by Iain Broome
‘No, I don’t think so, dear.’
‘You’ll save money in the long run.’
‘No, I only need one pair. I’ll run them under the tap when I get home.’
She puts her gloves on and picks up the pit bull faeces with two hands, cupped like she’s drinking from a fountain. Then she opens the bin with her elbow, drops the faeces inside. Her dog comes to sit next to me on the bench. We watch her rip the gloves off her hands with her teeth. She bites them at the wrists, whips them away in one movement. Now inside out, she puts them back in her pocket and whistles to the dog. He trots proudly after her.
Ten minutes later, Mr Bowmer strides into the playground ringing a large brass bell. It makes an incredible sound. He only stops ringing when the last child is inside. He was assistant head for twenty-six years, during which he applied for the top job on three occasions, but never got it. On the last occasion they appointed Georgina. Fifteen years ago. We argued about it.
‘Why aren’t you happy for me?’
‘I am happy for you.’
‘You don’t look like you are.’
‘I am. You deserve it.’
‘Work isn’t everything,’ she said. ‘You can get whatever job you like.’
‘Not really.’
‘Yes you can. You’re young enough. You should be happy for me. I’ve worked hard for this.’
‘What’s your job got to do with my job?’
‘You’re not happy.’
‘I’m fine. Congratulations. Honestly.’
Mr Bowmer’s hair is parted and plastered to his head and his trousers are two inches too short. Georgina detested him. She’d detest him even more if she knew he’d finally taken her job. They gave her a year to get well again after her first stroke. When she didn’t make it, they said they had to look elsewhere. They said that they were sorry. It took another six months of interviews before they eventually appointed Bowmer. He started the job a fortnight ago. It was in the paper. I watch him prowl the empty schoolyard. He takes long slow steps, pausing every so often to look behind him. He walks past the outside toilets, a small terrapin building that’s in need of replacing. There’s a tap on one side for the children to drink from. He puts his hand in his jacket and pulls out a pair of pliers. I take out my notepad and pen.
Note: Time taken for it to stop dripping = 19 minutes and 11 seconds. Cut finger or thumb. Swears like Angelica. Sweats too much. Note end.
The cemetery also has a tap. It’s attached to a piece of rotting wood that prevents its thin pipe from bending. People bring their jugs, beakers and empty washing up bottles to water their wreaths and flowers. The tap is being used by two men wearing identical jogging suits. I’ve seen them before, in the surgery waiting room. They are twins, around my age. I watch them fill their bottles with water, do a lap of the cemetery grounds then make their way out again. They both turn, hold up their hands and wave as they run past me. They take swigs from their bottles. All in perfect unison. Georgina and I had matching waterproof coats. We got them from a hiking shop on holiday. The ‘Jacket in a Packet’. Buy one, get one free. They were black with a yellow stripe down the left arm. Don Donald had special ‘his and hers’ handkerchiefs made for him and his wife. He still wears ‘his’ in the pocket of his suit jacket. She took ‘hers’ with her when she left. John and Patricia Bonsall have the same florescent rubber suits. They wear them in the winter, to do the garden. I have all this on file, of course. Pages of it, under I for ‘Identical clothing’.
I decide to walk the long way home and leave the cemetery via the south exit, which backs onto one of the new housing estates. Not that it’s new anymore – they built it twenty years ago. Each street named after a type of tree or shrub. Oak Drive, Azalea Avenue, Chestnut Way. I walk for half a mile before the estate comes to an abrupt end, where the houses stop and the latest opencast coal site begins, a steep bank separating the two. It’s only been here eighteen months. I stop and listen for the machines on the other side of the hill, deep in the ground. But I hear nothing, complete silence. Like there’s nobody there.
It never used to be like this. There were no barriers around the site to stop you getting in, no noise monitors or acoustic fencing. Just a great, dirty hole in the ground, with even dirtier machines to make it wider and deeper. These days, the council agree specific sound levels with the environmental agency. There are rules and regulations in place. Back then we had a permanent growl that petered to a hum the further away you were from the nearest cut. These days, I may not hear the machines, but I can smell them. A faint whiff of dust and oil. It hangs in the air and scratches my throat. Most people don’t notice, but I’ve lived here too long. I’m sensitised and cynical. I continue towards the centre of town, away from the site and nearer home. The smell disappears. It’s replaced by car fumes and freshly-lit cigarettes. A queue outside Tesco. The building that transformed us from a village into a town. Like a cathedral in a city.
I turn into Cressington Vale. Benny is walking towards me. His limp looks worse than usual. It’s quarter past nine in the morning. I had no idea. I’m usually home by now. Georgina will be waking up. I might have missed Angelica. I should have missed Benny, but he must be late for school. I want to stop him, talk to him. I want to tell him I’ve seen him painting with his eyes closed, that I know his secret. If he doesn’t answer my questions, I’ll tell everyone he’s a fraud. I want to grab him by the scruff of the neck, hold him up against a tree and shout, ‘Who do you think you are? You’re just a boy.’
‘Morning, Mr Kingdom,’ he says, striding past in his stupid jacket with the childish badges attached to the lapel. They are all black. I can’t read the writing.
‘You’re just a boy,’ I reply, once he’s out of earshot. He gets to the end of the street, turns around and looks at me. For a second, I think he’s going to say something, but he just smiles, turns again and walks away. I look towards Angelica’s house. The postman is knocking on her front door. I walk slowly down the street and into my garden. I face the house, look up at Georgina’s window and pretend to search for my keys in my coat pocket. If Angelica opens her door, I can wander over and ask the postman if he has any mail for me. The three of us can have a conversation. But he’ll have to leave. He’s got a job to do. I sneak a look over my shoulder. He’s already left Angelica. He’s moved next door and is shoving letters through the Martin’s letterbox. He has no patience.
I step into the house and take off my coat. Georgina needs her tablets. She’ll be wondering where I’ve been. There’s a peculiar smell. Pork scratchings, burnt toast and diarrhoea. It’s coming from the kitchen. I push the door open. The stench knocks me back. I have to hold my sleeve across my mouth and nose to stop me from gagging. There’s a pile of dog mess on the floor beneath the worktop. It’s splashed across the floor tiles and up the front of the cupboards. There is vomit on the draining board. I look at the wall, follow the lead from the plug in its socket to the toaster bobbing up and down in the sink. And then Kipling, with his head submerged and his eyes still open. Water and washing-up liquid. The tap dripping, like tears into an oil slick.
Kipling
‘Hello? Yes, hello. I’d like to cancel an appointment. Yes. Yes. This afternoon. No, Kipling Kingdom. No. Well, I’m afraid it’s rather too late for that. Yes. I’m absolutely positive. Thank you. Goodbye.’
‘Sorted?’
‘Yes, I think so.’
I give Don his phone back. Mine is still unplugged and Don thinks it’s broken. He only bought his yesterday. It’s cordless, which means he can stand twenty-five metres from the receiver and it’ll still work. He’s very pleased with it. We’re about to bury Kipling. It’s been two hours since I found him. I spent the first hour clearing up the mess in the kitchen and the second digging a hole in the front lawn. Don’s wearing the suit he got married in. It’s black velvet. For special occasions. I told him he didn’t need to change, but he insisted. I’m still in my walking clothes. I’ve taped the hole in Ki
pling’s box so his head won’t hang out. I roll my shoulders and take a deep breath. Georgina is sleeping inside. Don thinks she’s staying with my parents. He looked surprised when I told him. The morning clouds are beginning to separate. Blue sky is appearing in patches. It looks like the sun might come out.
‘Dog dead is it?’ says a voice from the other side of the garden fence. It’s Annie Carnaffan, our next door neighbour.
‘Go away,’ says Don. ‘You’re not welcome here.’
‘I live here.’
‘That doesn’t mean you’re welcome.’
I remember Annie Carnaffan’s face the day Georgina arrived home from hospital in a converted minibus. They opened the back doors and lowered her wheelchair onto the road. A face at every window. One of the hospital staff started pushing her towards the house, but I stopped them. I wanted to push her. It was my job. I grabbed the handles and took over. Halfway down the path one of the wheels got caught on a crack in the concrete. The chair toppled over and Georgina began to fall. I couldn’t take her weight. But Don was behind me and managed to grip the arm of the chair. He pulled it steady. I stopped, composed myself, shaking. Someone was watching me. Annie Carnaffan, grinning from behind her bedroom window, her face scrunched at the eyes, searching for misery. And I’ll never forget it. I won’t forgive her.
‘Just get on with it,’ she says. Don opens his mouth to say something back, but stops as Gerald Winnett-Smith, my other next door neighbour, slams his front door shut. We hear his wife, Bonnie, stamping upstairs, so Gerald knows she’s not just angry, she’s very angry. He tugs at his coat sleeves, nods in our direction and walks sheepishly down the street. I don’t speak to the Winnett-Smiths either. Georgina overheard them talking during one of their barbecue ‘gatherings’. We were in the garden. Georgina was reading and I was asleep. ‘They’ve never had kids, you know. I hear Gordon fires blanks.’ I remember waking up, desperately needing the toilet. Georgina was at the other end of the garden, her thumb on the end of the hosepipe, water spraying gently over the fence and onto Gerald’s barbecue. ‘Go back to sleep,’ she mouthed as Bonnie started screaming. I winked at Georgina, smiled and gave her a double thumbs up.
Note: Winnett: a dried-up ball-like piece of excrement matted in the hairs between a person or animal’s buttocks. Often called clegnut or dingleberry. Note end.
We’ve had two minutes of silence, which is one more than they give to important people when they die. I’m trying to think of something to say, but can’t. Don is fidgeting next to me. I can hear him rattling. Loose change in every pocket. It’s stopping me from thinking straight. I want this over and done with. Kipling is dead. It’s hitting me. I don’t want to be here. I want to go inside and write something down. Sit behind a curtain. Bake a cake. I can hear Annie Carnaffan. She’s still there, wheezing behind the hedge. Horrible little woman. We should be burying her. Stop rattling. I have nothing to say. This is Jonathan’s fault. Stupid paedophile. Angelica is coming.
‘Good morning,’ she says, flicking the stub of her cigarette onto the pavement. ‘Or should that be afternoon?’
‘No, it’s still morning,’ Don replies. ‘Just.’
‘Oh well. What’re you two up to?’
She can’t see Kipling. I dug the hole next to the fence and she’s on the other side. She’s oblivious. Don’s looking at me. He wants to know what I want him to say. I don’t care what he says. I want to know if they’ve met before.
‘Watching squirrels,’ he says.
‘Really? Where?’
‘They’ve gone now. Two of them. One had a nut in its mouth. I think the other one was trying to steal it.’
‘Where did they go?’
‘They ran away. I think they were together. Like a couple.’ Angelica stares at Don. He nods at her. Like he’s never told a lie in his life.
‘So Gordon, is Kipling any better?’
‘Not really,’ I say.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. Do we know what’s wrong with him yet?’
‘He’s dead.’ She cups her mouth with her hands. I imagine the smell on her fingers. Stale smoke. She has mascara smudged across the bridge of her nose. She must’ve slept in it.
‘That’s awful. When?’
‘This morning.’
‘He electrocuted himself,’ Don butts in.
‘Oh my god, Gordon!’
He points at the box. Angelica leans over the fence, lets out a shriek and jumps backwards. She stands there, takes her hands from her mouth. I know what she’s thinking.
‘Did he do it on purpose?’ she asks.
‘I doubt it,’ I say. ‘He’s a dog.’
‘They throw themselves into quarries all the time,’ says Don.
‘Kipling doesn’t,’ I say, even though it doesn’t make sense. This is ridiculous. The whole situation is ridiculous. I have to get this over with. What a way to go.
‘Angelica, would you like to join us? We’re about to bury him,’ I say. She puts her hands under her armpits and folds her arms.
‘No, I shouldn’t. I hardly knew him.’ She edges away, starts walking back across the road.
‘Are you sure?’ shouts Don.
‘Yes, you two carry on.’
‘Okay, see you later Angie.’
Angie? Angie? So, they do know each other. I don’t believe it. Why would she be friends with Don? He’s just a lonely old man. I’ve never seen them talking. Hold on. She’s not shouting back. She’s still walking away from us. Maybe they’re not so familiar. Don’s just pushing his luck, calling her Angie like that. She’s opening the door. Going, going, gone. She doesn’t remember his name. But she knows my name.
‘Nice girl,’ says Don.
‘She’s forty-two,’ I reply.
‘Really? She doesn’t look it.’
‘Dogs don’t commit suicide,’ says a voice from beyond the fence. ‘They haven’t got the sense.’
‘I wish you had the sense, Annie,’ says Don. He waits for a reply, but for the second time in the space of a minute, he doesn’t get one. Instead, we hear the sound of heels scraping along concrete followed by the slam of a door.
‘Let’s get him buried,’ I say, bending down and lifting one side of the box. I can feel the weight transfer as Kipling slides to the other end. He’s incredibly heavy.
‘Quick, grab it.’
Don lifts his end and immediately looks like he’s about to keel over. His hands shake, the weight becomes too much and he has to let go. We drop it from a standing position. It hits the damp earth with an almighty thump. I imagine Kipling whimpering inside.
‘Where’s the spade?’ says Don. ‘You go and put your feet up. I’ll fill him in.’
Thirty seconds later. I’m behind the curtain watching Don to see if he steals my spade. He drags the soil into the hole with the back of the blade. It takes him seven minutes. When he’s finished, he gets on his knees and levels the soil with the palms of his hands. Then he puts them together and bows his head. It looks like he’s praying. A minute later he arches his neck to the sky and crosses himself. He gets it wrong, does it back to front. As he stands up and walks away, a squirrel jumps over the fence and buries a nut in Kipling’s grave. He’s not even cold. Don doesn’t notice. He’s busy crossing the road with my spade under his arm, wiping tears from his cheeks with his sleeves. I thought he might get upset, but I knew he’d want to help. That’s why I asked him. And I couldn’t lift the box on my own.
‘Does Georgina know?’ he’d said when I knocked on his door and broke the news.
‘No not yet.’
‘Is she still at your mum and dad’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you want to use the phone?’
‘No. I’ll tell her when she gets back. She’ll only get upset.’
‘You’re right. Probably for the best.’
Angelica has returned. She’s leaving her house, closing her door and walking towards Don. She shouts something to him. He stops and gives his eyes a final wipe. T
hen he leans on my spade like nothing’s happened. He’s fine. Just got something in his eye. Both eyes. She reaches out and puts her hand on his shoulder, tips her head to one side. She’s feigning sympathy. She doesn’t care. They hardly know each other. Don’s shaking his head and smiling. He’s fine, absolutely fine. He holds the spade like a cane and tries to jump and click his heels in the air. He gets three inches off the ground and twists his ankle when he lands. Angelica’s got her arm around his shoulder. There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s nodding his head and hobbling away. They’re saying goodbye. She smiles. He waves and limps. She wanders off down the street and into the distance, her arms folded as always. Her small steps.
I’ve been here fifteen minutes. I want a cup of tea and a piece of sponge cake. I need to check on Georgina. I can still smell Kipling’s diarrhoea. I told her it was me, that I’d only just made the toilet. It must have been those vegetables. I told her to rest, go back to sleep and that I’d check on her later. Then I closed the door and used my coat to block the gap at the bottom where the smell could get through. Kipling’s lead fell out of the pocket. Now it’s starting to rain and I can hear the floorboards creaking above me. Georgina must be waking. I want to wait for Angelica. I want to see if I can work out where she’s been. But I need to be upstairs. I need to drag my wife to her commode. Help her through the process. I need to lie and tell her that Kipling’s staying at Don’s tonight.
Ladders
Don helped me and Georgina decorate. We worked every weekend for six months and sometimes in the evenings after work. We finished the final room the week before we went on our honeymoon. My father came to join us for the last push. He arrived in a blue van with three ladders attached to its roof, each one a different size. He’d borrowed it from someone at work. A mate of his who owed him one. I was painting the windowsill in the bedroom when he pulled up outside our house. Georgina heard it from the bathroom. She came in to find out what the noise was. She stood behind me and put her hands on my shoulders. We watched him reverse up and onto the pavement. He turned the engine off, looked in the rear view mirror and ran his hands through his hair. I smiled as he stepped out of the van and looked up at the window. The three of us waved together. My father was wearing the clothes he wore for work. A pair of jeans and a plain white, long-sleeved shirt rolled up to the elbows. That’s what he always wore. If either garment developed a hole my mother would sew it up. When the hole came back she would do it again. If it became unsewable, she would buy him near-identical replacements. Jeans and rolled up shirt sleeves. My father’s work clothes. Soaked in coal dust and cigarette smoke. Grimy to touch and forever familiar.
