by Judy Astley
‘I thought I might as well come with him, see what your computer’s got that ours hasn’t,’ Patty had said when she turned up on the doorstep accompanying a hugely embarrassed Ben and his bag of school books.
‘Heard the music and the sound of a fun time, more like,’ Sarah had whispered to Mel, as she poured Patty a drink and introduced her to the others. ‘Thinks we’re going to gang-rape her little boy,’ Sarah added. Mel, glad of the very loud music (Max’s Nelly Furtado tape from his truck), tried not to giggle. The idea of herself, Sarah and Mrs Jenkins pouncing on Ben and ripping his clothes off must be entirely ludicrous, even to his doting mother.
It had been a long-drawn-out joint effort, getting the plants into positions that everyone was happy with. Instead of simply Max and Melanie deciding between them, Sarah, Cherry and Helena, the nurserymen and Mrs Jenkins had all contributed their opinions. The original plan had been spread out on the kitchen table and was soon covered in grubby marks where everybody in turn had pointed a finger and said, ‘Put that big wandy one there,’ or, ‘The vicious spiky thing, you don’t want that near the path.’ Neil arrived in the middle of the discussions and, ever the teacher, tried to take over, waving his arms about as if he was directing traffic.
‘That bloke you’re going out with, he’s a complete tosser,’ Max muttered to Mel.
‘I’m not going out with him,’ she hissed back.
‘Bloody good,’ he said, disappearing behind a Phoenix.
Mel tactfully diverted Neil, sending him out to Oddbins as it became clear the beer supply would need topping up. Eventually, after Max had quietly reminded them all that decisions weren’t necessarily final and there were still echiums and the more tender succulents to come in spring, it had been time for a celebratory drink. Someone remembered that it might be an idea just to have a quick check on a vital football match that was on TV, and Brian, Pablo and Neil began a long discussion about who were likely to win the league championship.
Melanie accompanied Mrs Jenkins, after a small glass of wine (‘I like a drink, but it doesn’t much like me, dear,’) to her front door and when she came back could see that everyone was now well settled in for the evening. Ben was sprawled on the floor in front of the television and didn’t look as if he intended to venture near the computer, and Jeremy Paxman settled himself comfortably to sleep on top of his bag of books on the chair in the hall.
Late in the evening, Patty helped herself to her fifth gin from the fridge and confessed to Cherry, Mel and Helena that she’d once had an affair with a girl at her boarding school. ‘I know everyone thinks that all girls at those kind of schools are at it all the time, but . . .’ She started weeping silently. ‘She was the love of my life!’ she sobbed. Mel glanced at the kitchen door, reassured to hear Ben loudly arguing the case for Newcastle’s ground as the permanent site for England home matches.
‘What happened to her?’ Helena asked quietly, stroking Patty’s hand.
‘Same as happens to most of us!’ Patty wailed. ‘She met a man who’d marry her and did it because she wasn’t brave enough for any other kind of life!’ She stood up and draped her arms round Cherry, who backed away, alarmed. ‘I think you’re wonderful!’ Patty sobbed.
‘Get her off me!’ Cherry hissed to Sarah.
‘You lot all right in here?’ Max came in at half-time in search of more beers. ‘Oh Lordy – what’s up with her?’
‘A bit tired and emotional, that’s all,’ Mel told him. ‘Nothing to worry about.’
‘Where does she live? Shall I take her home?’
Mel looked at Patty, who was still draped over Cherry. Cherry was trying to disentangle Patty’s fingers which were clasped round her neck. ‘Might be an idea,’ Melanie told him. ‘She’s just along to the left, number 14. I’ll tell Ben she didn’t want to drag him away from the match.’
‘You know, Melanie,’ Patty slurred as Max took over from Cherry in propping her up, ‘you’re a good woman, very generous hostess. You deserve a nice new bloke. Someone your own age. My Ben’s just a little boy. He thinks an older woman is twenty-two, not forty-two.’
‘Why didn’t she say it a bit louder?’ Cherry hissed at Mel, as Max led Patty to the front door. ‘Some of the world might not have heard.’ Melanie didn’t much care. Patty could think what she liked – it was just rather shamingly gratifying that she was not so Perfect after all.
Max came back five minutes later, when everyone but Mel had gone back to watching the match. She was stacking glasses in the dishwasher. Max’s nose was streaming blood.
‘Bastard hit me!’ he said, staggering about in search of something to stem the scarlet flow. Mel pushed him into a chair, grabbed a wodge of paper towel from the roll, ran it under the cold tap and applied it to his nose. His blue eyes looked up into hers, puzzled and affronted. ‘Patty’s old man, that stocky little prick! He took a swing at me, thought I’d been out getting his wife rat-arsed! As if! She’s not even close to my type!’
‘So who is?’ Melanie quickly put it down to too much wine that she’d asked that question.
Max’s eyes were still focused on hers, and he’d got that look that he always had when he was teasing her. He didn’t answer her question, which had to be a good thing. Because of course she didn’t at all want to know. Not really.
The poodle was barking next door. Melanie, reliving the night before, groaned and shoved her pounding head under the pillow. It was just past seven but still midnight-dark. She hated getting out of bed in the early morning winter blackness. It felt unnatural. People should be like tortoises, she thought, closing her eyes and trying to get back into a dream she’d been having about a hot sunny beach edged with breeze-wafted palms (elegant Butia capitata, she was delighted to be able to identify). People should be capable of slowing right down and sleeping away the sunless hours, digging themselves into a frost-free corner and winding down to a gentle torpor for the winter. As the dog yapped on and wakefulness inevitably took over, it occurred to her that she didn’t really have to do this any more. She could, if she so chose, simply take herself off to a sunnier place, either to live permanently or to escape the cold bleak English months. She could rent the house out, sell it, even – go and live in Southern France or on a tiny Caribbean island. Like Mrs Jenkins’s daughter, she could live so far away that when she came to visit she would be hugely welcomed by her family and could do nothing wrong – a true prodigal.
There was something not quite right. Melanie snapped back from her sunny reverie, hurled the pillow to the floor and sat up quickly. Mrs Jenkins never let the dog bark for more than a few minutes. She was an indulgent and fond pet-owner and would trail down the stairs at all hours of the day or night to let the creature out if that was what it wanted. And it wanted a lot lately, having got to the age where the demands of its digestive system were urgent and frequent.
Mel dressed quickly, flinging on her jeans and the earth-encrusted sweatshirt she’d worn for moving the plants, and her muddy sheepskin boots. She told herself not to be over-dramatic: there were a good dozen reasons why Mrs Jenkins might be letting the dog bark on. She tried hard to think of them, but not one came to mind. Even given Mrs Jenkins’s early-rising habits, she wasn’t likely to have popped out to the shops.
Melanie went out through the French windows and opened the gate in the fence. The next-door curtains were tightly shut – Mrs Jenkins was a great believer in keeping the heat in and the draughts out – but the small dog had scrabbled its way under the fabric and was bouncing at the windows like a toy on elastic. Mel tapped on the kitchen door and waited, but there was no sign of life. She was becoming more anxious now and went back through her own house and out of the front door, crossed the low wall and peered in through Mrs Jenkins’s letter box, dreading and almost anticipating the classic worst-case scene of the old lady lying stark dead, twisted and bruised at the bottom of the stairs.
The hallway was empty. Mrs Jenkins’s old beige jacket hung from the coat hooks on the wal
l along with her umbrella, the poodle’s lead, her collection of scarves and the pink crocheted hat she’d been wearing the night before. Her wicker shopping trolley stood at the ready beside the low table on which sat the old cream telephone, a photo of Brenda and Brian in their infant-school days and a grinning grey china cat.
‘Mrs Jenkins?’ Melanie called through the letter box and rang the doorbell. Probably she’d frighten the life out of the old lady. She’d have to spend a good half-hour calming her down and filling her with tea and toast back in her own kitchen. The little dog bounded into the hallway, yapping and jumping. Mel backed away from its snapping teeth, leant on the door as she straightened up and found that she was pushing it open. The catch was broken. This was the moment when, if she was putting the scene into one of the Tina Keen books, she’d have the tension tightening and it would be time to get some back-up. Instead she found herself going into the house, treading carefully in the half-light and keeping her fingers spread across her face in case she needed to cover her eyes from a sight too horrific.
Mrs Jenkins was in the sitting room, lying back in her Parker-Knoll recliner where she liked to rest in the afternoons. Her eyes were closed. Melanie wondered about tiptoeing away again, whether, to avoid terrifying her, she should just let the dog out for a few minutes and leave her to sleep. But there was the broken door-catch, and there was too much space on the mantelpiece, and on the old walnut sideboard where all the best silver picture frames had been there was only a single china Pekinese with a chipped ear. Melanie started to feel chilled and shivery. There was, when she looked closely, a bruise on the old lady’s cheek, her hair was matted in dark sticky-looking patches. There was breath, but it was shallow and uneven.
Mel, shaking, ran to get a coat from the hall, draped it carefully over Mrs Jenkins and phoned for an ambulance, asking for police as well almost as an afterthought. Then she sat beside the unconscious old lady, holding her cool dry hand and waiting. She hoped the ginger sergeant, the one who’d been so kind and concerned when her car had been stolen, would come. Mrs Jenkins deserved someone gentle like that, not a brash young detective with promotion and daydreams about armed robbers on his mind.
The ambulance crew arrived first. A strong young blonde girl and a man who looked unnervingly like Michael Caine spoke soothingly to the old lady and treated her with dignity, talking to her as if she was conscious. They told her what they were doing as they checked her pulse, her blood pressure and applied an oxygen mask. The police turned up soon after, screaming round the corner in high drama with the blue light and siren going even though the road was clear and empty, just as the paramedics loaded Mrs Jenkins into the ambulance. Melanie wanted to tell them to be quiet, the lady was sleeping.
‘You will be careful with her, won’t you?’ she said to the blonde girl, who smiled a calm reassurance. ‘She’s eighty-two, you know.’
Fourteen
‘So are we going out to do Ex-muss shopping or not? What did we decide last night? Call me back and remind me, soon as you can!’ Cherry’s bright and chirpy voice was on the answerphone when Melanie came back from the house next door. It was still only just past eight thirty: Cherry must have got up ridiculously early, Mel thought, if she was now ready to talk about hitting the shops. This must be what this new love for Helena had done to her, made her eager to bounce into the world each day and savour all sentient moments with joyful exuberance. It was quite unnerving: since Nathan’s abrupt departure all those years ago, Cherry had taken life at a cautious pace, been wary of enthusiasm. Such passions as she had – and the collecting and storing of dead wildlife came to mind – she kept safely to herself. Melanie decided to wait a while before calling her back – the last thing she felt like talking about was present-buying and where to go for a long, chatty lunch.
Mel had brought Mrs Jenkins’s orange poodle back to the house with her, convinced that taking care of the dog was the inadequate best she could do just now for her neighbour. She could only hope that he wouldn’t fall foul of Jeremy Paxman’s claws. She also felt a bit guilty – whoever had inflicted this robbery and beating on poor Mrs Jenkins had managed it with flagrant ease under cover of the racket that was coming from next door. A house blaring with music, loud TV and people carelessly getting drunk must be on every burglar’s wish-list. The front door had obviously given way with little resistance: Mrs Jenkins was of the generation that talked nostalgically of times when no-one needed to lock their homes. To her, having a small Yale lock represented security on a level that should keep out armies of vandals. It had probably never crossed her mind that one swift kick and the entire door frame would simply splinter. Melanie hoped she’d been knocked out swiftly and immediately, before she had worked out what was going on, and wouldn’t have had time to feel deep terror.
She sat, cold and shocked, with her legs curled beneath her, in her favourite pink raggedy chair, hugging the smelly poodle. The dog panted and grinned and tolerated being held tight without protest. It made Mel feel sick and shaky to imagine how bad the attack could have been, and she tried hard, but failed, not to imagine poor Mrs Jenkins facing a thug, perhaps more than one, wielding a weapon, pushing her about, threatening her, not caring if she lived or died. She’d have been confused, unable at first to think the worst, perhaps asking if they’d come to read the meter. She would have told them she was eight-two – just as an innocent point of information, not as a plea for mercy. Mel couldn’t recall her ever expressing any fear of living alone. She didn’t even have a safety chain on the door. If someone knocked, she opened the door expecting to find a visitor who was to be welcomed; she would consider it bad manners to do anything else. A dread of isolation, of loneliness, had loomed more large than physical danger. If she’d read of attacks on frail pensioners and feared for herself, she had certainly never said so. Mel prayed that the damage wasn’t going to be deep and permanent, but knew that, even if Mrs Jenkins recovered fully in the physical sense, she would never again feel safe on her own premises, not when she realized that her generous trust in her fellow humans had been so let down. The burglars had stolen a lot more than knick-knacks and picture frames.
Brenda, Hal and their children were due back before lunch. All Melanie could do was to stay home and be ready to tell them what had happened. They would have to take it from there – Brian in Somerset needed to know, too, and between them he and Brenda would have to work out what to do in terms of caring for their mother. That was if there was anything to do – nobody even knew yet if Mrs Jenkins was going to survive this.
The doorbell ringing made Melanie jump. She’d been sitting silent and rigid for so long, simply staring out at the strange new plants beyond her French doors, that she had almost drifted to sleep again. The poodle jumped off her lap and hurled itself, yapping and leaping, at the front door. As she opened it, Mel wondered if she should invest in chains, deadbolts and alarms.
‘I know it’s early but . . . good heavens, Melanie, what on earth are you wearing? You’re not going out like that, surely?’ Her mother bustled past her into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. Mel followed dumbly, pushing her chilled hands up inside her fleecy sleeves for warmth.
‘This is what happens when you refuse to live with anybody,’ Gwen went on, crashing cupboard doors around in search of tea bags. ‘You’ll end up going out in any old thing, all hours of the day and night. You look like a tramp, quite frankly, Melanie – I’m your mother, it’s my duty to tell you straight out. Don’t you possess a mirror?’
‘I haven’t got dressed yet,’ Mel said, feeling too dejected to explain further.
‘You mean you sleep in old jeans, sheepskin boots and a filthy sweatshirt? And your hair . . .’ Gwen looked out of the window and sniffed. ‘I see you’ve been getting on with the garden, such as it is. They’ll all die you know, plants like that aren’t for cold countries like this.’
It was almost comforting to be harried. It reminded Melanie that whatever else was tearing the world to piec
es, some things would never change.
‘Anyway, I’ve come to talk about Rosa and what she’d like for Christmas. I don’t know what teenage girls like . . .’
‘Teenage boys, mostly . . .’ Mel murmured.
‘What? Look, please don’t be flippant, Melanie, I haven’t got time for it. She’s the last one I need to buy for – I’ve more or less got Christmas out of the way. I’m too old to fight my way round shopping centres in December so I want it all done and dusted by the weekend.’
Gwen picked up the boiling kettle and poured water into a pair of mugs. ‘No proper teapot . . .’ she murmured, as she always did. Mel flopped into one of the wicker chairs as her mother fussed around. It seemed easier to let her get on with it rather than to battle for occupation of her own kitchen.
‘Don’t you have anyone doing your cleaning at the moment?’ Gwen said eventually, as she placed a mug of weak milky tea in front of Melanie. ‘This place looks like a bomb’s hit it.’ She surveyed the array of dirty wine glasses by the sink, left from the night before, Patty’s abandoned chocolate cake that looked as if someone had dug impatient, clumsy fingers into its middle, and the sink full of plates. She sniffed the air, canny as a gundog. ‘And it smells in here. Cigarettes.’
Melanie almost laughed; it was like being a teenager, caught having a sly cigarette out of the bedroom window.
‘I had a few people in last night, that’s all. We were celebrating the new garden.’
‘Drinking. That’s what people mean when they say celebrating. Drinking.’ Gwen put a lifetime’s worth of disapproval into the word. For her, drink was something people ‘took to’, something that drove them to ruin and disgrace. Howard had been heading that way, she was sure. It was why they were going to spend a month in Spain - to break the habit. He wouldn’t like Sangria or the robust Spanish wines, and by the time she got him home again he’d have lost the taste for that tawdry pub. It wasn’t the only habit that she intended to be broken, either, for where was he going to get his hands on filthy magazines in a good Catholic country where girls in photographs kept their clothes on and their legs together?
