Imperfect Strangers

by David Staniforth

  Colleen steps into her role of elder comforter by offering me a tissue. She places a hand on my shoulder as Kerry and Philippa make their way up the steps. Like a little kid, Philippa kicks at a drift of rusty leaves.

  “Perhaps you should take the day off.” Colleen suggests. “You’re obviously upset. Work will be here long after we’re gone. I’ll let Mr Smith know.”

  Work will be here long after we are gone. Sounds like something my dad would say. Do I want to sit in an empty house? I shake my head and at once regret it. Why did I drink all that wine? And why do we ask ourselves questions that we already know the answer to? I drank it out of spite. You’d cut off your nose to spite your face, Sally – one of mum’s. “I may as well stay Colleen; I’m here now. Kerry’s words only hurt because they ring true.”

  “Don’t let it get to you. Kerry wouldn’t, and Philippa certainly wouldn’t. Did you see her face back there? I think she actually enjoyed that little scene.” Colleen tuts, and looks up at Philippa and Kerry laughing. Despite being a mere thirty-three, Colleen seems so much older than the rest of us. No surprise really, married with a son of fourteen and a daughter of eleven. Heck another two years and she could legally be a grandma. In the brown-twill skirt-suit she’s wearing she looks to be practicing for the part already.

  “You need a nice dependable man, like my Paul,” Colleen says, turning her attention back to me. “Someone you can trust. Someone who will think more about you than they do about themselves.”

  “Or take a leaf out of my book and don’t bother with one at all,” Kerry snipes over her shoulder from six steps above.

  When I look up I’m met with the view up Philippa’s short-skirt and a flash of silky white panties decorated with crimson hearts. Men would pay for such a sight.

  “We’re not all like you, Kerry.” Philippa says, turning to wink at me, as if she knows exactly what I was thinking. “What about when she wants a shag?”

  Colleen’s jaw drops. “Philippa! Language like that, out here on the steps.”

  “Wha-a-a-t?” Philippa’s eyes glint with devilment, as she elevates her shoulders into a provocative shrug. “Girls have needs too. Can’t tell me you haven’t shagged – same boyfriend since twelve. Bet you’ve been at it since you were at least fourteen.”

  “I have not! My Paul insisted on waiting till we were married. And I was thirteen when I began courting him, not twelve.”

  “Shagging since sixteen then.”

  “Nineteen, actually, and five months, if you must know. The night of our wedding.”

  The outrage in Colleen’s voice makes me chuckle, and my head throbs in payment as I do the maths. This is why I came to work. I love you girls. Friends: that’s all a girl needs, not bloody men. I’m about to declare my love for them out loud when a massive drop of rain implodes on my forehead and washes the thought away. When I look around it doesn’t seem to be raining; for a worrying moment, I’m concerned that it might be pigeon shit. It isn’t though, just the preliminary drop of a mighty downpour. Just one big drip and it goes and lands on me.

  Typical!

  The sky has taken on a surreal greenish hue, and there’s that olive-like pungency which comes before heavy rainfall. Oppressive. Maybe my sense of touch is heightened, but I’m certain I can actually feel the weight of the rain descending and compressing the air beneath it. I’m transported to walking through the forest as a youngster, to a day out with my parents in search of sweet-chestnuts. I recall the smell, the forest floor covered in decaying bracken, mushrooms pushing through the darkness in search of light. It would have been this time of year. I loved it. Tramping through the woodland like Davey Crocket. Davey, Davey Crocket, I silently sing, King of the wild frontier. The crackle of Granddad’s old 78 accompanies the lyrics in my memory, and I think it fascinating how easily things long forgotten can trigger a happy memory. A quick medley of other scratchy shellac LPs comes to mind: Fastest milkman in the west; My ding-a-ling, and I’m suddenly seven again twirling through the house – I want you to play with my ding-a-ling. Happy recollections drift into my thoughts like fragmented ghosts, and I picture mum and dad chuckling, knowing that I was oblivious to the double entendre of the song.

  The girls’ conversation has progressed in the few moments my mind wandered, but I quickly catch the direction it’s taken.

  “She’s seeing to her own needs anyway,” Kerry is saying. She’s chuckling, her shoulders giving away the fact that she’s on the verge of submitting a wise crack. “Slept with a wine-bottle last night. Bet it’s the best sex she’s ever had.”

  The group break into peals of laughter, momentarily pausing at the top of the steps to dispelling all merriment before entering the workplace. The joke is at my expense, but I can’t help laughing along.

  People who work in the same building – strangers most of them – rush past as the rain looks more and more imminent. I’m not going to rush, not with this head, anyway, the entrance isn’t far off now, and if I don’t make it before the downpour comes I’m not exactly going to drown. The other three don’t look to be in too much of a rush either. Lime trees either side of the entrance, so vibrant in summer, stand as grey and lifeless as the concrete slabs surrounding them, their leaves lost, crispy-brown and whirling in front of the glass doors.

  Keith, the night security guard, suddenly rushes out, and even though my little group is ten metres away, he holds the door open and stands there, waiting, desperately failing to prevent the leaves from blowing past him.

  Philippa shields her mouth and partially turns to Kerry. “Talking about empty vessels, she could always use Keith.”

  I knew it. Put himself right in the firing line and dragged me out of the trench with him. Bang bang, Sally, you’re dead.

  Kerry turns to look at me, her face such a picture of disgust that anyone would think I’ve actually done it with him, with Keith, of all people.

  “He’s way too limp,” Kerry states. “Better you stick to the bottle, love. It might be cold but at least it’s hard.”

  “It’s contents taste better too,” Philippa shrieks.

  “Oh, you are hilarious,” I mock, prodding Philippa in the back while throwing Kerry a grimace of disapproval. A sad sap he may be, but no one deserves the mick taken right in front of their face. “You should be on stage, Pip.”

  Keith must have heard Kerry’s comment, for his cheeks flush crimson, and he casts his eyes to the floor. “M - mornin’ ladies,” he says in a voice so quiet and unassuming it could very easily have been the rustle of leaves tumbling past him. “S-S-S-Sally.”

  Fan-bloody-tastic. More ammunition for Kerry and Philippa to fire at me. Just like playing kiss catch at school; I get captured by the smelly kid. Sallyan Dennis sittin in a tree, K, I, S, S, I, N, G. Five feet beyond Keith, en-route to the lifts, Philippa and Kerry explode with laughter. Philippa has to hold her stomach she’s laughing so much.

  “Stop,” she gasps. “Stop, please, it hurts. Stop, please; you’re making me pee.”

  Kerry’s in full flow now, mocking Keith’s stutter, and flicking her tongue like a snake. “S-S-S-Sally.”

  Even Colleen giggles, though, to her credit, she looks rather guilty for having done so, and then looks embarrassed as people in the foyer stare at us.

  Turning back to the door, I give Keith a straight-lipped smile before mouthing, ‘so sorry’. He gazes at me intently, not the kind of look most guys give – eyes roving, trying to imagine you with no clothes on – but it’s just as penetrating and makes me feel uncomfortable. A hesitant smile trembles across his face, then he beams, and the look I found so disturbing has completely gone. Weird. Maybe it was just my imagination. I should have just ignored him, pretended I don’t care that my friends can be so cruel.

  I turn back before entering the lift, expecting him to be gazing after me. He isn’t, and that’s good, but I can’t help feeling sorry for him. For just a moment back there, I was the horrid little brat in the playground again: shouting fo
r everyone to just shut up, and telling smelly-Denni – much louder, and much nastier than necessary – to bloody well let go and don’t bloody dare try to kiss me, ever.

  The sorrow in me climbs to a higher level as the expectant rainfall times itself perfectly and falls on Keith, the solitary being still out there.

  Had this scene been in a film, Steve would have said something along the lines of: As if. Look at how the rain held off until the sad sap left the building. Are we expected to believe this is real life?

  Sad Sap. Are they Steve’s words or mine? I think they’re mine. Christ, deep down, I’m as bad as Kerry. I watch as Keith descends the steps, already drenched, his clothes as heavy looking as my insides feel. I determine to be a better person in future.

  Next time I see Keith I’m going to ask him how he is, or something equally as pleasant.

  CHAPTER

  4

  The rise and fall of the leaves blowing against the doors remind me of Sally’s star globe. I’ve taken a break from the book, letting its weight rest on the reception desk, as I look over the top and watch golden leaves whirling in the cold breeze amid people arriving for their morning’s work. To learn anything from a book, to absorb the information and remember it, I always make sure to read twice over at the very least. Occasionally, I make notes. I’ve made notes on this book, and am now skimming through it a third time, pausing over things like dates, place names and song titles, testing myself and firmly fixing them into my memory. Arthur is in the back room making his first cup of tea. My lonely shift has finished, and I could leave for home if I wished. I’m not ready to depart just yet though. The angel’s missing from this leaf-blown globe, and so I return to the book: Dream Come True: The Leann Rimes Story. The first part of the title could be no more perfect; I can only hope it is another sign.

  Mother’s voice has been vicious for as long as I can remember, but never more so than over the past few days, victoriously filling me with doubt. Sally’s smile will make it all right though and confirm that I didn’t imagine this in the first place. If she doesn’t smile at me then I’ll know. It will be hard, but I’ll move on, return to my prior acceptance of never ending solitariness. So I’m sitting here, behind the desk, waiting, my eye catching on the word reception mirrored in the polished surface. Eight-thirty-nine. She’ll be here soon. Arthur returns, approaching the desk with a steaming mug of tea. He probably wants me to give up the seat, but he can wait.

  “Not in any rush to get off then, Keith?”

  “No.” I look up and catch Arthur looking over my shoulder, before returning my focus to the glass doors, to the wind-blown leaves and the steps leading down to the street.

  Someone has borrowed this library book before me and folded down various page corners. I find such vandalism intolerable. The books should be checked on each return and examined for damage. Some people even write in them! They should be fined, and then banned from borrowing any more books. People cause damage and get away with it. Anything can be used as a marker, so why spoil the book? I place a library slip into the crease where the pages meet, before closing it and placing it on the desk.

  “Good book?” Arthur leans in and scans the title. “Singer isn’t she? Wife likes her, I think.”

  Arthur’s okay, but he’s a bit nosy, always asking how I am, or what I’ve been up to over the weekend. I slide the book from the desk and slip it into my bag.

  “You like her then?”

  “My favourite singer.” The past few days have made this statement a truth. I don’t see his reaction as my eyes are firmly fixed on the glass doors and the leaf-strewn vista beyond. “Did you know,” I continue, seeing it as an opportunity to practice, “she was only thirteen when her debut single, blue, was released? And by the age of twenty-four she had sold over thirty-seven million albums? She was born on August 28th, 1982, in Jackson Mississippi.”

  “And my specialised subject is... Memorised the whole book, have yer?” Arthur chuckles. He picks up his tea when I give no answer. It must be too hot, because he puts the mug to his mouth and pauses for a moment before placing it back on the counter without taking a sip. “You should come to my local, join our quiz team. What was it you were reading about last week? Lighthouses, wasn’t it? Yes. Saw the book poking out of yer bag.”

  I pretend to not hear and continue to gaze beyond the glass. Half my mind is elsewhere: rehearsing the text in the book. August 28th, 1982. August 28th, 1982. Jackson Mississippi. If she smiles, I’ll talk to her about Leann Rimes. And then I’ll ask her.

  “Not that I were snoopin’ or nowt,” Arthur says, as if he knows I’m only pretending to not listen. “I just saw it like, when yer were fillin’ in yer time sheet.” Once again Arthur picks up his mug. It will still be too hot. “Any reason?” Arthur slurps at the tea, sucking more air than liquid. “Any reason, that yer hanging back, like? Only, you’d normally get off home straight away.”

  I don’t look at him. “Meeting someone.”

  “Oh, right. Right... Anyone special?”

  “What?”

  “The person you’re meeting?”

  “What about her?”

  “A she then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it anyone special?”

  “Yes, very. Erm...” What should I tell him? “Girlfriend.”

  “Girlfriend, eh? Right... Good for you. Tea’s too hot.” Arthur places his mug on the reception counter before picking up a rich tea biscuit and biting off the edge so he can dunk it. “What’s she like then? Bugger!”

  I pull my eyes away from the door and smirk at Arthur trying to scoop the escaped half of biscuit from his tea, pointlessly burning his fingers as it irretrievably sinks. “Beautiful.” Back to the door, the wind-blown leaves and the steps leading down to the street. “Really nice. Polished girl-next-door type, you know? Pretty, but not in an obvious way, not in a harsh way. Not like a model or anything. But, you know, real pretty. Good bone structure. Silky hair. Nice knees.” I would say upturned teardrops, but it would be wasted on Arthur.

  “Bloody hell.” Arthur sets his mug aside.

  There’s a trail of biscuit scum around its edge. I would have to chuck it down the sink, and make a fresh cup.

  “You’re chatty this morning… Nice knees, eh?” After a moment’s hesitation he says, “listen. My granddaughter’s having an engagement party, Saturday 29th. Week next Thursday. Why don’t you come? Bring your... What’s her name?”

  I’m not going to tell him. I’ve said too much already. Besides, I need to focus now. The timing has to be just right, like it’s just coincidental or something. So I watch intently, focussing on the door, and the twirling leaves, and the steps leading down to the street.

  “I’m certain Becky won’t mind if I invite a friend. She’s good to me like that. Edith’ll be there. The wife. You can meet her. She’d like to put a face to the name. What about it then? Keith?”

  She’s here.

  “Got to go.” I jump from the seat, grabbing my bag as I round the desk. I bound across the tiled floor, crash through the doors and stand there, holding them open. I went too quickly. Bother. Now I look like an idiot standing here, waiting. Not natural at all. Not the impression of chance occurrence that I wanted to give.

  “Keith,” Arthur shouts, “Shut the bloody door; you’re lettin’ all the leaves in.”

  I’ve more to worry about than leaves. Arthur can clear ’em up. I pretend I can’t hear him. What else has he got to do anyway? Daytime security is a doddle. No wonder he’s fat, sitting behind the desk all day, drowning biscuits in his too-hot-tea, simply noting who comes into the building and who goes out, no patrolling floors, no checking empty rooms, no punching cards to prove he’s doing his duty.

  Sally looks as beautiful as ever, but she’s not alone. I’d best talk to the others, too. She’ll appreciate that. Most of the books I’ve read indicate that women like it if a man makes the effort to get along with her friends. If you can get the friends on side, so
much the better, goes the advice.

  “M - Mornin’ ladies.” I felt the heat in my cheeks while waiting for them to approach. I can’t tell what they’re saying, but I guess it’s about me, and it won’t be anything complimentary. I don’t like the one with the black hair. She makes me feel nervous. She’s glaring at me, and I know I’m going to stammer, but I have to talk to Sally. Can’t ignore her now. “S-S-S-Sally.”

  She’s going to think me an idiot. I can’t even look at her. I have to though, before she gets in the lift. The one with sculptured hair and the one dressed like a tart are laughing, at me most likely. Sally mouths some silent words to me. So so me, I think, but that doesn’t make sense, and I’m confused. I look at her, willing her to say it again, willing her to come over and talk to me properly. I try hard to determine the true colour of her eyes, but she’s too far away.

  So so me? That can’t be right.

  Do you like me? That must be it. And realising what she’s asked me, I smile back, content to determine her eye colour the next time we meet.

  CHAPTER

  5

  The deluge that began on the office steps has slackened to something less than drizzle: a heavy mist, floating down with seeming indifference, as if in no rush to wet the ground. I’m not so much walking on a cloud as through one. Walking on cloud nine. I never liked that saying. Nine is such a horrid triangular number. A drowned rat in the mist, I trudge through streets of terraced housing, my hair plastered down, feeling as if my head has shrunk into my body. I have a gloomy sense of alienation, surrounded as I am by damp greyness, and a feeling that everything about me is being slowly smothered by everything else.