The Frances Garrood Collection

by Frances Garrood

  “Police dogs don’t actually bite,” Gabs had objected last week, when he had very nearly caught her. “They just hang on to people’s clothing.”

  So Gerald had torn her skirt, and Gabs had been very angry. This week, she was going to tell him that enough was enough. He would either have to hang up his collar and lead, or find someone else to play his silly games.

  When she told him, to her distress, Gerald actually wept.

  “What shall I do without you?” he said. “Our meetings are the high point of my week.”

  “Ditch the dog thing, and I’ll keep on coming,” Gabs said. “I don’t mind the firing squad or the traffic warden, but the dog thing has to go.”

  “But that’s my favourite,” Gerald said. “That’s why I need you. You do it so well.”

  Gabs wrote a name and telephone number on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Try this girl,” she said. “I’m sure she’ll do it for you.”

  “Is she — is she as pretty as you?” Gerald asked.

  “Much prettier,” Gabs said. “And she loves dogs.”

  “May I have a goodbye kiss? Just one?”

  “No. Certainly not.”

  “You’re a hard woman,” grumbled Gerald, putting on his Y-fronts.

  “Good job you’re shot of me, then, isn’t it?”

  Getting rid of Gerald was a weight off her mind. She would miss the money, and the lobsters and champagne, but otherwise she was very glad to see the back of him, dangling balls and all. Now she decided she would ditch the cabinet minister, who was about to write his memoirs (notwithstanding promises of anonymity, Gabs was wary of memoirs), and she would have reduced her client list and hence a little of the culpability attached to her occupation. Steph was desperate for her to give it up altogether, but Gabs reminded her that it was she herself who had suggested she improve her life in small stages.

  “Besides,” she explained that evening over supper, “I need the money.”

  “You don’t,” Steph said. “You’ve got all that money in the bank, and you’ve said yourself that you earn enough from the agency.”

  Gabs told her about Mrs. Grant’s Australian niece, who had now arrived in England complete with work permit and was standing in the wings just waiting to step into Gabs’ shoes.

  “If Miss Kershaw complains about her toenails, I’ve had it,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Oh, never mind.”

  Fortunately Steph didn’t press the point, as she had preoccupations of her own. Over the past months, she had become transformed from horror-stricken hard-done-by virgin to obsessive mother-to-be. Some people are said to be all heart; at the moment, Steph was all womb, and her world currently centred round that wonderful organ and its (apparently) miraculous occupant. She had long since given up alcohol (she had never drunk much anyway), she would only eat organic food, and if anything came out of a tin or a packet, she would discard it at the whiff of an E-number. She and Clive went to antenatal classes, where she apparently learnt to breathe and Clive learnt to rub her back (Gabs thought the classes were a rip-off, and told her so), and the flat was filling up with baby magazines, baby clothes, and baby furniture.

  “This is getting ridiculous,” Gabs said one evening when she came home to find the tiny hallway blocked by a large cot and a baby car seat. “Where are you going to put all this stuff?”

  “I’ll put it all away,” Steph said, “when I’ve made space for it.”

  “And doesn’t a car seat need a car?” Steph was neither a driver nor a car owner.

  “Well, I thought…”

  “No. Oh no. Not in my car. No baby seat in my car, Steph.”

  “Why? Why not?”

  “Bad for business.”

  “You can always take it out.”

  “So this is for occasional use only?”

  “Of course. And look.” Steph produced a neat little set of wheels. “It converts into a pushchair. Isn’t that great?”

  “Great.”

  “And there’s this little cover you put over it when it rains. And you can also —”

  “Steph, you’re becoming awfully boring. Can’t we talk about something else?”

  “Well, you did ask.”

  “So I did. What’s for supper?” (Having cut down her hours, Steph was now in charge of the housekeeping.)

  “Actually, Clive’s here. He’s brought steaks.”

  “Good for Clive!” The presence of Clive might just be outweighed by the prospect of steak.

  “He only brought two,” said Steph, and blushed. “He wasn’t thinking,” she added.

  “Now there’s a surprise,” said Gabs, who was tired and hungry.

  “But he’s painting the box room,” Steph said.

  “Well, fancy that.”

  The box room was another cause of ill-feeling. Since the flat belonged equally to Gabs and Steph, having been bought with money left to them by their mother, the box room too belonged to them both. Given time, Gabs would probably have offered it to Steph as a bedroom for the baby without being asked, but Steph had, as it were, helped herself without consulting her sister, and was doing it up accordingly. It was already full of baby impedimenta, for Steph’s route to work led her past a new baby shop — a softly lit pastel cave, full of all the things a canny retailer knows a baby can’t possibly need but its mother will find irresistible. This week alone, Steph had bought a doll-size pair of soft leather booties, a tinkly mobile, and a handmade wooden rattle — all, as Gabs pointed out, priced in inverse relation to their usefulness.

  “And what colour is he painting our box room?” Gabs enquired. “Let me guess. Yellow?”

  “Well, yes. It’s a nice pale shade of lemon. You’ll like it, Gabs.”

  “Does it matter what I like?”

  “Of course it does.”

  “Anyway, why the obsession with yellow? Wouldn’t it help if you found out the gender of this baby?” Gabs could imagine few things more infuriating than the hospital staff knowing something about her own unborn child that she did not. “Then at least you could colour code it accordingly. Actually, I can’t see the point of the whole pink and blue thing; after all, you wear blue, and Clive has at least one pink shirt. It isn’t as though people need to be reminded whether their baby’s a boy or a girl.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “Well, what is the point?”

  “You just can’t dress a baby boy in pink. It would look ridiculous. And as for its sex, we don’t want to know yet. That’s all. We want it to be a surprise.”

  “How can it be a surprise? It will be either a boy or a girl. That’s hardly a surprise. Now, if you were to give birth to a badger cub, say, or a vampire, that would certainly be a surprise. But —”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Gabs! Will you just leave it? Clive and I want to find out when it’s born, and not before.” Steph hesitated. “You can have my steak if you like. I’ll have an omelette.”

  “Oh, don’t mind me,” said Gabs. “You two just stay here and enjoy your steaks and do yellow things in the box room. I’m going to get a takeaway.”

  She put her coat back on and slammed out of the flat. She had had enough of Steph, of babies, of miserable old people and difficult clients. For two pins, she would dig out her passport (presuming she could find it) and just take off. But of course, she couldn’t do that, because like everyone else, she had responsibilities.

  Parked outside the Indian takeaway, she decided she wasn’t hungry after all, so she started up the engine again and drove off. She had no idea where she was going, but she needed to be on her own, and the car was the best (and safest) place. No one bothered her in the car, and since she had left her mobile at home, no one could reach her, either. This, she thought, as she narrowly avoided a motorbike, is rock bottom. She had felt low before, had even once or twice been depressed, and following the death of her mother, she had experienced real grief. But she was of a naturally happy disposition, and as a rul
e, things rarely got her down for long.

  But since Father Augustine, everything had changed. Quite apart from her misery, she had started assessing her life, and had found it wanting in almost all departments. What had she achieved? Where was she going? Where would she be in, say, ten years’ time? She had no idea. She had money saved, but for what? She had never had ambitions or made plans; her relationships had been brief and unsatisfactory; she had no proper career and no prospects. She didn’t want to be like Steph — the two of them were far too different — but at least her sister had a career and now a baby to plan for. She had a future. Gabs couldn’t see that she had any future at all.

  Outside it was bitterly cold — one of those dank, foggy, November nights that presage the miseries of the winter to come. Gabs pulled into a lay-by, leaving the engine running so that she could turn up the heating. She fumbled in the glove compartment for a cigarette, then switched on the radio. Someone was playing a sentimental song about love and loss, which, Gabs thought, just about summed up her own life at the moment. Whoever it was that said it was better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all was talking bollocks. The pain simply wasn’t worth it.

  After a while, she stubbed out her cigarette, wrapped her coat tightly around her, huddled down in her seat, and closed her eyes. Sleep. That was what she needed. Sleep. But sleep wouldn’t come, and besides, the car needed a new battery, and it was more than likely that the heating would go off. What would become of her then? If she were asleep, she would probably die of hypothermia. Gabs was certainly miserable, but she didn’t want to die. Not yet, anyway.

  And if she did, would anybody care? Steph would, of course. Her sister might be angry with her, but she also needed her. Her friends might miss her. As for her father, he would certainly be surprised, but would he actually mind? Probably not. Come to think of it, since Gabs hadn’t made a will, he would most likely inherit her substantial savings. This would no doubt please him enormously (he was a feckless alcoholic), so this seemed a fairly good reason for not dying.

  After spending some time sitting brooding and smoking, Gabs eventually returned home in the small hours, cursing as she tripped over the cot and the car seat in the dark, and waking Clive, who was asleep on the sofa. The flat was still redolent of grilled steak, and Steph and Clive had not washed up after their meal, leaving the sink full of dirty dishes.

  “Bloody hell!” Gabs crashed around in the kitchen, throwing plates in the dishwasher and making as much noise as possible. “Does no one around here think of anyone but themselves?”

  “Well, you obviously don’t.” Clive rose up from among the cushions on the sofa. “Waking everyone up like this!”

  “By everyone, I suppose you mean you?” Gabs paused with a saucepan in her hand. She was sorely tempted to batter Clive over the head with it.

  “Well, yes. I’ve got work in the morning.”

  “You also have a home to go to. You don’t have to stay here. What you seem to forget is that this is my flat as well as Steph’s, and you are trespassing on my hospitality!”

  “Gosh! Steph said you were being moody!” Clive sat up carefully, covering his crotch with his hands (although he was wearing boxer shorts, and Gabs doubted whether there would have been much to cover if he had been stark naked).

  “Did she now?”

  “Yes, she did. And it’s hard for her, in her condition. She needs looking after.”

  “And I suppose I don’t? Does it occur to anyone that occasionally — just occasionally — I wouldn’t mind a bit of consideration, too?”

  At that moment, a door opened, and Steph emerged, yawning.

  “What’s going on?” she asked. “Has something happened?”

  “Your little friend here is objecting because I’ve come home to my flat and am tidying up my kitchen after your little feast,” Gabs told her.

  “Our kitchen,” Steph said. “And I was going to do it in the morning.”

  “Yeah. Right.” Gabs banged down her saucepan in case she should be tempted to use it. “And I suppose it didn’t occur to either of you that it might be a tad depressing for me to come back and find the place in this filthy state? When you’ve had all evening to sort it out?”

  “What’s the big deal?” Clive pulled a sweater over his thin, coat-hanger shoulders.

  “The big deal,” Gabs said, “is that I’m tired, and I’m miserable, and this — this mess is the last straw.”

  “Steady on, Gabs.” Steph put out a hand, but Gabs pushed it away.

  “No. I won’t steady on. I’ve had enough of you. Both of you. I’ve had enough of my home being — being invaded. You’ve got a room, Steph, and it’s big enough for two, but oh no. Clive has to sleep on the only sofa in the only living room because you’re not bloody married! How ridiculous is that? Meanwhile, the rest of the flat is full of Clive’s things and baby stuff and fucking yellow paint. I’m surprised you haven’t taken over my room as well!”

  “Now you’re being ridiculous!”

  “Is this all because of that priest?” asked Clive, who had found his trousers, and with them, apparently, his confidence.

  Gabs turned to Steph. “You told him! I can’t believe you told him!”

  “Well, of course I told him. We’re together. We tell each other things.”

  “But that was confidential! I trusted you, Steph. I trusted you!”

  “I think I should be going,” Clive said, edging towards the door. “Leave you two to sort things out.”

  “You do that, Clive. You get the fuck out of my flat and go home to mummy. I’m sure she’ll look after you.”

  “Gabs, how could you? How could you speak to Clive like that?” Steph demanded when Clive had left.

  “Quite easily, actually. He had it coming.”

  “No, he did not. He was my guest, and he had every right —”

  “Oh, shut up, Steph. Please, please, just shut up.” And Gabs sat down and burst into tears. “I don’t know what to do,” she sobbed. “I just don’t know what to do. Oh, Steph, whatever am I going to do?”

  “About what? Do about what?”

  “About my life, Father Augustine — oh, everything. It’s all such a mess.” She looked up at Steph. “And I’m sorry if I was rude to Clive, but he’s here all the time, and I can’t talk to you properly, and I haven’t anyone else at the moment. I feel so — so lonely.”

  “Well, if you treat people like this, I’m not surprised you’re lonely.”

  “I know, I know. I’ve been horrible.”

  “You certainly have.” Steph was evidently not in forgiving mode.

  “And I suppose now you’ll tell me that my problems are all of my own making.”

  “Well, aren’t they?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course they are! But d’you think that makes it any better?” Gabs looked at Steph, with her pink furry slippers and her smug little bump, and just for a moment, she hated her. “But of course, you wouldn’t understand that, would you?”

  “A sister who has sex for money and then sets out to seduce an innocent priest? No, I don’t understand. I don’t understand at all.”

  “And you’re so bloody perfect, aren’t you? Even though you had sex with a man you didn’t love and are having his little bastard!”

  “How dare you! How dare you talk to me like that!” Steph placed her hands protectively over her stomach.

  “That’s right,” Gabs said. “We mustn’t let Junior hear naughty language, must we?”

  “Gabs, how can you?”

  “Oh, shut up, Steph. Just shut the fuck up!”

  Gabs got up and took herself off to her room, slamming the door behind her. There, she threw herself face down on the bed and howled into her pillow, pulling the duvet over her head to muffle the sound. Life was awful. Everything was awful. The grief, the isolation, and the sheer misery were, quite simply, unbearable. How on earth was she ever going to get through this?

  Eventually she must have fallen asleep,
for the next thing she knew, it was morning, and Steph was standing in the doorway holding the telephone.

  “Didn’t you hear this?” she demanded.

  “Obviously not. What’s the time?”

  “Just after seven.” Steph switched on the light. “Gabs, look at the state of you!”

  Gabs peered at her reflection in the mirror. The face that looked back at her was streaked with mascara, the eyes bruised with exhaustion, the hair a tangled mess.

  “Your concern is touching,” she said.

  “Never mind that. Just take this call, will you, and then I can get back to sleep. If you remember, I had a rather disturbed night.”

  “Who is it?” Gabs asked.

  “It’s that Mavis person. Why couldn’t she phone you on your mobile? Here.” Steph threw the phone onto the bed and disappeared back to her own room.

  “Hello?” Gabs began to peel off her clothes with her free hand. They reeked of cigarette smoke, and she was badly in need of a shower.

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you,” said Mavis. “But I just had to talk to someone.”

  “Oh.” Gabs tried to gather her wits. “Why? What’s happened?”

  “It’s Mother.” (Who else?) “She was taken into the hospital last night, and I’ve been there with her ever since. She’s had another stroke. Oh, Gabs. She looks much worse this time. Whatever shall I do?”

  Mavis

  Mavis knew that Maudie was frightened. Her one good hand — not so good now — made tiny fluttering movements, like those of an injured bird, and the sounds that she made were the cries of a distressed child. Her face was frozen into immobility, but her eyes, bright with life and fear, seemed to beg for help.

  “Please, can she have something?” Mavis asked the sister. “Something to make her less — afraid.”

  The sister patted her shoulder and told her not to worry. Maudie’s movements were random. They didn’t mean anything. “And if we did give her drugs, they would mask any improvement,” she added.

  “But you said there probably wasn’t going to be any improvement,” Mavis reasoned. “So what harm can it do?”