A is for Angelica

by Iain Broome

  I open Kipling’s file and put my hand inside the wallet. I can feel the picture, his paw print on the paper, hard and brittle. I reach to the bottom, pull out a tiny folded jumper with a red ‘K’ on the front. Then I go downstairs, pick Kipling up and sit him on my knee. His ears prick at the sight of the jumper. He looks me straight in the eye. ‘Don’t worry. She’s still sleeping,’ I tell him. ‘But she’s getting better.’

  Intimacy

  It’s Sunday again. I haven’t been to Mass because I don’t want to see Judy. This morning I spoke to Georgina and she almost spoke back. I’d been to the bathroom to get her medication, fill her glass with water and crush the tablets onto a saucer. I dipped my fingers into the water and turned to sprinkle droplets on her forehead. But she was awake. Her eyes were open. One eye more than the other, but they were open. I sat on the chair by the bed. Then I stood up and sat on the bed itself. I ran my wet fingers across her brow and down her cheek. I held her good hand. She closed her eyes slowly. Opened them again. ‘Good morning,’ I whispered. ‘Fancy a jog?’ She smiled. Her mouth changed shape. Her cheekbones lifted, glistened in the light from the bedside lamp. The trace of water from my fingers on her skin. I tried to let go of her hand but her grip tightened. Her lips moved like she was trying to speak. ‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘You’ve just woken up. Can you give me a squeeze?’

  That’s what we used to do. That was the system. I’d hold her hand and she’d let me know what she wanted. What she was feeling. What she needed me to do. It meant we could communicate. It meant that she got better.

  It was our code:

  One squeeze = Where?

  Two squeezes = What?

  Three squeezes = Why?

  Four squeezes = When?

  Five squeezes = How?

  Six squeezes = Who?

  Stroke palm = Yes

  Pinch finger = No

  She looked up at me, squeezed my hand three times. She opened her mouth and pursed her lips. The bottom lip more than the top. Her teeth tight together. She pinched my finger. Squeezed my hand again. Three times, with barely any force. ‘Mass? Of course I went. You were asleep,’ I said. She moved her hand slowly, tried to pinch my finger. ‘Honest. It was a short service, so I wasn’t gone for long. Judy’s father’s taken a turn for the worse.’ She closed her eyes again. For longer this time. ‘Come on, wake up. You need to take your tablets.’ I helped her to sit up in bed, supported the side that didn’t work. Her stupid side, as she used to call it. Last week I put our wedding photos back in the manual. We used to go through them together. The speech therapist said it might help. I’d say the names of friends and family members and ask Georgina to repeat them back to me. I never asked her to repeat my name because I couldn’t face her getting it wrong. Or not remembering. I’m going to start going through them again with her soon. I’m going to use some other pictures too. I’ve been cutting them out of magazines and newspapers. People, objects, animals. Like the pictures the therapist used. I might laminate them.

  I held the glass of water and helped Georgina take her tablets. She swallowed them at the second attempt. I wiped saliva from her chin and put the glass back on the bedside table. I put my hand back in hers. She’s getting stronger. We’re getting stronger. I felt it. She let go of my hand, turned it over and used her finger to write on my palm. Slowly, shaking, she carved invisible letters on my skin. TY = thank you. ‘You’re welcome,’ I said. ‘There’s a yoghurt in the fridge.’ She touched my palm again. One small soft stroke = yes. ‘I’ll fetch it in a minute. I need to do your exercises first.’ Georgina closed her eyes, grimaced as much as her muscles allowed. I smiled and let go of her hand, before she could pinch my finger.

  Job-hopping

  Georgina has been asleep for most of the afternoon. It’s three weeks since she had her second stroke and three weeks minus one day since Angelica arrived. I’m in the kitchen baking a sponge cake. I’m using a simple recipe. Just sponge, jam and cream, no icing. I don’t have time to make anything else because I’m cooking for Georgina. We’re going to eat together tonight. I’m going to put the fold-up picnic table by the side of her bed. I’m preparing mashed potatoes, carrots, cabbage and peas. Real ones, freshly prepared, not frozen or from a packet. I’m having mine with chicken and mushroom pie. Georgina’s having hers liquidised. This morning, I used the manual to test her swallowing again. I told her I’d fetched the blender back down from the loft. I asked her if she thought she was ready. I held her hand. One stroke = yes.

  I tell myself that she’s improving because it’s true. We know exactly what we are doing. We don’t need anyone. This morning, I watched her fall asleep again after she’d taken her tablets and eaten her breakfast. I sat on the chair by the bed and thought about how much better she looked. How much movement she’d regained. I watched her eyelids fight to stay open, just for a few seconds. The trace of a smile. She’d been awake for two hours and twelve minutes. I wrote it down. She’s sleeping less each day and soon she’ll be able to try walking again. I’ve been studying the manual. I remember everything we went through. We’ve done this before and we can do it again. Tonight, when we’ve finished our dinner, if Georgina’s not too tired, I’ll ask her if she feels like noughts and crosses.

  Georgina is still sleeping and I’m watching Angelica from behind the curtain. She’s spent over forty-five minutes at her living room window, looking out towards the entrance to the street. I’ve opened another file. She keeps pressing her cheek against the glass, like she’s expecting someone. Twenty minutes ago Don Donald pushed his wheelie bin to the end of his drive and stood next to it for a while, propped up by his elbow on the lid. He put his arm across his chest and arched his back. He was wearing a shirt, tie and pyjama bottoms. He looked old.

  Now it’s getting dark and curtains along Cressington Vale are closing. Angelica pulls hers shut and appears at her front door seconds later. She stands on the step, a silhouette against the light from the hallway behind her. She holds a cigarette in the air, her arm and hand bent into an L-shape. A sock puppet smoking. I look past her, along the hall and into the kitchen. I can see a figure standing at the sink. It’s a man. He’s washing plates and dishes. I can’t see his face. Angelica finishes her cigarette and steps backwards into the house, closing the door. I continue to stare at her curtains. The reflection of the street in her window. It wasn’t Benny. That would be impossible.

  Note: Over six feet tall. Blue jeans with a red, long-sleeved shirt. Sleeves rolled up. Dark hair, no shoes but wearing socks. Young. Twenties. Possibly younger. All guestimates. Difficult to see. May have been wearing an apron. Note end.

  My sponge cake has cooled. It’s perfect. I cut a slice and place it in Kipling’s bowl. He loves my sponge cake. He picks himself up from beneath the radiator, ambles over to the bowl and falls into a heap. He sniffs the cake while lying on his side. He twists his head so his chin rests on the rim of the bowl. He falls asleep without eating. I put the rest of the cake on the table, grab Kipling’s collar and drag him back to the radiator, where it’s warm. He doesn’t wake up. I’m taking him to the vets later this week. Jonathan didn’t give me the number because the phone is disconnected. I unplugged it at the wall fifteen minutes after Georgina’s stroke. But the surgery has our address. He could have put the number through the letterbox. He still let me down. Angelica gave me the number instead. She said I looked worried. I said I thought Kipling might still improve. She said I should get him seen to by someone who knows what they’re doing. I went to the newsagents and picked up a new box. It used to contain packets of crisps and there’s a hole in the side for your hand. Kipling’s head will fit through perfectly.

  The vegetables are ready. Overcooked to make them softer, easier to liquidise. I put my portion on a plate and put the plate in the oven to stop them going cold. I put Georgina’s in the blender and check for lumps when I’ve finished. Then I check again, make sure for certain that there aren’t any. I pour the liquid into a mug,
pick some up with a spoon and watch it slide back into the mixture. It’s thin enough for her to swallow. I take the plate out of the oven and put the chicken and mushroom pie next to the vegetables. I boil the kettle for the gravy. I put both the plate and mug on a tray and push the kitchen door open with my foot. Kipling opens his eyes, gets up from the radiator and stumbles after me. He’ll sit by the end of the bed while we eat. Georgina will hold my hand, ask me if he’s feeling any better. I’ll lie and tell her he’s going to be fine.

  Jinxed

  Georgina is a champion noughts and crosses player. She used to beat me all the time. We spent most of our honeymoon playing. We had a caravan overlooking the sea front, a narrow beach tapering out towards rocks and cliff tops either side, which we paid extra for. It rained all week, from start to finish. We spent most of our time indoors. The only time we went outside was to get the morning papers and a bottle of milk. Georgina’s mother arrived on the fifth day. She’d arranged to spend the second weekend with us. Georgina had insisted.

  ‘I can’t believe the weather down here.’

  ‘What’s it like at home, Mum?’

  ‘The sun’s shining. I’d have been better off staying where I was.’

  ‘You can go back if you want, Mary,’ I said.

  ‘Watch your mouth. I didn’t ask to come, I was invited.’

  ‘He’s just pulling your leg. Ignore him. We’re glad for the company. It’s been like this since we got here. You must be hungry.’

  Georgina stood up and walked from the living area to the kitchen. She started looking through the fridge. I picked up my pen and began ruling a new grid.

  ‘Gordon, do you have to draw so many squares?’ said her mother.

  ‘I’m afraid so. It’s too easy for her otherwise.’

  ‘I’ll never win anyway. I don’t see how it makes a difference.’

  ‘You’ve only been here a few hours. She’s been beating me all week. You can play me on my own later.’

  ‘How about a sandwich, Mum?’ Georgina shouted, from behind the fridge door. ‘We’ve got ham, cheese, tomatoes and beef. You can have some of Gordon’s Dad’s pickled onions as well, if you like. And we’ve got half a pork pie.’

  ‘I don’t think those onions are ready yet,’ I said. ‘They might need to wait a few weeks.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with them. She can have them if she wants. The people that were in before us left a yoghurt at the back. It’s still in date. Do you want that for pudding?’

  ‘What flavour is it?’ I said. ‘I might have that.’

  ‘Fruits of the forest, and no you won’t. Mum, what do you want to eat?’

  There was no answer. Georgina poked her head round the fridge door. I looked up from ruling my grid. Her mother was slouched on the sofa. She was staring into space.

  ‘Mum, are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘Why, what’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m fine, it’s just a little blurred.’

  ‘What do you mean, blurred?’

  ‘I think I need new glasses.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine. I can see you.’

  Georgina closed the fridge. She looked at me. I put down my pen and moved over to her mother. She tried to lift her arm for me to sit down, but could only drag it over the upholstery. I held her hand and squeezed her fingers.

  ‘Can you feel that?’

  ‘Of course I can. It’s just pins and needles. Get on with the game. I had a sandwich on the coach. I’ll not be hungry for an hour.’

  That night, the rain faded to a drizzle. Georgina sat on the caravan steps listening to the waves crashing against the rocks. I poured us both a cup of tea and sat behind her with my arms around her shoulders. Her mother was in bed. We sat and stared into the darkness. Just the two of us and the sound of the sea. Not a star in the sky.

  ‘Do you think we should have taken her to the doctor?’ I said.

  ‘She would never have gone.’

  ‘There’s a first aid place on the campsite. I checked before we booked.’

  ‘She’ll be all right. She’s fine now.’

  ‘She’s still slurring her words.’

  ‘Not like she was though. She’ll be fine in the morning.’

  ‘Well, let’s keep an eye on her. We could try and take her out tomorrow. It looks like it might brighten up.’

  ‘She’d like that. She hates noughts and crosses.’

  ‘She’s not the only one.’

  ‘Have we got any paper left?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘You’d better get your ruler out. My hair’s getting wet.’

  Killing time

  At four o’clock this afternoon, I’m taking Kipling to the vet. It’s now half past six in the morning and he’s asleep on the kitchen worktop. His back leg is half-hanging off the side. I don’t know how he got there. He must have started sleep walking again. I reach past him, take the toaster from the cupboard and plug it in at the wall. It sparks blue when I push the lever down. I sit at the table and wait. The clock above the washing machine ticks and tocks. It sounds louder than normal. I watch the red finger go round. The black fingers stay perfectly still. I could watch them all day and never see them moving, even though I know that they are.

  ‘Here comes breakfast, Kipling.’

  I spread jam straight onto the toast and bite the first slice before I spread the second. There’s another football in my back garden. It’s getting light outside and I can see it through the window. I’ll put it with the others under the stairs. Kipling belches in his sleep and for a second it looks like he might be waking up, but instead he snorts, breathes deeply and returns to his sleeping position. I finish my toast, put the plug in the sink and fill it with water and washing-up liquid. I wash my plate.

  ‘We should be going walkies now.’

  I sit back down at the table. There’s a cobweb in the corner of the room above the door. A daddy long legs trapped and flailing around. I watch until it gives up.

  ‘I think I’ll go on my own, Kip. You don’t mind, do you?’

  I go upstairs, hang my pyjamas in the wardrobe and get dressed into my walking clothes. Trousers over long woollen socks, a shirt, tie and an old jacket my father gave me years ago. Its pockets are deep enough to hold a notepad. I go back downstairs, pull Kipling’s lead from the key rack and throw it over my shoulder. I check on him before I leave the house. Surprise – he’s still on the worktop. I know I should lift him down, but I don’t want to wake him. He looks peaceful, almost healthy. So I open the front door. Step into the morning air.

  I’ve lived in this town nearly all my life, since my parents moved into my grandmother’s house when she died. I was two-years-old and the town was surrounded by enough fields to fend off the slow creep of new housing. For years, it was a farming village, enclosed by rolling hills and fertile soil. But beneath the soil they found coal, tonnes of it, and Gutterton Half was just the start. The first in a long line of temporary scars on the landscape. Gradually, the place I grew up in has disappeared. When they’ve extracted all the coal, they restore the land, and always improve it. But it’s never the same. Both above and below the surface.

  I walk from Cressington Vale along the paths that wind through backs of houses and out to Tickle Brook, a narrow stream that circles the town and runs into a reservoir fifteen miles away. To get there, it must go through a pub. The Wethouse. It opened last year and will be closed by Christmas. The water flows straight through the middle and under a bridge, dissecting the bar. It was supposed to be a feature, something to attract people to the town, something to take pride in. The landlord had his picture in the paper two weeks running. The first with the ever-grinning mayor, cutting a ribbon and declaring the pub open. The second trying to explain the sanitary towels and used condoms that were floating past the punters.

  Tickle Brook has a public footpath alongside it. This is the route I take with Kipling when he�
�s well enough. The dog mess bin is our turning point. It’s in the corner of an almost-full cemetery. Behind it there’s a small park. Just two swings and a seesaw covered in graffiti. Behind that is St Mary’s Junior School. Forty kids to every teacher. Georgina worked there for twenty-five years. Until she had her first stroke. We used to walk to the dog mess bin together. Her with an armful of folders, me with my sandwich bags.

  I walk quickly when Kipling’s not with me. It’s taken fewer than fifteen minutes and I’m already sat on the bench next to the bin. I take his lead from my pocket and twirl it like a lasso. Parents, mostly mothers, are getting their children to school. They kiss them goodbye and watch them through the school doors. The children collect in the playground before registration. The hedgerows are thin and I can see the playground swelling with bodies, hear it swelling with noise. I guess which one of them stitched the rocket into Judy’s scarf. A group of boys are fighting beneath the weeping willows on the far side. One of them spits on the floor, pushes a girl with his elbow. I decide it was probably him.

  An elderly woman comes through the gate and into the cemetery. She has a tight blue perm and a pit bull terrier. It squats casually, lifts its ribs and defecates next to a headstone. Then it stands up, looks at her as if to say, ‘There you go, sort that out’. The words engraved on the stone read, ‘James “Lucky Jim” McHoolie, 1899-1966, a wonderful granddad, father and son, in loving memory’. I wonder how many times it’s had a dog line up next to it, ready to soil. The old woman reaches into her coat pocket and pulls out a pair of disposable gloves.

  ‘Sandwich bags are cheaper,’ I say.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said it would be cheaper to use sandwich bags.’

  ‘You’ll have to speak up. I can’t hear a word you’re saying.’

  ‘Sandwich bags.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They’re cheaper than disposable gloves.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You should try them.’