by Iain Broome
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ I ask. Angelica’s in my kitchen again. She’s leaning against the wall and warming her hands on the radiator. ‘Yes please,’ she says. I fill the kettle with water.
‘I thought you weren’t going to bother.’
‘Yes, sorry it’s late. I could see your light on, so I guessed you were still up.’
‘Which light?’
‘I don’t know. Probably the landing. My toilet won’t flush.’
‘What have you done to it?’
‘Nothing. I’ve been at it all night. It worked fine this morning.’
‘It’s the rain.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘The rain’s messed with your plumbing.’
‘How?’
‘I’ve no idea, but whenever it rains like it did today, something usually happens to someone.’
‘Really?’
‘Ina Macaukey’s drains burst last year. It stank to high heaven.’
‘I think I’ll ring someone in the morning.’
‘And the water’s always brown.’
‘I can’t say I’ve noticed.’
We’re standing on opposite sides of the room. I don’t feel guilty anymore. Georgina’s upstairs and she’s fine. No better, no worse. Instead, I feel anxious. It’s Angelica’s fault. She’s not like she was before. She seems anxious too. Her eyes are fixed on the table between us, the newspaper open at the page with the coupon. She scrapes one of her high heels back and forth along the floor tiles, slowly and without a sound. The kettle spits and gurgles as the water starts to boil. I should never have mentioned Benny before. She’s still annoyed at me.
‘Tea’s ready,’ Angelica puts her elbows to the wall and pushes herself upright. She pulls a chair out and sits down at the table. I take two mugs from the draining board. The mugs we drank from this afternoon.
‘Gordon,’ she says. ‘Does Georgina know about Don?’
‘Know what?’
‘Have you told her he’s passed away?’
‘No, not yet.’
‘He spoke of her kindly, you know.’
‘She’s still upset about Kipling. It would be too much.’
‘Would she not have liked to have been at the funeral?’
‘She hates funerals.’
‘Okay, it’s just that Morris said... ’
‘Morris knows nothing. She wouldn’t have been well enough.’
‘I thought she was fighting fit again.’
‘She is. She’s fine. She’s been well looked after.’
This is not what I expected. I’m being rude. Why is she asking me questions about Georgina? She’s never met her. We should talk about something else. But now I’m thinking about Don, dead in his shed. Kipling in the sink. Georgina in her bed clothes.
‘How long’s she staying with your mum and dad? I’d love to meet her. She sounds like an incredible woman.’
‘She is,’ I say, without thinking about my answer first. I don’t know where to look, so I try everywhere. At the walls, floor and ceiling. Through the kitchen window. At the clock on the front of the cooker. It reads 12:38 in the morning. The numbers made from short luminous lines.
‘When’s she coming back?’
‘Soon,’ I say. ‘She’ll be back soon.’
‘Don said you sold your car.’
‘I did.’
‘I can drive you when you pick her up, if you like.’
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘I don’t mind.’
‘Really, it’s quite all right.’
‘Well, I’m happy to help. Or I’m sure John would take you, if you’d prefer. I can ask him. It’s no problem.’
‘No, not John. I don’t want John to take me.’
‘I’ll take you then. You’ve seen the car.’
This is too much. I want to tell her the truth. I want to say, she’s not at my mum and dad’s because I haven’t spoken to them for more than a year. They don’t know the half of it and that’s the way they like it. Georgina’s upstairs. She’s had another stroke and I’m looking after her. That’s right, another stroke. Do you want to help me? Do you? Fine. Thought not. Let’s eat cake and do magic.
‘That’s very kind of you,’ I say. ‘I’ll let you know when she’s ready.’ Angelica smiles without opening her mouth, nods her head and folds her arms. She leans back on her chair and balances it on two legs. The toes of her shoes on the floor. She looks like a child in a classroom. Causing trouble. Being naughty.
‘Okay,’ she says. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
I drink my tea in three long gulps. It burns my tongue and throat. I’ll probably get an ulcer.
‘Would you like another cup of tea?’
‘I’ve not started this one yet. You must be thirsty.’
‘How about some more magic?’
‘No, I need my beauty sleep. I just wanted to bring the paper over. I’ll be off once I’ve drunk my drink.’
‘But you’ve only just got here.’
‘It’s very late.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
‘Remember to send your coupons off tomorrow. There’s a closing date.’ She reaches for her drink and loses her balance. She falls forward in her chair. Its front legs crash to the floor. She waits a moment, checks she’s still in one piece. Then she laughs out loud. She has metal-coloured fillings in her back teeth. Each and every one of them, left side and right. I can’t believe I’ve not noticed before.
Note: When brushing, always stand to the side or behind. Keep one hand free to support the jaw. Adopt a gentle, repetitive motion. Excess toothpaste can be spat without rinsing. Bowl necessary. Note end.
Angelica finishes her tea. She stands up and shakes her ponytail. This hasn’t gone to plan. Too much sitting in silence. Too much talk of Georgina. The clock on the cooker says 12:51. I don’t know why she’s stayed so long. I’m not sure why she came at all. I bet John Bonsall put her up to it. I bet they feel sorry for me, because I missed the funeral. They think I’m upset. They want to fetch Georgina from my Mum and Dad’s. They want to make sure we’re all right. The both of us. Me and my wife. Always asking questions. Always being helpful. I bet Judy’s in on it too. Being kind. Poking her nose in.
‘Would you like some more cake on a plate?’
‘No, thank you. I’ve not eaten the first piece yet. Plus I’ll get fat.’
‘You’re not fat.’
‘No, I said I’ll get fat.’
‘Not for your age.’ She stops and glares. I try to smile. ‘You know what I mean,’ I say. ‘Not like that.’ And her mouth softens. She wraps her coat tight around her waist. She nods and smiles.
‘Can I use your toilet?’
‘Yes.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes, it’s fine. Honestly.’
‘I don’t want to risk mine.’
‘It’s no problem.’
Of course it’s a problem. Georgina’s door could have opened when the draught came in with Angelica. She could be awake and waiting for me to sit with her. For me to make sure she’s taken her medication. For me to keep her alive. Angelica walks across the kitchen. I need to go with her. I need to check Georgina’s door.
‘Which one is it?’ she says. I follow her, put my arm across her chest and stop her from climbing the stairs.
‘Would you mind if I go first? I’m desperate.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Shall I wait on the landing?’ I put my hand on the rail, climb halfway up the stairs and look through the gaps in the banister. Georgina’s door is closed. I feel my heart rate slow a little.
‘Yes, that’s fine. I’ll be quick.’
Angelica follows me upstairs. I open the bathroom door and step inside, lock it behind me. I empty the glass that I keep my toothbrush in and rinse it under the tap. Then I hold the glass against the door, press my ear to the bottom and listen to Angelica’s footsteps. She’s pacing the landing. She�
��s humming to herself. I hope she doesn’t sing. It’ll be too loud. It’ll wake Georgina. When can I open the door? How long does it take to go to the toilet? I’ve never timed it. Another ten seconds maybe. That should do the job. The footsteps stop. So does the humming. I put the glass back on the corner of the bath in the exact same position. A dark ring to guide me. I put my toothbrush in it, walk back across the bathroom and unlock the door. I open it as slowly and as quietly as possible. Angelica’s in the spare room. She’s standing next to the curtain looking out across the street. She’s standing where I stand.
‘Your turn,’ I whisper, but she ignores me. I walk across the landing, wrap my fingers round the door frame, turn the light on with my thumb. Our reflections appear in the window. She glares via the glass.
‘Turn it off.’ Her arms are folded and her hands are clasped around her shoulder blades. I can see her wedding ring.
‘I said, turn it off.’ And this time I do. I sit on the end of the bed with my head in my hands. Angelica sits down next to me.
‘That’s Benny,’ she says.
‘I know.’
‘What’s he doing?’
‘He’s painting.’
‘With his eyes closed.’
‘Yes.’
She stands up again, turns 360 degrees around the room. She looks up and down the walls. At the single bed and its slept-in sheets. At the empty bookcase. I should have gone to the funeral. I can hear Don’s pockets rattling, somewhere in the distance. His whistling in the street. Angelica looks at me through the darkness. I can see the whites of her eyes changing shape, getting thinner as they close. I think she’s smiling. She puts her hand on the curtain.
‘What else can you see?’ she says.
Practice
My father was a ballroom dancer. He took it up when he got made redundant. He said losing his job was the best thing that could have happened to him. These were going to be the best years of his life. It was time to do something different. He’d been sat in that lorry for far too long. He told us his plans over Christmas dinner, a forkful of stuffing in one hand, a glass of whiskey in the other. We all laughed at him. Georgina made jokes about his weight. My mother called him a stupid old man. I slapped him on the back and told him he’d never live it down. We took it in turns to make fun at his expense. All of us except Mary, who said nothing. She smiled politely and sometimes laughed along. But she never joined in. She simply sat in her chair and drank gin by the glassful, her party hat skewed on her head.
Three weeks into January, she became my father’s dance partner. They had lessons at the leisure centre. It was fifteen miles away, but that didn’t matter. My father loved it. He got himself a suit fitted and bought a pair of expensive shoes. He polished them every day. I asked him if anyone else wore a suit just for lessons. He said, ‘No, only me.’ They went every Monday for the first six months, then Thursdays as well after that. He talked of mambos and boleros, quicksteps and competitions. She barely mentioned it at all. Georgina said it was because her mother was shy. She didn’t like to show off like my father did. ‘That’s funny,’ I said. ‘It never used to bother her.’
*
When my mother turned sixty, my father threw a party. They had it at home, the house I grew up in. Georgina baked a birthday cake. I helped her squeeze the icing and watched her place cherries around the edge. Artificial flowers in the centre. The house was full of people, everyone tightly packed into the living room. My mother cleared the furniture especially, pushing the sofa to the wall to leave a space in the middle. She packed away her ornaments. My father turned the television round. He’d invited most of his old workmates. I didn’t recognise any of them. Nobody knew who they were. They all looked the same. Large and full of ale. There were five women there. Georgina, her mother, my mother and two of my mother’s friends. One was called Jackie, the other Barbara. They sat in the corner, chatted away while my father proposed a toast.
‘To my darling wife, happy birthday and God bless.’ He raised his glass in the air. Everyone else did the same. My mother blushed. The man next to me, one of my father’s workmates, leaned over to me and whispered, ‘Which one’s his piece then?’ and I looked up at him, shook my head and said, ‘I don’t know. I’m his son.’ He stood and stared at me. Then he laughed, said, ‘Of course you are. I’m just joking with you.’ I nodded and mustered a smile. We stood next to each other and said nothing more until my father finished his speech. Then he turned to me again, looked uncomfortable, said, ‘Cheers pal,’ and left to get another can of beer from the kitchen.
At midnight, we made my father dance with Georgina’s mother. At first they’d both refused. They said they were too drunk. Not enough practice. Everyone would laugh. But we wouldn’t let it go. My father’s workmates were remorseless. They teased him and swore in unison. ‘Daft old bastard,’ they called him. ‘Ballroom dancing bollocks. Show us your fucking shoes.’ My father laughed it off. He was used to it. But my mother wasn’t. She got upset. She grabbed his arm and said, ‘Why not give it a go. It’ll shut them up. Plus I’ve never seen you dance together.’ Mary still said nothing. She just glared at my father. It was his decision. This was his fault. ‘All right, all right,’ he said. ‘Give me five minutes.’
My father left the room and went upstairs to get changed. He came back ten minutes later wearing his suit and shoes. He looked immaculate. He stood in the middle of the room and pointed at the record player. I lifted the needle and everyone cheered as the music started. My father held out his hand. Mary stood up and walked over to him. She let him hold her in his arms. And then they danced, moved around the room in fits and starts. We watched in disbelief, clutched our drinks and winced. They were terrible. Hopeless. When it was over, we applauded politely. No jokes. No swearing. It was that bad. Like they’d never had a lesson in their lives.
*
My father found Mary dead in the garden. She was lying on her front and wearing her dressing gown. It had ridden up above her knees as she’d fallen. Her legs were on show. They were yellow and blue. The ambulance came quickly, but it was far too late. She’d been there at least forty-eight hours, they said. Georgina blamed herself. She said she should have seen it coming. Her own mother, for God’s sake.
‘You’re being silly,’ I told her. ‘It’s just one of those things.’
‘No, it’s not, Gordon. It was only a matter of time. We knew everything. We could have done something. So could your father.’
‘There’s no use blaming him. It’s no-one’s fault.’
‘You’re wrong. We should have done something.’
My father stood with Georgina as they lowered Mary’s coffin into the ground. He was devastated. It crippled him. He’s never been the same. Three months after the funeral, he put the house up for sale. A month later they’d moved. Time for a change, he said. Too many memories. He was right, there were plenty of memories, but they weren’t all bad. I grew up in that house. He wasn’t the only person to live there. We lived there too. Me and my mother. Birthdays and Christmases. Easter eggs and Pancake Days. It was the place we returned to when we’d been on holiday. I remember at night, before I went to bed, the way my mother used to sit on the carpet, watching television. She said it was because of her eyes. They needed looking at. I remember my father sitting in his chair behind her, stroking her shoulders, sighing to himself and playing with her hair. And Sunday lunchtimes after church. My mother’s roast dinners and Georgina’s parents. All six of us sat round a table made for four.
The drinking. The laughter. The rumours.
I remember everything.
Quarantine
After her first stroke, when she’d learnt to talk again, Georgina said she wanted to dance. She thought it would improve her balance. It would do her some good. Doctor Richmoor told her she should take things one step at a time, but that she had to have something to aim for. She needed long-term goals and there was no reason why dancing couldn’t be one of them. He retired last year,
moved to New Zealand with his son and his family. Jonathan replaced him. There’s more than forty years between them. He knew my mother and father, treated them for decades. And Georgina’s parents too. He knew about her father’s lungs, but stayed true to his word when asked not to tell. There was nothing he could do, he said, but wait.
It was Doctor Richmoor who helped Georgina. When she first came home from hospital, he organised everything. We trusted him implicitly. He made sure we had everything we needed, from specialists and social workers to bath rails and wheelchairs. Whenever someone new came to see us, he pencilled in a home visit. The speech therapist, nurse or whoever else was with Georgina would do what they had to do while he sat in the kitchen drinking soup from a mug. He never drank tea or coffee. Just like Georgina. And he never interfered unless I asked him to. When I did ask, he always reassured me, telling me they knew what they were doing. ‘Watch and learn,’ he used to say. When I told him I wanted to take early retirement, he went through my pension scheme and made sure that we got benefits. When I rang him in the middle of the night and told him Georgina had fallen out of bed, he got in his car and drove round in his pyjamas. When I told him I couldn’t cope anymore, that I thought it might be best if Georgina moved to a nursing home, he spoke to me for more than an hour. He made his other patients wait, asked me to think about the progress she’d made, told me to start making lists. ‘Write things down,’ he said. ‘It’ll make life easier.’
