by Fabian Black
“I know.”
“I tried to return them, but didn’t catch you in. I left a note in your mailbox.”
“I know,” he said again. “They’re not prescription or anything, just decorative, so it doesn’t matter. I have lots more.”
He didn’t appear pleased to see me. It seemed to confirm I’d upset him in some way. I cocked my head on one side and examined him for a moment. “This might be presumptuous of me, but are you all right? You seem a bit down.”
“I’m hungry. I slept too late yesterday. The bin men had been.”
It wasn’t quite the answer I expected and I didn’t really get the correlation between the three short statements.
“I’m going inside, come if you want.” He fished his key out of his pocket and inserted it in the lock.
As with my apartment his front door opened into a token hallway leading into the main living room. I didn’t consider myself to be overburdened with furniture, but Dee-Dee didn’t seem to be burdened at all. The room was devoid of comforts like chairs and there were no curtains or blinds at the large windows. Had the sun been shining I imagined the room would be flooded with light.
I gazed around with interest. Stacked against the walls of the room there were paint canvases of all sizes. I couldn’t see what was on them, as they were placed so only the backs showed. His living room wasn’t so much a living room as a studio. Funny, but I never had him pegged for an artist. I should have, given his offbeat personality. Perhaps my sis Jo is right in her claims I have a blind side.
There were a couple of large metal easels standing in the middle of the room and the grubby parquet floor was scattered with artist paraphernalia, sketch pads, used paint tubes, pencils, pastel stubs, brushes, glue and paste pots. There was also a fair amount of household debris, plastic mixing bowls, wooden spoons of various sizes, empty ketchup, mayonnaise and mustard bottles and a couple of pans filled with what appeared to be garden soil and grass cuttings.
I felt compelled to state the obvious. “You’re an artist.”
He shrugged. “It’s not what my next door neighbour Mrs Royston calls me. She says I’m a waster because I don’t work, but I like artist better.”
“What’s with the sauce bottles and,” I pointed at the pans of muck and grass, “that stuff.”
“Materials. I mix up the sauces and stuff with PVA glue or flour paste to make a kind of textured paint when I run out of the real thing and can’t afford to buy new. You can use anything if you put your mind to it. I’ve even used dog poop.”
“Nice. Do you sell much?”
“I’m an artist for art’s sake not money.”
“May I look?” I pointed at the canvases.
“Not today.” He tugged irritably at his t-shirt, seeming unhappier by the second.
“Maybe another day then.” I hesitated a moment and then took the plunge. “Dee-Dee, why did you leave my apartment so suddenly and without a word? Did I offend or upset you in some way?”
“Course not. You were nice, so was your coffee.” He walked across to the window and gazed out. “I felt like I’d talked too much. I couldn’t seem to stop my mouth moving. I say things sometimes, things maybe I shouldn’t say. I thought you might think I was a bit strange after the stuff I told you about Anne. Most people don’t want to know such things. They think it’s dirty, depraved in some way. I was embarrassed at confiding so much to someone I’d just met.” He turned to look at me. “I like you. I wanted you to like me. I felt I messed up.”
“You didn’t. I enjoyed talking to you. I appreciated your openness.” I decided to take a leaf out of his book and indulge in some candidness. “To be honest, Dee-Dee, and don’t be offended, but I thought you were a bit strange before you’d even mentioned your mother, but in a nice way. How your mother chooses to live her life is her own affair and no reflection on you. If she’s happy then good luck to her.”
“Thanks.” He gave the ghost of a smile. “Would you like a drink of water?”
“Not really. I wouldn’t say no to a coffee though. I’ve just got home after visiting friends. It’s a long drive. I could do with a caffeine boost.”
“Sorry, Si. I’ve only got water. I missed the bin men otherwise I might have been able to offer you tea. Some of the bags that get chucked are still useable.”
Christ! What he’d said earlier suddenly made sense. I stared at him. “You’re telling me you use stuff out of rubbish bins, to eat and drink?”
“I prefer to think of it as recycling waste or foraging like an urban Bear Grylls.”
“For God’s sake, Dee-Dee.” I ran a hand through my damp hair. “Why?”
“Why not. I don’t have the means to buy food at the moment and I have to eat somehow. Some of the stuff is perfectly edible, just a bit messy.”
“When did you last eat anything?”
“Wednesday evening. I overslept yesterday morning and the bin men came and emptied the bins before I could go through them. No one has put anything out again yet, not foodstuff anyway. I’ll look again later.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to look casual, as if raking through bins for food was perfectly normal.
“How long have you been living out of bins?”
“A few weeks. My money ran out over six weeks ago. I used up everything in my cupboards first, but now I haven’t got so much as a stock cube left. I haven’t got soap, toothpaste or washing powder either. Why do you think I look and smell like a scruffy fucking tramp? I couldn’t use powder even if I had it. My washing machine is fucked and my boiler bust and even if they weren’t I couldn’t use them. I ran out of money before I could pay the final demand for the electricity bill. The sods cut me off. I’ve been showering in cold water. I’ve got a camping stove, but it’s hardly big enough to boil water for tea never mind boil enough to fill a bath, and anyway, I’ve run out of gas for it. It’ll be okay though. I’m not without means, just in between means. I get more money soon, in September. I’ll sort everything out then.”
“September is a full month away, Dee-Dee. You can’t live off throwaway scraps for a month.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ve done it before. I’m not asking for charity or handouts.”
“What about an overdraft facility at your bank?”
“I don’t have one and I don’t want one. My uncle said overdrafts and loans lead to an ever-increasing circle of debt and eventually the bank ends up owning your soul, as well as taking your house. I don’t want them to take my apartment. I love it too much. I’ll manage. I used to be able to get decent out of date food from the bins behind the supermarket, but the bastards lock them now. They can’t sell it by law, but they’d rather destroy it than let anyone have it for free. Fucking Tory capitalism at its worst.”
I wasn’t in the mood for arguing politics. “I need a coffee, and so do you. Come on. I insist. Up to my place.”
“You don’t have to invite me.”
“I know. I want to, on one condition.” I pointed at his face. “Do me a favour and take those spooky lenses out first. They’re horrible, really creepy. They make you look like one of the living dead.”
“Shall I put another colour in?”
“Your own eyes are fine. Why do you want to wear contacts all the time?”
“I like them,” he said simply. “They allow me to view the world through different eyes. It’s like being reborn with every pair.”
“You are so fucking weird.”
“But in a good way, right?”
“Right. Get a move on and ditch those lenses. I’ll go up to my place and put the kettle on.”
Chapter Eight
I made instant coffee for the speed of it. He looked like he needed a quick pick me up. I set it before him at the kitchen table, along with a plate of buttered crackers topped with thick slices of cheddar cheese. I would have made him a sandwich, but the only bread I had was in the freezer.
He thanked me and then set to work, munching steadily through the modest repast wi
thout speaking a word. It was plain he was starving and trying not to rush. His hands had a faint tremor to them. For some reason it brought a lump to my throat. I was getting sentimental in my old age.
He finished the crackers, supped off the last of the coffee, wiped his mouth and gave a deep sigh. “I needed that, thank you. You’re kind. My uncle would have liked you. He always said kindness was an undervalued trait.”
“Would you like a biscuit? I’ve got a fancy tin of chocolate chip shortbread. My mother brought it when she visited.”
He nodded eagerly and I got the tin out of the cupboard. “Help yourself.”
He chose a round and bit into it, a look of sheer bliss on his face. “May I take a piece for later, Si, do you mind?”
“You can take the tin and welcome. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth.” I stood up and reached for his empty mug. “I’ll make you another coffee on the proviso you tell me how you came to be in this bin scavenging predicament.”
He told me. It was quite a tale in its way.
Dee-Dee is a man of independent means, an heir, sort of. When his great uncle died, he not only willed his apartment to Dee-Dee, he left him all his money, but on condition. Dee-Dee isn’t allowed to have personal control of the bulk. It’s tied up in a fund administered by his uncle’s solicitors.
It seems great uncle Des worried about his nephew, whom he considered unworldly. He wanted to give him security by making sure he had a roof over his head and a means of living throughout his life.
Dee-Dee ruefully scratched his head at that point in the tale. “I don’t have much in the way of formal qualifications. The only school subject I did relatively well at was art. I liked English literature too, reading anyway, not the interpreting bit. My interpretations always seemed to be out of step with everyone else’s. I had one teacher, Mr Harris, who used to read out my essays in a way that made everyone laugh at me.”
“He was abusing his position.” I cut in, appalled. “No teacher worth their salt mocks a student for being original.”
“I never thought of it in those terms. I thought I was in the wrong, a bit stupid. It put me off anyway. I concentrated on my art. Uncle Desmond knew how important it was to me. He recognised my need to do it and wanted to allow me to keep doing it. He knew I wouldn’t be happy with a nine to five job. I did try a few, but they never worked out. Imposed routines depress me.”
“You’re a free spirit,” I said, still angry with a teacher who had singled out a student for derision. The man probably had a pedestrian mind incapable of reaching beyond the set curriculum. Some people despise what they don’t understand.
“Yeah.” He gave a shy smile. “A free spirit.”
Under the terms of the will Dee-Dee receives living expenses, a set sum paid into his bank account twice yearly in March and September. In the years since his uncle’s death the cost of living has risen sharply, but the stipends have remained the same. Dee-Dee admitted to not always budgeting wisely. In the case of March an expensive new computer system and a new flat screen television set had taken a large bite out of his income and made it harder to keep on top of things.
I offered a possible solution. “Why don’t you make an appointment with the solicitors, to request the deposits be reviewed and raised a bit to cover hikes in the cost of living? They perhaps don’t realise the payments are your sole means of income rather than supplements.”
He stared at me. “Damn it to buggering hell, why didn’t I think of that? Do you think they might consider it?”
“I don’t see why not. It’s a reasonable request to make of what is after all your estate. You can at least try.”
“I will, thanks, Si.”
Leaning across the table he hugged me, a move that took me by surprise. It was nice. James had never been much of a hugger.
“Listen, Dee. You’re going to have to learn to plan better, so you’re not left penniless for weeks on end. Think of the money as your salary. You should divide it into monthly portions, not blow it all at once. Buying fewer fancy contact lenses might be a start. They can’t be cheap.” I almost said why waste money on them when you’ve got perfectly nice eyes, but I didn’t, in case he thought I was coming onto him. I didn’t want to set complications in motion. I said instead. “You also need to set money aside for utility bills and to cover repairs, like your washing machine and boiler.”
“You’re right, Si, I know and I always intend to, but,” he lifted his shoulders, “I never seem to quite manage it.”
In common with the first time we met our conversation was interrupted by my mobile, signalling arrival of a text message this time. I pulled the phone out of my pocket to read it. It was from Kye. It said: glad you’ve settled in. James says hi.
I stared at the message. I’d sent James a couple of newsy texts since moving, and some photos of the bakery building and my apartment, and the best he could do in response was to say hi through a second party?
“You all right, Simon?”
“Fine.” I pushed my phone back into my pocket.
“Who was the message from, your boyfriend?”
“Just a friend.”
“A friend you want to be your boyfriend?”
“Of course not. Whatever makes you say that?”
“Your eyes. They look sad, like you’re yearning for something or someone.”
I changed the subject. “Your uncle sounded like a decent bloke, interesting too.”
“He was. I was very fond of him even though I didn’t see much of him. He was always shut in his study working, but at least I knew he was there. I wouldn’t see him for days on end and then he’d suddenly appear. He’d give me a big hug and demand to know what I’d been doing. We’d do some housework, have a meal and then sit and talk for ages or go out for a walk around the grounds.” A look of pride came to his face. “He was the first person to buy an apartment here in the bakery. He had his name down for it before they even started work on converting the building.”
“Was he a fan of Art Deco architecture?”
“It was more for sentimental reasons. He came from humble stock. His mother used to work in Arthur’s factory, filling doughnuts with jam and cream.”
“Really?”
He nodded. “He told me as a kid he used to sit on the office steps while waiting for her to knock off her shift. People in the factory felt sorry for him and used to give him lots of treats, cakes and biscuits. He’d survived childhood polio you see, but it left him with a gammy leg. He used to tire and get ill easily so he missed a lot of school. He read to pass the time. The women who worked with his mam would pass on their old magazines and books to him. It’s what got him interested in writing romances. He bought a second hand typewriter and set to it. He had a story published in a woman’s magazine when he was nineteen. It was the start of his writing career.”
“He must have been good at it to leave a fortune behind.”
“He was prolific, plus he dabbled in stocks and shares as a sideline, excelled at it too, but writing was his real love. He wrote hundreds of books under different pseudonyms, a couple of his historicals were turned into TV costume dramas, and he did screenplays. He even churned out books by the truckload for Mills and Boon. He wrote Regency romances, contemporary romances, doctor and nurse romances as well as a series of sci-fi stories, love amongst the stars.”
“Sugar coated happy ever after fiction for women.” I pulled a face. “My friend Vicky loves that kind of thing.”
“Don’t knock it.” He wagged a finger at me. “There’s nothing wrong with happy ever after stories. Much better than heavy gloom and doom reality stuff.”
“Have you read any of your uncle’s work?”
“Yep, all of it.” He gave a sheepish grin. “I must admit some of it is a bit sugary, especially the stethoscope romances where the dedicated young doctor and the devoted ‘angel’ nurse finally get it on together. Talk about an unrealistic view of the health service. He was a good writer though. My favour
ite novels are the ones he wrote in his younger days when the market was different and he was writing more to suit himself.” His dreamy look appeared. “They’re all out of print now, considered outdated, but he loved them and so do I. I read them over and over again.”
“What are they about?”
“I’m not telling you. You’ll laugh and think I’m, you know,” he tapped the side of his forehead.
“We’ve already established you’re strange, Dee-Dee, so you might as well tell. I promise not to laugh. Is it bodice ripper stuff? Lustful heroes and panting heroines?”
He scraped his chair back and stood up. “I’ll show you my uncle’s study, where he used to work. I’ve left it exactly as it was when he was alive, in memory. All his books are there.”
Chapter Nine
Desmond’s study was actually the master bedroom. Bookshelves lined the room from floor to ceiling. There was a single bed and an expensive leather-topped desk housing a basic computer with a clumpy monitor that looked like it belonged in a tech museum. The computer’s predecessor, a vintage Oliver typewriter stood on a small table next to the desk, obviously in a place of honour. Another table housed a small kettle and some china tea things.
“This was the machine he used to write his first stories on. He loved it and refused to get rid of it when he finally embraced technology.” Dee-Dee ran a light finger over the old typewriter keys. “His leg pained him a lot, especially as he got older. It kept him awake, so he used to get up and write all night as a means of distraction. I’d often hear him go into the ensuite to fill his kettle to make tea before starting work. I liked to hear him tapping away on the computer keyboard. It was nice, comforting.”
