“So, what you say, Mrs George?” Mr Ali interrupted my thoughts. “They stay here and fixitup the house?”
“I don’t know,” I said weakly. My heart ached for sad exiled Mr Ali and his charming useless assistants, but I owed a duty of care to Mrs Shapiro, and the scenario with the ladder had filled me with apprehension. “Maybe if you fix the gutter first, it’ll give me time to have a word with Mrs Shapiro.”
“Tomorrow,” he said, “we come with the new gutter and big ladder. You will see.”
“And, er, the window. That needs fixing, too, now.”
31
The epoxy hardener
Sometimes when I try to understand what’s going on in the world, I find myself thinking about glue. Every adhesive interacts with surfaces and with the environment in its own particular ways; some are cured by light, some by heat, some by the exchange of subatomic particles, some simply by the passage of time. The skill in achieving a good bond is to match the appropriate adhesive to the adherends to be bonded.
Acrylics, for example, are known to be fast curing, and they don’t require as much surface preparation as epoxies, which have high cohesive strength but a slower cure rate. Epoxy adhesives have two components: the adhesive itself, and a hardening agent, which accelerates the process. On Friday, I was sitting at my laptop, pondering this profound philosophical duality, when a cunning thought slipped into my head. What I needed to re-bond with Mrs Shapiro was a hardening agent. And who could be harder than Mr Wolfe?
Flushed with inspiration, I rummaged in the desk drawer for a card and wrote a get-well-soon note to Mrs Shapiro, adding that I was doing my best to visit her and advising her under no circumstances to sign anything until we’d talked. I mentioned that I’d found some builders who might be staying at the house while they did some work there—1 freely admit, I didn’t go into much detail. I told her the cats were doing extremely well and that Wonder Boy was missing her (well, probably he was, in his own brutal and selfish way). I enclosed a stamped addressed envelope and a blank sheet of paper, put it all in an envelope with the card, and sealed it. Then I walked down to the office of Wolfe & Diabello. A quick reconnoitre in the car park round the back told me that Mark Diabello was out and Nick Wolfe was in.
In the small office, his physical presence was overwhelming; he seemed to fill the whole room, pushing me back against the wall. He greeted me with a bruising hand-grip and asked me what he could do me for. (Either he thought that old cliche was still amusing, or his unconscious was speaking.) I told him in my specially friendly voice that Mrs Shapiro had been asking after him. On a yellow Post-it note, I scribbled the address of Northmere House and, handing him my envelope, said that if he found the time to call round, would he drop off the card from me, too.
“Fine,” he said.
Then I went home and got on with Adhesives in the Modern World. The article I was editing was about the importance of good joint design in bonding. You see, however good the glue, a poorly designed joint can snooker you. End to end joints should be overlapped if possible, or tongued and grooved, or mortised and tenoned. Or you could go for a hybrid joint—I remembered Nathan’s joke, glue and a screw. You should always prepare the surfaces to maximise the bonding area. “Surface atraction is increased, by rouhgening or scraching the surfaces to be bonded.”
The article had been written by a young man who knew his glues but seemed to have a total contempt for spelling and punctuation. What do they teach them in school these days, I tutted to myself? Ben was just as bad. I found myself worrying about how he’d got on in school today. He’d struggled to settle into his new class when we’d moved down from Leeds; in fact the New Year’s email chat with the strange semi-literate Spikey was the nearest I’d got to meeting any of his friends. I was anxious that his shaved head and religious leanings could make him a target for bullies, and while we were having tea that evening I tried to raise it with him.
“What did they say at school, then, when you turned up with you new hair-do—your no-hair-do?”
“Oh, nothing.”
Without his brown curls his face looked different. The brown hair was my genetic legacy, but those arched eyebrows, with their slightly haughty lift, and the intense blueness of the eyes—1 could see more of Rip in him now.
“Didn’t the kids take the mick?”
He shrugged. “Yeah, a bit, but I don’t care. Jesus suffered taunts an’ that, din’t he?”
Yes, and look what happened to him—I held back the thought, and loaded my voice with maternal concern. “But wasn’t it a bit…horrible? I mean, kids can be very cruel.”
“Nah,” he said. “It’s all earthly stuff. Don’t bother me. Brings me closer to Our Lord.”
When he’d finished his meal, he laid down his knife and fork, put his hands together briefly and closed his eyes. Then he picked up his bag and disappeared upstairs. Maybe I should have been pleased that he wasn’t stealing cars or taking drugs, but there was a scary intensity about him that was almost like an aura of martyrdom. I felt a stab of guilt. Was it our failure as parents that had led him to seek out a different kind of certainty? Sometimes I felt I wasn’t grown-up enough myself to be a parent—I always seemed to be just a step ahead, making it up as I went along.
Rip didn’t have any such uncertainties—he always knew what was right, and committed himself to making it happen. It was one of the things I’d loved about him—his commitment. Yes, perhaps I had been wrong not to take more of an interest in his work. But what exactly was it that he did? Something about global systems for iterating progress. Or iterating systematic progressive globalisation. Or globalising iterative progressive systems. I understood each word on its own, but together, they had the same effect on my brain as phenolic hydroxyls. I’d made some notes once, ages ago, on a bit of paper, while he was explaining it to me, thinking I’d get my head round it in my own time, that one day we would converse about progress, globalisation, systems and suchlike. It was in the desk drawer somewhere, jumbled up with the old rubber bands and the out-of-ink biros.
On impulse, I picked the phone up and dialled his number. A young woman answered—I nearly didn’t recognise her voice.
“Stella?”
“Mum?”
The pain of missing her caught me off guard like a thump in the chest.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at uni?” (Why was she visiting Rip and not me?)
“I…It’s reading week. I just came down to see…” I guessed from her hesitation that it might be something to do with her complicated love life. “Do you want to speak to Dad?”
Her voice—so sweet—still reedy like a child’s, but with an adult’s self-assurance. She’d always been a daddy’s girl. Sometimes their closeness made me envious.
“Yes—no. Stella, can we talk? We always seem to communicate by messages and texts.”
“So?” A prickly tone. She didn’t want me making her feel guilty.
“Listen, I’m worried about Ben. Have you noticed anything different about him?”
I realised she wouldn’t have seen his haircut yet, but she and Ben were close—they’d fought and loved one another all through their childhoods, just as Keir and I had done.
“He’s-always been a bit mental, my little bro.”
She was always so confident in her judgements.
“But does he seem unhappy to you?”
“He’s cool, Mum. He’s got religion in a big way, that’s all—like I had Leonardo DiCaprio when I was his age.”
“That’s what I mean—religion—it doesn’t seem quite normal for sixteen.”
“I don’t know what’s wrong with you, Mum. He could be shooting up or nicking cars, and you’re stressing about him reading the Bible.”
Maybe she’s right, maybe that’s all it is, I thought, a schoolboy phase. But there was something terrifying about his intensity, the strained look on his face, the dilated eyes.
“He talks about the end of the world as though it’s going t
o happen any minute now.”
“Yeah, Dad keeps on at him about it. They had a big row over Christmas. Then Grandpa got stuck in.”
“I wondered what that was about.”
“Ben started banging on about religion.”
“What did he say?”
“Something about miring the sanctity of Christmas with alcohol and consumerism. They all laughed. Ben got really upset and tried to shut them up.”
“Poor Ben.” I kept my voice even, but I could feel my rage boiling up in me.
“It was gross. Grandpa called him a pansy.”
“What did Ben say?”
“He said, I forgive you, Grandpa.” She giggled. I giggled, too. I tried to imagine my father-in-law’s face.
“Good for him.”
Ben hadn’t told me because he’d wanted to spare my feelings.
“Stella, it’s lovely to talk to you. Have you finished your teaching practice?”
“Yeah. It was nearly enough to turn me into a mass child murderer. I don’t know if teaching’s really me.” There was a slight whininess in her voice that I recognised, too. “But anyway, I’ll stick with it till the end of the course, then decide. Don’t worry about Ben, Mum. He’ll be fine.”
When I put the phone down I was filled with a wonderful sense of ease, as if a sack of rocks had just rolled from my shoulders; I wanted to run out into the street and hug everybody. Instead, I burst into Ben’s room and hugged him.
“You all right, Mum?” he lifted his head from the computer.
“I’ve just been talking to Stella.”
“What did she say?”
“Oh…she said she wasn’t sure about teaching—whether it was right for her.”
He gave me a long intense look.
“You need to calm down, Mum. You’re getting hyper again.”
32
UPVC
On Saturday morning, after Ben had left for Rip’s, I got a phone call from Mr Ali.
“You can come and see, Mrs George. House is all fixitup.”
They were waiting for me when I arrived—all three of them, plus the cats. The Uselesses were wearing jeans and baseball caps. I don’t know what had happened to their Arabic gear. Mr Ali was grinning with pride.
“See?”
Upstairs, where the old Victorian window had been smashed, a brand new double-glazed white UPVC top-opening window unit had been fitted—it was a bit short for the opening, which had been bricked up with breeze blocks to make it fit. There was a new gutter running the length of the house, also in white UPVC. The brambles had been hacked back to make room for a white UPVC table and chair set, and a white UPVC birdbath sat in the centre of the lawn. Wonder Boy was sitting beside it, surrounded by feathers, licking his chops and looking very pleased with himself.
“It’s…er…lovely…” I put on a smile.
The useless ones beamed.
“You let them stay, they will fixitup everything for you,” said Mr Ali.
“Maybe…maybe not too many repairs. Just essential things. Maybe the woodwork just needs rubbing down and a lick of paint.”
“Baint, yes,” he nodded enthusiastically, and said something in Arabic. The useless ones nodded enthusiastically too.
“I’ll give you a ring. I need to get a spare set of keys cut,” I said, playing for time, thinking maybe Mrs Shapiro would be back soon.
§
But on Wednesday morning there was a letter for me on the door mat. I recognised my own handwriting on the envelope. The letter inside was written with thick blue marker-pen—the sort Mum used for marking her Bingo cards.
Dearest Georgine,
Thank you for your Card and for you sending my Nicky to comfort me in Prison. He is quite adorable! He was coming with Champagne and white Roses. A real Gentleman! We were talking for Hours about Poetry Music Philosophy the Time was passing too quick like flowing Water under a Bridge and I am always asking myself what matters it if there gives a Gulf in our Ages so long as there gives a Harmony inbetween our Souls. It was like so with Artem he was twenty years my older but we have found Joy together. I wonder if I would ever find such a Joy again with another Man to feel the arms of a Mans around me and the warmth of a good Body close beside mine better than Cats. He has said he will come again now every Hour is dragging too long I wait for him to come and you also my dear Georgine. How have I escaped Transportation and Inprisonment in all my life only to face it now alone in my Older Age. They are wanting me to sign a Confession before I can return to my Home. They are saying I must give the Power of Returning but my Nicky also is saying I must not sign nothing so I am putting a brave resistance. I must stop the Nurse comes soon with my Injection. Please help me.
Your dear Friend,
Naomi Shapiro
I read it through a couple of times. Then I tried to read between the lines. Then I phoned Mr Wolfe.
“Thanks for taking my card round. How was she? She looked awful in hospital. I was surprised they let her out so quickly.”
“Bit of bruising. Gash to the head. Nothing too serious. We had a good laugh.”
“She seems to be very fond of you.” I was wheedling for information.
“Yes. And you know, in a funny way, I’ve grown quite fond of her, too.”
There was a glibness in his voice, as though it was something he’d been practising.
“Do you know anything about this confession she’s been asked to sign?”
“Sorry?”
“Something about power of returning.”
“Ah. Yes. They’re wanting her to sign a Power of Attorney.”
“What does that mean?” It sounded ominous.
“It means they—whoever she signed it over to—would have the power to sign legal documents on her behalf…”
“Like the sale of a house, for instance?”
“Got it in one.”
I felt my heart starting to race. Things seemed to be spiralling out of control again, but I kept my voice steady.
“What can we do to stop that?”
“I’ve been wondering that myself.”
Whatever he had in mind, he obviously wasn’t going to share it. I needed to find out what he knew, without giving away too much myself. Then I thought of something that would put him on the back foot.
“Did she tell you about her son? Apparently he’s coming over from Israel. That’ll be a great help, won’t it?”
I thought I heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone.
“Indeed.”
There was something else I needed to know.
“By the way, did you have any trouble getting in? They seem to have quite strict security.”
“Oh, yes, they told me she wasn’t allowed any visitors.”
“So…?”
“I just told them not to be so bloody ridiculous.”
So that’s how it’s done, I thought.
§
An hour or so later the phone was rang. It was Mark Diabello.
“Hi, Georgina. Glad I’ve caught you at home. Listen, I think I’ve got the answer to your dilemma.”
“What dilemma?” I tried to remember our last conversation. It was something unpleasant and incomprehensible about bricks and money.
“How to avoid Mrs Shapiro having to sell up if she goes into a home. Apparently the Council can just put a charge on her house. It’s like a mortgage—the house is sold after the person dies, and that’s when the Council calls in the debt. The residue if any goes to the estate.”
“You mean the debt to cover the nursing home fees? Nobody told me about that.”
“Well, they wouldn’t, would they?”
“But the thing is, Mark, she doesn’t need to be in a nursing home at all. She’s fine at home. She likes her independence.”
“You’d better get her back home as soon as you can, then. Or get someone else to live in the house till she gets back. These things’ve got a way of picking up their own momentum.”
�
��Tell me about it.”
The whole house saga had picked up far too much momentum, as far as I was concerned, and he’d been among those pushing it along.
“How about over dinner tonight, sweetheart?”
There was an earnest note in his voice that made me feel guilty; but I steeled myself.
“I can’t. I’m meeting…somebody. And I’ve got a lot of work on at the moment—something I’m trying to write,” I added quickly.
“You’re a very active woman. I like that.” A sigh or a crackle on the line. “As it happens, I do a bit of writing myself. Poetry.”
“Really?” Despite myself, I was intrigued. The hero of the original Splattered Heart had been a poet, too. “Will you show me?”
“I’d love to. When…?”
“I’ll ring you.” I put the phone down.
§
I’d arranged to meet Mr Ali and the Uselesses in the afternoon, and I still hadn’t got a set of keys cut, so I walked down to the cobblers on the Balls Pond Road then back up to Totley Place. It had turned cold again, a spiteful, stabbing cold, with a mean wind shaking the naked branches of the trees against a washed-out sky and flinging swirls of litter and dead leaves against my legs. At least the rain had held off.
It was just after two when I arrived at Canaan House. The red van was already parked outside, and the three of them were hunched up in the front, the Uselesses puffing at cigarettes, Mr Ali reading a newspaper. The house looked startlingly different, the white plastic window with its breeze-block base seemed to wink at me like a diseased eye. As soon as they saw me they jumped down, talking excitedly in Arabic, and followed me up the path, carrying their stuff with them in dozens of carrier bags. They looked as though they were planning to move in for a while. There were sleeping bags, books, clothes, a CD player, and even an old PC. In one carrier bag I spotted what looked like the Arabic outfits—obviously they hadn’t given up on them yet. I showed them upstairs.
While they were unpacking and sorting their stuff out, I walked around the house with Mr Ali, pointing out the things I thought needed fixing: the missing slates on the porch, the broken latch on the door to the front room and the faulty light, the peeling wallpaper in the dining room, the dripping taps in the bathroom and kitchen, the cracked toilet bowl, and the huge gaps around the edges of doors and window frames where the wind whistled in. Those were just the obvious things.
2009 - We Are All Made of Glue Page 21
