by Simon Parke
But Katrina had a work ethic to die for, so who cared about her religion? She got on with it – as long as they wore a condom and refrained from violence. And if they smelt, she gave them a bath and made them enjoy it. Aside from her Catholicism, her core belief was this: ‘A man is always better for a bath.’
So it was odd that she was standing here with a problem. Cherise, the other girl – she was much more likely to be having a whine. Since her arrival from Romford, there’d been good and bad. She’d taken them all forward a century or two with her understanding of the internet – well, she’d changed the business, to be honest. No more pictures in phone boxes, which the police had never liked, apart from to have a good stare . . .
But oh! Did she have a grumble in her, that one? Cherise was never far from a grumble about her percentage of the takings or a noisy water pipe or the springs in the mattress, damp in the bathroom, her boyfriend or whatever. While Katrina – standing here wrapped in a bathrobe – she got on with things . . . and then went home to her son. And that’s the difference between Krakow and Romford, thought Tara.
So whatever was disturbing Katrina this afternoon, it must be serious. Did she want to leave? Had the pope finally got to her conscience? They say there’s no recovery for a Catholic conscience. Or did she have family to return to in Poland? Her boy was growing up; did she want Polish schooling for him? That would be a shame for Model Service. She was a good girl, Katrina.
‘He left a sticker,’ said Katrina.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘A sticker.’
Tara wondered if this was crude – some slang she hadn’t heard. But that was more Cherise than Katrina, who was never crude.
‘You know – a message.’
‘What sort of message?’
‘You come and see.’
‘Can’t you tell me?’
She didn’t want to move. Katrina had the room at the top of the house and Tara had done her ten thousand steps for the day . . . her Fitbit had buzzed its applause a short while ago. She didn’t need more exercise.
‘You come and see,’ insisted Katrina.
They went up the narrow staircase, two flights, to Katrina’s room, which still smelt of sex.
‘You didn’t give him a bath?’
‘He did not want a bath. He wanted to be hit . . . with happy endings.’
Tara eyed the various tools of the trade in the corner. Clients were given a choice of instrument when it came to punishment and the weapons were not always predictable. Katrina had once come down to ask her for ‘the kitchen tool – the flat bendy blade’.
‘A spatula?’
‘Yes.’
They’d had to go next door for one of those, where their neighbour Eileen was a keen cake-maker. She had a spatula and handed it over with some excitement.
‘What are you baking?’ she asked.
‘Katrina’s doing something spankingly Polish,’ said Tara.
‘Ooh, I’d like to see that!’
No, you wouldn’t, thought Tara, and they didn’t return it after use. They bought Eileen a new spatula, claiming ‘an accident’.
This afternoon, however, it had been the good old-fashioned cane.
‘Well, I hope you hit him hard,’ said Tara. ‘Now, what’s the problem?’
Katrina was usually quick to clean and air the room; she used to be in hotel work. But not this afternoon. She was troubled and pointing. There on the open door was a blue sticker which read: ‘TO THE SLUT CREW OF CHURCH STREET, BE WARNED: YOU’RE NOT QUITE WHAT WE WANT. THE STORMHAVEN ETIQUETTE SOCIETY.’
Rosemary had recognized him.
She’d recognized Peter as soon as Channing looked across to him, sitting there in the judge’s lounge, holding his tea. He’d appeared to avoid her gaze, but she may have imagined that. He’d always had an avoidant trait in him . . . though that was a long time ago. But do people change – really? They say time’s a great healer, but Rosemary had never met anyone healed by time.
Peter had been an unusual arrival at the unit in Highgate; that was clear enough in her memory. There was never a happy story on patients’ notes when they arrived, but ‘violence in a church service’ was more entertaining than some. She remembered it all rather clearly, because he’d told her the story. He’d started attending a large and successful church in Oxford where he was at university, and all seemed to be going well until the day he began throwing hymn books at the preacher, accusing him of talking ‘crap’. Apparently he kept shouting just that: ‘You’re talking crap!’ and ‘This isn’t true!’ And when a steward came to remove him, he took offence at the physical contact, a firm grip on his arm, and swung round and hit the steward in the face . . . and when the preacher said, ‘I see our friend has a problem,’ he turned and shouted, ‘No, you have the problem – you’re talking crap! And I’m not your friend!’
The steward, whose nose was broken, had insisted on pressing charges, feeling that he would be ‘a poor witness to our Lord’ not to do so, and once the police were involved it all got rather complicated. But for reasons Rosemary knew nothing about, the young man ended up at the Highgate unit, where she was just starting out as a young mental health nurse.
And he was different, Peter; Rosemary had never met anyone quite like him. He was dangerous but not in a physical or emotional sense, like most of her patients. You could just see that he wasn’t going to fit into the world, that he’d always be throwing hymn books – or any other missiles to hand – at those in authority, at those speaking, well, ‘crap’. And while she knew it wasn’t a good idea, that you couldn’t always be throwing hymn books, she quite admired him for it. Perhaps Rosemary would have liked to throw a few things at people herself. But she’d erred more towards duty in life, towards being responsible, helping people, sorting things out; she was good at this. And what was the point of getting angry? It didn’t achieve anything, really it didn’t.
Peter had bought her flowers sometimes. Patients were allowed out towards the end of their stay, to do a little shopping at the newsagent’s on Highgate Hill, accompanied by a member of staff. And he would sometimes bring her back flowers. ‘Just a small thank you!’ he’d say and then disappear. And that was all fine. But when he’d started writing letters to her after he left the unit, she’d ignored them – or occasionally offered rather distant replies, because professionally it was the right thing to do. One couldn’t form a relationship with clients, it wouldn’t look good. It could be perceived in the wrong way.
Though she’d always remembered him and, yes, never met anyone else like him. They say you only meet one person, and for Rosemary, perhaps that had been Peter. And if her letters had been a little warmer, who knows? But life had been busy, with no time for complications of the heart. There had been more important matters to attend to; and then forty years went by.
So, it had been quite a surprise to see him – and in those clothes! – at the Stormhaven Etiquette Society the night before.
And the surprises were not finished . . .
Tara breathed deeply
as she pondered the sticker on Katrina’s door. Not a woman shocked easily, Tara was shocked now. What was that sticker about? Well, she could see what it was about. ‘TO THE SLUT CREW OF CHURCH STREET, BE WARNED: YOU’RE NOT QUITE WHAT WE WANT. THE STORMHAVEN ETIQUETTE SOCIETY.’
‘What is this etiquette society?’ asked Katrina. She pronounced the ‘u’ as a ‘w’.
‘Lord knows,’ she replied, trying to sound religious.
‘And what does it mean?’
‘It doesn’t mean anything.’
‘Everything means something.’
Tara continued with her breathing. She’d once tried meditation, learned that breathing was her friend, a refuge from anxious thoughts . . . and she was having a few right now. She knew all about the Stormhaven Etiquette Society. They had a record of nastiness, targeting organizations with their stupid stickers and then vilifying them in the press. And that was the last thing Model S
ervice needed, quite the last thing, because then the police would have to get involved. So Tara breathed in and out, her lungs trying to soften the blow, to ease the waves of fear. She knew of the Stormhaven Etiquette Society, but Katrina needn’t.
‘I don’t know what it means, dear,’ she said, looking round the room. Everything was in order otherwise. Tidy girl, Katrina.
‘You look worried,’ said Katrina.
‘I’m not worried. I’ll talk to the boss, but life goes on. Probably some sad little joke.’
‘You think so? If he returns, I’ll kill him.’
‘Just make sure he pays you first . . . and doesn’t enjoy it.’ Tara peeled the sticker from the door but held back from destroying it. ‘And you think he left it on the door when leaving?’
‘Well, who else put it there?’ Then Katrina had a thought. ‘Look at the corridor film. He’s on camera. You can see who he is.’
But Tara knew that there was no footage to look at. He’d been the first client of the day, her mind had been elsewhere, she hadn’t turned it on. She often didn’t, to be honest. It was more for show and to keep the boss happy. The boss liked to look after the girls, as if this was some hostel for abused women, when in truth it was nothing of the sort. It was a business, with everyone – clients and staff – here out of choice, and with much better customer/staff relations than the post office up the road.
‘So there’s no footage?’
‘The important thing is, you saw him.’
‘I saw him, yes.’
She’d seen him from all angles. The identity parade would have to be a little unusual.
‘And you hit him.’
‘But he enjoyed it!’ said Katrina with frustration. ‘That’s no punishment . . . no punishment at all.’
It’s no good if you enjoy the punishment. What’s punishing about that? It turns hell into heaven and Katrina did believe in punishment – or what hope was there for society?
But with no name or address, the young man who liked to be hit with a cane and left offensive stickers on doors had slipped anonymously away into the sea breeze.
Who else could have left it?
Geoff and Martin
were an odd couple, sitting on the seafront bench in January. Geoff Berry was a successful Stormhaven estate agent. They were talking about the Stormhaven Etiquette Society and Geoff had some issues.
‘I just don’t feel terribly comfortable there,’ he said.
‘Oh?’ Martin tried to sound concerned.
‘In the meetings, I mean. Though it’s a great honour to be asked, Martin; absolutely a great honour!’
‘It’s an honour to have you among us, Geoff.’
Martin could not imagine less of an honour and was irritated that he needed this man; that he had to play at flattery on this freezing shoreline.
‘But, well – do they get me, Martin? I do wonder if they really get me?’
‘Oh, I think the discerning get you, Geoff. And really, does anyone else matter?’
Was Geoff happy to be loved only by the discerning? He’d perhaps like a few of the undiscerning on board as well.
‘I wonder whether I’m a bit zany for them,’ he said. ‘Whether I move through the gears too fast and they can’t keep up.’ What was Geoff talking about? Was he describing his inability to focus, wondered Martin; his mind did drift rather. ‘I just don’t always feel comfortable.’
‘Comfort will come,’ said Martin with a reassuring smile. ‘A fine wine takes time, Geoff.’ And then as a clincher: ‘You’re a great hit with Rosemary, of course.’
‘Really?’
‘Very much so.’
Geoff was relieved. He loved being a great hit with people and felt considerably heartened by the news. He also liked being compared to a fine wine . . . well, he liked any compliment really. And it was possible that with a little more patience, as Martin suggested, comfort in the group would come; though he wasn’t sure. They were a pretty odd bunch, were they not? And if they didn’t ‘get him’ now, then when would they?
He’d started attending meetings of the Etiquette Society because Channing was a hard man to say no to. The notorious editor had strolled into his Geoff Berry estate agency and said, ‘I need you to step outside for a cup of coffee, Geoff. Do you have a moment?’
It was a bit presumptuous, of course it was, as if he didn’t have a business to run and a thousand things to attend to. But Geoff had found a moment, a window in his diary, because he was intrigued, not to say flattered, by the interest of a man such as Channing. He was also a little bored at work, to be honest. ‘No two days are the same,’ he’d say to new employees. But actually, they were. Most days were exactly the same, tediously so, and he needed other interests, always had done. Geoff liked to be spinning as many plates as possible, and if he let a few crash to the ground, well, so be it.
‘And I now want you to become a full member of the Stormhaven Etiquette Society, Geoff,’ said Martin, looking straight out to sea, like an admiral eyeing the horizon. He spoke with that sort of confidence. ‘It’s decision time. You’ve been to a few meetings, you know the work we do – the good work we do. And God knows we need local figures of substance, some big hitters, to give us ballast . . . some gravitas.’
‘Well, I hardly think I have much to offer!’
‘Stop right there, Geoff!’ Channing waved his finger at the property man in comedic fashion. ‘Successful local businessman for twenty years, respected member of the Rotary Club, star of the wonderful local theatre – this is no time for self-deprecation!’
Channing was aware he’d forgotten the name of Stormhaven’s wonderful local theatre. He’d been taken there for a performance once, and it had been appalling. Geoff may have been playing the lead – he probably was – but thankfully, the whole affair was erased from Martin’s memory, so he couldn’t be sure.
‘I suppose I have become something of a local celebrity,’ said Geoff, his feathers puffing a little.
‘I even saw your photo on the wall in the post office, listing your achievements! Move over David Beckham, I say!’
‘Well, that’s just a company advert, Martin. Not quite Beckham-esque.’
He was hardly David Beckham; Martin had gone a bit over the top there, this is what Geoff was thinking . . . though maybe there were similarities. Geoff was open to the possibility.
‘Not smouldering in your underpants, I grant you,’ said Martin, pulling back a little. Flattery worked best when at least briefly acquainted with reality. ‘He really does that very well, the smouldering thing.’
‘He does,’ said Geoff, though with hesitation, because he didn’t want to sound gay.
There was a momentary pause on the seaside bench, though no quiet, thanks to the large machines bulldozing the Stormhaven shingle back towards Newhaven. They came every winter, after another year of tidal shift. And as the town’s only sea wall against flooding, the banking of the shingle mattered.
‘Not pretty,’ said Channing, eyeing the huge-wheeled monsters shunting the stones. ‘But I suppose we can’t always have beautiful saviours. This is Stormhaven, after all – not Hollywood.’
‘And it’s all about decency, that sort of thing?’ said Geoff wishing to get back to the Etiquette Society and his place in it. As Martin said, he’d been attending meetings for a year; it probably was time he made up his mind about joining. But the issue was a long way from straightforward.
He’d known of the society before Martin had approached him to join, and the fact was, no one was exactly complimentary about it. He wouldn’t be telling Channing, but one colleague had called it ‘a dangerous gathering of control freaks’, while his wife, Mandy – who had just walked out on him again – had said, ‘The Stormhaven Etiquette Society legitimizes snobbery, disdain and disgust, Geoffrey – sounds perfect for you.’
Mandy could be a bitch, but she wasn’t stupid.
‘Decency,’ said Martin, reassuringly. ‘Well said, Geoff. Decency. I know that’s wh
at your life has been about and it’s what the society aims to promote.’ Martin paused for a moment. ‘And perhaps sociability is another important word for us.’
‘Sociability?’
‘It’s a commitment to sociability – to being sociable, to noticing one’s neighbours and behaving in a considerate manner towards them. Is that hope so very wicked?’
‘Not in my book, Martin.’
It all sounded very decent indeed.
‘So of course there’s some shaming to be done – and quite right too!’ Geoff nodded. ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child. Shaming is the only way some people change.’
Shame did make Geoff feel uncomfortable, but if it was someone else being shamed, he could cope with that. Indeed, it was almost a relief.
‘No one wants to receive one of the society’s stickers, that’s for sure!’ said Geoff. Some of his Rotary colleagues lived in dread of a sticker being left at their business, because the unwanted delivery always went public. Anyone who received a sticker also found themselves portrayed darkly in the Sussex Silt.
‘Group cooperation and norms for hygiene stand at the heart of evolution,’ said Martin, doing his best to sound like David Attenborough. ‘Of course there’s shame and quite right too! This is about the survival of the human race!’
The survival of the human race? Geoff hadn’t realized the stakes were quite so high here in Stormhaven . . . but Channing did have a point.
‘It’s about boundaries, about civilization, Geoff . . . about keeping those brutish twin scourges of selfishness and bad taste at bay.’ Martin was looking out to sea again, as one pondering the profundities of life. He was a better actor than Geoff; he just didn’t need tights and make-up. ‘The Church used to do these things, of course, give us some rules . . . but alas no longer. Who knows what the reverends do these days? Run homeless shelters as far as I can make out!’ Martin was pushing at an open door here, and Geoff nodded in shared and bewildered amusement. ‘So the Etiquette Society fights alone for a proper, correct code of conduct – for simple but life-saving good manners.’
