‘Have a seat.’
She indicates a canvas chair, and lowers herself on to the other one, but he remains standing, blocking out the light from the window with his bulk. The rain is still hammering on the roof and peals of thunder seem to be getting closer. They could be here for quite some time.
‘So about this development. You think it might …?’ she witters, her voice scratching the silence.
‘Include a sheltered housing project? Yes.’ His eyes are fixed on her.
She shivers. ‘But you were talking about a horrible retail park. Here in this lovely place …’ She gestures vaguely towards the window, where a fat spider is legging along a silken thread towards its dinner, a trapped fly buzzing helplessly in a corner of the web.
The spider pounces. Ah! She jumps. Her sharp intake of breath echoes a ripping sound; the canvas beneath her starts to split and leaping to her feet she barges into him, because he is standing too close beside her in the confined space. He grabs her in his arms and pushes his face towards her; she feels his mouth on hers; she smells his musky aftershave and the feral under-scent of his warm skin. She takes a step back and her foot catches the spikes of the rake; the wooden handle whacks up against her head. Next minute, they’re rolling around on the slightly damp carpet piece.
The worst thing is, she realises she has only herself to blame.
She starts to struggle, knocking into the tumbled tubular furniture. ‘Don’t …’
He covers her mouth with his; his weight is crushing.
‘C’mon, Dorothy. You know it’s what you really want!’
‘No! I just wanted to talk about …’
His hand is inside her skirt and fumbling upwards. Should she scream? But no one’s there to hear. Try to keep him talking.
‘… the plans …’
She must keep her cool and get his mind back on to the development.
‘That disabled housing scheme?’ She turns her head to free her mouth from his, ‘I’d like to discuss –’
‘Let’s talk about that later.’
He takes her face between his hands and starts to kiss her again. Her head is jammed up against the wooden wall of the shed, and from the corner of her eye she can see the spider who, having finished his lunch, has slithered back up his web and seems to be watching them with interest.
‘… the retail park …’
‘This is just between you and me.’
‘No! Please! Tell me about the retail park!’
‘You know you’ve been waiting for this.’ One hand is up inside her silky top.
‘Will there be a Marks & Spencer …?’
‘C’mon, Dorothy.’
‘Or British Home Stores …?’
She tries to wrestle, but her movement seems to spur him on.
‘Did anyone tell you …?’
The other hand is in her knickers.
‘Or Sainsbury’s!’ she screams. ‘No! Stop!’
‘… what a great body you’ve got …?’
Now he’s fumbling with his zip.
‘… for someone of your age?’
‘Someone of my …?! Yaaagh!’
She kicks out and catches the blade of a spade wedged between the prongs of the fork, which is hitched through the pruning loppers. The stack of tools topples down on him. The blade of the pruner catches him on the cheek. Blood spouts and trickles down his jaw to the corner of his mouth, giving him a vampire grin. If only she could plunge a stake through his heart. Where did she put the secateurs?
A quick movement by the window catches her eye – the spider scuttling down his webby trap. And beyond the web, beyond the window, a face, familiar, fleetingly glimpsed – whose face? She freezes.
‘Oolie!’
‘What’s the matter?’ He sits up abruptly. ‘I thought you wanted …’ The blood dribbles down his chin on to his shirt.
She passes him a tissue from her bag. ‘I think you’d better go.’
He scrambles to his feet and straightens his clothes. Doro hitches up her top, hitches down her skirt, and opens the door of the hut. It’s still raining, but not so heavily now. There’s no sign of anyone at all outside.
‘Goodbye, Mrs Marchmont,’ he says.
His eyes are flinty. His voice is steely. A dribble of blood is still running down his face. He picks up his briefcase.
‘I’ll remember your enthusiasm for Marks & Spencer.’
He slithers away over the slimy ground.
Doro waits until he’s out of sight, then she slumps down on the remaining canvas chair and wishes there was some gas in the primus. She could murder a cup of tea. Surely, even if her intentions were a bit out of order this morning, surely she has the right to change her mind, once she realises he’s a man besotted with retail parks; a man bothered by the colour of people’s skin; a man who says she’s attractive for someone of her age?!
The fleeting image of Oolie’s sweet face at the window must have been a vision, sent to save her. The spider has vanished from his web, gone creepabout, but looking out through the dusty glass she sees someone else striding across the allotment, head bowed against the rain. Someone with round glasses and brown overalls and – oh bliss! – he’s carrying two cups of tea in his hands.
‘Oh, thank you, Mr Philpott! How did you know …?’
‘I saw you with that councillor. Everything all right?’
‘Yes. Fine. I mean –’ how much has he witnessed? she wonders ‘– not really because they want to use half the allotment for a retail park, and half for some social housing project.’
He sighs. ‘There’s something rotten in the state of Donny!’
‘Yes. Quite. I tried to stop him but …’
She hopes this will explain her dishevelled appearance, and any rolling on the floor he may have noticed. It just goes to show, you’re never as alone as you think on an allotment.
CLARA: Umpy fashional
‘Oolie, you really mustn’t make a habit of this.’
Oolie-Anna sidles into Clara’s classroom and sits down opposite her at the teacher’s desk, fingering a box of coloured crayons.
‘I wanna talk to you.’
‘About films again?’ Clara sighs.
It’s just turned four o’clock, the kids have all gone, and in this quiet breathing space at the end of the day, she’s replaying her lessons in her mind, reflecting on what went well and what she could have done better.
‘Not filums.’ Oolie points towards the window. ‘Did it come back?’
It takes Clara a moment to realise that she’s talking about the hamster. It’s odd, but sometimes she thinks she does see signs of his presence – little black crumbs which could be hamster pooh in the book corner, shreds of paper, crumbs of crisps and sandwiches mysteriously cleaned up. She wonders whether Oolie has a confession to make.
‘Did you come to talk about the hamster?’
‘Not t’ampster.’ Oolie shakes her head again. ‘It’s about Mum.’
‘So what’s she done now?’
Clara feels a stab of impatience. Really, Doro and Oolie are both impossible in their own ways. Her dad must be a saint to put up with them.
‘She’s been shaggin’ that man.’
Clara catches her breath and tries to keep her voice calm. ‘What man?’
‘You know. ’Im.’
‘I don’t know. Anyway, how do you know who she’s been shagging?’
Oolie’s vocabulary has got racier since she’s been working at Edenthorpe’s, but it’s not clear how much she actually understands.
‘I seed ’em. Up at t’allotment. Dad said I ’ad to get Mum, and she worrent in’t garden, so I went up to t’allotment.’
‘Oolie, you’re making this up.’
‘No, I telled you, I seed ’em.’
‘What did you see?’
‘I seed ’em shaggin’. On t’ flooer.’
‘When?’
‘I dunno.’ She pouts mardily, annoyed at being disbelieved. ‘It was ra
inin’ and they was at it. In t’ ’ut.’
‘Who was the man?’
‘You know – ’im wi’ grey hair.’
Clara does a mental check of all the grey-haired men she knows. There’s probably some perfectly simple explanation.
‘Are you sure it wasn’t Dad?’
‘Course I’m sure. I’m not daft, y’know.’
‘I know you’re not, Oolie.’ She recognises her sister’s sensitivities. ‘Was it Mr Philpott? You know, the man who helped us try and catch the hamster last time you were here?’
She knows Mr Philpott also has an allotment up there. But shagging her mum? Mind you, she wouldn’t put anything past Doro these days.
‘No, it worrent ’im. It wor t’ tall one.’
‘What tall one? Have you seen him before?’
‘I seed ’im at your school.’
Clara’s mind flashes back to the previous occasions when Oolie came to her school.
‘The head teacher – the one with the hamster?’
‘No, but I wun’t mind shaggin’ ’im. No. You know. That day. Wi’ all’t potty plants.’
She must mean Community Day in September. Oh, the chaos!
‘You mean the councillor?’
‘I dunno if he’s consular or what.’ She shrugs.
‘Oolie, try to remember.’
‘I do remember. I just don’t know ’is name.’
Clara finds her heart is beating too fast. She doesn’t quite believe her sister, but she doesn’t altogether disbelieve her, either.
‘What were they doing?’
‘I telled you, they was shaggin’. On t’ flooer. He were on top of ’er.’ Oolie slumps back in the chair grumpily, exhausted with the effort of so much verbalisation.
‘Okay, Oolie.’ Clara kneels beside the child-sized chair and puts her arm around her. ‘Thanks for telling me. You’ve done really well to remember all that.’
Oolie beams. ‘I runned all the way back. I got reyt wet.’
‘Come on. I’ll take you home.’
Just as Clara pulls into the drive at Hardwick Avenue, the front door opens, and a young man with fair hair bursts out into the porch. Behind him the door shuts with a slam. He stands there looking nonplussed, grasping a sheaf of papers and fumbling to open his briefcase, at the same time as he tries to wrestle himself into his jacket.
Oolie runs up and gives him a hug.
The papers slither out of his hands on to the ground, where a gust of wind catches them and scatters them over the garden. Clara gathers them up and hands them over, thinking, why does he have that pathetic little beard?
‘Hi, I’m Clara. I’m Oolie’s sister. Do you two know each other?’
‘It’s Mr Clemmins. Him what said I gotter ’ave me own flat and watch filums.’
‘Mike Clements.’ He stretches out his hand for Clara to shake. It’s firm, hot and sweaty. When she doesn’t say anything, he adds, ‘I think I might have got on the wrong side of your mother.’
Clara and Oolie exchange glances.
Clara says, ‘That can happen.’
Then the door opens again and Doro sticks her head out.
‘What’s going on? Oolie? Clara? What are you doing?’ She turns on the young man. ‘You still here? Why don’t you clear off? And take your bloody tick-boxes with you!’
Oolie whispers to Clara, in a voice loud enough for everybody to hear, ‘Mum don’t like him. She says he’s umpy fashional.’
‘That’s enough, Oolie,’ says Doro.
‘Let’s just say I’ve been tested to my limits,’ says Mr Clements, stuffing the flyaway papers into his briefcase and legging it down the drive.
Shame about the beard, thinks Clara.
SERGE: The bridges over the River Cam
On the last Saturday in October, Serge strolls around the cloister of his old college, trying to summon up waves of nostalgia, but all he feels is an intense anxiety kettling him in. He’s holding a carrier bag of letters he picked up from the Porters’ Lodge a minute ago. They’re mostly from his bank. They’re mostly addressed to Dr Black, Queens’ College Cluedo Society. The only one he’s opened so far asks him to contact his branch immediately. He doesn’t bother to open the others, and tries to push the thought of their contents to the back of his mind for the moment.
Just before one o’clock, he positions himself in front of the Queens’ College gatehouse and looks out down Silver Street. Here they come, ambling along hand in hand, Doro smiling and giving a running commentary on the buildings and people they pass, Oolie doing a little skip on every third step. What the fuck is Doro wearing? He can’t believe it. Dayglo pink circa 1990. With pointed lapels. Jeezus. Oolie’s not much better, in a white Puffa jacket that makes her look like a Michelin lady, but at least she probably has the excuse that Doro chose it.
As soon as she spots him, she lets go of Doro’s hand, and runs up to hug him.
‘Hiya, Sausage.’
‘Hi, Oolie. Hi, Mum.’
Hugs all round. Simple happy hugs. Tears prick his eyes. If only he could dump his burdensome secret. If only he didn’t have the letters in the carrier bag, which he’s doomed to lug around like a ball and chain on his heart. If only he could be a part of their simple happy world.
‘Shall we go and get a punt?’
‘Aren’t you going to take us up to your room, Serge? Oolie’s longing to see your room.’
‘No, not at the moment. It’s not very convenient. You see –’ he lowers his voice to a whisper, he’s prepared this ‘– a friend of mine, she’s in an all-women’s college, and she’s met the love of her life, at least, she thinks he’s the love of her life, but she can’t take him back to her room because men aren’t allowed. So I said she could use my room. Seeing as I’ll be out all afternoon. You know,’ he smiles disarmingly, ‘the course of true love …’
Doro smiles sympathetically. ‘You’d have thought they’d have got rid of those archaic paternalistic rules by now.’
‘Are they shagging?’ asks Oolie.
Scudamore’s punt hire is just around the corner. He gets into the punt first, stows his carrier bag under the seat, and helps Oolie in. She jumps heavily, making the boat rock.
Doro shrieks.
The young man from Scudamore’s says, ‘Don’t worry. They’re very stable. Seldom capsize.’
Serge stands at one end wielding the pole. It’s ages since he did this, but once you get into the rhythm it’s not that difficult. It helps to be tall and to have a torso that ripples under a tight T-shirt but, despite having neither of these, the two women in his punt are looking at him adoringly. He pushes off – swoosh!
It’s one of those perfect October days, sunny and clear, with golden leaves floating along the black water and late tourists clustering on the bridges like birds preparing for their winter migration. The air is crisp and cold, but he’s already worked up a sweat as he manoeuvres their way under the Mathematical Bridge. His spirits lift as he gives the usual spiel about tangents and radial trusses.
‘Actually, it’s the main reason I came to Queens’ College.’
‘I can’t see any tangerines,’ says Oolie.
‘You’re so clever, darling,’ says Doro.
So far, everything is going swimmingly.
There are still plenty of punts on the river. Between King’s College Bridge and Clare Bridge they glide along The Backs, serene lawns stretching down to the river, willows drooping weepily. At last, that tingle of nostalgia.
Oolie trails her hand in the water, which she flicks at Doro from time to time.
‘Stop that, Oolie,’ says Doro. ‘Sit properly, else you’ll make the boat tip over. Such a pretty place. What a pity it’s the preserve of the privileged few. I wish my students from Doncaster Tech had something like this. I’ve always believed beauty is good for the soul. No, put it back in the river, Oolie. It’s dead.’
Serge is only half listening. He’s concentrating on following the route of the underwater tow
path, and keeping his eyes out for rogue punts.
They pass Trinity and approach the Bridge of Sighs, where there’s the usual logjam of punts waiting to go through one at a time. Some of these punters are really useless, especially the women, spinning and bumping into each other with little girly shrieks. He stows his pole, and lets the punt drift slowly towards them. Then he spots her, sitting with her back to them, up ahead in the logjam of punts. Bright-yellow jacket and long dark hair. Maroushka! What the fuck’s she doing here? And how can he avoid having to introduce her to Doro and Oolie, who would without a shadow of a doubt ruin his chances for ever?
She hasn’t seen him yet. He’s still got time to turn.
He raises the pole and jabs it hard into the water. The punt stops, jerks and spins sharply to the left, clunking another punt that is just pulling in alongside them. A wave of water pours in, drenching his coat, which he tucked under the seat with the carrier bag. Doro and Oolie are shrieking, clutching on to the sides of the punt, which is still rocking, letting in big splashes on each side that slosh around their feet. He tries to push off, keeping his head down, but all the other occupants of the punts are looking now, laughing. These kinds of collisions are part of the fun of the river. He misjudges, pushes too hard, and they rebound with a judder against the opposite bank, almost tipping into the water. A low-hanging willow sweeps over the prow. There’s a sudden splash.
A scream. Another scream.
‘Serge! Oolie! She can’t swim!’
Doro is pulling off her dayglo pink jacket. In the moment it takes him to work out what’s happened, there’s another splash at the side of their punt, a dark head pops up, looks around and disappears under the water again. Serge dives in too and swims over to where Oolie is flailing, trying to grab at the willow tree, burbling as she spits out a mouthful of leaves. By the time he reaches her, the other man already has his arm under her, lifting her head out of the water. Oolie’s hands are around his neck, pushing him back under as she thrashes about.
Various Pets Alive and Dead Page 23
