The Last Girl

by Penelope Evans

  Then all of a sudden, the fog clears and I’m thinking straight again. Larry's not waiting for anyone, least of all June who went the way of her mother long ago. There's not one ounce of her here, or Doreen come to that. Never mind the flowers on the wall, this is Larry's place. And Larry's in charge. When I get to my feet I’m light as a feather and fairly float up those stairs, back to the kitchen, and civilization.

  And I’ll tell you what, having that funny turn just now has gone and improved my memory no end. Because the trouble is, a busy chap like Larry is bound to forget all sorts, until something comes along to jog his mind. Take my fireplace for instance. I can look at it for months and never remember what's there. Yet it was me that built it, brick upon brick, twelve years ago now, straight after she left. Took my time about it too, making sure I got it right, But the last brick I left loose, and that's the one I keep forgetting, until just now on the stairs.

  Well, everyone's got a secret place haven't they, where things can get tucked away, without having the whole world in on it? In my case, it's not so much a secret as wanting to keep the rest of the place nice, and not spilling over with odds and ends that frankly you'd rather not have around, not on a daily basis. All the same, I can't help shaking just that little bit when I take the brick away, because in the back of my mind is the fear that someone else might have come along and stolen what's inside, as if there was another soul who knew.

  But I didn't need to worry. It's still there. Doreen's scarf. Or to be more exact, Doreen's scarf and a few other bits and bobs besides.

  Well, I said I had all sorts tucked away, didn't I? What's more I know what else I said - about me throwing out every whipstitch belonging to her, Doreen. I keep meaning to get rid of this scarf and all, but it's like the brick in the fireplace,I keep forgetting about it. Then something like tonight crops up, and not only do I remember it, I'm actually glad it's there, that scarf of hers. You see, believe it or not, it's come in handy a couple of times over the years, as I dare say it will again tonight.

  Anyway, there's the scarf, but what appears next is a bit of a surprise even for me. It's a present, wrapped up with gift tag and everything. And just for a second it's got me wondering if there's not someone else coming back and forth here after all. Then I remember the reason for that too. Read the message. 'To Larry, with all the love in the world, Mandy.' I'm going to open it, of course. Well, we've had Christmas come early this year so why wait? You'll never guess what's inside. Or maybe you would, seeing as you could smell it even before taking off the wrapper. Mediterranean waves washing over broken columns. What do you know, after that larking around in gentlemen's perfumery, Larry's got a whole bottle to himself.

  All right, I'll own up. I bought it. And wrapped it up myself. And wrote the message. You can laugh, but with all this present-buying what was wrong with a little something for me? Only, unselfish to the. last, I went and bought something she liked, didn't I? I mean, we know what that scent does for her.

  Funny, the effect of smells. Here's me, only just back to normal after noticing the smell of this place after all these years, half a century of dinners that refused to lie down and die. Then there's Mandy's smell, telling its lies, making her out to be some kind of kid and not a sprinkle of malice in her. Doreen with gin on her breath, laughing in my face. And now this, the one to take the biscuit. Not that I'll ever get the knack of wearing it. It's begun to drip all down my neck again, just like in the shop, only worse this time because now it's gone and soaked the waistband of my pyjamas. Still, I'll be putting a coat over that. And I’m not washing it off, Because this is the smell that does things to Mandy, isn't it? The more you put on then, the more you'll do.

  Which means I'm nearly all set. Except for the lipstick. Orange, naturally. Doreen's colour. Doreen's lipstick. They've got to be wearing it at the time, otherwise it's not the same.

  You don't know what I'm talking about, do you?

  Then it's off down the stairs again. You wouldn't believe how lively I feel. It's what comes from knowing it's all about to slip into place. Take that scarf of Doreen's for instance. You’d be surprised at how natural it felt. Yet when was it I used it last? Six, seven years ago? Christmas, seven years ago. After June's visit. I don't know what they make them from, but hold a bit of scarf like that normally, and it causes no end of problems. It's the fake satin effect, meaning that the darned thing will slide in between your fingers like a piece of wet fish. But show a bit of nous, hold it properly, with one end wrapped round one wrist and the other end round the other, and Bob's your uncle. You've got a good few inches in the middle with which to do exactly what you like.

  I know which room she's in, of course. She slipped into her bedroom half an hour ago, probably hoping no-one heard her, and there hasn't been a sound out of her since. But she won't be asleep. She might even be waiting. But what for? For someone to come back to her wearing that good old familiar smell she knows and loves? Maybe.

  There's no light under her door. And none out here on the middle landing. I even made sure to switch off the kitchen light before I came down. No point in burning money. Talk about dark then. Right now, I can't even see my hand. But there, I was forgetting, there's the scarf wrapped around it anyway. After that it's a case of just walking in. Don't ask if I knocked. You have to earn your privacy in this house.

  She doesn't know I'm here though. Not yet. She's pulled the curtains at last, is lying here in the dark because she can't face the Light of Truth. You can just about make her out, curled up on the bed. She hasn't even heard me. Too wrapped up in herself, and how she's going to face a world that's seeing her with new eyes. Blind and deaf she may be, but it makes no odds. All I have to do is stand here in the dark, and pretty soon she'll know. And sure enough you can begin to feel it happening as the air around her changes. Over on the bed, something stirs. Two quick breaths, and then her voice, sharp and high and unbelieving: 'Francis?'

  And at that I close in.

  I left her as I found her. No, really. And if that surprises you, you want to hear what happened. Truth is, I don't even like thinking about it. I took it slow, sat down on the bed beside her, didn't say a word. Pitch dark it was. But you could practically hear those waves breaking in Mediterranean fashion. And that's when I feel these arms going up around my neck. Slowly to begin with, as if she can hardly believe there's anyone there. And that was bad enough, not least because the suspicion was that she still hadn't bothered to put her clothes back on. But what's worse is her face, trying to find mine in the dark, like a baby looking for its mother, and what does that show except that she's up to her old tricks even now. Still making out she's nothing but a big kid with none of the drawbacks.

  Enough is enough. 'Give over, Mandy,' I say to her. 'It's not nice you know.

  It's my voice that does it to her. At the back of my neck her hands seem to go into spasm, and lock. Then let go and fall to the bed with a thud like two dead birds. Since she seems incapable, I lean across and switch-on the light beside her.

  'Oh Mandy girl, you should see yourself.'

  It's all I can do not to laugh. She hasn't got a stitch on, but that hardly counts, not with a face like hers at the moment. Eyes like two pork pies, all swelled up and pink, nose the same, lips too big and fat to close properly. Just for a second there I thought he must have clouted her, and no bad thing, but then I realized it was because she’d been crying after all. It must have been the silent variety because I haven't heard a thing upstairs. Anyway, there's Mandy no oil painting at the best of times, and certainly not now, kneeling on the bed facing me, with an expression that is just plain stupid. I mean, there are idiots in institutions who can manage to look a bit more with it than her right now. Given all that, then, you can see why the rest of her is hardly going to appeal. Least of all to Larry.

  'You know what, Mandy,' I say. 'You need a bit of colour.' She doesn't say anything. She's begun to rock back and forth slowly like some big doll in motion. 'Try this,' I say. 'It was
Doreen's, but it would suit you. You're the kind of person that it would.' Again she doesn't say a word, doesn't even look at me and the rocking, it just gets worse. So the only thing to do is help her out. I take the lid off the lipstick and the next time she rocks in my direction, I catch hold and smear the stuff on. Not exactly what you could call neat. You're not meant to wear it halfway across your face like some kid who's been in its mum's handbag. But it's still an improvement. And at least it's stopped her rocking.

  'There,' I tell her. 'Just right.' And pick up the scarf again, this time with both hands. Hold it up for her to see, a bit miffed maybe because those eyes of hers, they don't seem to be taking in a thing. But I needn't have worried, she understands all right. You only had to watch the sheet. There's a stain the shape of Australia there, spreading out and darkening, and for an instant you can catch it, the tang of pee. Little girl's pee, like June's.

  But then, would you believe it, a couple of seconds later she starts rocking again. Lifts up her head in the process, looking not at me but at the wall behind. Not what you would expect in the circumstances. You could almost think she was trying to make it easier. Then suddenly it hits me: that's exactly what she was up to.

  All I was doing was saving her the trouble.

  Well, you can imagine, that stops me, dead in my tracks. Turned me right off. Next thing, I was unwrapping the scarf and putting it away. Let her do her own dirty work. Blowed if Larry's going to smooth her path.

  And what's more, if she does, and they come round, asking what happened on the middle landing, I'll tell them exactly. That should put a few cats among the pigeons up in Edinburgh. Ethel will back me up, she'll be feeling that vicious. Tenants doing themselves in on her furniture. It's only a pity Mandy was still hollering when he went.

  I switched off the light for her though.

  So now Larry's got to go out after all. Well, deep down, I knew it was a bit too close to home. Me sitting up here and her down there, and any number of people to point to the fact that I was the only one who knew her, I mean really knew her. You never would have caught me making that mistake with Doreen, or June come to that. Besides, can you imagine trying to collar a woman like Doreen? The strength in that woman's arm, you wouldn't believe. It wouldn't have been a fair fight. What it boils down to is, women like her have a wall of wickedness around them, and there's no getting over it. It's just that Mandy got me that angry, I've never quite known anything like it. Not even Doreen let me down the way she did.

  But there are plenty of others, aren't there? Out there, looking for victims, telling their lies. Women wanting to injure and maim. Women with men in their sights. For every Doreen, or Mandy come to that, there are a thousand more raring to do the same thing to some other poor bugger. Catch one at it; and you've caught them all. So when it comes to getting a bit of your own back, it makes no difference who you choose in the end. Pick any one you like, you'll still be doing society a favour and saving some other poor bloke from the inevitable. In an ideal world there'd be men queuing up to shake your hand.

  But I'll tell you the real problem this time, it's all the weather we've been having. Why do they always have to choose Christmas? Don't laugh, but I'm beginning to think the only female ever to pay any attention to it being the Season of Goodwill was the bloody Virgin Mary. First Doreen, then June. And now Mandy. And that being the case, you know exactly what it's going to be like, the minute you step out the door. Shocking that wind is, coming right at you in the dark, straight across the road from Finsbury Park. What's more, it's worse this time. Twelve years ago, even seven years ago Larry still had the constitution for it, but that's hardly the case now. No-one in his right mind would expect an elderly man to go out, risking his health in this climate just so he can do his bit for the rest of mankind. But, as I've always said: someone's got to do it.

  This will be the last girl, though. Then I reckon I'll deserve a rest. The one comfort is, she'll be easy to find, like the last time and the time before that. It even helps having this wind. She'll be huddled in some doorway, trying to keep warm regardless, waiting, just asking for it. I might not have to go very far. The one thing you don't do is ask her name. And if she tells you anyway, remember it's only a ploy, her trying to make out she's different. Forewarned is forearmed. In this case, a bit of lipstick to remind you who you're dealing with, and that scarf of Doreen's, shutting off the lies, all that loose talk, before the words even have a chance to get out. To be honest, I don't think anything else would do the trick.

  And after that, back to the warm. Tomorrow I'm going to clean out my cupboards, and think about a bit of paper-stripping.

  Merry Christmas Larry.

  THE END