by Iain Broome
There’s a dull thud behind me. It takes me by surprise. Georgina has fallen onto her front. She’s also fallen on top of the towel and pushed the blanket onto the floor. She’s face down on the bed, completely naked and still asleep. It takes me nearly ten minutes to get the towel from underneath her, turn her onto her back and put her night dress on. I have to sit on the chair to catch my breath. I hold her hand and imagine her squeezing mine. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she would’ve said.
I go back to the window. Benny is pointing at the car and forcing his chest out. They stand too close when they talk. Angelica puts her hand into her jeans pocket, pulls out a banknote and gives it to Benny. Then they stop talking, look up at my window and stare at me, just for a few seconds. I stay exactly where I am. I’m not worried. There’s no way they can know that I’m here. I’ve been watching far too long.
Heresy
John Bonsall’s skip has disappeared. It’s been replaced with a new one that has the letters ‘NF’ spray painted down the side. It’s already half full. I’m behind the curtain with my breakfast. Kipling’s on my lap and I’m resting my plate on his back. He’s very sick. Too ill to go anywhere. It’s Monday morning and the street is empty. Yesterday, I didn’t go to church. A hot air balloon is rising in the distance behind the houses. Red with black polka dots, like a giant ladybird. I watch it climb into the clouds. It must have taken off from Blackheart Wood. Or where Blackheart Wood used to be, before they mined it in the 70s. It took twelve years to get the coal out. Now the trees have been replanted and the council use it for carnivals and car rallies. The cricket club play their home games in a clearing in the middle.
A car drives into the street and swerves round the tree in the road. It gets so far, does a three-point turn and drives back again. This happens a lot. Cressington Vale is one street down from a main road. The car slows as it goes back past the tree and the driver flicks a V-sign. I finish my toast and put the plate on the floor. Kipling is making my legs ache, so I pick him up and drop him next to the plate. He sleeps throughout. Another balloon appears in the sky. This one’s shaped like a hammer. It looks like it’s chasing the ladybird. I reach for my pen and notepad, start to make a list.
Nine balloons take off in forty-five minutes. I’ve been watching the street as I’ve counted them. I’ve written down shapes and sizes. Still, nothing is happening. I decide to go downstairs and make a cup of tea. As I stand up, another car drives into the street. No, it’s the same car. Big, black and expensive. The driver uses just one finger this time as he drives past the tree. And there’s someone in the passenger seat who wasn’t there before. The car stops opposite my house. Outside Angelica’s. I reach for my file labelled ‘Suspicious behaviour’, but before I can take it from the shelf I hear the kitchen door opening downstairs. Someone’s in the house. Someone is downstairs and they are in the house. Kipling knows it. He’s awake and looking up at me. He’s shaking. I reach under the bed and pull out my billiard cue case. It’s covered in dust. I open it, take out the cue and start screwing the ends together. It seems to take forever. I can hear the intruder walking around downstairs. The floorboards in the hall are squeaking and I can feel a draught coming up because the back door is open. I can smell the lemon cake I baked last night. Why didn’t I lock the door? I’m sure I locked the door. Kipling jumps onto the bed and squeezes himself between the pillows.
‘Is there anybody in? I’m a burglar!’
I knew it. It was only a matter of time. They should never have cancelled the neighbourhood watch. I grip the cue firmly and edge onto the landing. My back is tight to the wall as I creep downstairs. One at a time. Don’t make a sound. I can hear them in the kitchen. They’ve put the kettle on. The cheek of it. What sort of burglar makes themselves at home? I stand at the bottom of the stairs. I hold the cue close to my body. I get chalk on the tip of my nose. It will have to wait. There’s a criminal on the other side of this door.
I take a deep breath.
Hold the cue in attack position.
Enter the kitchen.
The burglar is bent over the kitchen table with their back to me. I can’t stop myself. My arms have taken over and I’m bringing the cue down over their head. It’s going to hit them just above the neck and it’s probably going to knock them out. It may even kill them. And they deserve it. Just before the cue makes impact, the burglar turns around. It’s a woman. No, it’s not a woman, it’s Judy. I’m about to murder a reverend.
Note: Time taken from point of entry to critical strike = 35 seconds. Too slow. Buy new slippers. Change locks. Note end.
There is silence. Slowly, I open my eyes. Judy’s in a heap on the floor with half a billiard cue by her head. The other half is still in my hands and broken at the handle. I might be able to use it as a dibber. I can’t believe there’s no blood.
‘You stupid fucking man!’
‘Oh God, I’m sorry.’
‘What the hell were you thinking?’
‘I didn’t mean to hit you.’
‘You hit the shitting table.’
‘There’s no need to swear.’
‘You’ve just tried to smash me over the head with a snooker cue, Gordon.’
‘It’s a billiard cue and you’re a woman of the church.’
‘Not when someone nearly kills me.’
‘How did you get in?’
‘The door was unlocked.’
‘Why didn’t you knock?’
‘I knocked when I came in. And I shouted!’
‘You said you were a burglar.’
‘And do you think that’s what they do? Do you walk into buildings and tell everyone you’re an idiot?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Well, you should.’ I hold out my hand to help her up. She ignores it, puts her elbow on one of the chairs and helps herself up. I can hear the kettle boiling. I should offer her a cup of tea.
‘Would you like... ’
‘No, thank you. I came to see Georgina. I was also going to ask if you were feeling all right, but frankly, you seem full of energy.’
‘Georgina’s not here.’
‘She’s not here?’
‘No, she’s spending some time at my parents.’
‘Your parents?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that’s super. Fantastic.’
‘Yes.’
‘I thought she might’ve had something of a relapse. We’ve not seen her since Christmas.’
‘She’s fine.’
‘Her recovery has been astounding.’
‘A miracle.’
‘A miracle indeed, Gordon.’ Judy is Judy again. She’s stopped swearing.
‘Is there anything else?’
‘I also wondered why you missed Mass yesterday.’
‘I didn’t miss Mass.’
‘No?
‘No.’
‘Well, I didn’t see you in church, Gordon.’
‘I didn’t see you, either.’
‘You didn’t see me?’
‘No.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Me neither.’ She looks me up and down. Turns her nose up.
‘This is ridiculous. Are you sure you’re okay? First you try and hit me over the head with a snooker cue, and now you’re talking gibberish.’
‘It’s a billiard cue. Was a billiard cue.’
‘I don’t care what it is. Tell me how you are.’
‘I’m okay.’ She looks at me, puts her hands on her hips. I think she’s going to swear again. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m okay and I’m leaving. Tell Georgina, I’m glad she’s feeling better.’
‘I will.’
‘And Gordon?’
‘Yes, Judy?’
‘I suggest you visit the surgery. I think you need to see someone. I know it’s not been easy.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I’m going home.’
‘That’s the back garden.’
‘I’
ll climb over the wall and into Mrs Tyson’s garden. It’s quicker.’
‘Mrs Tyson?’
‘She lives behind you. She’s ninety-five next month. She’ll never know I was there.’ Judy walks away from me. She gets halfway down the garden and turns around.
‘Gordon, don’t tell anyone I swore.’
‘Twice.’
‘Don’t tell them I swore at all.’
She hitches her skirt up and tucks it into what looks like a pair of red and white striped football socks. Then, she puts one foot in the middle of the wall, grabs one of the coping stones and hauls herself into Mrs Tyson’s rhododendron bush. She shouts ‘Bollocks’ at the top of her voice. I close the door and pick up the other half of the cue. It’s the first time I’ve used it since Georgina first got ill. I throw it straight in the bin. I walk back upstairs to the spare room and look through the window. The balloons are gone. So is the car. I wait for over an hour. It doesn’t reappear and I need the toilet. I walk past Georgina’s room and look through the gap in the door. Kipling’s with her. He’s managed to squeeze his head between the mattress and her armpit. His ribs are moving up and down as he sleeps. It looks like she’s cuddling him, but her eyelids are still. She has no idea that he’s there.
Heroes
Kipling is eighty-five dog years old. A brown and white Springer spaniel with large floppy ears, like a pair of socks draped over his head. He arrived just two days before Georgina told me she wanted us to stop trying for children. It never felt like a coincidence. We’d wanted children for so many years. I’d make charts and graphs and Georgina would attach them to the fridge with magnets. We called them our baby papers. She kept me informed and I kept them up to date. On the day we stopped trying, Kipling climbed onto the kitchen table, leapt across the room and pulled them off with his teeth. He’d only been with us a week. I collected the torn pieces of paper and put them in the bin. We never spoke about children again. We had Kipling. That’s all that mattered. He would have to do.
I remember the day Georgina brought him home. I arrived back from work one day to find him sat in my chair, drinking from my favourite mug.
‘Look what I’ve found,’ she said.
‘That’s my best mug.’
‘Isn’t he lovely?’
‘Why did you have to use my mug?’
‘Shut up, Gordon. What shall we call him?’
‘How can you find a dog?’
‘He was tied to a lamppost.’
‘You stole him?’
‘No I didn’t steal him. Someone abandoned him.’
‘Well, we can’t keep him.’
‘Of course we can keep him.’
‘That dog is not staying in this house.’
‘Get yourself a drink and sit down. What shall we call him?’
‘Are you sure that it’s a him? We don’t want hundreds of them.’
I put my hand out to stroke him. He sat bolt upright and looked me straight in the eye. We froze for a second, stared at each other. Then he jumped up and dug his teeth into the sleeve of my coat. I screamed and snatched my arm away. Kipling came with it. I ran around the room, shaking my limbs to try and get him off. It was impossible. Eventually, I stopped. Broken like a horse. Kipling hung with his legs in the air and his eyes fixed on mine. I walked to the kitchen and used my free hand to put the kettle on.
We called him Kipling after he ate too many cakes and threw up on our duvet. Before that he was called Bobby, but we’d only had him a month and Georgina wanted to change it. She said Bobby was boring. Too human-sounding. So Bobby became Kipling. Later, Georgina called him Super Kipling. He had a blue and yellow jumper with a red ‘K’ knitted into the front. It was given to him by the wife of the man he saved from drowning. We were out walking by the reservoir. The man had been fishing and lost his balance casting. He was struggling to keep his head above water. His wife stood on the bank, holding a sandwich and shouting. Georgina let go of my hand and started running towards them, but she was overtaken by Kipling. He leapt into the water and dragged the man back to shore.
Howard and Beverley Mainwairing, they were called. Georgina made me take them both to casualty. I had to walk back home and get the car. It turned out Georgina and Howard had been at school together when they were kids. A fortnight later they came to the house with a bottle of wine and Kipling’s jumper. Georgina loved it. She made him wear it when she took him out for a walk, even in summer. He used to come back panting. ‘He’s red hot,’ I used to tell her. ‘That jumper’s going to kill him’. But it made no difference, she made him wear it anyway. She was so proud. I remember the look he used to give me when he saw it coming out of the drawer. He wished he’d let poor Howard drown.
Kipling hasn’t been the same since Georgina’s first stroke. He always knew that something was wrong. When Georgina was at her worst, he spent most of his time with Don. They did everything together. Biscuits, walks and bath times. Don said it saved on water. Like when he uses Fairy Liquid instead of bubble bath, soap and shampoo. Three in one. Everyone knows when Don’s had a bath. A huge cloud of suds and foam runs from his drain to the pavement and into the street. Kipling loved living there. He liked the peace and quiet. He got sick of all the people coming to our house. The strangers with their briefcases and their cups of tea in the kitchen. He’d often make a break for it. Or at least he did before he got ill. I’d be in the garden with the front door open. He’d creep slowly up the path, through the gate and over to Don’s house. I’d let him think that I hadn’t noticed, go and fetch him at the end of the day. ‘How’s he been?’ I’d say to Don. ‘No problem, Gordon. No bother at all. Just let me know if there’s anything else that I can do.’
The truth is, I never did let Don know when something needed doing, because I didn’t have to. He was always there regardless. Always available and always willing to help. He’d wash my car and cut the lawn. He’d do odd jobs around the house. Anything to keep himself busy and make my life easier. The one thing that he didn’t do was help me care for Georgina. Not directly. He never offered either, because he knew I’d never let him. On Tuesdays and Thursdays Don would wait until she’d gone to bed and then he’d come over. We’d spend the rest of the evening together. Georgina would be exhausted by half past seven. Worn out by her exercises and the need to keep going, the struggle to adjust to our new way of living. When she was ready, I’d help her upstairs and into her pyjamas. We’d stand at the bathroom sink and clean her teeth together, my hand round hers to help her hold the toothbrush. Then I’d tuck her into bed, kiss her goodnight and wait for Don to arrive.
‘Evening Gordon.’ He’d step into the house, take off his coat and hang it over the radiator in the hall. ‘Warm it up for the return journey,’ he’d say.
‘Tea, Don?’
‘Yes please.’
‘How many sugars?’
‘What day is it? Tuesday. Just the one thank you.’
‘Pickled onion?’
‘Yes please.’
‘I’ll bring it through when it’s ready. Sit yourself down in there.’
We’d sit in the living room and talk like we did when we were young. He’d tell me about his wife that barely was and we’d laugh about it together. They were the same stories he’d been telling me for thirty years. The same characters with the same punch lines. And I didn’t mind listening, because it was better than being on my own. Occasionally, Don would try to talk about Georgina. He’d ask me how I was coping and if I’d thought about taking a break, going somewhere nice, speaking to my mother and father. I’d change the subject or pretend I didn’t understand what he was getting at.
Mostly I didn’t mind him asking, but sometimes my frustration got the better of me. My anger at what had happened. At the speed of Georgina’s progress. Don would try to reassure me that things would eventually get better, but that would only make things worse. I’d tell him not to be so patronising. Not to pretend that things weren’t as bad as they were. He absorbed my words aga
in and again. He would always understand. He would never complain. I don’t know what I would have done without him.
Inkling
It rained on our wedding day. Georgina ran from the taxi to the church. Her dress dragged across the floor, her heels flicked dirty water up her back. She looked beautiful. My parents and Georgina’s mother sat behind us on the front row. My father wore a grey cardigan with pink stripes across the chest and a pink shirt underneath. Georgina told him he couldn’t wear a suit because he always wore a suit. She said pink was the theme. He wasn’t happy about it, although the cardigan wrapped nicely round his arm, which he’d broken falling from his lorry the week before.
We had the reception at the community centre, the same place we’d said goodbye to Georgina’s father, just two years previous. It was almost identical. The same people and the same drinks. The same music by the same DJ. Only the buffet was different. My mother prepared it herself. She put the tables up and the food out. No-one was allowed to go near. She knew where everything needed to be, right down to the last sausage on a stick. My father tried to steal a slice of quiche before the buffet opened. But she’d been watching like a hawk and punched him in the ribs before his fingers reached the plate.
Georgina sat on my knee in the corner of the room. She had her arm around my neck and her hand on my cheek. We watched her mother with the DJ again, dragging him to the floor and forcing him to dance with her. She grabbed the back of his head and hauled him close, jammed it between her neck and her shoulder. Georgina laughed out loud. ‘Look at her,’ she said. ‘I wish my Dad could see her now.’ And she pointed to her mother’s hands as they worked their way down the DJ’s back and clawed his buttocks.
