by Gee, Maurice
‘She thinks Mum’s getting ready to run away from Dad. Wouldn’t that be great?’
‘Will he chase her?’
‘No, he’ll just pretend she never was. Yippee!’
‘Quiet talking in the dining room, please,’ Miss Cotter said, passing.
‘Oh Miss Cotter, why don’t you run away and start a new life? We’d all love that,’ Gloria said.
Ailsa did not want to spoil her mood. And yet she must.
‘Gloria, have you seen that man on the train any more? Who touched your knee?’
‘Who’s he?’
‘That night I came home on the unit with new shoes. He was sitting opposite you.’
‘The civil servant?’
‘Yes, him.’
‘He’s a stupid coot.’
‘Have you seen him? Is he there?’
‘He sits near me every night. In the mornings too. Sometimes he shifts his seat to get up close. He must be 40 if he’s a day.’
‘What else does he do?’
‘Nothing. He watches. He looks away when I look up. Men make me sick.’
‘Gloria, listen …’ She told her everything; but Gloria, still happy from her letter, only laughed.
‘I don’t mind him on the train. He can’t do anything there. Don’t worry, I’ve had plenty of men chasing me. We’ve told the police anyway, so the other guy won’t be back, even if he is the same. Which I doubt.’
‘But the play. And the letters. And his teeth.’
‘Teeth,’ Gloria laughed. ‘You’d better not tell that to the police. In fact, don’t tell them anything. I’ve had enough of them. The way they look at me you’d think it’s my fault.’
She would not be shifted and her cheerfulness made Ailsa less certain of danger. Like Gloria she did not believe the Irishman on the bike would ever come back; and Errol on the unit could do no harm.
Back in the bedroom, she remembered that she’d left her bike leaning inside the fence. She went out to put it in the wash house. A light was burning, showing sacks of coal like fat old men. She heard the sound of cutlery on a plate.
‘Is that you, Ron?’ She looked in.
He was eating a milkbar pie from his china plate, as finicky as a duchess with his knife and fork.
‘Leave your bike. I’ll put it in,’ he said.
‘You’re late.’
‘That’s my business.’
‘OK. So — leave it here?’ She leaned the bike on the wash house wall. ‘You can probably eat in the dining room, you know.’
‘I like it here.’ He took a sip of tea from his flowered cup, then wiped his mouth delicately, finger and thumb, starting at the corners and working to the centre.
‘Pardon,’ he said, although she had not heard him burp.
‘Yes. Goodnight,’ Ailsa answered, and turned to go.
‘Ailsa.’
It astonished her. In four years he had never said her name.
‘What?’
‘I heard about that feller on the bike.’
‘What about him?’
‘It’s her he’s after, isn’t it?’
‘Gloria?’
He nodded. ‘Her.’
‘Yes.’
‘So I’ll keep an eye out. I’ll watch here.’
‘We told the police. He won’t come back.’
‘I’ll watch a while. Then I’ll go.’
Ailsa did not know what to say. He was matter-of-fact, as though it was simply a part of his job, but she knew it was more than that.
‘If you want to,’ she said.
‘Yes, I’ll watch.’ He took a sip of tea and again she turned to go.
‘Ailsa.’
‘What?’
‘I heard her laughing.’
‘Yes.’
‘So she’s happy now?’
‘She got a letter from her sister.’
Ron Stock nodded as though he understood. ‘She doesn’t go out with that bloke in the car any more?’
‘No. She chucked him.’
‘He wasn’t good enough.’
‘No.’
‘Goodnight then. Ailsa.’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t tell her I’m watching, eh?’
‘I won’t.’
She went back to the bedroom and gave a little half-embarrassed laugh.
‘What’s the joke?’ Gloria said.
‘Nothing.’ She grew ashamed of the laugh, even though it had not been superior or dismissive. There was nothing funny in Ron Stock. She felt safer knowing he was there.
Waking at midnight, she heard the gate open and close. She crept to the window, made a gap in the curtains, and saw him walk off into the dark, hunched in his jacket to keep warm.
‘Thanks,’ she whispered.
Gloria slept heavily, making little snores.
Chapter 7
CAUGHT
Nothing happened for several days. Ordinary things began to seem too ordinary, as though hiding something dangerous. Errol Parkinson might step out at any moment from behind a lamppost or a tree, or Ailsa might see him in the mirror, sitting on the edge of the bath while she brushed her teeth. Gloria did not feel it. She refused to talk about Errol or the man on the bike; or about Bevan either, although the one time Ailsa mentioned his name she frowned as though she had unfinished business with him.
The weather was bad and Ailsa could not practise tennis, either on the grass at Calum’s house or on the hard courts at the park. She met him once at Elbe’s milkbar for a milkshake. There were no bodgies and widgies there. Like Gloria, he seemed to feel that Errol was no danger. It was as if discovering his secret had finished him. Ailsa did not believe he was finished. For one thing, he did not know that he was discovered. For another — and the more she thought of it the more serious it seemed — the coloured letters were written in a language that did not belong in the real world. Errol Parkinson, she believed, lived part of his life somewhere else. She could not make Calum or Gloria understand, and knew she would never be able to convince the police, so she kept quiet. But she knew. She was the one he had followed on his ticking bike.
‘His dog’s gone,’ Calum said.
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. It’s just not there any more.’
The next day he said, ‘I asked Mum. She said he had it put down because it was old.’
‘It wasn’t old. It was middle-aged.’
‘Well, that’s what he did.’
‘How’s his wife?’
‘Dunno. Want me to ask Mum?’
‘Does she see him? Your mum?’
‘He phones her up. They meet in town at tearooms. There’s nothing in it. She thinks he’s a pill. But he tells her how nice she looks and stuff like that, so she goes.’
‘He still sits close to Gloria on the train.’
‘So would I. Ha! Joking.’
It was not a joke Ailsa liked and she rode home feeling cross.
A letter for Gloria was waiting in the rack. The envelope looked ordinary — Miss Gloria Wood written in ink — but Ailsa knew that crazy words lay hidden inside. She looked around; she was alone; she snatched it. She closed the bedroom door and sat trembling on her bed. Tore the letter open, read: You are my shining star, pure in the darkness of the night. He is gone. Now wait for me! It is almost time!
What did it mean — the words, the colours? ‘Shining star’ in red, ‘darkness of the night’ in black. ‘Pure’ had given him trouble. He had tried to use white but it hadn’t showed so he had gone over it in grey, which made it look dirty. That must have annoyed him. He should have started again. But things were not under control any longer. She could see it. The last two sentences were crooked. The exclamation marks made a slash. And what did it mean ‘He is gone’, underlined? Did it mean that he knew Gloria had broken up with Bevan? Where had Errol Parkinson found that out? And what about ‘pure’? It wasn’t a word you would choose for Gloria. Ailsa saw how dangerous it could be.
She shivered. She pu
t the letter back in its envelope and slid it under the runner on the bedside table until Gloria came home. She went along the corridor and looked out the back door to make sure Ron Stock was around. The yard was empty and so was the boiler house when she looked inside. A lawn mower was chattering on the far side of House 5. She went through the shrubbery and found him mowing damp grass, which stuck to the blades like green fur. He stopped when he saw her and waited for her to speak.
‘She got another letter. I opened it,’ she said.
‘What does it say?’
‘Just that she’s his shining star. Will you keep on watching?’
‘I was going to anyway.’
‘She’ll have to give the letter to the police.’
‘They can’t do anything.’
‘No.’ She wondered if she told Ron Stock about Errol Parkinson would he go to his house and fight him?
‘He says it’s almost time. He says to wait.’
‘I’ll watch.’
‘Thank you, Ron.’
The lawn mower started up as she went away. Its sound was comforting; but the empty corridors of House 4 made her nervous again. She tried to read a book, waiting for Gloria to come in. The letter under the runner seemed to tick like Errol’s bike. She got up and read it again; and it meant no more. It was simply dangerous. She telephoned Calum.
‘Gloria’s had another letter.’
‘What does it say?’
She had not brought it to the phone but recited it from memory. ‘How does he know she’s stopped going out with Bevan? That’s what “he is gone” must mean.’
‘Maybe he heard her on the train — if she said something to one of the other nurses.’
‘Gloria doesn’t talk to the other nurses. Helen’s the only one I’ve told.’
‘She wouldn’t tell Errol.’
‘Yeah, but maybe she told your mother and she told him.’
‘It’s hardly likely,’ Calum said, snooty in defence of his family.
‘Ask them.’
‘How can I ask a thing like that?’
‘She must have told. “He is gone.” And “pure”. Calum, it’s creepy.’
‘I think you’re getting too excited.’
‘What do you mean, excited? I’m scared.’
‘Yeah, well —’
‘You’re useless. You don’t understand anything.’
She hung up. Calum was a washout. He seemed to be there, then he went away. She would not waste any more time on him. But she felt like crying. Calling her excited was almost as bad as calling her fat. In fact, it was worse, because what was going on now was far more important. And what could she do?
She returned to her room and lay on her bed with her face in her arms, thinking it might blot things out; but the coloured words burned in the dark — and Errol Parkinson sat at a desk in his empty house writing them. Why can’t the police arrest him? she thought. Maybe they would when they saw the new letter and found out about the play he’d written. She wished she could ring them now and send them round to his house straight away.
Nurses arrived off the train. Ailsa looked out of her bedroom.
‘Where’s Gloria?’
‘Gloria is too glorious for a common old train.’
‘Wasn’t she there?’
‘She probably got a ride from her boyfriend.’
Ailsa shook her head. ‘She doesn’t go out with him any more. Was that man on the train? The one who watches her?’
‘No one watches Glorious, she only hopes they do,’ Betty Briggs said.
Ailsa saw her mother come in from putting away her bike. She hurried to her.
‘Is Gloria going to be late tonight?’
‘She never told me. Why, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing. Nothing.’
She could not tell her mother about the letter until after Gloria had read it. Meanwhile she had to get through dinner — which she did, sitting alone. More nurses came in, and women from their shops and offices, but no Gloria, although two more units must have passed through Woburn station.
She’s gone to the pictures, Ailsa thought. Or else she’s made it up with Bevan. But that was impossible, she had too much good sense to go back to him.
Ailsa went to the bedroom and put on her coat. She walked along to the station and met the next unit from Wellington. Gloria was not on it. Nor was Errol, although she hadn’t expected him. She was walking back to House 4, biting her lip, when Ron Stock spoke her name from the shrubbery. He stepped out, looking, with his long arms and squat body, almost like some creature from the jungle wearing clothes.
‘Ron. What’s wrong?’
‘Nothing now. She’s in her room.’
‘When? How?’
‘She got off the unit before the last. Then she just walked around, smoking cigarettes. I followed her. I kept watch.’
‘She must be upset.’
‘She hasn’t seen that letter yet, eh?’
‘No.’
‘Make her drink a cup of tea. That might make her feel a little bit better.’
‘Yes, I will. Thank you, Ron.’
‘OK.’ He stepped back out of sight in the shrubbery. Ailsa felt she should tell him that if one of the matrons saw him there they’d call the police.
She hurried along to House 4 and into the bedroom. Gloria was lying on her bed with her forearm covering her eyes. She had taken off her coat and shoes.
‘Gloria, what’s wrong?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Are you feeling sick?’
‘Go away and leave me alone.’
‘No, Gloria. Aren’t we friends?’
‘I’ve got no friends.’
‘Phooey,’ Ailsa said. ‘You’ve got me. So, please —’ she sat down on the bed — ‘tell me what’s wrong.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it. Turn off that damn light.’
Ailsa turned it off. She went back to the bed, but knelt beside it this time instead of sitting down. Gloria lay quiet. Ailsa wondered if she was crying silently. After a moment she asked, ‘Did he scare you or something?’
‘Who?’
‘Errol Parkinson.’
Gloria swore. ‘Have you gone potty?’
‘What is it then?’
‘Nothing you need to know. So go away.’
Ailsa stood up. She took the letter from underneath the runner.
‘Gloria.’
‘What?’
‘Another letter came from him today. You’ll have to show it to the police.’
‘What letter? Turn on the light.’
Ailsa turned it on and handed her the envelope.
‘I see you’ve had a go at it already,’ Gloria said. She sat up and read the letter and swore again. ‘This is all I need.’
‘We’ll show Mum, then get them, eh?’
‘No.’ Gloria reached out and grabbed the wastepaper tin. She tore the sheet of paper as though fighting it — reduced it to pieces the size of postage stamps. They rained into the tin, which she threw away. It turned over and spread its contents on the mat.
‘That’s got rid of him,’ she said. She drew up her knees, put her head in her arms and started to cry.
Ailsa sat down and put her arms around her, and felt all the sharp bones of her wrists and elbows.
‘Gloria, what is it?’
‘I think I’m pregnant.’
‘You can’t be.’
‘I am. I’m never late. Even at home. Never in my life.’
‘How long?’
‘Almost a week.’
‘But that’s nothing. Mum says you can miss the whole thing for a month.’
‘Not me. Not this time. Where’s my hankie?’
She wiped her eyes and blew her nose. ‘I’m caught. Let me go.’
‘You told me you didn’t let him do it.’
‘I didn’t. Not that time. But I did once before. It’s no use looking at me like that. I had some stuff to drink. And it was warm in the car. So I thought, Why
not?’ She gave a hard laugh. ‘That’s why he was mad at me next time.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Ailsa said.
‘Don’t go all prissy on me.’
‘What will you do?’
‘I don’t know. How would I know?’
‘If Mum finds out you’ll have to leave.’
‘She won’t find out, will she?’
‘No,’ Ailsa said. She got up and sat on her bed, disappointed in Gloria almost as much as sorry for her. ‘You’ve missed your tea,’ she said.
‘As if I care about that.’ Gloria lay down again and covered her eyes. ‘Turn off the light.’
Ailsa obeyed. ‘You should wait until next month,’ she said.
‘Wait for what?’
‘Until you do anything.’
‘Like what?’
‘There’s things you can do.’
‘How would you know about stuff like that? Go and do your homework somewhere, will you? Just for once I’d like to be alone.’
Ailsa cleaned up the mess on the floor. She took her homework to her mother’s room; tried to write, tried to read, but it was no use. She listened to the radio playing softly, while her mother read the paper and drew pencil rings around houses that she liked but would never have enough money to buy. Ailsa nearly told her, nearly blurted it — Gloria pregnant and the new letter — but stopped herself. ‘Powder your face with sunshine’ Vic Damone crooned on the radio. I would if I could, Ailsa thought. She wondered if she should tell Gloria to take extra hot baths. Some girls at school had said it would work.
At half past nine she went back to the bedroom. The light was out and Gloria was in bed but not asleep.
‘Why didn’t you come back?’ she said.
‘Me?’
‘I wanted someone.’
‘Gloria, I really am your friend.’
‘I know. What shall I do?’
‘Wait a while. Just wait.’
‘Yes. All right.’
‘It mightn’t be what you think.’
Gloria swallowed. ‘Maybe.’
‘Can you go to sleep?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I can get some aspros from Mum. I’ll say you’ve got a headache, that’s all.’
‘Thank you.’
Aspros, Ailsa thought, climbing the stairs to her mother’s room. Wouldn’t it be nice to have pills for everything? And Vic Damone telling you to put on a great big smile. A smile to stop having babies. And one to get rid of Errol Parkinson.
