by Penny Kline
Chris’s front door was ajar and the inner door unlocked. I called her name and she emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands on an orange tea towel that looked as though it had been used as a floor cloth.
‘Good, I was expecting you.’
‘Really?’
‘I dreamed about you. We went on holiday, just the two of us, and I lost my wallet and passport and all my luggage. No, don’t tell me what it meant.’
‘I wasn’t going to.’
‘Anyway you don’t go in for dream analysis, you’re far too scientific.’
‘Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.’ I followed her into the kitchen and sat down on the only chair that wasn’t covered in old newspapers or clothes waiting to be ironed.
If anything the room was even more untidy than usual. On the table a red plastic dumper truck with two of its wheels missing lay on its side in the remains of Barnaby’s lunch. Next to it a shrivelled succulent had dropped most of its leaves into the plastic dish its pot was standing in. Both draining boards were piled high with unwashed crockery and cutlery. A blackened frying-pan lay on the floor next to the pedal bin and was in the process of being cleaned out by one of the cats. There was a strong smell of very old cauliflower cheese, or it might have been the drains.
Chris stood at the sink, rinsing out two chipped coffee mugs, one with red and white stripes, the other a ‘gift’ from a petrol station. She was dressed in jeans, a blue and white spotted shirt, and a scarlet boat-necked sweater that reached almost to her knees. The jeans were too long and the frayed bottom hung over her green bumper boots. Her dark hair, which was usually tied back, had been left loose so that it hung half-way down her back.
‘Your hair looks good like that,’ I said.
‘Liar. D’you think I’ve got fat cheeks? I thought I might look better if I covered them up.’
‘Idiot. If anything you look rather thin.’
‘Scraggy, you mean.’ She rubbed the rims of the mugs with the orange cloth in an attempt to remove the tea and coffee stains. It occurred to me that she might be wondering if my visit had some special significance but I didn’t want to tell her I was hoping to talk to Bruce. She would pretend to be offended, but the pretence would be a double bluff. For all her easy-going manner she could be quite touchy.
Was I imagining it or was she a little subdued? The house seemed unusually quiet, almost as quiet as my flat, although places where plenty of people go in and out have a different atmosphere from those where a single person lives alone.
‘Where is everyone?’ I leaned forward, just far enough to acknowledge Barnaby’s presence in the playpen, but not so far that he thought I was going to lift him out.
‘Peace, perfect peace,’ said Chris, filling the kettle through its spout and ignoring the water that was splashing all over the carpet tiles. ‘Rosie’s at a friend’s house and Jack’s upstairs doing something with rubber bands and cotton reels.’
‘Rubber bands?’
‘His science homework.’
‘He’s a bit young, isn’t he?’
She grinned. She wasn’t subdued at all. ‘Jack’s teacher’s one of the old school, or the new, it depends how you look at it. Anyway, it keeps him occupied and he’s always been a horrid little swot.’
I laughed but felt some sympathy for the conscientious little boy. ‘Anyway, I just thought I’d call round and see how you were.’
‘Quite right too.’ She joined me at the table, sweeping a pile of bills to one side and leaning forward with her chin resting on her hands. ‘I haven’t seen you for almost a whole week. What’s been happening to you?’
‘Oh, nothing special. How about you?’
‘Well, let’s think. After the sun put in an appearance I spent the whole morning trying to clean the windows and ended up with them looking even worse than before. Then yesterday Barnaby threw up all over Rosie’s new duvet and the two of them screamed blue murder. Then in the evening I went from door to door selling raffle tickets for the Parents’ Association Spring Fair. Shall I go on?’
Barnaby let out a loud squawk and started hurling himself against the side of his playpen. Chris ignored the noise but began crawling round the floor picking up discarded toys and pushing them through the bars. The squawking continued.
‘Stop it, you little bastard. Hang on, I’ll go upstairs and find his blanket. He sucks the end of it and goes into a kind of trance. D’you reckon there’s some mind-altering additive in the wool?’
While she was out of the room I re-washed the two mugs, made some coffee, and looked around for a bottle of milk. I found one behind the toaster but it could have been there for quite some time. In the fridge were another four bottles, all but one of them opened and most of them still half full. I sniffed one, decided it was probably drinkable, and cautiously poured a little milk into each of the mugs.
Chris and I had known each other for less than two years but it seemed much longer. We had met at a party at Martin’s house, which I had attended mainly so as not to offend Martin but also because I was new to the area and needed to make some friends.
Stuck in a corner together, giggling over the ethnic outfit that Martin’s wife was wearing, we had hit it off at once. Later Chris had said it had nothing to do with Sue’s dress. We came from the same tribe, we had picked up each other’s scent. It was a strange comment coming from someone who despised psychology, but when I challenged her she said there was nothing psychological about it, her theory was entirely biological. Chris was one of the main reasons that, in spite of everything, I had decided to stay on in the area.
‘How are you, then?’ She returned carrying a blue and grey blanket and draped it over Barnaby.
‘All right,’ I said, ‘could be worse.’
‘Hard day at work?’ It was a tactful way of saying that I looked tired and strained.
‘Much the same as usual.’
She gave me a sympathetic look, then stood up and started feeling along the top shelf of a cupboard. Finally she plonked an empty bottle of medium dry sherry on the table.
‘Go on, there’s a bit left. Drink from the bottle so you don’t waste any.’ And then, when I failed to obey her instructions, ‘Better than solitary drinking, although if I was like you on a whacking great salary I’d stock up from the supermarket and drink myself under the table every evening.’
She drained the dregs of sherry herself, then tore open a packet of custard creams, pushed half of one through the bars of the playpen and shoved the rest in my direction.
‘Help yourself, and don’t say “no thanks” or I’ll kill you.’ She patted her stomach. ‘D’you think I look pregnant? Well, I’m not.’
I smiled. ‘When you were upstairs just now I was thinking. My first reaction when David and I split up was to look for another job.’
‘Don’t you dare.’ Crumbs sprayed from her mouth. She brushed them off the table on to the floor.
‘No, it would be stupid. That’s what I tell my clients. Don’t run away from the problem. Making a fresh start can be much harder than sticking things out in the same old place.’
‘I hate the word client.’
‘It’s better than patient.’
‘No, it’s not. Anyway, you can’t move away or I’ll sink into depression and you’ll have to come back and give me treatment.’
‘You’re never depressed.’
She pulled a face. ‘Yes, I am. Oh, you mean I’m too superficial.’
‘For God’s sake, it was a compliment.’
The front door opened and I hoped it was Bruce, but it was Rosie, being delivered back by her friend’s mother. Chris rushed down the passage to thank her and I could hear the two of them laughing as the other woman related some story about Rosie and her own daughter and a game of operations they had been playing in the garden shed.
Rosie came into the kitchen, stared at me for a moment, then snatched a custard cream and ran upstairs. I could hear Chris yelling after her. ‘Have you taken one for
Jack?’ Then the front door banged shut and she returned to the kitchen and sat on the edge of the table.
‘Anna, I’m worried about you. Tell me to mind my own business but are you sure you’ve made the right decision?’
‘What about?’
‘Oh, I know what David’s like but you suited each other. I mean, you can’t have everything, nobody can. Men are all the same. Dull and reliable, or — well, you don’t need me to explain.’
‘Surely it doesn’t have to be like that.’
‘Yes, it does, it’s biological.’
I tried to smile. ‘We were destroying each other.’
‘Yes, so you said. It all sounds terribly dramatic.’
‘It wasn’t. It was bloody awful.’ I should have been grateful, she was trying to help, but I didn’t want to talk about David, not today.
‘Listen,’ I said, changing the subject to something safe. ‘I’m seeing this man on Friday afternoon.’
‘What man?’ Her face lit up.
‘Oh, only someone in a special unit attached to the Psychology Department. It’s about the research I’m supposed to be doing. I’m beginning to wish I’d never arranged to meet him but I can’t really get out of it now.’
‘Of course you must go. It sounded really interesting.’
‘You don’t mean that. Anyway, I’m only going through with it to keep Martin happy. He wants me to cut down on the number of clients I see and spend one or two afternoons doing research.’
‘Good idea. Hypochondria, isn’t it? I’m terrified of illness. You can give me a questionnaire if you like.’
‘I might do that.’ I picked up my mug and carried it to the draining board. ‘Look, you must have dozens of things you want to do. Will Bruce be back soon, only I was hoping to have a quick word.’
‘With Bruce? What about?’
‘Oh, nothing important. You remember that social worker who was murdered before Christmas?’
‘Yes, I think so.’ She lifted Barnaby out of the playpen and held him under his arms so his feet were free to stamp up and down on her knees. ‘What about her?’
‘You didn’t know her, did you?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Oh, just something that happened at work. It doesn’t matter, only I thought Bruce might remember some of the details — ’
‘I doubt it. Anyway I’ve no idea when he’ll be back. He stays on at the office later and later these days.’
Her mouth had tightened a little. I had upset her. Calling round for a chat, then admitting it was Bruce I really wanted to see.
‘Look,’ I said, ‘let’s go out for a drink some time and I promise to be better company.’
‘Don’t be silly. You don’t have to be in a good mood for my benefit.’ But she was standing up and her whole body had tensed. Holding Barnaby against her shoulder she moved towards the front door. Then she reached round his legs and patted me on the arm.
‘Sorry you’re feeling so down.’
‘I’ll get over it.’
‘Yes, of course you will.’
She stood in the front garden as I walked towards my car. I turned to wave and she lifted Barnaby’s arm and moved it up and down. She wasn’t smiling.
*
On the way home I thought I saw David in his Citroen. But it wasn’t David. The car wasn’t even green.
When I reached the house there was nowhere to park. It was one of the few drawbacks of living in Cliftonwood, but any inconvenience was far outweighed by the pleasure of living so close to the Downs. High above Clifton Gorge, less than fifteen minutes’ walk from the flat, David and I used to gaze at the city stretching away toward the Mendip Hills, or stand on the suspension bridge staring down at the muddy river, over two hundred feet below. Each year there were several suicide attempts, mostly successful. David thought they gave the area an added fascination.
I cursed a large blue van that was taking up several spaces and blocking the pavement, then drove on and turned into a cul-de-sac, where I managed to find a gap between a rusty motorcycle and a brand-new Saab.
Walking back to the flat, I couldn’t remember if I had locked the car door. Checking again, but on this occasion it would be silly to take a risk. As I rounded the corner I saw a man standing by my car. He was tall and skinny, dressed in a dark jacket and jeans. He looked vaguely familiar and if he was who I thought he was … But I was too late. He started running and before I could catch up with him he had disappeared down the alleyway that led up to the Downs.
I returned to the car and checked that the door was locked. It was, and there was no sign of an attempted break-in. No scratch marks. Nothing. Most likely the man had been a total stranger, who just happened to be standing near my car because it was parked by a street lamp. He could have been studying a map, pausing to light a cigarette. But in that case why had he run away?
Half-way up the outside stairs that led up to the flat I heard my phone start ringing. I ran, jumping up two steps at a time, searching for my key in my coat pocket. Inevitably it jammed in the lock and by the time I managed to open the door the ringing had stopped. Forget it. Whoever it was would ring again in an hour or so.
My hand shook a little as I switched on the television, then turned down the sound. The whole house felt deathly quiet. The ground-floor flat was still empty, waiting for new tenants, an elderly woman with an invalid husband, who had bought the place and arranged to have it completely redecorated. Before David left I had enjoyed the peace and quiet. Now I would have preferred to hear distant sounds of life. A vacuum cleaner, radio, the murmur of voices.
Leaning back in ‘David’s’ armchair I watched the weather woman mouthing something about gale-force winds from the west. In a few minutes it would be time for the local news. Half an hour of stories about traffic hold-ups and dogs rescued from disused mine shafts, although it was on just such a bulletin that I had first heard about the murder of Karen Plant.
I closed my eyes and forced myself to imagine how it must have been. Alone in her flat with Keith Merchant, the man she was trying to help. Where was her flat-mate? Diane Easby had said she lived with another woman. It must have been a bigger place than mine, or maybe it was similar and they had a room each and shared the kitchen and bathroom. Of course, they could have had a much closer relationship.
A television reporter was standing in a field, talking to a man in a hard hat. In the background, several half-finished houses suggested a dispute about building regulations or the slump in the housing market. I switched off and went into the next room to change my clothes, resisting the temptation to put on my dressing-gown over my pants and bra and call it a day. It was only six forty-five. I had the whole evening ahead of me. I could read, work on my research project, watch a documentary on caring for psychiatric patients in the community …
The bedroom smelled of David. His shampoo, deodorant, or was it just in my imagination? I pulled back the bedclothes, smoothed the sheet and fluffed out the pillow on my side. Thousands, millions of people must sleep alone in a double bed. Some of them probably enjoy the extra space, room to stretch out without catching your leg on your partner’s toenails.
A tissue had fallen down between the headboard and the wall. I caught a glimpse of crumpled paper, put out my hand to retrieve it, then drew back, testing my reaction. Once anything of David’s, even a dirty hanky, would have been like part of me. Now, how did I feel?
I lifted the tissue between the nails of my thumb and forefinger, then dropped it as though it was red hot. It wasn’t David’s, it couldn’t be. David’s tissues had to be white. White toilet paper, white tissues, white shirts. This tissue was peach-coloured.
Perhaps Iris liked peach. David might have borrowed a tissue on one of his visits ‘to see his daughter’. But then I would have noticed it before. It occurred to me with a jolt, that was not entirely unpleasant, that he still had a key to the flat and could have been round while I was out. But why would he want to do that? Because he missed me? One
of these days I would have to ask for the key back. One of these days, but not quite yet.
When I drew the curtains across one of the hooks fell off and I had to climb on the windowsill to reattach it. Across the street a dark figure jumped out of sight. The man who had been standing by my car? But I had barely seen the shape, just assumed it was a human being, although more likely it was a cat springing down from the wall with the discarded food it had retrieved from a dustbin.
The house directly opposite had been divided into bedsits. Most of the houses in the road, including mine, were Victorian red-brick but the one opposite had been bombed during the War and rebuilt in the fifties. Beside its peeling front door was a row of bells and tattered cards. A broken first-floor windowpane had been covered with a sheet of brown paper and the whole house looked neglected by the absentee landlord. Dustbins without lids littered what passed for a front garden, an old mattress, with stuffing leaking out of a rip in its ticking cover, lay curled on its side.
Suddenly the familiar road, where I had lived for nearly a year, seemed alien, menacing. Jumping down from the windowsill I decided to check all the windows and if nothing had been tampered with I would forget about the peach tissue. The simplest explanation was that I had dropped it there myself. I must have picked it up by mistake at work. Heather kept a large box of multi-coloured tissues in her office, handing them out to staff and clients alike, anyone who had the beginnings of a cold or needed to mop up a few tears.
The phone started ringing again and I realized it was probably Bruce. He must have returned from work just after I left, and when Chris told him I wanted a word decided to get the call over with before he settled down for the evening. Last time he had rung too soon. Now he was trying again.
