This Perfect World

by Suzanne Bugler

My dad walked me round to Heddy’s house. I expect he thought I wouldn’t go there unless he actually took me and watched me go in.

  It wasn’t a party.

  It was just me, and the Partridges.

  ‘Come in, come in. Come in out of the cold,’ Mrs Partridge ushered me, all cheery-jolly, as she opened the door. Heddy stood right behind her, dressed in a purple, smock-type dress in some nylon material that had bobbled up, all down the sides. Hideous, absolutely hideous. And she’d got her heavy black hair pushed back from her face and held back by a gold slide. She didn’t look any better for it. Some faces are best left covered up.

  ‘Have a nice time,’ my dad said behind me and then the door closed.

  I felt like a Christian, thrown to the lions. Except, looking back, I know there was nothing very Christian about the way I thought, or felt, standing in Mrs Partridge’s hallway.

  I stood there, clutching Heddy’s present in my hands, feet cemented to the doormat. Mrs Partridge and Heddy stood in front of me, leering at me. Then Ian Partridge came out of the living room and leered at me too.

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ Mrs Partridge said and moved forward, putting one thin hand on my arm, the other on the present. Instantly Heddy moved towards me too, eager hands outstretched, and took that present. She tore at the paper, and Ian sidled up closer to her, looking on. They looked like Tweedledee and Tweedledumetta. I didn’t know how anyone could get so excited over a box of bath cubes.

  ‘Thanks,’ Heddy said, all bright-eyed, like she meant it.

  ‘Go on in, then,’ Mrs Partridge said, steering me away from that doormat. ‘Go and say hello to Mr Partridge.’

  Now I have to say here that the one thing I dreaded more than anything was having to go and say hello to Mr Partridge. He gave me the creeps. Normally I avoided him by staying in the hallway when I waited for Heddy to get ready for ballet or Brownies; sometimes I wasn’t so lucky.

  I could hear him behind that living-room door, rasping away.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Mrs Partridge said, with a big nod of encouragement. ‘Go and say hello to Uncle Vic.’

  Heddy and Ian stepped back, to one side, making a path for me. All three of them watched. I took a step forward, and another, towards that half-closed door. In my head I chanted the words of a rhyme we used to sing, tossing tennis balls against a wall and catching them again.

  Uncle Billy with his big hairy willy

  Uncle Bob with his big hairy knob

  Uncle Jock with his big hairy cock

  Uncle Vic with his big hairy dick.

  I put my hand to the door to push it, and it caught on the carpet and stuck.

  ‘Here,’ Mrs Partridge said, leaning over me again. She gave the door a yank and a shove and it swung open. ‘Look who’s here,’ she called to the shadow in the corner. ‘It’s little Laura Cresswell.’ Then she dropped her voice again and half-whispered to me, leaning close so that I could smell her breath again, and feel it on my neck so that the skin prickled and cramped, ‘Say hello to your Uncle Vic.’ And she more or less pushed me into the room.

  He wasn’t my uncle, and I hated her calling him that. It made me terrified that he might try to give me a hug, like a real uncle. Or, worse still, kiss me. He had paper skin, and thin lips that disappeared into his teeth, and a great hollow in his neck that drew right in when he breathed. He can’t have been that old really, but he looked it. He looked like death and beyond, and the only light in his eyes was the light of fear that sparked up every time he coughed. And God, how he coughed. You could hear the stuff coming up from his lungs. I don’t know how Mrs Partridge, and Heddy, and Ian could carry on like normal, moving about their house with that cough as background music; it felled me into stillness. He caught me with his eyes as he coughed – brown eyes, dark, like Heddy’s, darker still against his colourless skin.

  There were three bags of sweets, quarter-pounds of something or other, wrapped up in paper and lined up on the arm of his chair.

  ‘Can we have them now? Can we have our sweets, Dad?’ Ian asked, his low, slow voice quickening only slightly, though he rocked from side to side, eyeing those sweets.

  ‘We waited for you, Laura,’ Mrs Partridge said. ‘Ian’s had his eye on those sweets all morning, but no, wait till Laura’s here, I said to Mr Partridge. Didn’t I, Uncle Vic?’ She blustered up behind me, rounding us up like rabbits.

  Uncle Vic.

  He smiled and it made his skin look yellower. It was a horrible smile, spreading his lips across his teeth and making the fear in his eyes stand out, starker.

  ‘Go on,’ Mrs Partridge urged, giving me a little push. ‘Ask Uncle Vic for some sweets.’

  ‘Can I have some sweets, please, Uncle Vic?’ I asked, automatically, trying not to look at his cavernous, grim-reaper eyes.

  Heddy and Ian crowded up beside me. Mr Partridge lifted his hand above the sweets on the arm of his chair and, swallowing and swallowing, he croaked out the words, ‘Help yourselves, children. Have fun. Enjoy yourselves!’

  Have fun? Was he mad as well as dying? Heddy and Ian pounced on their sweets, stuffing them into their fat, wet mouths. Tentatively I picked up the last paper bag and held it, and listened to Mr Partridge’s lungs collapse and gasp, collapse and gasp, as if there was some pedal-pump inside him, pumping him up like a lilo.

  We played cards. Gin rummy and things that I thought were just for grown-ups. I wanted my dad, and my mum, badly. I wanted the loo badly too, but I was far too scared to venture up into the dark upstairs of the Partridges’ house. We were sitting on the floor – not Mr Partridge of course, but the rest of us. I sat on the heel of one foot, finding it hard to keep still, until in the end I was fidgeting so much that Mrs Partridge said to me, ‘Need the lavvie, Laura? Heddy’ll show you where it is.’

  Heddy showed me up the dark, narrow stairs where the air was much, much colder and smelled of old mattresses and damp. The bathroom was down the end of the landing, past the two bedrooms. Heddy flicked on the landing light, a dusty, solitary bulb hanging yellow and shadeless from the ceiling, illuminating the shadows and spooky corners. ‘It’s there,’ she said, pointing at the bathroom door. ‘Do you want me to wait for you?’

  And I said No, in the way that we always said no to Heddy, as if everything she suggested was stupid, or weird, or both.

  The light in the bathroom was one of those old-fashioned strips, worked by a cord. I yanked it on, and closed the door behind me. Bathrooms are intimate places. I remember laughing, recently, over someone’s tale about a bathroom cabinet stuffed with marbles, so that when a nosy guest went prying the marbles came tumbling out, crashing all over the place, for everyone else to hear.

  They had a really old-fashioned loo with a big, black cistern up above it, which looked as if it might crash down upon your head while you were sitting there; and a proper chain to pull, to flush it; and square sheets of toilet paper in a box, not on a roll like we had at home. The soap was on a little shell-shaped dish, and going soft underneath. I washed my hands and dried them on the big towel hanging over the bath. I wondered whose towel it was, and how they ever managed to have a bath when it was so filled with the washing basket, a cactus plant in a tub and Mrs Partridge’s sewing machine.

  Mrs Partridge had got the cake out when I came back down. She’d put it on the table and was sticking the candles into little holders balanced precariously on top. Heddy and Ian were standing by the table, watching her, both of them puffing their cheeks in and out as if practising their blowing-out skills. I looked over at Mr Partridge, still sitting in his chair. He’d fallen asleep, with his head tilted backwards and his mouth wide open.

  I thought he was dead. I thought he was dead and no one else had noticed.

  ‘There,’ Mrs Partridge said, as she stuck the last candle in. She patted the pockets of her pinny, found matches and pulled them out. ‘Now, what else do we need?’ She glanced around the room, vaguely, her eyes passing over Mr Partridge. She didn’t seem to notice
that he was dead. ‘Heddy,’ she said, ‘go and fetch some plates, and a knife.’

  And Heddy went out to the kitchen, walking past Mr Partridge, and she didn’t notice that he was dead, either. Soon she came back again, carrying plates with a big kitchen knife balanced on top. She watched what she was doing, so as not to drop anything. Still she didn’t notice what had happened to Mr Partridge.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  Ian was starting to jump about a bit now, excited at the prospect of cake. He’d see, I thought. He’d see that his dad was dead. But Ian didn’t take his eyes off the cake, and now Mrs Partridge was striking up a match and lighting those candles.

  ‘Come on, come on, gather round,’ she said to me, but I stood rooted to the spot. ‘Happy birthday to you . . .’ she started up, and Ian joined in, and I tried to, but I couldn’t stop glancing sideways at Mr Partridge. I wondered when they’d realize he was dead, and what would happen then.

  Then, when they’d stopped with the ‘Happy birthday’ and Heddy was just about to blow out the candles, Mrs Partridge said, ‘Hang on a minute now, don’t want Mr Partridge missing everything.’ And she moved over to his chair, put her bony hand on his knee and gave him a little shake. At once he gurgled and spluttered and coughed into life, and opened his eyes.

  I cannot tell you how much I wished I was at home. I couldn’t eat any of that horrible cake. And when my dad eventually picked me up to take me home, I got down their pathway and out through their gate and burst into tears.

  ‘Why did you make me go there?’ I cried. ‘Why?’

  But my dad just got angry with me and said, ‘For God’s sake, Laura, why can you not think about anyone but yourself?’

  And worse, much worse than all of that, was that my parents went and invited Heddy to my birthday party, in March. No matter how much I cried and begged them not to, they said we had to return the invitation, we had to be polite. And again – why couldn’t I just make an effort and be nice to poor Heddy Partridge?

  *

  I do not want to see Heddy Partridge again, ever. Heddy Partridge is gone, gone, like all the other mistakes made in childhood. What point is there in going back and revisiting nightmares? What could I ever say to her now? Oh, I’m sorry I made your life sheer hell, and I’m sorry for any part I may have had in your current terminal gloom, but hey, let me have a little chat to your doctors and see if I can’t put things right.

  I do not want to go back. And I don’t want to even think about trying to put things right.

  I moved on a long, long time ago.

  She turned up at my party wearing that same purple dress, slightly shorter now, and tighter.

  ‘Oh, it’s you,’ I said, opening the door and taking the present out of her hand, and then I ignored her.

  We all ignored her. We made quite a game of it.

  I opened my presents and said my thank-yous. Everyone crowded around to see what I’d got, except for Heddy, who stood glum-faced on her own. I opened her present last – it was a book, I think – and let it fall discarded to the floor with all the torn-up wrapping paper.

  My parents gave me one of those make-up stations that opened out, all pink plastic and lit up inside, crammed with glittery make-up pots and hair things, and a dummy’s head with long nylon hair to practise on. I let everyone have a go, except Heddy. And at teatime we wouldn’t let her sit down. Whenever she went for a chair we’d all shuffle along, blocking her way. All the way round the table she went, red-faced and flustered, and round the table we went too, bumping along from chair to chair, until my mum came into the dining room and snapped, ‘Laura!’ in a shocked, angry voice. ‘What do you think you are doing?’

  And she made Heddy sit next to me, ruining my party entirely.

  Later, when everyone had gone, my mum told me how disappointed she was with me. And when my dad came home early to see me, she told him how disappointed she was, and he got angry. Really angry. No Happy birthday, Laura, no Have you had a nice day? – oh no, nothing like that. Just straight in there, slamming his fist down onto the kitchen counter and raging at me.

  ‘I do not want to hear this!’ he shouted, his face gone all tight and grey. ‘I do not want to come home from work to find that Heddy Partridge has been a guest in my house and that you – yes, you, Laura – have humiliated her!’

  We had this huge row. Made all the worse because I was full of cake and sweets and lemonade and was riding too high on the innate belief that on your birthday you matter, you’re the special girl, for the day.

  He told me I was selfish and spoiled. He told me how ashamed he was of me.

  I stood among the debris of my party – the wrapping paper, the crushed crisps, the ripped-up, tangled streamers – with the unfairness of it all boiling up inside my head, and yelled, ‘But I didn’t want to invite her! I don’t like her!’

  And my dad grabbed hold of my arm, tight, and glared at me right up close, with just this one muscle flickering under his eye, and said, ‘Laura, I do not care whether you like her or not. That is not the point.’

  But if that wasn’t the point, then what was?

  This morning’s post is still on the table, unopened. I glance at it, and push it to one side. It’s bills mostly, and junk mail, all after money, one way or another. One in particular catches my eye, although I don’t want it to. It’s a begging letter, a guilt letter. I shouldn’t call it that, but that’s what it is. There’s a faint, grey pencil sketch of some poor starved child decorating the envelope. I’ve seen it now; the picture will be stuck in my head until I open it up, and pay whatever is needed to make the image go away. I get a lot of these letters.

  I give money here, I give money there, I give it no more thought.

  But the piece of me that Mrs Partridge wants cannot so easily be dispensed.

  I have no intention of going to see Heddy Partridge. I agreed under duress, as James would say. And what possible use could I be anyway? What do I know about mental hospitals, for heaven’s sake? What does Mrs Partridge expect me to do when I’m there? Have a good look round, say This won’t do, and pack Heddy up and take her home with me?

  The thing is, how shall I say no? It’s always much harder, once you’ve already said yes.

  The house is quiet now, and my glass empty. I stand up and take the wine bottle from the fridge, and pour myself another glass. And then I take the phone from where it’s lying beside James’s half-drunk cup of tea, and sit back down.

  I’ll tell her I’m too busy. I’ll say, Look, I’m really sorry, Mrs Partridge, I’d love to be able to help, but I just don’t have the time at the moment.

  It’ll be easier on the phone than face to face. She’ll get the message. With any luck she’ll just give up on me, and let me go. If she does still push me to come and see Heddy, I’ll say I’m really busy at the moment and can’t fix a date right now, but I’ll call her, sometime soon. Ultimate fob-off. I’ve done it a million times before; I can do it again.

  It’s the best thing to do. I don’t have the time. And at least on the phone I won’t have to avoid her bird-like stare, imploring me.

  I don’t have Mrs Partridge’s number and our phone directory doesn’t cover that far out, so I have to phone up directory enquiries.

  ‘Partridge,’ I say to the operator. ‘Mrs V. Partridge, One Fairview Lane, Forbury. In Middlesex.’

  But the operator comes back to me and says, ‘Sorry, we have no listing for that number,’ and hangs up.

  I sit there, listening to the dialling tone.

  ‘Shit!’ I mutter out loud and lay down the phone. Why on earth would Mrs Partridge be ex-directory?

  This means I’ll have go to her house on Tuesday, then, like I agreed. I don’t have any choice now. But I’m not going with her to see Heddy. I’ll go to Mrs Partridge’s house and I’ll tell her, straight away. I won’t even go in, I’ll ring the doorbell, say I can’t stop, I just wanted to let you know . . .

  I’ll think of something.

/>   I drum my fingers against my glass in annoyance; wine sloshes over the rim, and runs red across my hand.

  There’s no way on earth I’m going with Mrs Partridge to St Anne’s Hospital to see Heddy.

  SIX

  On Sunday evening I am sitting on the floor with bits of grey felt and white fake-fur spread out all around me. I’ve cut out a big body shape from the felt, like a tabard, that Thomas can just pop his head through, and now I’m sewing on the arms. The legs were a problem, a big problem. I was going to cut out two long pieces of felt and sew them up sausage-like and then attach them to the main body, like I am with the arms. But then I realized that getting the outfit on would be impossible, and if I sewed the legs on while he was wearing it, he’d never get out of it again, to go to the loo. So I suggested that I just make the costume to go on his top half and that he wears his school trousers underneath – after all, they’re grey. They’ll do, I said.

  Thomas went nuts.

  ‘I can’t wear my school trousers,’ he cried. ‘Baloo doesn’t wear school trousers. Everyone will laugh at me. Everyone else will have proper legs.’

  And everyone else will have a much better outfit. At least he didn’t say that, though I expect it’ll be true. Everyone else has a much better mummy who went to John Lewis before the grey fake-fur ran out, and who loves nothing more than to sit and sew perfect outfits for her perfect little darling to wear to school for just one day, after she’s knocked up a batch of perfect cakes and produced a perfect meal for her perfect husband. I remember watching the film The Stepford Wives once, years ago, when I was about twelve. In the film all the women become robotized, all perfect, all the same. Good grief, I thought, that’ll never happen to me.

  Good grief indeed.

  To sort out the leg problem Thomas and I agree in the end that I could sew felt onto his trousers, to make them match the body. I’ve still got this to do, and the tail. I snap off the cotton with my teeth. I hate sewing. I loathe it.