by Lynda Renham
‘Jim,’ he said, remembering the man’s name.
What the blazes was Jim doing at his funeral? Henry sat up and rubbed his tired eyes. There was a nagging dull ache in his stomach. He wondered where Rita kept those indigestion pills she’d mentioned. The truth was, Henry hadn’t really taken to Jim, that much. Broadly speaking, Henry didn’t take to workmen, full stop. They were all out to rip you off, was Henry’s opinion, but Imogen had seemed to like him.
‘Jim Hanson, nice to meet ya,’ he’d said when Henry had opened the front door.
Henry had looked down at the man’s grubby and torn jeans and then back to his weathered lined face. Bright blue eyes under hooded lids had appraised Henry. Henry had taken the man’s rough hand in his and said,
‘Won’t you come in?’
Imogen had just made soup. They always had homemade soup at the weekends. Henry wasn’t a great lover of soups, not really, but Imogen always brought home vegetables.
‘Alice said to take them,’ she’d say. ‘They’ll only be thrown.’
Henry always thought it rather a cheek of Alice to offer her rotting vegetation to him and Imogen, but Imogen argued they made good soup. Henry did rather enjoy the homemade bread that went with the soup, though.
‘That smells good,’ Jim had said, his nostrils widening in appreciation.
‘It’s vegetable soup,’ Imogen had said proudly.
‘Homemade is it?’ Jim had asked.
Henry had fought down a sigh. They were all the same, these workmen, he’d thought, always trying to delay the work. If Henry had been that lazy at the office, heaven knows what would have happened to people’s insurance claims.
‘Let me show you the roof,’ Henry had said butting into the soup conversation, which Henry dreaded would end with Imogen inviting Jim to share a bowl with them. No way was Henry sharing homemade bread and soup with a builder. Imogen was far too generous for her own good.
‘Oh, I looked at that,’ Jim had said arrogantly. ‘You need some new slates and the guttering done. The lead flashing around the chimneystack needs some work. Not surprised you’re getting water coming in.’
Henry had stared at him. When had the man looked at the roof, Henry had wondered. Jim accepted a cup of tea from Imogen and Henry’s blood had boiled.
‘I’ll need a quote,’ Henry had said sharply.
‘A hundred and fifty quid; cash in hand mind. Otherwise it’s two hundred.’
Henry had looked up at the damp patch on the ceiling.
‘That will need fixing too,’ he’d said.
‘Absolutely,’ Jim had smiled in that disarming way he had.
He was a rough diamond, Henry had thought. Not that Henry had ever met a rough diamond. He just presumed that someone with Jim’s accent, coarse hands, and appetite for tea, was by definition a rough diamond.
‘Love one,’ Jim had said, pushing his grubby little hand into Henry’s digestives.
To make matters worse, Jim was drinking his tea out of Henry’s favourite mug. It had his name printed all around it. You’d have thought Imogen would have known better, especially as, so far, Jim hadn’t done a bit of work. He’d talked about it alright and Henry wondered how long it would be before he actually did some.
‘When can you start?’ Henry had asked, watching as Jim sipped from the mug. He’d bleach it later. Who knew what the man had?
‘Right away if you like,’ Jim had said airily. ‘I’m between jobs.’
‘Between jobs?’ Henry had repeated. He didn’t want to be squeezed in between jobs, thank you very much.
‘Don’t worry,’ Jim had smiled, tapping Henry condescendingly on the shoulder. ‘It’s not a big job.’
‘Jim comes highly recommended,’ Imogen had said, stirring the soup, which Henry was hankering after even more. It was way past his lunchtime.
Jim had looked at her appraisingly and had said in a smarmy way, ‘thank you kind lady.’
Henry had snorted but no one had seemed to notice. Jim was complimenting Imogen on her delicious smelling soup while Imogen flapped about saying it was only bits of veg. It was when Henry said, ‘My wife is no expert on builders,’ that a dark atmosphere had fallen over the kitchen. Jim had stared directly into Henry’s eyes. Henry had suddenly felt very uncomfortable in his own kitchen. He hadn’t been pleased about that.
‘You don’t have to use me,’ Jim had said with an undercurrent of hostility in his voice.
‘We won’t get anyone else to do it for a hundred and fifty pounds,’ Imogen had said, her face flushed from standing over the hot pot of soup.
‘Thanks for the tea, just let me know what you decide.’
Jim had drained the mug, nodded at Imogen and started for the door.
‘Well …’ Henry had conceded. ‘If you could start right away …’
‘Sure,’ Jim had said, and Imogen had sighed with relief.
That was the only time Henry had seen Jim, until his funeral. He’d done a good job; Henry couldn’t complain about that.
But what else had he been working on? Henry thought crudely, his heart pounding. He fell back onto the lumpy bluebell-fragranced pillow and clenched his fists. He ought to have it out with the rough diamond.
‘Great idea,’ mumbled Henry. ‘How do you propose to do that when the rough diamond won’t be able to see you?’
Henry laid a hand on his painful stomach. Surely if he were dead, he wouldn’t still be getting dyspepsia.
Just how many secrets did Imogen have and why hadn’t Henry ever been aware of them?
Stillness descended over the room and Henry realised that Billy had turned off the television. Rita was breathing gently, and Henry wondered if it was fair to involve her in this. But what choice did he have? He’d get some sleep, he decided. That would be the best thing. In the morning, this whole business may well have been sorted. He’d have to go home to get his briefcase but that was no hardship. A good night’s sleep and he’ll awake with all this behind him. Maybe it was just a bad dream and he’d wake in his own bed with Imogen beside him, all thoughts of Jim forgotten. Of course, it was ludicrous; Imogen having an affair. What nonsense and with Jim, the builder. It was quite laughable. When he looked at things logically, it was obvious he was in the middle of a dream. He closed his eyes in the knowledge that in the morning all would be well.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Rita’s arm was tingling from where she had lain on it. It was chilly in the bedsit and she watched as her breath vaporised in the cold air. A shimmer of light from behind the curtains bathed the room in a warm glow and for one cloudy moment, Rita struggled to remember why there were bedcovers on the sofa. Then she heard Henry’s gentle snoring, and everything came back to her. Rita had never had a man stay overnight in her room before. If only she could tell her girlfriends, but then they’d want to meet him and that’s when things would get complicated. It would be quite difficult introducing an invisible man.
She carried her clothes to the bathroom and huddled by the barely warm radiator before splashing her face with water. It was early. No one else would be up yet. Rita didn’t want the other tenants banging on the bathroom door. She figured she had a good hour before the rest of the house awoke. It gave her enough time to shower, fix her hair, and apply some make-up.
She hated sharing a bathroom. No one ever thought to clean it when they’d finished. She grimaced at the congealed toothpaste in the sink and pulled at some toilet roll to clean it. Perhaps tomorrow she’d bring a cloth and a bottle of disinfectant. She was the only one that did. No one else seemed to care about the tidemark around the bath or the towel rack that hung off the wall. With a sigh, she wiped the toothpaste-splattered mirror. The mirror had that discoloration of age. The surface of the glass splotched black in places. Rita, as usual looked at her distorted image. Funny how used to it she’d become, that when she looked in other mirrors she never ceased to be amazed at how clear everything looked.
*
Henry realised t
hings were far from well as soon as he awoke. He was more disorientated than ever. He couldn’t understand why the window was on the left. It had always been on the right. He turned over to face Imogen and almost fell off the sofa. He then saw Rita sitting at the small table eating breakfast and his heart sank. Nothing had changed.
‘I’m still here,’ he said miserably.
‘Yes,’ said Rita, evidently pleased.
She looked different again. Her hair was all wavy like when he had first seen her yesterday and she had on lipstick the colour of pomegranate seeds.
‘Would you like breakfast?’ she asked. ‘Only I have to leave for work soon.’
‘I thought we could talk,’ said Henry, feeling a sharp pain in his neck. Sofas weren’t for sleeping on, he decided.
Rita looked anxiously at the little clock by her bed.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry but I don’t think I have time,’ she said apologetically.
Time was a funny thing, thought Rita. Some days she had so much of it and then there were days like today when she wished she had more. If only she could save time, like she did the coins she kept in the jar. She could have used some of that time now to help Henry.
‘I’ve got an hour saved,’ she could have said.
Henry thought he didn’t have much time either. This was most certainly not a dream, he now realised. Rita didn’t want to miss her bus but at the same time she felt an odd sense of responsibility to Henry.
‘I get an hour for lunch,’ she said.
‘Could you meet me in the park?’ he asked, standing and stretching his sore muscles.
‘I could be there at one,’ said Rita, glancing at the clock. She would surely miss her bus if she didn’t hurry.
‘I guess that will have to do,’ said Henry feeling put out. Rita wondered if she could take a day off but quickly decided against it. Henry grabbed his coat from the peg.
‘I’ll go home, I think. See if I can get into the wardrobe.’
Rita grabbed her bag and hovered by the door. Would Henry want to kiss her goodbye? The thought of his dry lips on her cheek filled her with such strong desire that for a few seconds she found it hard to breathe. The smell of him in the bedsit was so potent that it made her quite light-headed. The slamming of the front door startled them. A quick glance at the clock sent a shot of adrenalin through Rita’s body. She would never make it to the bus stop in time. Henry sensing the urgency followed her out of the room.
‘See you at one,’ she said rushing down the stairs without waiting for Henry’s reply. In her haste, Rita forgot her umbrella and was dismayed to see it was raining heavily. Her hair would be ruined. For a moment, she considered running upstairs to fetch it, but she would most certainly miss the bus if she did. The time spent on waving her hair hadn’t been completely wasted. At least Henry had seen it. Rita hadn’t expected to sleep so well with Henry in the room. Strangely, she had slept better than ever. It had been odd preparing her breakfast with Henry sleeping just feet away. He’d looked so peaceful.
‘There’s my bus,’ said Rita, hurrying across the street. She waved gaily to Henry and he waved back, unable to hide the disappointment from his face.
Rita made it just in time. The bus driver was about to close the doors. Rita squeezed in and showed her monthly pass.
There was a seat by the door, and she sat down gratefully and caught her breath. The man seated opposite looked at her over his polystyrene cup of steaming coffee. Rita quickly turned away. It didn’t do to smile at strangers. It gave the wrong message.
She wondered what the man would think if she told him all about Henry. He’d no doubt think I’m delusional, she thought. It did seem rather odd though that no one else could see Henry. A loud thud broke into her thoughts and she looked up at the heavily built man who had bounded onto the bus. He grabbed at the bar above her as the bus moved off and then began waving something in front of the passengers. At first, Rita couldn’t make out what it was. She could only see it was black. Then he was waving it in front of her and she saw clearly that it was a worn leather Bible. He was holding it in the air and gesticulating maniacally, as though he was holding a surrender flag. Rita squirmed in her seat. She looked to get off, but the doors had hissed shut and the bus was moving forward. The man was right in front of her now. Oh God, she silently moaned, please let him move away.
‘Jesus saves,’ yelled the man. ‘Praise the Lord.’
Rita clutched her handbag close to her chest and pulled her knees as far into her body as she could manage. The man opposite rolled his eyes in an exaggerated gesture.
‘Evangelists,’ he muttered. ‘Is nowhere safe?’
Rita didn’t feel safe at all.
‘Read the Bible,’ yelled the man, the Bible swayed from side to side. It’s as though he is trying to hypnotise us, thought Rita.
‘Repent before it’s too late.’
‘Don’t preach on buses,’ said the man in the seat opposite. He smiled reassuringly at the other passengers. ‘You’re frightening some of the ladies.’
Rita feared the man would hit her with his Bible. The closer he came the more an icy chill ran through her bones. She needed to get off the bus but the gap between the man and the main bus platform seemed inaccessible; a huge chasm that Rita could never hope to cross. She was stuck; marooned on a blue and yellow upholstered bench, destined to suffer the rants of an evangelical mad man. She could have hit him with her umbrella and escaped if only she hadn’t left it back at the bedsit.
‘Jesus saves,’ bellowed the man while others on the bus told him to be quiet. The man’s eyes pierced into Rita’s.
‘Jesus will forgive you for your sins. Though your sins be scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’
Rita gasped. How did he know about her sins? He was wrong. Just like her mother was wrong. She hadn’t sinned and she never would. God had forgiven her.
‘I am the Lord’s messenger. By the laying on of hands …’
Rita knew what that meant, and she wasn’t letting this disgusting man come anywhere near her. She knew all about sin and what the Lord’s messenger did to get the sin out of you. Rita couldn’t breathe. She needed air. Before she realised what she was doing, she had lurched out of her seat. Her hand reached for the strap above her head, but her trembling hands missed it and she fell ungainly onto the seat opposite. She looked to the other passengers for help but they were too intent on watching the evangelist.
He reached out to her and Rita penetrated the air with her screams.
‘Get away from me,’ she cried.
The Bible fell from the man’s hand.
‘Jesus will forgive you,’ he said, bending to retrieve it.
Rita wanted to lift her foot and kick the Bible to kingdom come. Yes, that’s what she wanted to do.
The bus driver becoming concerned brought the bus to a juddering halt.
‘Hey, what’s going on back there?’
A wave of annoyance from the passengers travelled down the bus.
‘Disgraceful,’ they agreed.
‘Please sit down, sir,’ the driver said firmly.
The man with the Bible shrugged and took a seat at the front of the bus. Rita dashed to the doors and waited for them to open.
‘Let me off,’ she whimpered.
The bus reached the next stop and she hurried off, her shaking legs almost collapsing beneath her. The bus driver shrugged and pulled away without a second glance. Rita breathed hard for several seconds and then wiped the sweat from her face. Tears sprang to her eyes when she realised she would now be late. She’d jumped off three stops too early. She’d have to walk the rest of the way to the supermarket. Rain dribbled down the back of her neck and miserably she pushed back wet strands of hair from her face.
‘It’s alright,’ she whispered, as though she were talking to a frightened child.
A car screeched to a halt at the traffic lights and Rita saw it was Billy. A guardian angel dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt, a chariot in t
he guise of a white Jaguar. If she hurried over, perhaps he would give her a lift. She looked down at her matronly grey skirt and rain splattered boots. She looked so plain. He wouldn’t want her dripping all over his clean upholstery. The red light turned green and then Billy was gone. All that was left was the distant roar of his engine. Just as well, thought Rita. He may have asked who she’d had in her room and that would have been uncomfortable. It would have been nice to tell someone about Henry. But then again, Billy might think she was as nutty as a fruitcake. If he did ask, she would say it was the radio.
Another lie thought Rita and bit her lip. They were only little white lies though. Mostly she told them to help Henry, so it wasn’t like they were bad lies. If she told the truth who knew what would happen. Most likely Billy would ask her to leave. After all, who wanted a tenant who could see dead people?
She really couldn’t afford for Billy to put up her rent and it was unlikely that Henry would stay another night. Most likely he would sort the whole dying business and life would go back to normal.
*
Henry was disappointed. He’d felt certain Rita would take the day off to help him. He strolled miserably through the wet streets, kicking at puddles like a child.
It seemed odd not to be going into work. The Lester case was playing on his mind. It had been an important claim. He hoped it hadn’t been overlooked. He’d worked hard to get that contract. He didn’t want anything going wrong at this late stage. He approached Mayberry Terrace. The quiet street glistened under the recent rain. It seemed deserted as though there had been a mass exodus. Everyone is where Henry ought to be, at work. Their days passing in hot stuffy offices or air-conditioned brightly lit stores while their homes sat empty and airless, waiting for life to pump once again through its empty walls. Ray pulled up in his milk float. Henry could hear him whistling and felt envious. Henry didn’t feel in the least like whistling.
‘Morning,’ Ray called, and Henry was about to respond when he realised that Ray was speaking to Imogen, who stood at the front door. He hadn’t expected her to be home. She wrapped a creased cardigan around her. Imogen never wore creased clothes, neither of them did. It spoke volumes did that creased cardigan.
