Perfectly Pure and Good

by Frances Fyfield

  ‘Come on, Stoney, talk to me.’ There was a shuffling. Stonewall looked out the window.

  ‘Are you going out with that redhead, Rick? Are you?’

  So that’s what it was, a little frisson of jealousy, a little bit of the old insecurity creeping back, as if it had ever gone since the boy lost his own father and screamed in his sleep.

  ‘Course not. I like her, that’s all. You be nice to her if you see her, Stonewall. She did me a good turn on Friday night.’ Rick laughed uproariously. He’d been laughing like a hyena all weekend, imploding with silent jokes Stonewall didn’t understand.

  ‘What about Jo, then?’ Rick stopped what he was doing, and the laughter.

  ‘That’s something else,’ he said sharply. Stonewall kicked his frayed training shoe against the door. He was miserable without knowing why.

  ‘Cheer up. We got things to do after. My dad says we got to go looking for that ghost. Your white-haired ghost. Typical, doesn’t want to bother himself, lets us do it.’ He whistled again.

  ‘Did you really believe me, then?’ Stonewall asked, his voice quivering. ‘No you didn’t. You just pretended you did in the caf, to please her. You never believed me until other people did. You never believed that ghost got my dog.’

  He had carried the stiff, twisted collar in his pocket for the two days since he had found it. Rick could see it now, protruding from the side of his shorts above the thin, pale brown legs with their covering of freckles. Stonewall was such a thin, sandy boy: even his legs weren’t significant.

  ‘And,’ he was saying, his voice high with anxiety, ‘when you go looking for the ghost, you’ll send me away. When you get a girl, you’ll send me away. That’s what you’ll do. Everyone does.’

  There were tears now, coursing down his slightly dirty face, leaving rivulets made worse by the smutty hand which attempted to push them back. The face of a customer appeared at the window. Rick produced three of the phallic lollies, took the money, slammed the window shut and sat on the floor among the refrigeration hum, pulled Stonewall down beside him. He grabbed a sheet of kitchen towel and applied it roughly to the boy’s face, absorbing phlegm and tears, put his arm round the skinny, shaking shoulders.

  ‘Now listen here, you snotty bastard, and listen properly. You’re my mate, my very best mate, you hear? And if I can’t have you round me all the time, that doesn’t make any difference. You’re still my best one. I used to go about with Jo Pardoe when I was your age, bit like you and me now, loved her the same way, only it changed, and it all had to wait. My fault, I suppose.’

  Stonewall grabbed the kitchen towel, blew his nose, failed to stem the tears.

  ‘You love her more’n you love me,’ he whispered. It choked him with shame to mention the word. Saying ‘fuck’ or ‘cunt’ was easier.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ said Rick, wonderingly, running his spare hand through Stonewall’s stick-up hair, a gesture the boy would always pretend to dislike, but loved as much as Sal had loved a stroking. ‘That’s a damn fine haircut you got there, boy. And as for love, well, I’ll love you for ever and nothing in between, you hear? And if I love someone else, they’ll have to love you too. Jo would, she does already, even if her brother never pays you for digging up bait, like you did again this morning. He never catches anything, you know, don’t do it again, you hear?’ He paused. Another face pressed itself against the window of the van. Rick stuck up two fingers. He had to get to the end of what he was saying, since whatever it was, was important.

  ‘There’ll be times I’m busy and you’re busy, but there you’ll be, first and last, bad moods, good moods. Any fucker comes near you, meaning harm, I’ll tear his fucking head off. Course I love you, Stoney, better than anyone. It’ll always be the same until you tell ME to fuck off. See? I’ll love you to death, boy, just you try and stop me.’

  There was a knocking at the window. Rick got up, turned on his chimes and began to whistle again. The sky overhead had darkened; for once they came off the beach early. A week of heat, a season of drought; even for business and his dad’s pleasure, he could not be sorry about the rain. One day, he and Stonewall might have an empire. Then they would only be nice to people they liked.

  ‘Three Mivvis,’ he yelled over his shoulder. ‘On the double!’

  Stonewall kicked him in the shins to show he was alive, sauntered to the freezer like a millionaire bar lizard in a small, select space, obliged the order with flourish. Four Mivvis, then they ran out, two double Ds, five phallic symbols, four caramel torpedos, nearly as bad in shape, six straight vanilla tubs and a bombe, Stonewall grinning throughout. Felt a hand on his shoulder, Rick’s of course, there was no room for anyone else and no need either.

  ‘Stay down there, boy, just sit down. I think I seen your ghost.’ Preternaturally tall, striding down under the darkening sky which made his white hair look as if it shone, was the man with no name. Had he shuffled with an armful of family burdens, whingeing kids, bags of windshield, Thermos flasks, towels, damp clothes and plastic bottles, he would not have stood out. The others were purposeful. He looked confused.

  ‘Tall,’ Rick said tersely to the figure at his feet, clutching his ankles. ‘I mean, really tall.’ He didn’t say handsome instead of long, tall, lean, regular featured, a face and frame tending towards the cadaverous: neither of them reckoned anyone over fifty could ever be called attractive; they just didn’t count at that age. ‘Big thatch, white hair, can’t see his ears, bit of a beard, not much, trousers don’t fit. Track-suit bottoms, too short?’

  Stonewall nodded in the sheer ecstasy of being believed, not caring. The white-haired man paused in front of the window, sunken cheekbones presenting themselves first, the patrician voice echoing next.

  ‘I’d love what you have for sale,’ he intoned, ‘but I haven’t any change.’ Rick leant forward confidentially, so that he was half out of the van and still looking as if he was telling a secret, putting his hand over one side of his mouth as he spoke in a hiss.

  ‘Tell you the truth, mate,’ he leered, ‘we’ve had a good day and it’s melting. Have one free. On the house. Only don’t tell,’ he added, tapping the side of his nose in a cockney parody, unconvincing to his own ears, not to Stonewall, still clutching his ankles in a paroxysm of terrible giggles.

  The ice-cream fridge was on the right. Rick dived in, scooped out from on top a double cone, filled both, delivered it. The man did not pause to offer thanks or smile. Rick knew it was a giveaway to stare, so he pretended to prepare for the next on parade, noticing at the same time how the creamy floss had gone down the man’s throat like a mouse down a Hoover, all in one, in a great big gulp, terrible, Adam’s apple going in then out and a whole cone gone in a swallow. The man could have eaten a dog, the thought made Rick swallow too. Something wrong with his teeth. Another queue had formed behind him, discretion overcame the ghost’s obvious desire to ask for more and he left without a wave.

  ‘Think he’s hungry,’ Rick muttered.

  ‘So he isn’t a ghost,’ said Stonewall, finally, lazily, leaving hold of the ankle, standing up.

  ‘Four double cornets left,’ said Rick. ‘He could have ate the lot.’

  ‘Perhaps he ate Sal.’

  ‘Give us the mirror, Stoney. He made my hair stand on end.’

  Her hair stood on end like a series of wire fences, and nothing a soul could do. Mrs Pardoe wore it squashed under a hat or turban, depending upon occasion or season. She maintained her feathery boa and frightful hat as she tripped across the grass to the small terrace of three cottages on the right of her overgrown lawn, her feet landing neatly without the high-heeled shoes which might have dug in so far as to root her to the spot.

  The roses round the door looked glad of the rain which fell out of the sky in droplets as big as petals, weighing down her hat and waterlogging the feathers. Mrs Jennifer Pardoe knocked on her own property with a terrible urgency. The door was open. In she went, all of a flutter, which stopped like a toy with a run-out
battery as soon as the door closed behind her.

  Sarah Fortune stood up from behind a pile of papers in the lounge area. She looked tired as if the heat had struck and she was glad of the rain. So was Mrs Mouse Pardoe. She shed her toque and her mac and sat down comfortably.

  ‘Oh, lord, what a relief,’ she said. ‘Do you think you could make some tea? I can’t stand this any longer.’

  The movements were deft and forceful. None of the tottering, none of the giggles; a normal old lady of sixty-five years, oddly dressed, nothing more than eccentric. She sat herself comfortably among Sarah’s papers, picked them up casually, glanced at a copy of Mr Pardoe’s will, put it down with a smile.

  ‘Working, dear? It’s so bad for your eyes. Don’t you like this simple will? It was all my idea.’

  ‘Shall I draw the curtains?’ Sarah said thoughtfully. ‘In case we have visitors?’

  ‘They’re all out, dear. Don’t worry, I have ears longer than stalks, and why do you think I insist on keeping a sheep? I’ll know as soon as I hear a car and if anyone comes to this door, Hettie will bleat for me, then I’ll just go back to being senile and you humour me, all right?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sarah murmured. ‘I quite understand.’

  Mouse Pardoe beamed. ‘I knew you would. Ernest said so.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘The late Mr Pardoe,’ said Jennifer Pardoe, ‘was a bit of a bully. Full of charm and also full of shit.’ She belched slightly after the use of a rude word whose sound she obviously felt was agreeable. ‘He was very lovable and very forceful and I was always known as the Mouse. I loved him greatly, hopelessly, but also realistically. I didn’t have much option, even if I thoroughly disapproved and considered then, as I do now, that most property is theft. My opinion was never heard, my wishes never considered, until, when he grew older and beyond temptation, he started to listen and I suppose I got the upper hand. He had a passion for respectability, although he wasn’t in the least respectable. It’s a shame so many things come too late.’ She sipped tea out of a mug with all the grace of a thirsty labourer, looked at Sarah over the rim.

  ‘No,’ she said, answering a question which hung in the air. ‘I myself am not in the least respectable. Neither are you. I have always regarded the mere notion of respectability as such a waste of time.’ Sarah nodded a mild assent.

  ‘Anyway,’ Mrs Pardoe continued, ‘we made certain confessions to each other, my husband and I, long before he died, which somehow put us on an equal footing. I won’t elaborate now. He ceased to care about property and such, and made the will you’ve read because he trusted me. He trusted Julian too, but Julian was on a bender at the time, not booze, you understand, the other kind of addiction, misguided love. Then my husband died in a typically stupid fashion. People surrounded me, immediately, telling me what I should do. They hemmed me in, and even if I’d finally got my better half into the habit of listening to me, no-one else did. The children, never. I knew they were going to push and pull me in all sorts of directions, and I knew exactly what I wanted to do with all this property we own, so did he really, getting it in the first place was only a sort of game to him. But I wasn’t going to be allowed to have my own way.’

  ‘Who,’ Sarah asked, ‘was going to stop you?’

  ‘I merely made a suggestion about what we should do with all this property and Edward hit me. I ruined Edward as a child, let him get away with everything. He was such a pretty baby,’ Jennifer Pardoe said simply, as if that was explanation enough. ‘No-one was going to listen, as I said. The tradition of not listening to me was far too well established and I really can’t stand confrontation and conflict. So I decided to go mad. Remove myself into the realms of the harmless and also make sure I got attention. You get a lot of attention when you’re mad. I’ve rather enjoyed it, even though it is a bit of a strain, sometimes. When mad, you can be a total exhibitionist, something I was never allowed to be, wear what you like, say what you like, marvellous, you ought to try it.’

  ‘Lying in the cabbage patch?’ Sarah asked.

  ‘Yes. Wonderful. But if I did it without being mad, some fool would call an ambulance. I’ve realized I’m probably quite a bit mad to begin with. It must help, don’t you think? I like walking about with the sheep too, and talking to the birds, why not? Only I couldn’t if I were supposed to be sane, could I?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘My dear,’ said Mrs Pardoe, patting her knee, ‘I know that you have the uncanny knack of understanding almost everything, but one thing you can’t know at your age is how much power you lose in the world when you grow old. You have to create another power base as your own crumbles. Basic politics. Mine, by the way, have always been slightly left of centre. Ernest Matthewson never used to approve.’ She peered at a Mickey Mouse watch. ‘I’d better go. We’ll have to continue this another time. I wonder, will that boy Rick come up with icecream and my newspaper today? Probably not, what with the rain and all.’

  She gurgled her tea again and proffered the mug. All confessions, Sarah noticed, needed some kind of liquid accompaniment. They could not emerge from a dry mouth.

  ‘That boy Rick is in love with your daughter,’ Sarah said. ‘The feeling is reciprocated.’ Mrs Pardoe nodded.

  ‘Calf-love, I hope.’

  ‘Calf-love can be real.’

  ‘Well, there couldn’t be a better candidate. A nice working-class boy, just like Mr Pardoe once was. Given the right chances, he’ll go far. I must go.’ Sarah wanted to stop her but there was nothing she could do against such steely determination.

  ‘I suppose,’ Mouse was saying, ‘I should get a stick if I’m going to keep up this doddery charade. By the way, girl, have you any idea what should happen to this estate?’

  ‘Yes. You’ve just endorsed it. It was you gave the instructions to Ernest, wasn’t it? Not Julian?’

  ‘Of course. Only it was supposed to look as if it was Ernest’s idea, I mean anybody’s but mine. I told him I wanted the children to realize that they had everything they needed already. I want them to realize of their own accord, without anyone telling them. I wanted them to know how you work out your own destiny and money only makes it harder, sets you apart.’

  ‘And why did he suggest me?’

  Mrs Pardoe looked away, put on her hat and let the feathers hang down to her chin.

  ‘They’re supposed to go at the back, these feathers, more fun this way, aren’t they?’ Sarah’s gaze did not waver; Mouse met it.

  ‘My old friend Ernest never does anything without a dozen motives, you know?’

  ‘I never knew he was quite so clever.’

  ‘He isn’t, he’s simply cunning. What he really said about you was . . .’ she paused, her first hesitation, as if the symptoms of insanity were resumed with the hat.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You were a catalyst. Does that mean a very sleek cat? Can a catalyst do something about Hettie the sheep? She’s been driving me mad.’

  Mrs Pardoe lurched across the wet lawn, singing in the rain.

  Catalyst is not what Ernest said, Sarah thought. He would never have used such a word. Nor would he have understood that someone who acts out another role, like Mrs Pardoe’s madness, becomes the part they play.

  Miss Gloomer was dying. When Julian came back from his ten o’clock call, he drew level with the house he could never quite love as home since his father had died there, although he had loved its classless eccentricity once. He pulled into the drive, sat where he was with his hands on the steering wheel, watching the windows through the rain. Mother woke and slept early; no light shone from Edward’s room with its sweeping view of the coast. I should not think of him as a spy as well as a failure, Julian thought. I should not delight that he and Joanna are likely out of the house in separate directions for fear of what they might do to comfort one another on a wet night like this; I have an evil mind.

  He watched the lawn, noticed with weary guilt the way it resembled a hay field.
The night was cooling fast; drizzle made the grass glisten. Tomorrow, time allowing, he could scythe it, tonight all he could see was the ghostly vision of Sarah Fortune, naked against the green. Then he was out of the car, walking automatically towards the cottages, his feet soft on the surface, hissing in the grass. He could say he thought he had heard an intruder; he could say he had come to enquire after her health after Joanna had told him the story of the rogue tide; he could say there was no time to come sooner, which was a lie. He could mention Elisabeth Tysall’s headstone and ask Sarah’s opinion, but he was still afraid; it was ridiculous and he turned to go back, saw the lamp outside the cottage they had given her, illuminating the scrubby roses and against the block of light from the open door, her figure, bent double. He heard the pitiful bleating of the sheep, heard Sarah’s voice, soothing in return. Julian quickened his step. She did not seem remotely surprised to see him.

  ‘Oh, it’s you. Look, we’ve got to do something about this sheep.’

  ‘Why?’ His own voice sounded like a bleat of protest.

  ‘She’s been making a noise all evening, that’s why, all afternoon too, butting her head against the door. Took me a while to realize it wasn’t a simple desire for my company. One of her horns is growing into her eye.’

  Julian squatted on his haunches. The sheep flinched; Sarah pressed the fleece against the frame of the door. He noticed that the left horn was partly swathed in a steaming rag, then saw with horror how the tip had grown at a crooked angle, so that instead of being level with the forehead, it grazed the ball of one bloodshot and weeping eye. There was a hideous sore patch beneath.

  ‘She’s in pain. She’ll be covered with flies in the morning,’ Sarah was saying, matter of factly. ‘I’ve tried to yank the horn back, she’s been very good, but the horn’s too hard. So I wrapped a hot dishcloth round it. Thought it might soften it. Is that the right thing to do? She doesn’t like it.’