by Janice Brown
‘‘Nobody told me it wasn’t, you see,’’ Lesley explained. ‘‘We just ran back to the others. So nobody knew it was me, except that other girl. And now you.’’
The woman didn’t smile back. No sense of humour. Her loss.
‘‘I was never good at hiding. Or seeking, come to that. My mother was. Did you know that? She hid Hector’s postcard from me. God knows what else she hid. And not a thing I can do about it now.’’
The words reverberated, but whether inside or outside her head she wasn’t sure. She sat back. So much noise. Where was it coming from? Where was John Wayne with the promised food? Duncan was in front of her now, and yes, he had brought food, but when she reached up to take it from his hands, the plate unbalanced. Most of the contents flew onto his waistcoat.
She repressed a giggle and tried to get up to rescue a large prawn from his silver buttons. The other way round, she corrected herself. The prawn was dead, there was nothing to be done for the prawn, it was the button she needed to help …
‘‘Oh, I’m so sorry, Duncan. Your poor, lovely waistcoat. Cheer up. Here, have a …’’ she stared at the object on her palm, ‘‘cherry tomato.’’
Being helped onto her feet was quite fun, and being half carried into the corridor and into the kitchen was rather like a waltz. It was all different from what she remembered. Lots of white, lots of lovely shiny steel. Where was the pantry? Dr MacKinnon’s big, red face blocked her view. His breath was very garlicky. She let him hold her wrist but it was hard to hear what he was saying.
‘‘I believe I would like to go home now,’’ she said.
Terrible things
‘‘Miss Crosthwaite!’’
‘‘I am perfectly alright, Dr Gordon,’’ she called, continuing to walk down the driveway away from him.
‘‘Yes, I know, but my car is at the gate and Dr McKinnon doesn’t want you walking home by yourself, not at this hour.’’ He was perfectly sober, having stayed with fresh orange juice all evening. She had refused coffee, so McKinnon, satisfied that she was not going to faint, had instructed him to drive the lady home, blaming the combination of champagne and temazepam. Their hostess had become indignant: if she had known Lesley was on medication … The elderly bachelor son was worse than useless, flapping about in the background like a demented stork. What a crew.
She stopped abruptly.
‘‘My boots,’’ she said. ‘‘I left my boots.’’
‘‘I’ll fetch them for you.’’
‘‘No. No, leave them.’’
‘‘Fair enough,’’ he said. ‘‘You can recover them another time.’’
Now, finally, she accepted the offer of his arm, even leaning against him. She was wearing perfume, something old fashioned he recognised but couldn’t name, something he thought his mother had worn.
‘‘You’ll have to give me directions,’’ he said. ‘‘Remember, I’m one of the pesky newcomers.’’
‘‘You must think …’’
‘‘I must think what?’’
But she didn’t finish her sentence.
He got her into the car with no further difficulty. He’d dismissed her initially: one more menopausal spinster. Then he’d seen her face change at the use of the word ‘‘tinker’’: he wondered if there was more to her. She’d seemed profoundly unhappy, despite the fixed smile. Only when they slowed to a stop outside her gate, and he looked up at the dark house did he remember being told that she had lost her mother recently.
In his best bedside voice he said, ‘‘This is a very hard time for you. I think everyone understands that.’’
‘‘I don’t care if they understand or not.’’
‘‘Good for you.’’
She twisted round to face him. ‘‘Why did you come here?’’
Her face was jaundiced in the yellow light from the street lamps.
‘‘I was asked to see you safely home.’’
‘‘No, here. This village.’’
It was the first time anyone had asked him. ‘‘I needed the job,’’ he told her. ‘‘I’ve been a locum for a long time. It was a case of …’’
‘‘This is a terrible place. Terrible things happen here. Terrible things have happened to me.’’
He waited for more, but nothing came. He got out and went round to open her door.
She peered at him. ‘‘How can you be a doctor?’’ she said. ‘‘You’re so young.’’
‘‘Thirty two. Not so very young.’’ He held out a hand, but she made no move.
‘‘I never thought I would be fifty. I have no idea how it happened. One day I was seventeen and now look at me. I might as well be dead.’’
‘‘Come now, don’t talk like that. Let’s get you safely home.’’
She let him help her out.
‘‘You’ll feel better in the morning, once you’ve had a good …’’
‘‘Oh, go to Hell,’’ she said loudly, slamming the car door. She pushed open her gate and closed it behind her with unnecessary force.
He watched her progress up the path. It occurred to him that there might be stacks of prescription medications in the house after the mother’s long illness. It would be irresponsible not to check. He dialled Dr MacKinnon’s mobile number.
e-numbers
‘‘There’s a little custard left,’’ Ruby called through the hatch into the dining room.
‘‘No thank you, dear. That was just fine.’’
Why was there always just a little custard left? Because Ruby still cooked enough of everything for Walter Junior, who had left home three years before. He was always offered the little custard, or the little stew or whatever, and always said no, in the hope that someday, some happy day, Ruby might accept that Walter Junior was not coming back, not even for special days like this. They didn’t make much of New Year down south, he’d told Ruby, trying to help.
‘‘Tea? And a biscuit?’’
‘‘Just tea, dear. That would be lovely.’’
‘‘I’ll bring you a Digestive in case.’’
He studied the fish tank for several minutes, looking at each of the residents to make sure they were swimming correctly, that their eyes were clear, that each fin was erect. He loved his fish. Their effortless meandering from frond to frond with no contact or conflict seemed to him a way of life little short of perfection. No-one was allowed to touch the tank or do anything to it and its occupants. He had had a bad scare some years back, when Ruby decided to clean the outdoor pond. Happily tonight all seemed to be well with each little Platy and Angel Fish. He dabbed his lips with the napkin, and made his way through to the sitting room. Tonight’s pudding had been tinned pears in fruit juice. He wasn’t over fond of pears, particularly in juice. Sometimes they had a sharpness that annoyed the tongue, but he wasn’t allowed the ones in syrup any more
Healthy eating was Ruby’s latest thing. The weekly shop was taking a lot longer, now that she had to read for e-numbers and saturated fat. He missed a few of the old favourites. A little of what you fancy, they used to say, even though there was less to fancy back then. You had your carrots, onions and peas, your potatoes mashed or chipped. The young ones had laughed at him one day at work, when he said he remembered where and when he’d first tasted sweetcorn. Ruby was on at him to grow their own vegetables come Spring. The back garden was big enough, but he wasn’t persuaded. Her enthusiasms tended to diminish if ignored for long enough.
He switched on the TV, turned the sound right down, and rested his head back on the settee, closing his eyes. His uncle, also named Walter, had been a great gardener. There was a greenhouse in the garden in Peebles, not a particularly large one, but inside it Uncle Walter had a vine that produced luscious black grapes year after year, apparently unharmed and untainted by the smoke from Uncle Walter’s pipe.
‘‘Piddle,’’ Uncle Walter had announced solemnly, one early summer afternoon, when they were standing together, looking up at the small green fruits, the man puffing on his pipe, the sma
ll boy passively inhaling. ‘‘That’s the secret, laddie. Plenty of piddle. Great for the parsley too.’’
He remembered still the feeling, half terror, half joy that thrilled through his eight year old body. Was he going to be asked to contribute? Would he be able to pee on demand? But the invitation didn’t come. He knew now that Uncle Walter would have used a jug or a bowl when he went to the bathroom, the greenhouse being in full view of the neighbours, but for years the image of his uncle spraying cheerfully in the greenhouse and over the parsley bed cheered him when school or life in general became dull or difficult.
What would Ruby make of that one, he wondered. Where’s your e-numbers now?
‘‘Here you are, dear,’’ she set his cup and plate down and returned to the dishes in the kitchen. It was always tea now. She wouldn’t let him drink coffee in the evening. ‘‘We’re not as young as we were,’’ she said. He knew he was meant to say something flattering about her when she said this kind of thing. Sometimes he did and sometimes he didn’t. What life really boiled down to, he mused, biting into his organic Digestive, was knowing when to play dumb. Kid on you’re daft and you’ll get a hurl on the barra. Playing dumb took a certain amount of finesse, all the same. He bought a large Dairy Milk every morning when he stopped for his paper, but he never brought any of it home, not even a couple of pieces for a sly nibble. Ruby would have smelt it when she turned out the trouser pockets for the wash. He stared at the silent screen. For the first time it occurred to him that retirement might involve difficulties he had not so far considered.
‘‘Walter,’’ she sat down beside him with her latest copy of Puzzle Monthly and her rubber-tipped pencil. ‘‘I’ve been wondering.’’
‘‘Have you?’’
Behind the glasses, her eyes were large and earnest. ‘‘I’ve been wondering if we should ask Lesley next door to come in for tea now and then. She’ll be lonely. I don’t like to think of her on her own.’’
He said nothing.
Much later, when the TV had been switched off, and Ruby had already gone upstairs, he was checking that the front door was locked when he heard a bang. Car door, he told himself, not loud enough for fireworks. These had been going off through most of the evening. No doubt there would be more at midnight.
‘‘Did you hear that?’’ Ruby called from upstairs.
‘‘Hear what?’’
‘‘There’s a car at our gate.’’
‘‘I don’t think so, not at this hour.’’ And if there was, it wouldn’t be Walter Junior, that was for sure. When he went into the bedroom, she was standing with her nose through the curtains.
‘‘Oh my,’’ she said. Closing them carefully, she darted to the side for a better view.
He sat on the bed, pushed each slipper off with the other foot, and began unbuttoning his trousers.
‘‘Oh. Oh my goodness.’’
‘‘Why are we whispering?’’
‘‘Lesley’s sitting on the path.’’
‘‘Hers or ours?’’
With a sigh he rebuttoned himself and joined her. Sure enough, there was Lesley, sitting on her own path beside the doorstep, facing the street.
‘‘Do something, Walter.’’
He scratched the back of his head. It was all very well to say do something, when you didn’t have to do the doing. He was still trying to think of an answer, when a male figure opened Lesley’s gate and began walking up the path. The man helped her to her feet, and then, Walter surmised, there was an exchange of words. He gently detached Ruby from the window, letting the curtain fall, deaf to her whispered protests.
‘‘It’s none of our business,’’ he said.
Ruby smoothed Nivea over her face and lay on her back for a while to let the cream penetrate before her skin touched the pillowslip. She had put ear-plugs in, to counteract the bangs which would continue into the wee small hours, and she lay as still as possible, so as not to disturb Walter. Her mind meanwhile was anything but still.
Love
The ruined factory with its gaping window frames and rusty pipes smelled exactly like the abandoned buildings of his childhood where he had stripped with closed eyes. When he moved the brick and shone his torch into the space, the roll of fruit sweets was gone. From his coat pocket he took its replacement, a chocolate egg this time, plastic wrap over the bright coloured foil to protect it from dirt and damp. He put it into the hole, repositioning the brick, imagining her delight when she found it.
He switched off the torch and started back to the track. He had never hurt a child, and he never would. Everything was under control. He couldn’t harm a child. All he wanted to do was show them love.
He was drawn to unloved, lonely children, those who were troubled as he had been troubled. Often the loveliest children were the most troubled. What a lovely child, what pretty hair, people said, out loud, wanting the child to hear, but their saying it changed nothing. It did not make the child feel lovely, did not make the child feel loved.
When he was older he had taken his bike for long rides, choosing villages where he wasn’t known. Winter was better than summer, with darkness coming early. From a back garden he watched till a child was put to bed. He would wait in the darkness, then flash a torch into the bedroom window so that the child would get up and look out.
No-one had been hurt. He wouldn’t hurt a child. No-one saw him, and he was careful never to return to the same place.
Child’s play
Being an only child, Lesley had learned to play on her own. When she was a toddler, her father made a sandpit for her in the back garden against the stone wall at the end next to the coal shed. She spent a lot of time there in summer and on dry winter days, building little mounds that were houses, and gardens with stones for walls. Doorways were made by inserting a thumb and moving it from side to side. Gardens came alive with fallen rose petals. Water from the rain butt and daisies and buttercups from the drying green were also allowed. She knew that fairies weren’t real, just as Santa wasn’t real, so she had no foolish thoughts about little people coming to live in the mounds overnight.
Had Mother ever come out to watch or give suggestions? Or praise? It seemed to her that she had played alone, completely contented, hands muddy, the scent of the summer roses all around her. She knew now what she hadn’t then. It was as simple as sunlight. What she had loved was the freedom to make something without help, the freedom to choose, and perhaps the fact that no-one ever told her to make it better.
She would be fifty on her next birthday. Far too old to have children. Some of the staff her age were bringing in photographs of their grandchildren. They all looked exactly the same. If Hector was still alive he would be fifty three. It must be almost thirty years since she had tried to invite him home for tea. She hadn’t made a fuss when Mother said no, since he was only a friend, not a boyfriend. She’d assumed, at twenty, that there would be, if not plenty of young men, at least some to choose from. But all the time, there was Mother, keeping her safe, letting her make her mud-pie houses, watching from the window.
Ryan’s night
Ryan’s night began well. He met with everyone down Dimity Lane, happy in his new limited edition trainers, a joint present from his sisters, and happier still when a pint of beer was passed to him by someone he didn’t know. The street was heaving with people, the queues for the bars were mad. No neds anywhere; the street was closed except for ticket holders, but one of the class had got tickets, his Dad had contacts, so that was good, and everyone was allowed to drink outside, which was brilliant, because the rain was off and now and then you could see stars overhead when the clouds cleared, and there was a great mix of people, and just a few policemen watching with impassive faces. Along with a couple of his pals, he cracked himself up playing ‘‘spot the media type’’ for at least half an hour. The guy would have square thick glasses, the woman with him would be in trendy clothes that were too young for her. It was a doddle, it was like they had a lifestyle catalogue of th
eir own they had all bought from.
He wished he’d a scarf, some dull colour like grey in cashmere would have been perfect, or maybe white silk, he’d seen a photo of Sting wearing white silk, but otherwise he felt he was looking just about right. There were loads of students, some of them from wealthy backgrounds, going by their voices, but hey, it was the West End, so everyone had made a lot of effort to look as if they hadn’t made an effort. Really all he’d done was take a short cut. Fine Art students like himself were always more scruffy than the rest anyway. You could spot the Design types a mile off. The t-shirts had to have cool graphics, the necklace would be some surfer type thing.
The girls were amazing. He got talking to one, almost as tall as himself, who said her name was Scarlett, which he doubted, but so what, she was seriously amazing, the whole front of her hair cut in a fringe, slanting sideways across her eyes to the level of her ear, but after a few minutes, it was obvious she’d done a few cheeky lines already, and he moved on. He couldn’t stand the nonsense.
After a while, they all moved on via the Underground to the city centre for the fireworks display. Not so good. The crowd was more aggressive, a lot of fast drinking going on, a lot of joints being smoked, and other stuff, which was fine if you were the one doing them, but he’d promised his school art teacher, the one decent guy on the staff, that he wouldn’t and so far he hadn’t. That was one guy who knew what it was all about.
He kept a smile on his face, avoided eye contact, stuck close to those he knew. To his relief, soon after all the bangs were finished, someone said it was time to go if they wanted to get to the party while there was still transport. He was tired now, the earlier glow was wearing off, leaving him almost sober, and almost inclined to go home, but hey, it was New Year.
Good Decision. The party – he didn’t know whose house it was – was well stocked, at the start anyway, and not too many people, though it was definitely a weird mix. Some were old for this sort of thing, and some of the girls, even made up and in the low lighting looked way too young to him. He hung out in the kitchen when it got busier, avoiding the casualties, and the daft hyper girls with their breasts falling out of their tops talking nonsense in the middle of the living room. The music was better than it had been all night. The bass was deep and satisfying. The guy on the decks had good taste. Going to the toilet, however, was a fucking pain, having to defend his manhood in the queue of girls. Then suddenly it was time to go home. He’d been stressing about it for a while. He’d totally drunk himself sober.
