A is for Angelica

by Iain Broome

  It’s now half past one in the morning. We’ve been sitting on the bed together for over a minute. We’re waiting for Benny. I’m drinking tea from a mug. Angelica’s drinking whiskey from a hip flask. She took it from her bag before we came upstairs. Now she has her feet on the valance. I want to tell her to remove them. They’ll make it dirty. But I don’t need to. She stands up, walks over to the window and rubs it with her sleeve. She seems agitated. She’s wearing a white cotton shirt. It sticks to her forearms.

  ‘I can’t believe this fucking rain,’ she says. ‘I think it’s getting worse.’

  ‘It’s about the same.’

  ‘Are you sure? I can’t see a thing.’

  ‘I’m positive.’

  ‘Well it looks worse to me. Maybe I’m just tired.’

  She puts her hand to her mouth as if she’s going to yawn but hiccups. I need to tell her about Georgina. I need to tell her before the situation gets any worse. This is the perfect time. I’ve said I’m going to do it and now I am. I should have done it sooner.

  ‘Angelica, there’s something I need to tell you.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s even there, you know.’

  ‘It’s quite important.’

  ‘What’s he pissing about at?’

  ‘It’s Georgina.’

  ‘Jesus Christ!’ She hits the window with the palm of her hand, so hard that it seems to bounce off the glass. If it weren’t double glazed, she’d have probably put her fist through. It shocks me into standing.

  ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘I just can’t see that’s all.’

  ‘But he’s not painting.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’ll break the window.’ She turns to face me. We are both on our feet, only inches between us. I can smell her breath and perfume. Her face is orange from the glow of the lights in the street. She is close enough to kiss me. She would never kiss me. I wouldn’t let her.

  ‘Are you an expert on windows?’ She’s annoyed with me. How would she like it if I tried to smash her window? She probably wouldn’t care. I think she’s going to swear at me. I think she’s going to leave. But perhaps not. Her shoulders are relaxing. She’s shaking her head. She’s going to apologise. She smiles and rolls her eyes.

  ‘I’m leaving, Gordon.’

  ‘There’s no need to leave. It’s only a window. I overreacted.’

  ‘No, I mean I’m moving out.’

  ‘Moving out?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can’t move out.’

  ‘I’m going back to my husband. We’re giving it another go.’

  ‘You only just moved in.’

  ‘He says he can forgive me.’

  ‘Can he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I didn’t know you’d done anything wrong.’

  ‘I didn’t. Not really. He thought I’d had an affair.’

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘I’m sorry about losing my temper.’

  ‘Did you have an affair?’

  ‘I guess I’m on edge about it all. I’m just tired. It’s all the late nights.’

  ‘But did you have an affair?’

  ‘Of course not. It doesn’t matter now. What were you trying to tell me?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You said you wanted to tell me something.’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘You said something about Georgina’

  ‘No I didn’t.’

  ‘Yes you did. Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘Is she finally coming home?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I mean yes. Not for long.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’

  ‘She loved her flowers. Did I tell you she loved her flowers?’

  ‘No, I don’t think you did.’

  ‘Well she did, she loved them.’

  ‘Okay. I’m glad.’

  ‘That was it. Georgina loved her flowers.’

  The cavalry has vanished. After all my preparation. I feel faint. I have to put my hand on the wall to stop myself from falling. I sit back down on the bed. Angelica turns to the window and rubs the glass with her sleeve. I look at the space where my files used to be. An empty bookcase gathering dust. She puts her hands on her hips and hiccups again. Benny has started painting. I need another cup of tea.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she says.

  ‘I’m making a drink. Do you want one?’

  ‘Water, please. It might get rid of my hiccups.’

  I take a glass from the cupboard and run it under the tap to wash the dust out. I fill it with cold water and place it on the worktop. I put the kettle on to boil, sit down at the table and wait. It’s almost two o’clock in the morning. I’ve been watching Benny for months so I’m used to the late nights. But tonight I’m tired. In fact, I’m exhausted. And now Angelica is leaving. She’s been here six weeks and I have several files worth of notes on her. I’ve bought her gifts and she’s met my parents. Right now, she’s the only person who can help me. But she won’t be here to do it. She’ll go when she’s still needed.

  The kettle boils. As I stand up, I notice Angelica’s handbag. It’s pink like her slippers. And she’s left it unzipped. I could put my hand in. I could open it and look inside. She’d never know. I put a teabag in a mug. There are two bottles of milk in the fridge. One of them is full, the other almost empty. I take the bottle that’s already been opened and check the label. I look back at the bag. It’s almost like she’s left it there on purpose. Like she wants me to look. The rain has eased or the wind died down. It’s definitely quieter. If she comes downstairs I’ll hear her footsteps. I finish making tea and put the mug next to the glass of water on the worktop. There’s a notepad in the cupboard under the sink. It’s for emergencies. This is an emergency. I take it out and grab a pen from the cutlery drawer. I walk over to the table, put my hand in Angelica’s bag and start taking things out.

  Note: Angelica’s inventory = Tissues. Nail polish (three colours). Make-up. Mirror. Photo Album. Swiss army knife. Note end.

  I put the items on the table. The bag is huge. I thought there’d be more in it. The photo album has a red cover and the word ‘Love’ printed across the top in gold lettering. I open it carefully. My fingers shaking. It holds two photos. One is of a man around my age. He has a moustache and is standing beside a boat. It was taken during summer. Or in another country. The other photo is of a boy, except he doesn’t look like a boy. He looks like a man. It’s a school photograph and he’s sitting in front of a blue background with books painted on for effect. It could’ve been taken anywhere. He has a wide smile and dark hair. I’ve seen him before. In Angelica’s kitchen. He looks exactly like her.

  I’ve been downstairs for almost nine minutes. Angelica’s hiccups might have gone by now. I should go back up. If I tell her about Georgina, she might change her mind about leaving. She’ll feel guilty and stay. One by one I put the items back into the bag. Apart from the purse, which is leather and has the letter ‘A’ stitched into the side. It looks almost new. Slowly, I undo the clasp. My tea is going cold. She’ll be wondering where I am. The purse is full of notes, but no cards. I take them out, lick my thumb and count them. Two hundred and forty pounds. Ten twenties. Three tens. Two fives. I fold the notes and put them back in the purse. There is a zipped compartment sewn into the lining of the bag. I pull the zip and put my fingers inside. I can feel one object. It is long and round. I take it out and put it on the table. A thick, black marker pen. I stare at it for a while. A minute. Maybe two. Then I place it back inside the purse. There must be some mistake.

  Benny has extinguished his candles and Angelica is asleep on the bed in the darkness. Her hair lies loose across her cheek and her feet are under the covers. The hip flask is on the floor. I put our drinks on the bookcase.
Second shelf down from the top. I need to wake her. This is where I sleep. ‘Angelica,’ I whisper. No response. I bend my back, lean closer. ‘Angelica, you’ve fallen asleep.’ Again, nothing. It must be the drink. I raise my voice a little, ‘I’ve brought your water. How are the hiccups?’ She doesn’t answer. She lies there motionless. Her chest isn’t moving. I put my fingers to her wrist and check her pulse out of habit. She’s alive. Of course she’s alive. I shake her gently by the shoulder. I speak at my normal volume, ‘Angelica, it’s gone two o’clock. You can’t sleep here.’ Her fingers twitch.

  ‘David, I’m fine,’ she says softly, without waking. I look around for a notepad, but they’re all in the loft. Or under the kitchen sink. I don’t really need one anyway. I can remember a name.

  ‘Angelica?’ Back to nothing. ‘Angelica?’ She’s not going anywhere. She’ll have to stay here. I could sleep on the sofa and use the spare sheets from the airing cupboard. They should be warm enough. I’ll wake her early and ask her downstairs for breakfast. Tea and toast for two. It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow. I can give her the card I’ve made. My way of saying thank you. That’s all. She’ll be polite and appreciative. Then we’ll sit at the table and talk. I’ll ask her about the marker pen. She’ll explain everything. Then she’ll say she’s sorry for falling asleep. That she can’t believe how tired she must’ve been. And I’ll say it’s fine, no bother at all. Then we’ll be quiet and struggle for something to say. Until she asks about Georgina. Then I’ll crack a joke. And we’ll laugh together. But she’ll ask me again. And I’ll tell her the truth. She’ll completely understand. She’ll change her mind about leaving.

  I reach across the bed and pull the covers over her. She doesn’t flinch or make a sound. I stand up straight, look out at the street and see Benny. He’s standing by his window, looking in my direction with his hands in the air. He holds them in front of his face with thumbs and index fingers touching each other. They make a shape. An oval, like an egg or an eye. Can he see me? I’m in darkness, but I haven’t been paying attention. I haven’t been hiding. I stay perfectly still and look back. We’re two shadows, our eyes alert and adjusted. I could stand here like this until he moves. I could signal to him. Or I could pretend that nothing’s happening. I could reach across and pull the curtain. Calm and casual. I’ve not done anything wrong. Unless he saw Angelica. Then he’ll be suspicious. I can hear her breathing heavily behind me. I raise my arms and pretend to stretch. I walk to the window, look down at the puddles on the road and up at the clouds in the sky. They are deep blue and black, like a swirling bruise. But I don’t look back at Benny. I simply close the curtains. Leave him outside with the night.

  Umbrage

  It’s ten past five in the morning. I’m sitting on the chair next to Georgina’s bed. If it were spring or summer, it would be light outside. But it isn’t. It’s dark and starless. Like the night we got trapped by the tide, less than two years ago. We’d gone away for the weekend. For Georgina’s birthday. It was my treat. We stayed by the coast and walked along the cliff top both days before dinner. The wind made it cold, but the view was worth it. We had a wonderful time. That afternoon was colder than most. We wore gloves and held hands, our ‘jackets in packets’ zipped tight around our necks. The sea was rough and empty. We reached the end of the bridleway and stopped for tea in a café by the beach. We were the only ones in there. Georgina ate a scone filled with cream and jam. I burnt my tongue. I remember her laughing.

  We decided to walk back along the sand. We’d done it before without problems, though it had been earlier then, when the tide was still way out. This time the tide was much closer. I said I thought we should hurry, but Georgina insisted we’d be fine. She told me I worried too much. I needed to relax. Enjoy it. But she was wrong, because halfway along the beach, maybe a mile, I realised we weren’t going to make it. We’d left it too late and the tide was coming in. I began to panic, grabbed Georgina’s hand and started to run. We ran together, breathing heavily and stopping to walk every fifty yards or so. Then running again. Georgina laughed and screamed between breaths. Like she hadn’t a care in the world. We must’ve looked ridiculous. We must’ve looked like children. And we nearly made it too. But we didn’t. The sea beat us back to the shore and we had to wade the last stretch in our trousers. Our shoes soaked to the core. Our feet freezing cold. That evening we shared a bath and watched the day turn to night through the skylight. We laughed together. The sky full of clouds. Dark and starless.

  It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow. I’ve made them a card each. One for Georgina and one for Angelica. I found Georgina’s old school box in the loft last week. It was full of felt tip pens. Coloured card. Glitter and glue. She used to make all sorts of things. Sparkling certificates. Milk carton robots. Puppets out of my old socks. She’d use them in her lessons and give them away to the best-behaved children. Any excuse to come home and make something else. She loved being a teacher, even when she became Head. In fact, she loved it more. She said she felt like she could make a difference. I did my best to support her, even though I found it difficult. She always had to work late. She always went to meetings. She always earned more money.

  I made Angelica’s card from pink paper and stuck a collage of flowers on the front. I cut pictures out of magazines. The message inside says, ‘Best wishes. Gordon.’ If I wrote it again I’d write it with a marker pen. Just to see her reaction. Georgina’s card is white with a red heart. Two stick people holding hands. I used a compass to draw the outline of their heads. Inside, it says, ‘Happy Valentine’s Day. Get well soon. With love, G.’ I also made a card for me, from her. It was more of a postcard. A photograph of Kipling with Georgina. Don Donald took it more than ten years ago. I stuck it to a piece of paper, cut around its edges and wrote on the back, ‘Happy Valentine’s Day. Love from you know who.’ That’s what she would’ve written, if she were able. I made them last week, when she was getting better.

  I straighten my back in the chair by the bed and look at Georgina now, confined to this room. Her life taken without warning. My life too. Our life together. If I think about it long enough I start to get resentful. I start to blame Georgina. She could have done something differently. Spent less time at work. Spent more time with me. Even now, watching her sleeping, her eyes closed, her face void of colour, it’s hard to understand. I shuffle slowly to the edge of the chair and put my hand on her shoulder. ‘Wake up,’ I whisper gently. ‘Please wake up.’ But she can’t provide a response. There’s nothing she can do. It’s not her fault. I know it’s not her fault. I sit back on the seat and rub my eyes with my fists. I think about Angelica. Her eyes closed. Her mouth wide open. Asleep in our spare room.

  Valentine

  I’m lying on the floor at the end of Georgina’s bed. The room is lit by sunlight pouring through the gap in the curtains. I can feel the heat on my cheeks and smell Georgina’s dressing gown. I used it last night as a pillow. This is the first time we’ve woken up in the same room since she had her first stroke. It feels warm and familiar. If I listen hard I’ll hear birds in trees and voices outside in the street. Noises downstairs in the kitchen. The sound of cupboards closing. Cutlery rattling in dishes. Angelica. I open my eyes and get to my feet. Georgina hasn’t moved. She’s in the same position as before, when I kissed her goodnight and set up my bed. She looks dreadful in the sunlight. I can hear the kitchen door. The stairs are creaking. I stand by Georgina and hold the back of my hand to her forehead. Her temperature is through the roof. I pick up the glass from the dresser, dip my fingers into the water and touch her cheeks to cool her down. Angelica knocks on the door. She’s brought me breakfast in bed.

  ‘Gordon?’

  ‘Hold on. I’ll just be a minute.’

  ‘Breakfast.’

  ‘I’ll be out in a second.’

  ‘Why are you whispering?’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  ‘You don�
��t sound fine.’

  ‘I’m just getting dressed. I’m nearly done.’

  ‘Are you decent?’

  ‘Sort of.’

  ‘Then I’m coming in.’

  ‘Don’t come in.’

  ‘I’m coming in. Your tea’s going cold.’

  ‘Angelica.’

  ‘I’ve seen it all before.’

  ‘Please, Jesus, don’t come in.’

  I watch the handle turning. There’s no need to panic. The door is locked. She’ll have to wait outside. I’ll ignore her. I’ll wait for her to go back downstairs and then I’ll go and join her. The handle’s still turning. She can get in. The door’s opening. I didn’t lock it. I came back from the bathroom, made my bed and fell asleep. She’s coming in. This is what I wanted. She can help us. I grab Georgina’s hand and grip it tight. My fingertips are wet like her cheeks, but her eyes are closed. It looks like she’s been crying in her sleep. Angelica steps into the room. She is holding a plastic tray with tea and toast on it. Breakfast with Angelica. She looks at me, then at Georgina. Her mouth falls open in horror. The tray slides out of her hands. It crashes to the floor.

  We stand in silence. She says nothing. I say nothing.

  We stand and we stare.

  At each other. At my wife.

  ‘She needs to go to hospital, Gordon.’ Fifteen minutes have passed since Angelica found Georgina and we’re standing in the kitchen. I’ve cleaned the bedroom carpet, soaked up the milk with kitchen towel and made two fresh cups of tea.

  ‘No, she doesn’t. She’s fine.’

  ‘She doesn’t look fine.’

  ‘Everything’s under control.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I’m looking after her.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘With the manual.’

  Angelica puts her hands to her head and starts pacing back and forth. Her fingers are shaking. She has nothing to worry about. I know what I’m doing. She can’t be angry because I’ve done nothing wrong. She looks at the clock on the wall. She hasn’t touched her tea yet.