Imperfect Strangers

by David Staniforth

  “Should’ve left the note instead,” I complain, muttering into my chest, pleased that Sally smiled, but angry that I didn’t have the courage to walk back into the entrance and talk to her.

  The street up ahead is deserted but for wheely-bins that, in these modern times, seem to have seniority, rightfully guarding their claim to the middle of the pavement. As a second-class commuter then, I have two choices: either scrape against walls encrusted with years of grime, or step into the gutter. Bins that once sat in back-yards awaiting collection by strong-backed bin-men now stand out here blocking my way, placed there in readiness for swift-moving refuse-collectors. This world, this modern world, is against me. I dislike the world in which I live. I hate people. Not Sally, of course. The others. Just the others. In particular I hate the one whose hair is sculpted to look like a dead raven, its wing tips framing her ears like male sideburns. Hard-faced bitch! It was her fault that I got nervous; it was her fault, because she looked down on me like I was a piece of crap blocking her path.

  I’m giving the bin before me a similar look. Over the lip of the bin, trapped by the lid, hangs a straining plastic-bag, and spilling from it a mess of god-knows-what (something spew-like), stew by the looks of it. No, not stew I reconsider, not with that mustardy colour. I step closer to the kerb-edge to avoid it, and as the stench invades my nostrils I realise it is baby poo. The sour curd of it catches in the back of my throat. The kerb-edge is worn smooth and greasy. My ankle twists painfully, as my foot slips off the edge and splashes into the flooded gutter. Spilling over the top of my shoe, the cold water comes as a shock. Feeling that I might actually fall, I instinctively push down on the bin lid. The white plastic splits, and loosely folded parcels flop into the puddle, opening and emptying their contents as they plop.

  Fuckin’ typical!

  Gutter-mind.

  I ignore her. Nothing she says can make me feel worse than I already do. It was absurd to think that Sally would even contemplate being with someone so unfortunate as me. Left to use her own mind, maybe there would have been a slim chance, but not with society looking on. People interfering. Not with a sculptured hard faced bitch to turn her against me.

  Good boys don’t use foul language.

  Fuck off, Mother, you and your everlasting-voice. She would have washed my mouth out for far less than that. The taste memory of green soap froths in the back of my throat. I remember the carved-symbolic-shape of its fat-nappied baby rubbing against the surface of my tongue. The stench of nappy-crap floating from the parcels, and the memory of the taste on my tongue makes me gag. Imagined it may be, but with it comes the threat of overwhelming recollection.

  * * *

  I snap back to reality with a shudder.

  My left foot is in water, numb to the point that I can no longer feel it. With a bone-shaking tremble I realise how achingly cold I am. How long did the episode last? Mere seconds? Minutes? Down the street, moving away from me, there walks a postman who occasionally glances back.

  Spattery rain has washed away the mist. I’m soaked right through and dithering.

  With an uncomfortable squelch in my step, mustard coloured slime coating the trouser end of my left leg, I continue the further twenty yards to my house. My house. Mine. No longer hers. Mine. That has to count for something, owning my own house. The bricks are dirty though, much dirtier than neighbouring houses, with crumbling edges merging into blackened mortar. Grinning through the gap of the frayed net-curtain sits a pottery-bulldog – a seaside bingo prize that’s older than my memory. Red electrical tape circles and holds the break in its neck, and its gaze draws me to the tufts of moss growing in the crumbling putty. At the other end of the ledge a desiccated spider-plant sends out a tendril of viviparous babies in search of water. It’s my house now, but it feels like it still belongs to her. I grimace at the bulldog while worming a wet hand into my soaked trouser-pocket. Eventually, with much the same difficulty, I withdraw my hand and the pocket follows; a white flag of surrender giving up the cartoon-style key, its chrome finish pockmarked with rust.

  The key’s teeth, and likely the lock’s interior, are worn through years of use and I have to manipulate it – twisting and probing until, eventually, the lock clicks into submission. Even this simple act of unlocking the door becomes more and more of a struggle. I shake from my head the negative thought and force the door free of its swollen jamb with a strike of my shoulder. Turning the light on and off, on and off, and finally on, I then step into the front room. The light shade has a coating of dust that absorbs the light, preventing it from lifting the comatose-like greyness of the space.

  “Mrs Seaton,” I call out, trying to take the serrated edge of bitterness from my voice. “Mrs Seaton, I’m home.”

  I switch the light off and think of cleaning the shade, or removing it altogether. Perhaps I could fit a brighter bulb. It would be a waste of time. Even a hundred watts, two hundred come to that, could not lift this room. Nothing could push aside this gloom. The problem is not a lack of light, but life. The carpet, once strikingly patterned in vibrant reds and oranges, looks dull and listless. Woven string-backing shows through a pear shaped patch: fat in the middle of the room, narrowing as it nears the fireplace. Against the wall furthest from the window, sits the dark-wood sideboard. Once richly polished to the lustre of freshly fallen conkers, it now stands almost black: imposing, like an oversized coffin, gothic in appearance, its surface sticky with years of grime.

  You let it get like this Keith. Yerascruff.

  Ignoring mother’s voice, I look at the room as if through someone else’s eyes, as if seeing it for the first time, as if wondering what Sally would make of it. She would see my house as a dark and fetid hole. It smells of decay, nauseatingly so, a mix of damp and grease and mould. I kick off the wet shoes, and wonder why, after all these years, does it suddenly bother me. It’s not just the house, I realise, as I bend and peel away the once-black socks. My feet are dirty, damp with gunk between the toes, my nails over-long, yellowed and rough-edged. Sally wouldn’t like that. I make a mental note to trim them when I next take a bath.

  Is there any point? I can’t help but wonder.

  “Mrs Seaton,” I call, louder now, while hanging my coat on the peg by the door. Beads of rain seep from the seam at the bottom as well as from the cuffs and hang laboriously before dripping to the carpet.

  “You in, Mrs Seaton? I’m home.” I hear the anxiety in my voice. On a day like today, even the company of Mrs Seaton is better than none.

  The mail on the doorstep is damp. The topmost envelope – a brightly coloured offer of affordable holidays abroad – has been torn into concertina-strips by the letterbox and its over-zealous spring. Holding the clammy wad in my hand, idly flattening the concertina with my thumb, I step into the centre of the room. I can feel the carpet’s skeleton on the soles of my feet, and the cold, tacky, oilcloth beneath.

  Through the gloom of the kitchen a black shadow appears, and I place the post on the mantel. She hovers a moment, as if weighing up the atmosphere. Deciding all is well, she mews and trots towards me.

  “There you are.” I try to sound happy, as Mrs Seaton winds through my legs, purring, her tail coiling up my calf. Her black fur is damp on the surface, but soft and warm underneath, not sculptured, not severe like the black hair of that hard-faced bitch at the office.

  That’s a nasty word, Keith.

  Sorry mother, my younger self automatically answers.

  I sneer at little Keith’s supplication, but his was a different time, different circumstances. Difficult and scary. I bring saliva to my mouth and swill away the mind-taste of soap with a swallow. The cat’s purring increases in volume as she rubs her warm head into my frigid shin.

  “You’re always pleased to see me, aren’t you, Mrs Seaton? Yes, yes you are.”

  She looks up at me looking down at her. We hold each other’s gaze a moment, before Mrs Seaton cries, long and loud.

  “I suppose you want your breakfast?”
She mews a reply. “I should get out of these wet clothes first.” Catch my death.

  Would that be so bad?

  I make no move for the stairs, even though the clothes feel uncomfortable and cold on my back. They suit my mood. Besides, as a child I got used to having wet clothes dry on my skin. I am no longer a child though. I can decide for myself, and I will change. I will put on dry clothes, and if it means another load of washing this week then so be it. She’s not here to complain about the extra work.

  Having changed, standing back in the living room, taking pleasure from the simple delight of dry clothes, I sniff, screw my nose, and glance at the empty litter tray. There’s a sour-tang of something over-ripe in the air. This place is a mess. Maybe the smell is coming from the dirty plates and take-away food cartons that have built up on the coffee table, but I don’t think so. The mountain of silver trays – crusted in hopeless-brown, with pools of vibrant grease in the crinkled corners – do smell, but the aroma of them is still quite pleasant. It is definitely a litter-tray stink and I eventually trace it behind the settee. I’ll clear it up later, when I’ve tackled the mess on the coffee table. Time you sorted your act out, Keith.

  Mrs Seaton mews from the kitchen doorway. “Yes in a minute. Soon as I’ve checked the post. You do know what day it is?”

  As I look at the pile of mail the mantel-clock ticks loudly. I breathe slowly, calmly, in readiness to quell the disappointment. Prepare for the worst; it’s the best coping mechanism I can think of. Today of all days it is a delaying tactic, a momentary pause before sorting the post. I shuffle through the damp letters with anticipation and can’t help but grin as I skim all but one of them onto the table.

  This is the one I’d hoped to find. The envelope is not brown, nor is it printed in eye-catching colour. It is white and rigid. The address is hand-written in blue ink, proper ink, from a fountain pen. The scrollwork is neat, fancy even, perfect, but for the ink spread by damp into the fibre of the envelope. Somebody out there knows what day it is, somebody at the far side of the world, but still someone that knows and has taken the trouble to mark the occasion.

  Mrs Seaton curves through my legs. “It’s come,” I tell her, and decide to celebrate by having the fire on. “On the exact day too. Not a day early. Not a day late.” Collected dust smoulders as the single bar comes to life. Momentarily, the tang of excrement in the air increases. When the bar radiates from grey to a dull-red, as if drawn by a magnet, Mrs Seaton settles into a tight coil before the tiled hearth. The dull-red brightens from scarlet to a flaming orange, which looks out of place in such a gloomy room.

  This has not always been a gloomy place, but to my memory it has never been a happy place either. As I look at the fire my eye catches the missing corner of a grey-tile to the side of Mrs Seaton’s head, and for a moment I see a ghostly image of my younger self, sitting there.

  She threw the scrub-brush at you didn’t she?

  Yes, but I dodged to the side, and it broke the tile.

  You got some what-for for that.

  At the time, mother wore a floral dress.

  Her hair, a muddy brown streaked with grey, was drawn into a loose bun. Standing behind her, in baggy-kneed pyjamas, a bowl of steaming porridge in my hands, I trembled while waiting for her to position coals around kindling. Deliberate, regimented placing of the coals, kindling flames licking her fingers, as I struggled to silence the chattering of my teeth lest she take it for impatience. When the flames took hold, I sat and ate the porridge that had thickened through cooling, tough and chewy bits dried on the spoon.

  Waste any if you dare.

  While I ate, she had her breakfast in the kitchen – burnt toast; always burnt toast.

  Its acrid fume catches the back of my throat. I watch her tie the apron around her waist. She ties it tight, so tight that it cuts into her flesh. Then she tightens the bun and polishes the sideboard. Her face tightens, and she scrubs and forces beeswax into the grain. There’s a mark on the top; I saw it while waiting for the fire to be ready. It wasn’t me. She’s rubbing it as if trying to get through to the underside, fingers gripping, knuckles as hard as bone-coloured marbles. I look into the fire. I don’t want to see her tightly pinched face. I don’t want to be looking when she turns and blames me. The coals glow red, hot and red like dirty knees rubbed raw with Vim. And the bed sheets will stay clean and spick and span and smooth. And you will not play football in the street. And you will not scuff your shoes. And scrub-brushes leave heavier welts than willow canes. And then there comes pain, her piercing nails in the flesh of my shoulder. And then... and then –

  * * *

  The clock sounds loud in my ears. I feel the blistering heat before noticing the scorching smell. My shins are burning. Hot, hot, is all I can think as I step back holding the smoking trousers away from my skin.

  The open fire was too much like hard work. Bringing in the coal, arranging the kindling, cleaning the grate, tending the flue. Birds blocked the chimney and the room filled with smoke. Too much bother. Electric is instant. It’s easy. It doesn’t scratch at my memory. A sheet of charred plywood stops the cold from coming in. I firm the silver-tape that holds the wooden sheet in place, before ripping open the envelope and removing a card. A fiver floats to the floor, new looking, fresh and crisp, like it’s been ironed. I look at it a moment before carefully folding it (delighting in the placing of sharp creases on such perfection) and slide it into my wallet.

  The card has an image of a man in a flat cap. He’s sitting on a basket of woven willow, fishing from the bank of a river. Translucent mist skims the water and captures a pale yellow sunrise that filters through a tangle of naked branches on the opposite bank. A heron stands on a half submerged log someway up stream. The black water looks cool, verging on cold, maybe. Crisp. That’s the word. Crisp: a delightful coolness that tingles the skin. It looks like the beginning of a hot day, the warmth of which will be threaded with a rippling chill from the water. The picture is full of promise. The man, not as old as his clothing suggests, will relax around eleven o’clock, take off his jacket and have a sandwich, maybe a bottle of beer too. In a few years time, perhaps five or six, maybe as little as three, the man’s son will go on these fishing trips. They will share the sandwiches and talk about the best place to bait the water. The man will have his beer and the boy will have a bottle of lemonade. At the end of the day they will laugh, oh how they will laugh, about how the heron caught more fish than they did. When they pack away their rods, and toss the unused maggots to the water, they will talk about next time and promise to do better.

  The man will die though.

  He will die before Keith is old enough to even remember him. The cap, and the fishing reel, and the other small items from the willow basket will stay in the sideboard-coffin. Other things belonging to him are in there too, things the boy wanted to look at, to hold and ask questions about. But he was not allowed.

  She wouldn’t let him.

  Private. They’re private things. You don’t touch them. Y’dont-tchum, you hear?

  The man and his belongings were laid to rest. He was burned and scattered by a stone that named him John, a much-loved husband, but no mention of father, and his belongings were entombed in a sideboard coffin.

  I can look now, though. And I do, every birthday. I empty the drawers and rifle through the cupboards, taking out every last item. I let the ritual last for hours, taking one thing at a time, smelling the trace of him, imagining him using things, before putting them back exactly as I found them.

  Y’don’t-tchum, y’hear? Stuff in there is private.Y’don’t-tchum. The voice of her everlasting voice, over and over, until it becomes not words to my ears but an irritating, humming, string of a noise.

  I will touch these things, all of them. You can’t stop me.

  That treat is for later, though. I’ll get some sleep first.

  There are words on the front of the card – Happy Birthday Nephew – framed by the black tangle of branches.
The gold lettering is smoother than the printed image, raised from the surface, as if bright things have the right of prominence.

  “From Aunt Madge. Never forgets.”

  Yes she did! She forgot our eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth birthdays.

  No, she didn’t. I found those cards in mother’s wardrobe. She sneaked them away and hid them beneath her clothes. She told you that even Aunt Madge doesn’t love you any more. She told you that bad boys don’t deserve birthdays. But Aunt Madge did send the cards. I found them. We’ll look at them later if you like. One has a kangaroo on the stamp.

  Mrs Seaton looks up and flicks her tail.

  I stand the card on the mantle and then select a relatively clean plate from the coffee table. When I head for the kitchen, Mrs Seaton glides to her feet and trots after me, weaving between my legs, purring, her tail erect. I look down and can’t help but smile as the words enter my mind.

  “Sally spoke to me today. Smiled too. She asked if I like her. That’s a start isn’t it? People don’t ask such things of people that they don’t like do they?”

  CHAPTER

  6

  Kerry glances at each of the wedding photographs with the sort of disdain a vegetarian would show a hamburger, before quickly passing each in turn to Philippa. Philippa peruses slightly longer than Kerry, but digests only the tastiest morsels, before handing them to Colleen, who takes her time, gorging on every microscopic detail of each and every image.

  “Who’s this then?” Colleen asks, her eyes flicking to me before delving into the depths of the image. And, “whose is the baby? What’s her name? How old is she? Isn’t she just adorable? How much did she weigh? Is that your granddad? Bet he was a handsome man in his day,” and so on, and so on, each picture lavished with abundant attention. “Who’s the youngest bridesmaid?”