by Penny Feeny
‘Oh dear, what happened?’
‘We weren’t getting anywhere so we split.’ Quickly, she added, ‘It’s commonplace, I know. I’m not after sympathy.’
Liddy was taking polite sips of tea. Allie swigged hers and suspected the milk was on the turn: there was a sour, acidic aftertaste. The fridge wasn’t working properly. Nothing in the house was working properly – which was part of its attraction. Living in squats and crappy student accommodation, she was used to low standards. She preferred places and things that were a little beaten-up.
‘At least the timing wasn’t too bad,’ she went on. ‘I can hang out here for a bit and look around for work. And I’ve got a few contacts. This is music city, after all.’
‘Where were you before?’
‘Birmingham – I stayed on after uni – but I’ve lived all over.’
‘And your parents?’
‘Mum has a cottage outside Oxford, but she’ll be coming up here from time to time to work on projects for the Conservation Centre. Like I said, she restores stuff.’ She tapped the shoebox. ‘That’s how I came to collect this for her: another project in waiting. It’s all I do right now, run errands.’
‘I was never an arty type,’ said Liddy with a little sigh. She rotated the pearl stud in her ear. All her mannerisms were neat and precise, as if every action required weighing and measuring. From the earring she moved on to her tea, turning the mug between her hands as if she were considering something of major importance. She edged it across the cloth until it exactly covered a bunch of cherries. ‘Now this may sound awfully cheeky, but would you be interested in walking Rolo for me?’
Allie’d had her share of diverse jobs. No waitressing or retail, but she’d been brilliant as a play scheme co-ordinator, running percussion workshops, less than brilliant as a call centre operative, reasonably efficient as a postwoman. Dog-walking: how hard could it be? And she couldn’t be any worse at it than Liddy Rawlings, who’d almost scuppered a fine eighteenth-century figurine. ‘Well, I suppose he likes me.’
‘Absolutely!’ Liddy was fired with enthusiasm. ‘He’s really taken to you and it would make my life so much easier. I’ve got a couple of reports to finish by the end of the month, which means bringing work home and trying to fit everything else around it. To know Rolo was getting enough exercise would take a weight off my mind. I’d be so grateful and I’d pay more than the going rate, whatever that is. I haven’t used a dog-walker before. We generally manage between us, my husband and I, but he’s had to go away a lot recently so . . .’
‘Afternoons would be better for me,’ said Allie, thinking that she too would have plenty of pent-up energy by then.
‘Excellent. I’ll give him a quick morning outing and then he can have a nice long ramble with you. He loves the beach, but you have to watch him with babies. And I try to avoid gateposts and gardens. As soon as he spots a nice green sward he thinks it’s an invitation to rip it to pieces. I hope . . . I hope he won’t be too strong for you.’
‘You’d be surprised how strong I am.’
‘Yes, I’m sure.’ She stood up. ‘I really should be going.’
You could smell the money on her, thought Allie. It was in her fancy watch, her gold bangle, the supple, tan leather belt, the swing of the jacket she’d unbuttoned but not taken off. It was even in her suede walking shoes. It made her look out of place as she went back down the hall, pausing at the living-room doorway to cast her eye over the cheap Ikea sofa and bookcases.
‘The tenants left some stuff behind,’ said Allie. ‘The drum kit’s mine though. It’s been customized with an extra foot pedal. I have kick-arse legs.’ She stroked the taut skin. ‘I still practise. You have to keep your hand in, even if there’s no one to play with.’
‘Right,’ nodded Liddy, as if taken aback by the kit’s splendid shiny majesty, its contrast to the faded fittings and the cobwebs trailing from the ceiling. ‘That’s such a fine cornice, isn’t it, all those lovely acanthus leaves.’
‘I know, it needs redecorating. I’ve got a lot of sorting out to do.’
‘Not by yourself?’
‘Well, it is my house.’
‘Oh I thought –’
‘What?’
‘Nothing. Just that when you said it had belonged to your grandmother I thought perhaps your mother –’
‘No,’ said Allie with glee. She’d not owned much in her life before so it was exciting to have an inheritance. ‘She left it to me. I might let Mum use a spare bedroom for her projects if she pays her share of the bills. I’ll be getting some other lodgers too.’ Rolo was scratching at the front door. As Allie opened it he leapt to devour her face. ‘Enough!’ she said curtly.
‘I know this will be hard to believe,’ said Liddy, ‘but I train people for a living. Training packages are part of what we offer as management consultants. But there’s theory and there’s practice. There are people and there are dogs. There are dogs and there’s Rolo. It’s so hard to get a grip on a maverick.’
‘I’ll give him a go,’ said Allie.
Liddy delved into another of her handbag’s pockets and produced a business card. ‘By the way, what should I call you?
‘Oh . . . Allie’s fine.’
‘Ali? Is it short for Alice? Or Alison?’
‘Allegra.’
‘That’s pretty, so musical.’
‘It’s Italian. I was born in Rome.’
Liddy’s grip on the card faltered as she handed it over. ‘Really?’
‘Yeah, but because of the treatment and things we ending up coming back to England. I’m sure it was better for me, but I do think sometimes, you know, it would have been nice to have lived there a bit longer.’
‘Don’t you ever go back?’
‘Nope. When I was growing up we always chose holidays we could drive to, or get the train. Mum doesn’t fly, you see. She’s got this thing about confined spaces. She won’t go in lifts in case she gets trapped.’
‘Oh dear . . .’ Her feet shuffled on the step. ‘That’s an awful shame.’
‘Is it? I dunno. I like trains. Don’t you?’
‘Rolo! Sit!’ He was winding his lead around her legs, unbalancing her. ‘Look, when would you like to start? I’ll need to give you a key and the code of the burglar alarm.’
Allie didn’t waste time wondering why this stranger was so trusting. Her mother would have been much warier: she had a very cynical view of human nature. She hadn’t been the least bit surprised when the band split. ‘I’ve no plans,’ she said. ‘I can come tomorrow if you like.’
11
The beach had an untamed aspect, even on calm days, even when it was peopled with suburban commuters and their well-mannered pets. Shaggy tufts of marram grass and spiky clumps of sea holly fringed the coastal path. At low tide the sand was studded with empty shells, dead jellyfish, washed-up bottles, the dirty spoils of the estuary. But beyond this debris was the infinite pull of the horizon, the Irish sea, the Atlantic Ocean, America.
Allie thought she’d like to go to America. Or Europe. Or anywhere really. She hadn’t travelled much. She was made aware of the gaps in her experience when friends related stories from Australia or India or Mexico, but it wasn’t a lack of spirit that held her back. It was, well, the usual things: lack of money, for a start, and possibly a lack of purpose too. When the band was rehearsing, when they had regular gigs lined up and were working on their demo, she didn’t want to disrupt progress. She didn’t, let’s face it, want to be replaced. And Sam wasn’t a traveller. Sam could spend all day capturing one song and would only perceive time passing in terms of cigarettes: his roll-ups diminishing, getting skimpier and meaner until he was down to his last shreds of tobacco. She windmilled her right arm and pitched the soft ball several hundred feet along the shore. Now it was over, she didn’t have to worry about deserting Sam.
Rolo ran for the ball like a bullet, but dropped it several times on his return, either in exchange for a more appealing substitute
or because he felt compelled to sniff another dog’s arse or charge the incoming tide. Allie didn’t let his bad behaviour bother her. She shrugged off the uptight glances; she was used to shrugging off glances. She knew you couldn’t tell anything from appearances. Besides, she’d been taking Rolo out regularly for several days now and they were getting to know each other. She’d developed a routine which he appreciated, and she tried not to be late because he was always waiting – as if he could tell the time.
She’d been taken aback at first by the number of clocks in the house. Anal or what? was her first thought, but Liddy had explained they were made by her husband’s company. They were an old, established firm, she said, but shrinking. Clocks were objects of beauty, a magnificent marriage of craft and engineering, but everybody was going digital. It was a struggle to find new markets.
Liddy Rawlings didn’t talk much about herself, but she was very solicitous of Allie. Was she lonely in her grandmother’s house? Did she need the name of a good electrician? Did she want to be recommended to a temping agency? Did she have any memories of her early life in Italy? Some days Liddy got back late and Allie didn’t see her, but her money would be left in an envelope. She’d also encountered the cleaning lady, buffing wood and brass, dusting and winding the clocks. The cleaning lady didn’t care for dogs, she’d made that clear. She didn’t appreciate grains of sand or dollops of mud tracked on to her spotless floors. Allie had made a mental note to bring Rolo home later on her afternoons.
A red and blue kite was flapping in the sky above her head, but the wind was too light for it to soar. A boy in a baggy tracksuit was cursing its feeble progress. It looped and fluttered in a half-hearted way and then dived on to the wet sand. Rolo pounced. Allie and the boy sprinted in tandem and collided. Allie hauled Rolo away. There was a tiny tear in the red section of the kite’s taut cloth.
‘Fuckin’ mutt,’ said the boy. ‘Look what he’s done.’
Allie reckoned the kite had been ripped before and mended. ‘You don’t know that was his doing. He barely touched it. Anyway, you can fix it easy.’
‘What makes yous the expert? What d’you know about kites?’
‘Well, I can see this is ropey weather for flying them.’
‘She was doing well. It int about wind anyhow, it’s about air currents.’ The toe of his trainer kicked a spray of sand into Rolo’s eyes as Allie was clipping on his lead. He writhed and howled in pain.
‘Hey, don’t take it out on the dog!’
The boy’s face was narrow, foxy; his voice cracked as if it were breaking. ‘Only had it a few weeks. Another new one’s gonna cost a bit, like.’
‘Give over! A piece of tape should do the job. It’s what you used last time.’
He scowled as he bundled it under his arm. ‘Did not.’
She rummaged in her pocket and came up with a fifty-pence piece. She was angered by his blatant attempts to get money out of her. ‘Keep the change and buy yourself some sweeties,’ she snapped, turning away and yanking Rolo to follow.
‘Spazzer!’ he screeched after her.
She didn’t feel inclined to stay on the beach after that. Besides, her trainers were damp. The clouds were massing, low and heavy; midges hung in the air in gauzy clumps. She didn’t want to get back to the house too early because of the cleaner so she wandered the shady streets instead. Cherry trees in full leaf draped their branches over the wide pavements. The mist from a sprinkler hose refracted the light into a thousand prisms. A paunchy man in shorts was shearing a laurel hedge; the leathery shoots settled at the foot of his ladder. Some way off came the jingle of an ice cream van, dawdling near the school gates.
A motorized wheelchair was rounding the corner; its occupant elderly but vast. What a neat contraption, she thought. Then, somehow, Rolo’s lead got caught beneath the wheels. The motor stalled, the chair stopped. Allie, who reckoned she’d done well up to now, better than Liddy anyway, was put out. Rolo was trapped.
‘I know that dog,’ barked the old woman.
‘He’s very striking, isn’t he?’ agreed Allie.
The woman’s glasses had jolted off her nose and danced on the end of a chain. She fixed them in front of her eyes and glared at Allie. ‘Don’t I know you too?’
‘I’m sure you don’t.’
‘Which school did you go to?’
‘I went to five different ones. Which do you want to know about?’
‘You don’t come from around here?’
‘No.’
‘But the dog?’
Rolo was straining and yelping pitifully. ‘I’m employed to walk him,’ said Allie. ‘I’m going to have to push you off his lead or he’ll strangle himself.’
‘I wonder,’ said the woman in a way that sounded more like an order than a request, ‘if you would be so good as to push me the rest of the way home. I wasn’t happy with the noise the engine made when it cut out. I think it will need looking at.’
Kites and wheelchairs, thought Allie. Bloody hell.
The woman had two plastic carrier bags on her knee. Once they were in motion again their contents clicked lightly in harmony. ‘It’s not far,’ she said. ‘You need to turn into the third driveway on the left.’
Rolo’s lead was looped around Allie’s right wrist, her hand was guiding the wheelchair. She remembered Liddy’s warning: avoid lawns and gateposts. That was going to be difficult. She began to struggle with the weight of her passenger as the wheels floundered in gravel. The woman held up her hand as if halting traffic and got out, transferring her shopping to the seat. ‘If you could bring this up to the back door, I’d be grateful.’
‘You can walk!’ exclaimed Allie.
‘Dear girl, I cannot walk and carry shopping at the same time. Will you help me get it into the house?’
As Allie steered, Rolo headed straight for a patch of bare earth, rutted and uneven, and began to dig.
‘That’s exactly what he did when he came before! With Helen Liddle.’
‘Who?’
‘Helen Liddle. You must know her. You’re walking her dog. Tie him up, will you, before you bring the bags in.’ Allie curled her fingers around the handles. ‘And be careful you don’t drop them.’
‘Do you mean Mrs Rawlings?’
‘Yes perhaps I do. It’s not easy to follow these endless name changes.’ She mounted the steps to her door grumpily, swaying like a galleon.
Allie followed. Endless was a bit of an exaggeration, wasn’t it? ‘I thought most women kept their names these days. I certainly will, but then mine’s quite nice.’
‘Really? What is it?’
‘Oh . . . Ashbourne.’
‘I knew it. Helena Ashbourne?’
She was startled. ‘I don’t get . . .’
‘I have a memory for faces, you see. I’m Daphne Myers.’
‘Right.’ Should this information be significant? They were standing, too close for comfort, in a gloomy hallway. ‘Where would you like me to put the bags, Daphne?’
‘In the pantry. Through that door over there. You should find adequate room on the shelves.’
This was a pantry unlike any other that Allie had seen, an archaeologist’s delight. There were tins on the higher shelves – peaches, carrots, new potatoes – that were practically pre-war. There were jars of lurid pickles she just knew would taste disgusting. There were packets of biscuits, rice and semolina years past their sell-by date. On the slate slab meant for cooked meats, eggs and cheese, Daphne was down to her last bottle of sherry. As Allie unpacked the other bottles – more sherry, gin, tonic, cheap wine – Daphne commandeered a German Riesling on its way to the fridge and waved a corkscrew. ‘You’ve been so helpful,’ she said. ‘Let me offer you a drink.’
‘No, I’m fine. I must get Rolo back . . .’
‘I insist. News of old girls is always welcome.’
‘Old girls?’
Daphne pulled the cork and passed Allie a hock glass filled to the brim. The sip she took was warm and stick
y, like watered down syrup. She was more accustomed to sinking pints of Grolsch. After a session on stage, beer was the only drink thirst-quenching enough.
‘I was sorry to hear about your grandmother.’
‘You knew my grandmother?’
‘Parents’ evenings,’ said Daphne smugly. ‘Over the years. I was your mother’s form teacher in the lower sixth. Pity she never achieved her potential.’ She gravitated towards her over-stuffed living room, a minefield of fringed rugs, occasional tables and footstools, unsteady lamps and ornaments under a layer of dust.
‘How do you know what she’s achieved? Actually, she’s incredibly successful in her field. She’s . . .’ She didn’t know why she was arguing. It was none of the old woman’s business.
Daphne’s throat opened and contracted and her glass was empty. It happened so quickly Allie was reminded of a toad shooting out its tongue for a fly. And, like a toad, she sat, squat and brown in her myriad cardigans, licking her lips. ‘It didn’t take me long,’ she said with pride, ‘to put two and two together. Seeing you with that dog. You look so like your mother, as I’m sure you’ve been told before. And she was always very thick with Helen Liddle. The staff had high hopes of her, you know. Academia beckoned, but I doubted she had a suitable disposition. So, tell me, what is she doing now?’
‘Liddy Rawlings,’ said Allie, ‘was a friend of my mother’s?’
‘Oh yes, the pair of them were thick as thieves.’
Daphne refilled her own glass and tried to top up Allie’s. She moved it away in refusal and a flow of wine splashed down her T-shirt. ‘Are you . . . are you sure about that?’ She tried to recollect. Yes, she had definitely given Liddy her mother’s name. And she must have known the house: she hadn’t been assessing it in the way of an initial visitor, but looking out for something she could identify.
‘Your mother isn’t here?’
‘Not at the moment. She’s based in Oxford.’
‘Oxford?’ Daphne Myers sounded impressed. ‘You should tell her to call in on her next trip. There’ll always be a glass of something and a Ritz cracker. I’m sorry I didn’t ask if you were hungry.’
