Imperfect Strangers

by David Staniforth

  Mend and make do, mother grumbled. Fortunately the kitchen-man could not hear her, only me, and I silently told her to go away.

  A knock on the door drags my thoughts from the kitchen, away from the smell of bleach and the burning sensation on my neck where it gnaws at flesh as well as grime, and the acrid smell of coffee on her breath as she leans in and scrubs, and scrubs, and scrubs until my flesh is raw to the point of almost weeping blood.

  “Wonder who that is, Mrs Seaton?” My voice wavers, and I try to calm it with steadying breaths. Mrs Seaton raises her head, swishes her tail from side to side. “Sally? You think? No? No, it can’t be, she doesn’t know the address yet. Silly cat.”

  I open the door, cautiously. As a young child, when left in the house alone, I wasn’t allowed to answer the door. It was one of the rules. If it’s important they’ll come back. “Oh! It’s you. It’s Mrs Sewell, Mrs Seaton.” I step back into the room. “Come in.” Stepping aside, my right hand resting on the new handle, I sweep an arc into the room with my left.

  Mrs Sewell places a hand on the doorframe and takes an age to summon the effort required to lift her stooped bones over the step. Her head bobs like a clockwork toy as her marsupial eyes take in the room through large-framed glasses.

  “Doing a spot of tidying Keith.”

  “Yes.”

  “It was more an observation than a question, Keith. No rising inflection on your name.” There’s an arid rasp in her voice, as if the years she spent teaching wore away her voice. “New nets,” she adds, glancing at the window with a gummy smile, taking the shiny white door from me and easing it shut behind her. “That’s good. Too few are the young in appreciation of a good net. And with so many prying eyes around too. Can’t be too careful. You never know who’s looking in and what they might witness, you know?”

  My arms by my side, I nod in agreement to her words.

  “New settee, too,” she observes as she inhales. “And carpet as well. My, word. A proper little palace.” She points at the settee. “May I?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes. Please sit.” I rush forward and pull the glistening-glass coffee table away from the couch. The can of spray-polish topples over, rolls and then settles against the yellow duster with a whiff of jasmine. Mrs Seaton leaps up, narrowly rescuing her tail from the fall of my foot. She scampers around me, and as Mrs Sewell lowers her weight with a sigh of appreciation into the sumptuous leather, Mrs Seaton leaps onto her lap and stands tall, looking into Mrs Sewell’s eyes, purring loudly.

  Mrs Sewell chuckles like a naughty schoolgirl. Well, the kind of chuckle a schoolgirl would have if they had smoked twenty a day for the past fifty years. “She can smell the tail end,” she says, laughing heartily now, revealing her gums as her marsupial eyes fix knowingly on mine.

  I feel heat in my cheeks, the burn on my wrists.

  Boys who soil sheets need their hands tied at night.

  I’m safe for the moment; Mother won’t come into the front... the living room. I glance into the kitchen then back into Mrs Sewell’s marsupial gleam, her highlighted creases showing outlandish glee.

  “W-W What?” I stammer, rotating my right wrist through the grip of my left hand.

  Boys who soil sheets need their hands tied at night. Boys who soil sheets need their hands tied at night.

  “I– I–”

  “Tail end, Keith. She can smell it. They’ve a keen sense of smell, cats. It’s here look, in my bag.” Mrs Sewell pulls from the bag by her side a parcel of brown paper that is slightly damp on the bottom. Mrs Seaton’s nose is drawn to it like she’s caught on a hook. “Fanny haddock! Or is it finny? Never could remember. Funny Haddock, you used to call it, when you were a nipper.” She erupts into a peal of arid laughter that breaks into a phlegmy-cough as she proffers the parcel to me.

  When I take the fish from her, she continues to cough into a fist of clenched papery-skin.

  “Got too much for tea last night,” she finally manages to say, “and, well, I only eat fish on a Friday. I always have a sandwich of haslet on a Saturday. Never have eaten much on a Saturday.” She raises her voice as I carefully transport the fish into the kitchen – hoping the juices collecting at the bottom of the paper wrap won’t drip onto the carpet. Mrs Seaton follows, and mews loudly when I put it in the fridge.

  “I’ve got a nice bit of boiled ham for Sunday. Only a slice, mind. I’ll save the fat for Mrs Seaton. Don’t eat fat any more. It’s bad for your heart these days, so they say. Dear Dad used to tell us it’d be good for us. Get it down yer neck, he’d say. It’ll keep out cold: put flesh on yer bones. I didn’t want no flesh, mind. I wanted to be slim, you understand. Always have been. Made me eat it though, he did... Bastard…! Pardon my French. Ooo, he was a bully.”

  Bit like your mum, I thought she might like to add, but she didn’t. Mrs Sewell knew more than most what Mother was like, but she never said anything. Mrs Seaton follows me back from the kitchen and immediately jumps into a coil on Mrs Sewell’s lap where she purrs into the massage of the woman’s bony fingers.

  “Ooo, it’s very cosy in here, Keith. You have got it looking nice.”

  Standing between Mrs Sewell and the fire-hole, noting her compliment, I feel my chest swell with pride. I glance at the kitchen wanting to say, I-told-you-so, then stride toward the window to pick up the stack of leaflets.

  “I’m getting a new fireplace too,” I say with a flood of enthusiasm. “Gas! But it looks like real coal. There’s no mess to clean up. No ash or anything. That sideboard’s going as well.” I find the leaflet illustrating the gas-fire, and hand it to Mrs Sewell. “And the kitchen. I’m having a new kitchen fitted.” I glare openly into the dark room. “Fan oven,” I say with emphasis, “and a dishwasher, and a fridge-freezer that crushes ice.”

  “Crushes ice, eh? Fancy.” Mrs Sewell’s eyes sweep around to the dark kitchen, as if picturing the changes that are to come. Her marsupial eyes seem to grow to dinner-plate proportions as if a necessity in accommodating the imagined picture.

  “Then I’m going to start upstairs. New bedroom. New bathroom. Bath that blows bubbles to massage away the stresses and strains of the day.”

  “Bubbles, eh? Stresses and strains of the day, fancy that?” Mrs Sewell’s eyes fall on the dark stairwell in the corner of the room, as if fancying a walk up there and soaking in a bath full of massaging bubbles. “Fancy.”

  “Then the spare room. Then I’ll do the spare room.” I can sense that my voice is racing and I take a breath to try and calm myself down, but it’s no use. I’m excited. When it’s all done I can invite Sally. She’ll feel comfortable here then – maybe spend the night. “It’ll all be done then, all of it. And, central heating also. All of it will be sorted then, the whole house, all done. All new, and clean, and cosy, and no, and no.” I finish the sentence in my mind. No uncomfortable tightness. No voices.

  “Taking in lodgers by any chance, Keith? I wouldn’t mind a bit of luxury like this.” She taps the leaflet that shows the whirlpool bath. “I could move in, eh? Look after you? Give you a bit of fanny on Fridays, eh?” Her marsupial eyes fix on mine, wide unblinking, her chin nodding, keeping the beat of her pulse.

  Did I ought to offer? She’s obviously waiting for an answer. I recall the times she soothed my upset away as a nipper, gave me food when I was hungry, praised my models and gave me somewhere to keep them, put salve on the burns on my wrists – the burns which I told her other children had done.

  Good boys don’t tell tales about their mothers.

  Mrs Sewell’s mouth spreads, and the creases in her face draw back like curtains on a stage, showing her gums in a broad smile. “Course you don’t want me here. Good looking young man like you. Cramp your style wouldn’t I, Keith? Still, it’s nice to dream,” she adds with a sigh, looking into the imagined kitchen before looking back at me with a self-boosting inhalation of rattling breath. “Are you expecting company?” she asks, indicating the duster with a shaking finger.

  “No. Well, no
t today. Soon though. A girl. Sally. Sally’s her name. From work. Met her at work. I’ve got a photo.” I rush to the sideboard, pick up the photograph and present it to Mrs Sewell. “Look, see. Pretty isn’t she?”

  Mrs Sewell takes the photograph from me and holds it before her face – drawing it to and from her eye until it reaches a reasonable focus. Two thirds of the picture is missing. A rip of white runs plumb to Sally where some other person has been ripped away. A decapitated arm rests on her shoulder. Mrs Sewell screws her lips ponderously while sucking her gums.

  “Yes, pretty thing right enough. Bit thin mind.”

  Taking the photo from her, I look at it for a while, my heart fluttering, before putting it back on the sideboard. I glance at the dark kitchen and feel a slight burn in my wrists.

  Good boys don’t tell tales.

  “I– I– I’ve got some of us together, b-but they’ve not been p-printed yet. Been seeing her for six, no, seven weeks now. And we’re going to the p-pictures tonight.”

  “Pictures, eh? Lovely.” Mrs Sewell looks into her lap, her fingers buried in Mrs Seaton’s black fur. “Long time since a young man took me to the movies.” She sighs, longingly.

  “Might go for a drink afterwards.”

  I echo Mrs Sewell’s sigh, not from memories of things long since past but in yearning of the means with which to forge them. I hope that this time Sally will agree to a drink rather than rushing straight off, every time having already arranged to meet with Kerry. You could come too, she offers, but–. Every time Sally says she would invite me too, but Kerry’s not the easiest person to get along with, and she’s thinking of my feelings really, by not inviting me to join them.

  I hate that Kerry.

  I hate her.

  I have a list of reasons to like and reasons to dislike her. The list of reasons to like is empty.

  She’s getting in the way of my future happiness.

  CHAPTER

  25

  I’m not meeting Sally until seven-thirty, but as usual I am outside the cinema at seven. It feels uncomfortable though, standing here for thirty minutes, couples filing past me, hand in hand, laughing, joking, giving each other pecks on the cheek, some pausing for a full-blown kiss on the lips, but I don’t want to risk being late. It’s good to be here, and there are plenty of other men standing, waiting on their own. Saturday night is definitely the time for couples. Maybe, I am part of a couple now. Maybe I’m a six and not a two: a composite and not a prime. I wonder if I might chance giving Sally a peck on the cheek when she arrives, and flustering at the very idea, I palm the warm gift in my pocket.

  I have a theory.

  It goes like this: time is not universal but is linked to the individual, and it runs at a different pace for each and every one of us. It slows dramatically when you’re waiting for something you really want. Checking the time whenever I feel five minutes have passed by confirms this theory, because each and every time only two minutes at most have actually passed. I even hold the watch to my ear to check it is still working. So, the theory: time, like matter, cannot be destroyed or created; it can only be converted. The payback for time slowing while I wait for Sally is that when she is present it speeds to twice its standard rate of progression, thereby balancing the deficit that would otherwise come about. If only the two could be transposed I would be extremely happy: time passing quickly while waiting for her to arrive, passing slowly when I am in her company.

  I am always thirty minutes early – on the dot. Sally is always about five or ten minutes late. At least five or ten minutes. Those last five or ten minutes are the slowest of all. They are more than slow; they are painfully slow. This pain is literal and housed in my chest. My palms sweat and I question if she is actually coming; is this the occasion when she changes her mind and doesn’t turn up? Those last five or ten minutes bring genuine anguish as I struggle to come to terms with the fact that this may be the very day when she realises she wants nothing more to do with me.

  Couples file past me, and look as if they’re thinking: who’s this loser. He can’t possibly be meeting anyone. I want Sally to be here before they all disappear. I want her to be here so the other men can see how special is the woman I was waiting for.

  I see her, in the distance, looking as lovely as ever. Already time is speeding, tripping over itself in order to rectify the deficit. My increased heart rate proves the theory further. Left or right cheek, I think, at the same time wondering if I even dare to chance a kiss. Suddenly I need to urinate. Why, in the forty minutes when time was running slow, did my body not need to urinate? Why now? Why now in the period when time is running at a quick pace?

  “Hi, Keith,” she says from eight feet away, her face, her eyes, her mouth, all smiling, and framed by auburn hair that gleams lustrous glints of golden-copper under the foyer lights. Her eyes sparkle with life and time sprints even quicker for a moment.

  I brace myself to lean forward. Left cheek, I’ve decided, and already I can smell her perfume, Passion. Of all her perfumes, it’s my favourite. Sally diverts right and pushes through the rotating door. I almost fall forward, the kiss well shy of its mark, and watch Sally encapsulated in glass like the angel dome on her desk. Now inside the door myself, I take the bottle from my pocket. Sally waits for me on the other side, and I thrust the bottle forward as I exit. Too eagerly as it turns out, as it only narrowly misses hitting her in the face. Sally looks at me as if I meant to hit her, completely oblivious to the object in my hand.

  “Got you a present!” I quickly rush.

  “Oh, Keith, you shouldn’t have. But thanks anyway.” She takes the bottle. Her fingertips touch mine, and I feel the heat of them shoot to the back of my neck.

  “Passion. My favourite. I’m wearing it now.”

  “I know. I sampled every bottle in the shop until I found the right one.” That’s a lie. I feel guilty lying to Sally, but I can’t very well say I saw the bottle on your dressing table.

  “I’ve almost run out of Passion, too. That’s very considerate Keith. Thank you.”

  The words, I know, enter my head and I only narrowly avoid saying them out loud. I noticed and I didn’t want you running short of my favourite aroma, the scent your chair smelled of that night in the office when I first decided that you liked me. That fragrance, like the sound of Leanne Rimes, is a part of the link that joins us. It’s on the list.

  Sally leans toward me and places a hand on my shoulder. She leans closer. I can feel her breath. And then – oh sweet angel for forging me a memory to savour – she brushes my cheek with her lips. They’re hotter than her fingertips. I want to cool them with my tongue. My hands flex as I imagine grabbing her by the shoulders, drawing her sideways and pulling her towards me.

  Another time.

  Sally smiles with a subtle twist that’s impossible for me to read. “Lipstick,” she says, brushing my cheek with her thumb.

  Leave it, I want to say, but I just smile back at her instead.

  “I’m er sorry, I need the toilet.”

  “You always do Keith. Tell you what, I’ll get the tickets while you go.” She places the perfume in her bag and draws out her purse.

  “Here,” I hurriedly say, my wallet refusing to leave my pocket, stubbornly increasing its resistance the more forcefully I tug at it. Finally it releases itself, launching loose coins in the process. “I– I– I’ll pay.” Drawing a twenty from the wallet I hand it to Sally as she stands from collecting the spilled coins.

  “We’ll go Dutch, Keith. What do you fancy? Action? Romance? Horror?”

  “You choose.”

  “I chose last time.”

  “You pick good films. I really enjoyed the last one.”

  I can’t remember the film, not one moment of it in all honesty. Time ran too fast to take it in. I’d gladly sit in the dark and stare at a blank screen as long as Sally is sat in the seat next to me.

  * * *

  “That was a good film,” Keith says when we spill back into th
e foyer.

  Personally I thought it was crap, but Keith seems to be easily pleased. “It was okay, I guess.” Any moment now, I think, glancing at my watch, and then he asks.

  “Fancy a drink?”

  There’s a note of disappointment in his voice, even as he asks, as if I’ve already given him my answer. I consider saying yes just to prove him wrong, to prove I’m not as predictable as he might imagine me to be, but that would be a mistake.

  “No, I’d best not.” I should have been straight from the start. I mean, I didn’t exactly tell him we were just going as friends, but I thought it was understood. What do I say? To be honest Keith, I’m only here because I feel sorry for you. That might have been true at first, but you’re actually okay, really, Keith, although we’re never going to be more than friends. I can’t believe he bought me this perfume, and then I went and kissed him, on the cheek. Talk about mixed messages.

  Keith sighs. His shoulders look like they’ve been loaded with a ton of concrete.

  “Meeting Kerry?”

  “No. I’m not, not this week.” A man pushes past, knocking my shoulder without even apologising. Jerk, I almost shout, but tut instead. Not for one moment could I imagine Keith being discourteous enough to even collide with someone, never mind not apologising for having done so. He says please and thank you. He asks me how I’m feeling. He opens doors... He’s just a friend though. I can’t imagine him being anything more. A drink would be a mistake. It would only give him the wrong idea, especially after that peck on the cheek. I’m screwing my mouth in cogitation and only realise when I notice Keith trying to read my expression. He’s not very good at picking up signals.

  “I need to watch my spending, Keith. In fact, to be honest, I’m going to have to stop our weekly cinema trips.” When Keith opens his mouth to protest I quickly continue. “Thing is, Steve wants his share of the house. I don’t know what I–” I choke slightly and the words don’t flow as readily as I would have wished. It’s not just the house, I was thinking of giving Steve a second chance until he showed just how uncaring he can actually be. “I might have to sell it.”