Crazy Paving

by Louise Doughty

  Gillian reached out a hand and took the mug from his grasp. She placed it on the tray and then lifted the tray to the bedside table. Then she turned back to Richard and took his hand. She held it between both of hers, tightly.

  ‘I never want to see that moment, Gillian,’ Richard said. ‘I’m not afraid of dying, not really, but I am afraid of that – that split second. Some people might be curious I suppose, wonder what it’s like. I’m not. I couldn’t stand it, all that defeat, knowing you have lost everything . . .’

  ‘Sshh,’ said Gillian, stroking his hand. ‘Sshh . . . you never will. I promise, you never will.’

  They lapsed into silence and Richard closed his eyes. Gillian watched his face, stroked his hand.

  Rosewood Cottage sat on the edge of a patch of wasteground, a small, squat building at the end of a street surrounded by a wide expanse of earth, concrete and scrubby grass. Sutton Street had once been a thriving row of cottages on the very edge of pre-First World War London. Then the city had swallowed it whole. Tower blocks and factories had sprung up around it. The cottages had crumbled, one by one. Rosewood was the sole survivor in a wide patch of dereliction, the last molar in a broken, ruined mouth.

  William stood at the top of the street, looking down to where the cottage sat alone. To the left, the wasteground stretched away. On the other side, an informal rubbish tip had sprung up: cardboard boxes, prams, a blue mattress with a burnt and blackened hole. Beyond it was the railway line embankment, punctuated by arches. Commuters coming in from Kent were able to look down on Rosewood Cottage every day. Behind the embankment was the main road, cutting a swathe through Deptford. Sutton Street itself was inaccessible. If you exited from the road at the wrong place you were stranded in the wilds of Rotherhithe. The nearest BR station was twenty minutes’ walk away. William had got badly lost and tramped around the quiet backstreets for over half an hour.

  It was a heavy day, with solid wads of cloud in grey folds overhead; so dark it almost seemed that night could fall at any minute. After he had turned out of the station, a brown mongrel had picked up his trail. When William paused to consult the list of directions he had copied down from the A-Z in the office, the dog paused too, pretending to snuffle in the verge. As William moved on, so did the dog. When William stopped again, the dog trotted to a halt, lifted its leg and urinated.

  In the end, William stopped and said loudly, ‘Piss off, dog.’

  The dog lifted his head and regarded him blankly, then turned and lolloped off down the road. William felt bad.

  The door to Rosewood Cottage had been painted pink a great many years ago but was cracked and peeling now, set in a small porch of crumbling brickwork. From the front of the porch, someone had used a piece of frayed string to hang an oval-shaped, porcelain sign with the name of the cottage painted in curling letters and a sprig of flowers enamelled underneath. It swung lightly in the wind. William had to duck underneath it to step into the porch and ring the bell.

  If the bell was working, it made no sound. He waited. He sighed. He stepped back from the house and peered upwards. He thought he saw a net curtain twitch at an upstairs window but it was hard to tell. It was beginning to rain. He went back into the porch and pressed the bell again, then knocked lightly.

  Eventually, there was the sound of shuffling behind the door. A voice mumbled. Then, very slowly, the door opened a crack. William tipped his head to one side, clutching an orange wallet file to his chest. He felt suddenly aware that he was wearing a suit. ‘Mrs Appleton?’ he asked, hesitantly.

  No reply.

  ‘I’m William Bennett. I’m a surveyor for the Capital Transport Authority. I have come to talk to you about the cottage. The compulsory purchase . . .’ Thinking that the door was about to slam shut, William began to talk very quickly. ‘There have been a few developments Mrs Appleton we thought we would have to demolish the cottage due to site works as you know but it now appears that it might not be necessary . . .’

  Very slowly, the door opened. A woman of indeterminate age was revealed – late sixties perhaps. What was left of her hair was scraped back from her forehead into a green rubber band that held a topknot on the crown of her head. She wore thick bi-focal glasses. She regarded him. William tried to keep his eyes on her face while being unable to avoid noticing that she wore huge slippers which were rimmed with bright purple fur.

  Mrs Appleton held his gaze for some time. ‘Better come in,’ she said eventually. As she turned and stepped back into the hall, he noticed that she waddled slightly. The feet in the purple fur-rimmed slippers dragged along the carpet. He was reminded of some creature he had read about in an encyclopaedia when he was a child. He struggled to remember its name. Then it came to him: a duck-billed platypus.

  The hall was dark and very narrow. He squeezed past a mock-wooden coat rack on which were hung various macs in slightly different shades of beige or navy blue. Mrs Duck-billed Platypus gestured into the living room.

  Sitting in a chair beside an unlit gas fire was Mr Duck-billed Platypus. At least William presumed that it was he. They were not introduced. Mrs Appleton said shortly, ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

  William had taken a seat opposite Mr Appleton. He turned. ‘I shan’t take up too much of your time Mrs Duckapple, really there’s no . . .’ but she had already gone. William turned to face the old man. He smiled uncertainly. The old man did not respond.

  Mrs Appleton was gone for a very long time. At first, William tried to keep smiling but the old man met him with the same unnervingly blank stare that the dog had given. So he occupied himself by opening the orange wallet file and withdrawing his papers, then shuffling them around and flicking through. Gradually, he became aware of a noise – a dull, regular thumping from the ceiling above. He looked up, and then across at Mr Appleton. The noise stopped. Then it began again. Mr Appleton lifted a fist and shook it slowly at the ceiling. The noise stopped. Mr Appleton returned to his immobile, stony state. William looked down at his papers.

  Mrs Appleton shuffled back into the room carrying a kitchen tray with wicker handles. On it sat a large brown mug and two jam jars, all filled with weak grey tea. Next to them was a plate on which three Digestive biscuits had been neatly arranged.

  ‘He has to have his mug,’ said Mrs Appleton as she put down the tray. She picked up the mug and placed it on the coffee table at her husband’s side. Still he did not move.

  ‘Sugar?’ she asked, as she picked up one of the jam jars and handed it to William.

  William watched as the jam jar made its way inexorably towards him. Around the rim he could see a few remnants of pink jam, encrusted. He managed to shake his head and say, ‘Thank you.’

  He took the jam jar from her and placed it on the carpet at his feet. Mrs Appleton sat on the sofa and picked up her jar. She sipped from it at intervals while he talked.

  ‘Well, I’ve good news of a sort . . .’ William began. He explained to them that the compulsory purchase had been suspended due to an unforeseen difficulty. It seemed likely that they would not now have to move. He couldn’t offer them any guarantees, however, and there would be some disruption when the building work began.

  The couple listened in silence. Eventually, Mrs Appleton said, ‘So will you be coming back?’

  William paused. ‘I don’t know, Mrs Appleton. Probably not for a long while. I think you can relax.’

  At that, Mr Appleton made a sudden movement. William jumped. Mr Appleton was waving his left arm wildly. Mrs Appleton rose, shuffled across to him and handed him a stick that was lying beside the chair. As she helped him out of the chair, he began to cough, softly at first, then in great harrumphing gulps that shook his body. He was leaning his full weight on the stick and it wobbled frantically, even though his wife still had hold of his arm. ‘Careful, dear,’ she shouted into his ear, ‘you’ll have one of your turns!’

  Mr Appleton was coughing so hard he began to turn slightly blue. Eventually he stopped, on the cusp of one huge gasp – a
nd froze. He hung there while his wife explained, ‘It’s news of any sort, good or bad, doesn’t matter what, always turns him a bit funny.’

  William was concerned that Mr Appleton appeared not to be breathing. At what point should he insist that an ambulance be called, and how? There was no phone.

  ‘I’ve tried to tell him not to get excited. One of these days . . .’ Mrs Appleton continued. Her husband had still not moved.

  ‘Er, do you think perhaps . . .’ William began.

  Then, Mr Appleton, still without moving, began to tip slowly backwards into the chair. Mrs Appleton let go of his arm and he fell, frozen, appearing to have suffered instant rigor mortis. William jumped to his feet.

  ‘Oh, Mr Bent!’ his wife exclaimed. ‘You can’t go yet. You haven’t finished your tea.’

  William looked down at the jam jar in alarm. ‘Oh dear, I really must go,’ he said. ‘That is, if you don’t have any questions? I hope.’

  ‘Just a minute now,’ Mrs Appleton said firmly, lifting a finger. She shuffled over to where he stood and picked up the jam jar, then she shuffled out of the room. William glanced over anxiously at Mr Appleton, who still showed no signs of life. He picked up the orange wallet file and stepped out into the hall.

  Mrs Appleton was making her way towards him holding the jam jar. She had found a lid and screwed it on. ‘There you are,’ she said proudly, extending the jar, ‘you can finish it later.’

  William took the jar from her. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Goodbye.’

  As he turned to open the front door, he heard the thumping noise from upstairs again, more distinct this time, three separate banging noises in sharp succession. Mrs Appleton rolled her eyes and leant forward. ‘That’s my mother,’ she murmured to William, confidentially. ‘We keep her upstairs. She’s a little eccentric, you know.’

  Outside, the sky had cleared slightly. It was brighter. William walked briskly down Sutton Street, the folder under his arm, the lukewarm jar of tea in his hand. As he reached the corner of the street, he turned and looked back at Rosewood Cottage. Mrs Appleton was standing in front of the porch, waving. He waved back.

  Half-way to the main road, he realised he was going to have to sit on the train holding a jam jar of tea. He looked around for a rubbish bin, saw one screwed to a lamp-post and went over. It had no bottom. People had dropped rubbish in anyway and underneath there was a small pile of crisp packets, drinks cartons and cigarette ends. He knelt down and placed the jam jar amongst the heap, carefully pushing rubbish around it to conceal it. When he had finished, he looked up to see that he was being observed by the brown dog, which stood on the pavement a few feet away.

  ‘Shoo!’ said William, waving an arm. The dog tipped its head to one side.

  Joanna Appleton closed the door and turned to her husband, who now stood by her side, recovered. They looked at each other, then their faces began to crack. Joanna spluttered. Her husband bent over and slapped his thigh. They roared.

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ Joanna squeaked. ‘Oooh . . . oooh . . . I can’t believe it. Works every time . . .’

  Bob Appleton was bending over. He had dropped his walking stick and was holding both arms across his stomach. ‘The look – on his—’ He was laughing so much that he began to snort and cough.

  ‘Careful dear,’ said his wife, squeakily, ‘you might have one of your turns!’

  ‘Here,’ Bob Appleton bent and picked up his stick, ‘put that thing back in the cupboard.’

  Joanna turned and opened the cupboard door behind her. It was only then that she heard the voice from upstairs, calling crankily, ‘Joanna! Joanna!’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Joanna, withdrawing a yellow cotton hankie from her sleeve and wiping the tears from her cheeks.

  ‘Do you really think we’re in the clear now?’ Bob asked, standing up and straightening his cardigan. ‘Or will they be back next week?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know, love.’ Joanna’s face became softer and more serious. ‘I don’t think we’ve heard the last, do you?’

  ‘No, me neither.’

  ‘Joanna! Joanna!’ The voice came from upstairs.

  ‘Do you want me to go?’ asked Bob.

  Joanna kicked off the purple slippers and pulled the green rubber band out of her hair. ‘No. You put the kettle on. I’ll be down in a minute. Let’s discuss it over a cappuccino.’

  Joanna’s mother was sitting up in bed, gnashing her gums. Her pink hairnet had slid sideways and hung down over her forehead at a rakish angle.

  ‘What’s all that racket for?’ she demanded. Many afflictions of the aged had come to Joanna’s mother. Deafness was not among them.

  ‘Oh nothing, Mum,’ Joanna replied. ‘We were just having a bit of a laugh, that’s all.’

  ‘A laugh?’

  Joanna pulled the bedclothes up around her mother’s loose little body. She had taken to wearing pyjamas instead of her nightie but she was so tiny that even the smallest of men’s sizes hung off her shoulders. Joanna had had to buy seven sets in boys’ sizes, as incontinence was the one elderly habit her mother had embraced with enthusiasm. Mrs Hawthorne’s favourite top was a lurid dead-blood colour and had small grey helicopters flying from sleeve to sleeve. Joanna drew it across and did up one of the buttons. Then she reached up to adjust the pink hairnet.

  ‘Stop fussing Joanna, for God’s sake,’ said her mother.

  ‘I’m not fussing . . .’

  ‘Don’t take it off. I’ve told you, I like it.’

  ‘I’m not taking it off Mum, I’m just putting it straight. It is a nuisance you know, pinning your hair and putting this thing on. I don’t know why we bother.’

  ‘Just because I’m your mother it doesn’t mean I can’t look my best.’

  Mrs Hawthorne had been living with them for eighteen months. It had not been an easy time. Until six years ago, she had occupied a ground floor flat on a nearby housing estate, alone but for a tiny mongrel with spiky brown fur who skittered from room to room, barking at shadows. Joanna had visited regularly with food and air freshener. The dog was called Pip. While Joanna and her mother drank tea in the kitchen Pip would stand in front of them with his fur on end and his tiny dripping penis erect, panting for a biscuit.

  Then Mrs Hawthorne took to turning on the gas ring but forgetting to light it and tripping over the pattern in the carpet. One day, Joanna visited and discovered her mother pottering around with one hand tucked inside her cardigan. After some persuasion, she permitted her to withdraw it and look. A dirty handkerchief was wrapped around the index finger which was swollen and blackened with dried blood. Under pressure, Mrs Hawthorne confessed that she had cut it on a tin can. When a doctor was called, he admitted her to hospital immediately where the finger was found to be gangrenous. When the hospital doctor discovered she had not visited a GP for seventeen years, he decided to give her a full examination. This resulted in a furious battle during which the doctor had sustained a small nose-bleed. ‘What are you playing at?’ Joanna had heard her mother shriek from behind the curtain, ‘I only want a plaster for me finger!’

  The finger was amputated and the doctor told Joanna that her mother was lucky not to have lost her hand. The examination revealed a variety of other complications. A hysterectomy was found to be necessary and the removal of other items of intestine were considered. Joanna went home to Bob and informed him sadly, ‘My mother is imploding.’

  Mrs Hawthorne took the interference with bad grace. Her theory, which she expounded to anyone who would listen – and several who wouldn’t – was that having been denied the opportunity to mutilate her for so many years, the medical profession was making up for lost time. Several operations later, she was admitted to the Restview Home for the Elderly in New Cross where she was expected to do the decent thing and die.

  Four years on and fitter than ever, she came to live with Joanna and Bob. She had not liked the Restview home. During the early months, she was regularly apprehended by the night nurse as she made he
r way off down the corridor, dressed in her coat and nightie and clutching her favourite china cat. (Pip had been put down. Joanna had taken him to the vet in a wicker cage singing Alleluia all the way. She had always hated that dog.) When Bob and Joanna visited she sat in the television room and told them loudly that the other residents were crackers. She made racist remarks to the sister in charge and reduced a nursing auxiliary to tears by listing her physical deficiencies, one by one, to a passing vicar. Joanna went to see the social services and arrangements were made to transfer Mrs Hawthorne to the spare room in their house, where she promptly took to bed and refused to move. Mrs Hawthorne had spent a long time fed up about being old. Safely ensconced in her daughter’s home, she was now going to make the most of it.

  ‘I’m tired,’ Mrs Hawthorne announced. ‘I’m going to have a kip.’

  ‘It’s only half past eleven,’ said Joanna. ‘You haven’t even had lunch.’

  ‘I’m tired,’ she repeated, and yawned unconvincingly, showing two rows of bare gums around which saliva glistened. ‘Stay till I go to sleep.’

  This was something she had started recently. So far Joanna had conceded, sitting by her bed until the old lady started snoring. Sooner or later, she was going to have to put her foot down. She had not spent sixty-six years growing up to have to do this for her own mother. It was the wrong way round.

  It was also painful. It reminded Joanna that she too was a mother, and that her daughter was a thin, stupid, middle-aged woman who had achieved nothing and wanted even less. They did not get on.

  How is it, Joanna wondered sometimes, that I turned out to be such a good daughter and wife and such a failure as a mother? How come I got the small things right but not the big one?