Saving Septic Cyril: The Illegal Gardener Part II (The Greek Village Collection Book 16)

by Sara Alexi

  ‘Oh no.’ Saabira pulls a face. Jay watches and tries to copy.

  ‘I rolled up the top carpet and took it out to the skip and then, looking closely at the floor, I saw it was another carpet, and under the edge of that one I saw another. Five layers of carpet I have rolled up and thrown out!’

  ‘Was the smell not unbearable?’ Saabira asks.

  ‘It is amazing what you don’t notice once you have been in it long enough.’

  ‘So all the carpets are gone?’ She should have put a little more salt in the kadhi, for her taste, but then perhaps not. It will taste different to Aaman.

  ‘Does it have enough salt?’

  ‘Yes, it is perfect.’

  ‘Enough ginger?’

  ‘Give me another bowlful and I will tell you.’ He smiles and looks in her eyes as he passes his dish. Jay tries to take a roti from the plate between them.

  ‘Yes, the carpets are all gone but it is the same in the kitchen. The oven, which is very old, I am thinking, is leaning back because there are also several layers of floor covering there.’

  ‘Oh, so much work for you.’ Saabira tears off a little bit of roti and gives it to Jay.

  ‘I am happy to do it. First, I am active, and secondly, it is better that the problem and the smell are gone.’

  ‘So under the carpets is clean?’ Saabira wonders if Aaman has been upstairs. The mess does not extend up there, and there is a different feel to the upper floor. That “The Diary of the Final Days of Archie Sugden” is lying there after eleven years, frozen in time, is slightly eerie, and also sad somehow.

  ‘It is stones like in here.’ He looks at the floor. ‘I think with a stiff brush and some hot water it will clean easily.’

  ‘Well, that is good to know.’

  ‘Has Cyril eaten, how’s he?’ Aaman looks from the floor to the ceiling.

  ‘I put a bowl by his bed, he is sleeping.’

  ‘Ah, the best healer.’ They continue to eat. Aaman’s appetite seems to be exaggerated by his work. She leaves the last roti for him. When he has finished eating he sits back, his free hand on his stomach, the other around Jay who is perched on his knee, and Saabira tries to remember when she last saw him look so happy.

  ‘Cyril is worried about his dogs needing to be walked,’ she says.

  ‘I have left them tied up outside the back of his house. There was a lot of rope by his sink and I needed to get the dogs out of the way so it seemed like a good solution.’

  ‘Are they still there?’

  ‘They were when I came round. Mostly they were lying down sleeping. The sun was out and I think between the heather and by the wall there is a little suntrap for them. Anyway, they seemed happy enough. But we can walk them if you like.’

  ‘On leads, you think, or loose?’ Saabira gets up to put the kettle on.

  ‘Put the pack leader on a rope and the rest will follow.’

  ‘They are not goats!’ Saabira laughs.

  Chapter 34

  Aaman is only gone an hour.

  ‘Done!’ he says cheerfully. ‘The ground floor is now ready to clean. It should be easy, as there is nothing left in it. You could ask Cyril if he wants to keep the old cooker. It runs off a gas bottle next to it so I am not sure what Health and Safety will say about that. There seem to be rules for everything like this. We have a heater, which is now in the storeroom at work, but we cannot use it because of gas bottle regulations.’

  ‘Is it cold at work?’ Jay tries to pull at her hair as she changes her nappy on a towel on the rug in front of the fire.

  ‘No, oh no. They have central heating now. But Gavin was telling me that before they got double glazing there used to be ice on the insides of the windows in the winter.’

  Saabira shivers at the thought.

  ‘Was he happy with the bookcase?’

  ‘He was very happy with the bunkbeds and the bookcase. In fact he told to me to thank you again.’

  ‘It is not me he should be thanking.’

  ‘Well, I am going to take a shower and then I will take Jay and the dogs for a walk. Will you come?’ He puts his head over the sink and ruffles his hair, brushing off dust and cobwebs.

  ‘I think I might start to clean.’ With the guard around the fire she leaves Jay to crawl whilst she takes out a mop, bucket and stiff brush from the cupboard under the stairs.

  Aaman sets off with the dogs around his ankles. The sun has found some strength, despite the seasons moving on and the leaves now beginning to fall from the trees. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she watches him walk up the moors until he is an outline against the horizon, Jay on his back, held by her shawl, and the dogs around him. It is not quite the same as the picture she has stored in her mind of him herding the goats in Pakistan, but he cuts a romantic figure to her eyes nonetheless.

  ‘I love you, Aaman,’ she says quietly to herself, and another part of her that does not want to speak out loud promises to deal with her jealousy towards his friend Juliet in Greece. One way or another she must resolve that; there must be no more emotional secrets between them at all.

  She anticipates the gloom engulfing her as she pushes Cyril’s back door open, and so it is with delight that she registers the brightness of the space. The curtains have gone, both the heavy fabric and the thin, greying torn netting. The front room’s eye is wide open to view the lane outside, and through its encrusted grime the vivid green bushy mass of the tree opposite is framed and highlighted by the bright autumn sky. Inside, empty of clutter, the room seems dramatically bigger, and the three-legged stool and the small table are dwarfed by its dimensions.

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ Saabira says out loud, focusing herself on the task ahead. With her sleeves pushed up, she brushes the floor thoroughly before setting to with a bucket of steaming water. Once the floor is scrubbed she washes and polishes the downstairs windows inside and out. The difference is wonderful and the room is transformed. A fresh coat of paint would brighten the walls but that is not a choice for her to make. It probably isn’t a choice for Cyril to make either. That sort of thing costs money. But maybe, if Dawn Todman does not evict Cyril, he could make an arrangement with his landlord. Presumably that is how it would work. She is not sure who is responsible for the walls in a rented house.

  She pours the dirty window water down the drain outside and looks out over the moors, wondering when Aaman will get back. The clouds are puffing up white on the horizon now and the midday sun has cooled. Not that it was very hot, just bright.

  ‘Fresh,’ she says to herself, and the word seems to apply equally well to the weather and to the newly scrubbed room. The backyard is also clean and clear, apart from the two hutches and a huge stack of wood, enough to see Cyril through the winter.

  She leans down and pokes her finger through the mesh and strokes the big rabbit’s ear. Its nose twitches but it doesn’t move.

  ‘You should have gone for a walk with Aaman,’ she tells it. ‘You need to exercise. You can hardly move in there, you poor thing.’ The rabbit, motionless in its cage, brings to mind Archie’s diary – how long has it been still, unmoving? Would it be wrong to read a dead man’s diary? Maybe it would reveal more about Cyril, provide a shortcut to understanding the man. She only glanced at it previously, and read the words ‘the point of this diary is to set things straight. I will not say it is an apology, Cyril.’ What does that mean, and why would Archie be apologising to Cyril?

  ‘No,’ she says to herself. If she wants to know more about Cyril she should ask him, not spy on him through someone else’s diary. Nevertheless, she goes back inside and up the stairs and into Archie’s room to have a good look around. Although tidy, it needs a good clean. The books lies open, the diarist is dead, and she feels very tempted. But as her fingers reach for the volume she forces herself to turn on her heel. She will ask Cyril first.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ She puts a cup of tea down on Cyril’s bedside table. The back door opens and Aaman’s voice floats up the stairs, chatte
ring to Jay, who will need feeding, no doubt.

  ‘Not so bad, but I seem to be sleeping so much.’ Cyril sits up to put his glasses on, fiddling with them over his ears.

  ‘We must get those repaired. You have someone who does that for you?’ Saabira asks, pulling the stool from behind the door to sit down for a moment.

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve had these since Highroyds.’ Cyril takes the spectacles off again and holds them very close to his face to examine the broken lens.

  ‘Perhaps when you are better we will find an optician. In the meantime, your home is looking amazing. The downstairs is all clear and clean and fresh. But not much of the furniture was worth saving. Only the three-legged stool and a small hexagonal table, really. Also, Aaman wants to know if you want to keep the old cooker.’ Cyril looks up at her puzzled. ‘He wonders if Health and Safety will not like the gas bottle,’ she explains.

  ‘Oh. It was Archie’s cooker. It doesn’t work.’

  ‘So we will get rid of it? Then, perhaps, when your leg is healed we can find some new furniture for you somehow?’ He nods, but it doesn’t really seem as though he is expressing his opinion.

  ‘There is something I wanted to ask you. What about upstairs?’

  ‘Upstairs?’

  ‘Everywhere needs a good clean, but I didn’t want to start cleaning the bedroom without making sure you are happy with this.’

  ‘Mine is the one at the front.’

  ‘Yes, I guessed, and the other was Archie’s.’

  ‘Yes, Archie’s. Nothing has been moved. I left it just like it was.’ Cyril rubs his eyes.

  ‘I saw a book by his bed – that was his diary, was it?’ She feels she is not being honest. She should either ask if she can read it to understand Cyril more or she should accept that it will take time to get to know her neighbour and his complexities.

  ‘Yes. I look at it sometimes, his writing. It makes him feel close.’

  ‘Have you read it?’ Now she is fishing to see if he can actually read, and her cheeks flush at her behaviour, but curiosity keeps pushing her on.

  ‘No.’ Cyril looks at his hands, interlocks his fingers, his glasses clenched in his fist. ‘He said I should read it. He said when he was really unwell, a day or two before he was dead, that there was something in it for me. He said I would be pleased.’

  ‘So why have you not read it?’ Is she being cruel or helpful now?

  He shrugs.

  ‘Would you like me to read it to you?’ She wonders if she sounds too eager.

  He shakes his head, the moisture in one eye increasing so much that it flows over his lower lid and trickles down his face. He wipes his cheek with the palm of his hand and puts his glasses back on. He looks more like himself now. With his glasses off, Saabira struggles to recognise him.

  ‘Would it not be nice to hear what he has written, to know what he wanted to tell you?’

  He shakes his head again.

  ‘It would be too sad.’

  Saabira nods her understanding. But something is niggling her – those few words she read unintentionally.

  ‘It is very much none of my business, but would you like me to read through the diary to see if what was in it for you was important?’

  ‘I don’t really think it would be important. It’s just words he wrote.’ Cyril picks up his tea.

  Did she remember to put sugar in it? He smacks his lips and swallows, fully satisfied, so clearly she did.

  ‘Sometimes words can be very important…’

  ‘Or very bad,’ Cyril says.

  ‘What would you like me to do with his diary then? Shall I leave it there or shall we throw it away?’

  This makes him turn his head sharply to look at her. They make eye contact and they remain looking at each other for slightly longer than Saabira finds comfortable.

  ‘Not throw it away. I’d like to keep it. Maybe you could read it and if what he says is good you can tell me and if it’s bad never tell me.’ He takes another sip of tea.

  ‘Okay.’ Saabira does not feel she has treated Cyril fairly. She is not exactly sure what she has done, or fully why she did it, but either way she got the outcome she wanted. She has his permission to read the book, but it doesn’t feel right. An unsettling thought flashes through her mind, that when she encouraged Aaman to go on his dangerous, and illegal, journey, she was also getting the outcome she wanted, and at someone else’s expense. As she stands to leave she reproaches herself. ‘You are a manipulator, Saabira.’

  The knowledge does not make her happy. Cyril smiles at her and she smiles in return but she feels she has betrayed their emerging friendship.

  Chapter 35

  As Saabira leaves Cyril’s room she can hear Aaman in the bathroom, and judging by the splashing he is giving Jay a bath. Reluctant to disturb them, she slips down the stairs, out of the back door and around to Cyril’s house. The clean room takes her by surprise again but she doesn’t stay; she walks straight through and up the stairs into Archie’s room.

  The bedsprings creak in complaint as she sits.

  ‘The Diary of the Final Days of Archie Sugden,’ she begins, her curiosity defeating thoughts that what she is doing might not be right, and she tells herself that she will only read the opening page.

  ‘I can feel it in my bones and my chest. This damn disease has got its final hold over me and I am not long for this world. I thought I wouldn’t care when it got to this stage. The world itself is diseased, the people a blight. I thought I would be glad to be done with it all, but as my chest rattles and I grow weaker I am rather annoyed to find that my emotions are dominating. I get tearful for no reason and, worst of all, I have started to feel something quite alien – regret!

  ‘Ha! The irony that, as my body decays, my conscience blossoms.

  ‘Well, I don’t consider myself a bad man. It’s true I don’t suffer fools and I have a quick temper, and I am known for my determination to get even if people slight me. That’s just how the game is played in this dog-eat-dog world, and people seem to get upset that I just play the game better than them. They didn’t see the way the world disrespected and rejected my mother for being a single parent. But then, when she turned her sharp mind to business and amassed her little empire, that all turned into grovelling and simpering. We concluded together, me and her, that it’s money that talks.’

  Saabira wonders if Aaman has finished bathing Jay. Really, she should go and start the cooking, but first she will read just one more entry.

  ‘Anyway, the point of this diary is set things straight. Make no mistake, though, this is not an apology, Cyril, as that would suggest that I did something wrong. I don’t believe anything I have done was wrong. At the time it was right, but as things move on your learning would have you do things differently. Also, if you say my first motivation to have you as lodger was wrong then maybe you would never have moved in and then where would you be, eh, Cyril? The world would never have let you amount to much. I think you got the least kicking when you was with me.

  ‘So, I want to get something out of me system. But as I say, this is not an apology, it’s just an explanation about what happened and how things have changed. You see, it was when I was in the council office, where I had gone to complain about me council tax bill. Anyway, the queue was all the way down the corridor and I got talking to this man. Well, he said he had taken in a lodger and the council not only paid this lodger’s rent but also a good sum for him to take care of the lad, because he was a penny short of a pound. Nothing serious, he assured me, just someone who was a little bit more gullible than your average man. Care in the Community, the scheme was called, he said, and anyone could offer to be a carer. I made a joke about this, saying that he would end up becoming his lodger’s gofer, but he said all he had to do is manage the lad’s money and make sure he got enough to eat. I thought it sounded like a good scam and, long and short, that’s how it was that you came to live in me house.’

  Saabira is not sure what the word s
cam means. She curls her upper lip at the absent Archie.

  ‘What I had not taken into account was that you might stay for some time, and in that time we would find that we got on alright. In the beginning, because you never came out of your room I didn’t even notice you was here, except Marion took to sleeping in your bed instead of mine.’

  Saabira looks at the picture of the woman in the silver frame, and leans back across the bed to take hold of it. She is a strong-faced woman, but not particularly attractive. She turns the frame over in her hands and twists the tiny flat stoppers that hold in the photo. On the back of the photo is written Marion Sugden, and then, in brackets, Mother. Saabira looks again at the woman’s face and tries to reconcile herself with the idea that Cyril was sleeping with Archie’s mother. Puzzled now, but intrigued too, she puts the photo carefully back in the frame and continues with the diary, hoping that reading more will shed light on what seems so far like a very strange way of living.

  ‘I think it was the way she took to you that made me first think twice,’ Archie says, and Saabira glances at the picture of Marion again and frowns.

  ‘But what really changed things for me was when they gave you your ridiculous job. It was/is a typical bureaucratic cock-up. Well, not so much a cock-up but just your usual non-thinking, inhuman decision-making of the powers-that-be. I mean, it’s so apparent that you are an animal lover and that animals love you. Someone would have to be blind not to see it. Look at Marion! She’s always been a fairly good dog but she listens to you in a way that she has never listened to me, and she trusted you completely.’

  Saabira looks again at the photograph of Marion, Archie’s mother, and this time she smiles.

  ‘But I’ll leave this subject for now as I am in the middle of some plans that I am hoping to complete before these bones of mine finally give up on me. I hope what I’m doing will please you, and I’m determined to keep going until it’s all finalised.’