by Gee, Maurice
‘Trés intéressant,’ Helen had said when she found out. (She had just come first in a French test.)
Tennis was an excuse for spending time with Calum. Ailsa didn’t think they needed it now, after going to the pictures and kissing at the door of House 4. It had been a quick kiss because of the light and she made a frown of annoyance, remembering it. She frowned too at the way his limping had stopped him from putting his arm around her as they walked back from the Prince Edward. Nevertheless, who needed tennis? The trouble was she liked the game, and was getting better at it too. But — she watched Helen run to the net and volley — she would never be good enough to win Calum’s bet.
She told herself not to get soppy about him. He was only a boy, there were plenty of those.
They could not practise that afternoon because she had to go to Wellington to buy some shoes. She hated being on the unit in her school uniform and walking round Kirkcaldie’s like a Willowbank girl. She was sure the saleswoman was putting on an upper-crusty voice.
‘Ah, oui,’ Ailsa said, admiring shoes, ‘trés intéressant.’
She caught the same unit home as the dental nurses and shared a seat with Gloria. She opened the shoebox and showed her the new shoes. Gloria laughed.
‘Clop, clop. They’d do for a draught horse,’ she said.
‘Don’t you like them? They’re not for wearing out, just — wherever.’
‘I’ll come with you next time,’ Gloria said.
The man in the seat opposite smiled at his Evening Post. He folded it double and read some more. Ailsa, offended at Gloria, watched his eyes travel along the line and jump to the next. He folded the paper again, with scarcely a rustle; and suddenly she recognised Errol Parkinson from over the fence. She made a jerk of surprise but he looked at her with no sign of recognition, then returned to his paper. He was wearing a grey suit and a blue tie and had his hat resting on his knees; and his face seemed to have changed as well as his clothing — it was thinner somehow, and aloof. A triangle of white handkerchief poked from his jacket pocket, as neat as it must have been when he had put it there in the morning.
Ailsa shifted further back in her seat, and Errol frowned at something in the paper. His knees were angled to prevent them from touching Gloria’s. He reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out a fob watch; clicked it so the lid flew open; frowned and snapped it shut.
‘Pardon,’ he said as his knee brushed Gloria’s.
‘I’m sure,’ she said coldly, and looked out the window.
Errol read his paper again. At Woburn station he angled his knees so Gloria could get out.
‘Do you know that man?’ Ailsa said on the platform.
‘Who?’
‘The one with the paper, who said pardon.’
‘Never seen him before.’
The unit pulled out. Errol went by, with his eyes fixed on the Evening Post.
‘He’s the one who watched when his dog baled me up.’
‘Nothing men do will ever surprise me,’ Gloria said.
They climbed the overhead bridge and came down to Cambridge Terrace.
‘He’s a civil servant. High up,’ Ailsa said.
‘Who?’ Gloria was impatient.
‘The man on the train.’
‘With the cheeky knees. I’ll bet that wasn’t an accident.’
They walked along to House 4 at the tail end of the nurses. Someone like Errol could not do any harm, Ailsa thought. There were too many people in the hostels for him to be dangerous. And anyway, he probably kept his stupid games for his own back yard.
They went into the house and the lucky ones grabbed letters from the rack.
‘There’s one for you,’ Ailsa said.
‘God, the phantom letter-writer,’ Gloria said. She snatched it and stalked to the bedroom, where she tore it unopened into halves and threw them in the wastepaper tin. ‘If he thinks I’m going to waste my time reading it he’s mad. No,’ she said, as Ailsa bent to take the letter out, ‘leave it there. Leave it, I said.’
‘I’m telling Mum.’
‘You are not.’
‘I’m going upstairs.’
‘Stay here.’
‘To show her my shoes.’
‘Ailsa, if you tell her, we’re not friends any more.’
Ailsa took the shoebox up and showed her mother, who approved — sensible shoes. When she came back to the bedroom Gloria was sitting on her bed with the two halves of the letter held together.
‘Look at it.’
Do not disappoint me, Gloria. Keep yourself for me. ‘Disappoint’ was written in black.
‘We’ve got to take it to the police,’ Ailsa said.
‘No.’
‘Show Bevan.’
‘He wouldn’t have a clue what to do.’ She let the letter fall apart. ‘I don’t like this one.’
‘Nor me. It could be someone gone as mad as Parker and Hulme.’
‘What shall I do?’
‘Where was it sent from?’
Gloria looked at the postmark. ‘Wellington. All the police could do is — nothing.’
‘It must be someone who knows you. Bevan’s friends?’
‘They’re too thick.’
‘It’s not Ron Stock. Someone at the dental school?’
‘There’s no one there. Why can’t people leave me alone?’
They went along to the dining room, where Gloria had a cup of tea. Bevan was taking her out for dinner that night. Miss Cotter went by with her tray.
‘One bad apple,’ she said.
For a moment Ailsa wondered if the letter-writer was her, getting some strange sort of revenge. But no, she was, like Bevan’s friends, too thick. And it had to be a man. Who else would say, Keep yourself for me?
Later on, when Gloria was having her bath, Ailsa took the torn letter from the wastepaper tin and put it with the others in her exercise book. Ron Stock went by on the footpath, walking home. Ailsa pulled the curtains closed. She wished she could ride to Calum’s house and tell him what had happened, make him see how serious it was. She thought that Gloria should go away and live in another hostel, safe from the man on the bike. The letter-writer had to be him. But the thought of not having Gloria filled her with dismay. She felt that she was in a trap and could not move more than a step in any direction.
Gloria came in, wrapped in her dragon.
‘Where is it?’
‘I saved it. I’ve got the others too. Gloria, it must be the man on the bike.’
‘He’s too old. This is someone young. It’d better not be your boyfriend.’
‘That’s not funny.’
‘No, I’m sorry. He’s not too bad except for his leg.’
‘That’s not his fault.’
‘You should hang on to him for a while, to practise with.’
‘I think you stink sometimes.’
Gloria laughed. She must know how good she smelled — sudsy and hot-watery. It changed as she got ready; lemon tea with sugar for a while, then a flower smell, lilac maybe, as her make-up and her scent went on. Ailsa watched, envious, waiting for some mistake, as the transformation took place.
‘Try some,’ Gloria said, offering her lipstick.
‘I thought you said it was unhygienic.’
‘Not when you’re friends.’
Ailsa painted her lips. ‘I need much more than lipstick.’
‘Mascara. Mine’s the wrong colour for you.’
‘Mum wouldn’t let me wear it anyway.’
‘There’s plenty of time,’ Gloria said. ‘Is that my beau? Go and tell him I don’t answer men who blow their horns.’
‘Me?’
‘Why not? You can take my place if you like. He’s so dumb he’d hardly know the difference. Sorry. Sorry. Please, Ailsa, tell him I’m not ready.’
Ailsa went out to the car. Bevan was smoking a cigarette and tapping his hands on the wheel. He opened the window as Ailsa approached and flicked out ash, which fell on her shoes. His lop ears, which s
he had thought were thin, were actually quilted, from locking the scrum she supposed.
‘Gloria says she’ll be a couple of minutes.’
‘What’s she doing?’
‘Getting dressed.’
‘Are you her room-mate?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why does she want to live in a dump like this?’
‘It’s not a dump.’ Ailsa got angry — the way he sat there in his posh car. ‘We wouldn’t have you here anyway.’
Bevan’s face reddened — it was pink already, and fat about the nose, bony-plated on the forehead.
‘About all you’ve got is a car,’ she said, and walked away. She was disappointed in Gloria now she’d seen Bevan up close. As she went into House 4 he tooted his horn again. She turned and went back to his open window.
‘She said to tell you she doesn’t answer men who toot their horns.’
‘Tell her she’s late.’
‘You tell her. I’m not your messenger. And stop blowing your horn at night because we don’t like it.’
‘Try and stop me.’
She stared at him in surprise. He was not a man, he was a boy, the playground bully. Ailsa laughed. Gloria would finish with him soon.
‘Poor old Bevan,’ she said, and went inside.
‘What do you think of him?’ Gloria said.
‘Not much.’
‘Yeah? Well, he’ll have to do for a while. He thinks he’s got me but I’ve got him.’
‘It’s a nice car,’ Ailsa said. But she was still disappointed in Gloria. She watched from the window as she walked to the Jaguar. Bevan did not come round to open the door. They drove away and Ailsa went upstairs to start her homework. It was Geography, which she liked, especially the parts about how people lived in different lands. She thought she’d rather plant rice in a paddy field than drive around in Bevan’s car if Bevan was the price.
‘What’s amusing you?’ her mother said.
‘Nothing. Is Gloria staying out late?’
‘Half past 10. I’m not lying awake on a Wednesday night. Is that lipstick you’re wearing?’
‘Yes. I borrowed some, just to try.’
Mrs McGowan studied her and seemed to decide not to be angry. ‘It suits you,’ she said. ‘But Ailsa, it’s time I put you in with someone else.’
‘No, please. I like Gloria.’
‘So do I. But she’s a lot older than her years.’
‘She’s just a kid,’ Ailsa said.
‘What do you talk about with her?’
‘Nothing much.’
‘I hope she’s not doing anything bad with that boyfriend.’
‘He’s a joke.’ Then she thought of the letters, which were not a joke. She could understand Gloria getting what she could from someone so stupid as Bevan but the messages in coloured pencil came from a world where boyfriends and Jaguar cars had no place.
Later, in the bedroom, she looked at them again. They made no more sense than before. She went along to the bathroom, wiped off the lipstick, brushed her teeth, and said to Betty Briggs, who came in as she was leaving, ‘Have you seen a man on a bike hanging round?’
‘No. Who?’
‘He watches us. He wears a long raincoat. Then he rides away.’
‘Have you told someone?’
‘I’ve only seen him once. Has anyone been getting funny letters in coloured pencil?’
‘I think you’re making all this up,’ Betty Briggs said.
‘Ah, what the heck. He wouldn’t come after you anyway.’
Back in the room, she propped herself up on her bed and read for 20 minutes, but was fidgety all the time, and twice got up and looked out the window.
At 10 o’clock, before changing for bed, she looked again; and saw by the overbridge, where trees hung over the footpath, a passing gleam of light, like an eye opening then closing in the dark. Ailsa stared, trying to make out what it had been. Something shapeless stood there — but it might be just a shrub, a part of the hedge. The gleam came again, and went out; and suddenly, from its height, she knew it was the buckle on the belt of someone’s coat.
She drew back and stood still, uncertain what to do. After a moment, dry in her mouth, she opened the curtain an inch or two. The buckle winked at her. A bike wheel gleamed. The shadow by the hedge became a man then slid back into something shapeless again. Her eyes refused to separate one bit of darkness from another, even when a unit with lighted windows accelerated out of Woburn station towards Petone.
Ailsa closed the curtain. She went out of the bedroom and hurried along the corridor to the porch, where she paused. Whoever it was would see her if she looked out. She stood for a moment, wondering what to do, then went back into the corridor and out the back door into the yard. She ran along the path by the boiler house and the dining block. Another path turned off alongside House 5. She went by windows, some of them lighted, with here and there a voice coming out, and stopped a few yards short of the gate, where a tall shrubbery grew. Another step and she would see the clump of trees by the overbridge.
She moved into the shrubbery, stepping short, feeling her way, and stood in the centre, hidden from the street. It astonished her that a few bushes enclosing her should make her feel so alone. She crept forward another yard; and through a gap saw the man standing 20 yards away over the intersection. His bike leaned against his waist. His raincoat buckle glared like a wide-open eye.
Ailsa drew back, afraid that he’d seen her. The light seemed to link them like a string and she felt that he could run along it, agile as a monkey, and stand beside her in the shrubbery. One of the bushes touched her and her heart made a hard flat bounce like a cricket ball. She tried to be calm. Realised that people she knew were talking and reading no more than a window away. She only had to call and they would rush out, 300 of them. She took some deep breaths and leaned her head forward to look again.
He was still there. He did not look as if he would ever move. A car went by. His glasses became windows in the light and then went out.
Now, Ailsa thought, the police. But as she shifted so did he. He wheeled his bicycle into the light and mounted it, taking his time. He looked down to see that his trouser clips were fastened. His cheeks seemed fat, they caught the light. He flicked the wings of his coat over his knees and rode across Cambridge Terrace and up on to the footpath opposite Ailsa’s shrubbery. She leaned forward, not moving her feet, and watched him ride along until he was over the street from House 4. Where was he going? Then he rode off the kerb, making his bell give a soft sweet tinkle, and came towards her on the wrong side of the road. He began to whistle ‘Mairzy Doats’.
A few yards from the shrubbery, he stopped. He put down his leg and balanced himself, then took out a handkerchief and blew his nose.
‘I know you’re in there,’ he said.
‘I’m calling the police,’ Ailsa said.
‘What for, mavourneen? What will you say?’
‘You’re a peeping tom.’
‘I’ve peeped at nothing. You’re the one who’s spying on me.’
‘Who are you?’
‘Ah lassie, I’m a man who rides a bike.’
The street light shone at his back. She could not see his face but knew he could see hers, lit up, staring out of the bushes. She turned and ran: down the path, round the back of the dining block, along to the rear entrance of House 4. She hurried through the corridor and out on to the footpath.
The man, still on the wrong side of the road, was riding away. She saw a wing of his coat slide from his knee as he pedalled round the corner into Cambridge Terrace.
Ailsa ran back through the house, seized her bike from the wash house and ran with it round to the gate. She jumped on and rode along the footpath, past House 5 and the shrubbery. She braked at the corner and leaned across her handlebars, peering into Cambridge Terrace.
The man was 100 yards ahead, riding in a leisurely way towards the distant lights of Waterloo station. She hurried her bike across the road and se
t off after him, keeping towards the kerb, where she could hide behind parked cars — not that there were many. Cambridge Terrace seemed empty tonight.
He was not riding fast, but she was surprised at how hard she needed to pedal to keep up. Perhaps he had gears on his bike. Then, after a moment, she discovered that she had come much closer than she’d meant to. The ticking of his spokes came back to her, with the sound of whistling, as soft as a flute — not ‘Mairzy Doats’ now but a tune she could not identify. She fell back. If he looked round and saw her she wanted to have plenty of time to turn and get back to the hostel. But the important thing was not to be seen. She meant to find out where he rode and what house he went into.
He made a right turn and went towards the eastern hills. Ailsa speeded up and brought him into sight, pedalling evenly and whistling as though he had no cares. She went along, 50 yards behind, uneasy at being in a quieter street. Then she recognised the tune: ‘Scotland the Brave’.
The street curved closer to the hills. She began to think that he was riding there; that a cave would open and he would vanish inside. She seemed to be in a gully where water should be flowing under her wheels. The man’s reflector was like a torch angled backwards, leading her.
He stopped whistling. He signalled with his arm and turned into another street.
Ailsa slowed down. House 4 seemed very far away. She reached the corner, cautious in case he had stopped, and saw at once that the street was empty. She braked and put her foot down, then started slowly again, looking left and right past gates and entrances, over shadowy gardens and sloping lawns, thinking she might see him putting his bike into a garage or a shed. Everything was still — not a person, not a cat. Window curtains glowed yellow and red in dark front walls. There was no sound of radios or voices or banging doors, only the far-off murmuring of cars in Cambridge Terrace.
Then she heard a ticking like a grandfather clock.
She looked around. He was following her. He had fallen into place half a dozen lengths behind. His spectacles were gleaming and his mouth wore a smile.
Ailsa made a muted shriek. She stood up from her saddle and pedalled frantically. The man laughed.
