stuck in the middle of the present. Mandy hadn't been with me at all. She'd been with him, was still with him, a different girl altogether.

  Not surprisingly, given that I was close to being grief-stricken, it took me a whole minute to find the light switch in the bedroom. But then, when the light came on at last, brighter than in the lounge, what a glorious sight. There was our very own old brown bear, sitting just where I'd left him, looking as if all he'd been doing this long time was waiting for me to come to bed. And you can tell me I was imagining it, but I could have sworn he was even wagging a paw at me for not turning in earlier.

  Well that was it. Suddenly I could feel myself coming out all smiles again, just because he was there, waiting for me. And as for being told off for being late ...

  'Get stuffed,' I said, just like that. 'It's not that late. And Larry's a big boy now.'

  Get stuffed. Get it? A little joke. The sort you can make with a friend, someone you know will laugh and not take offence. Get stuffed. Good that.

  And that's where today ended. In two shakes I was undressed and climbing into bed, still laughing to myself. And I wouldn't be surprised if I was still grinning a minute later, as I lay there flat out. You see, I wouldn't know; I was asleep the moment my head hit the pillow.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I don't know what woke me.

  Maybe it was a noise. The sort that's been and gone before you wake up, leaving nothing more than a ripple in the darkness. It could even have been a lorry, one of the specially noisy ones, a juggernaut heading north, its driver trying to fit in one extra trip before the holiday begins. It could very well have been a lorry.

  Go back to sleep, Larry. That's what I said to myself. It's half past two in the morning, lad. This was no time to be awake, not when for once I'd managed to go to sleep without the waiting, and the listening, and everything that usually goes with a visit from His Lordship. I'd managed without all that and known only peaceful slumber as a result.

  And peaceful slumber being all I wanted again, I closed my eyes that had opened for no reason that I could see, and tried to sleep. And couldn't. And couldn't. In fact the more I tried, the more awake I became. Until finally I had to face it. It wasn't going to happen, not for the time being.

  Something was nagging me, pecking away at the back of my head like a woman's voice. Now that I was awake, I wanted to know why. And until knew, I wasn't going to sleep.

  So what was it? A noise? A dream? That's a good one, because there's nothing like dreams to wake you up, specially the sort I have. And come to think of it, there had been something happening over there, on the other side of sleep. But it wasn't the kind I normally have, I can say that now, because it suddenly struck me that half the reason I really wanted to be asleep again was to get back to that dream, whatever it was. Something told me I'd actually been enjoying myself. And now I felt cheated.

  So it must have been a dream, not your normal kind certainly, but the sort that can wake you all the same. Not the smell of gas, or a light burning up money, or a sound from down below that never should be there...

  Tell that to my hands, though. Do you think they could stop fretting? They hovered about like a pair of restless souls until finally, I got a grip and clasped them above the covers just below my waist, told them to lie there and keep still.

  And that was when I discovered what it was really that had woken me.

  Underneath the covers, underneath my hand, something was alive. Something I'd thought had died long ago. Still there, still alive, still hard. Not my imagination.

  Don't. Don't say anything. Larry's not that kind of man. Doreen could have told you that. I mean, she told everybody else didn't she, as if there was something wrong with being clean-living. As if it mattered, as if we didn't have June already. It wasn't my fault then, and it's not my fault now, when it's all turned round. So don't.

  Just make it go away. And let me sleep the sleep of the just.

  Light. Light is what I need. Light to drive away the evils that creep under the darkness to play tricks on a decent man. Only it can't be the usual kind of light, not when you might end up seeing things you don't want to see. It's got to be another kind altogether, spiritual even. In other words, Lighten my darkness, oh Lord. Relieve me of this.

  But the answer comes as nothing but a continuation of the same, and down below, still there, is the hard thing that could kill a man with shame. So it's got to be light, any light. In this case the lamp beside the bed. The important thing is not to look, not down the bed, not in the mirror, just straight ahead where it's safe. And so it is that the first thing I see is the bear, staring straight back at me.

  And, oh God, don't tell me I'm going to blush in front of a flipping stuffed toy. But I do. I can't help it. He's looking at me, and has been all this time, never mind the dark. Those eyes of his, yellow in this light, can see everything, and as much as on me, they are fixed on the stranger halfway down the bed.

  So I lie and I blush and I lie and I stare until...until the impossible happens, and out of the blue, out of the impossible, he winks at me.

  So help me God, he winked at me.

  'What?' Despite myself, I've jumped out of bed. Because what else do you do when a toy bear winks at you, then seems to sit back, smug and knowing as any joker in a pub? Yellow eyes laughing at you and accusing you of all sorts of nastiness. What you really want to do at that moment isn't just jump out of bed, of course it isn'
t. You want to lunge forward and yank him from the chair, give him the hiding he deserves. But you don't, because the fear is you will feel a small animal heart beating under the nylon of his fur.

  So when you can't do what's normal, you do the next best thing instead. In this case, sink down on the bed, and let the conversation run. Because those eyes of his, they're speaking volumes.

  Or a few words, anyway. And those words are, 'Who've you been dreaming of, Larry?'

  Then it all comes flooding back - the whole bloody dream, washing over me. I could see her face and everything. And what's down below explodes, killing itself. And it's all over.

  At the end of my bed, slumped in the chair is a stuffed toy like any other, nothing in its eyes but the glint of glass. The only living thing in the room is Larry, sitting bolt upright in his bed shivering with fright and- -something else.

  Relief, probably.

  All the same, it's a good few minutes before the voice of reason strikes up and, without a word of apology for its absence, tells me to pull myself together. It was the dream that did it. And you can't blame yourself for your dreams. It's other people who force their way in. At least there was nothing Doreen could say about it, because for once it wasn't Doreen I'd been dreaming about. Meanwhile there were still hours of peaceful sleep ahead of me.

  But not tonight. No way was Larry going to sleep again, not right away, and certainly not when somebody else was sitting there, watching. The bear - be he ever so blameless would have to go. So I went to pick him up, meaning to carry him into another room where he could be just as comfortable. Imagine my surprise then when the very next second I find myself standing outside the bedroom door in pitch dark. The bear has stayed exactly where he is and it's me who's ended up going.

  After the initial shock though it occurs to me that it's come to the same thing: I've got that bit of privacy I needed and now that I was up, and sleep being the last thing I wanted, I might as well just go with the flow, carry on into the kitchen and make myself a cup of something comforting.