by G J Lee
Chapter 3
The Front Room of Somebody Else
A dream. I think.
It’s the room again. The front room with the old settee.
I’m sat cross-legged. I’m in the corner and on the floor with my back to the wall. Beside me, on my right, is what seems to be a dining table. A brown tablecloth brushes close to my face and there is a settee which is also a brown, a small two-seater with arm rests. It has white arm protectors that I know my Nan sometimes uses. Close to the sofa is a pair of net curtains that hides a wooden framed window and the grey street outside. Beside the settee is something silver on a tall black stand. On the wall facing me is a cream cabinet that has ornaments and china plates and cups arranged neatly. Near that is a fireplace with a dark, sooty mouth and the walls are covered in wallpaper, faded with time. A large picture shows a group of horses and red-cloaked horsemen gathered for the hunt. Dogs and handlers fuss around the edges. There are smaller pictures here and there. A mirror hung up somewhere else.
But what catches my eye is the portrait of what I guess was an important soldier from the past. I recognised the union jack hiding his stomach.
The scene is quiet and still.
The nets at the old sash window are stirred. Ever-so-slightly. There must be a draught from somewhere.
The room feels familiar.
I have visited it in my dreams more than once.
I sit alone then hear a door open. It makes a swishing sound. Although I can’t see it, it must one of those doors that open sideways. By sliding. Then someone enters the room. I hear the soft clump of slippered feet on thin carpet and the ssh-ssh, ssh-ssh of trouser fabric rubbing as this person walks into view. I only see the back of him and the back of his head as he walks, from left to right, to stand over the black stand with the silver top. He wears grey trousers, a white shirt and a grey jumper without any arms. I also recognise that he has an old smoking pipe in his hand. The man taps it loudly on the silver top of the black stand. I suddenly realise that the silver thing is an ashtray. Then the man pulls a tin from his pocket and begins to patiently fill the bowl of the pipe with what I think is tobacco. He pushes the tobacco in neatly. He presses the tobacco into the bowl with his fingers. Every now and then he glances towards the window as if expecting someone and I watch as he moves behind the old settee to stand directly in front of the window. Looking out, he continues to fill the bowl of his pipe.
It occurs to me, alone and in my corner, that at any moment he may turn. Pipe in hand. He may notice me sat quietly beside his table. I feel scared. I’m intruding. I shouldn’t be here. If the man sees me what will he say or do? I’m suddenly agitated and uncomfortable.
But the man doesn’t see me.
He never does.
I watch him at the window for some time before he backs away from the net curtains. He continues to back away, past where I hide, still looking longingly towards the window. It’s almost as if he doesn’t want to look at me. But I know he's focussed on something beyond the cloudy grey of the net curtains. I still only see the back of him as he passes out of the room. I only hear the ssh-ssh, ssh-ssh of his trousers.
The sliding door closes behind him.
And I’m left with the settee, the old soldier on the wall, the sash window and whatever lies beyond.
It’s usually then that I wake up. I’m never really sure. But I know I’m in bed and not in a stranger’s front room anymore. I turn and pull the duvet further over my head to try and keep the warmth in.
That’s when I hear them. The noises and voices from underneath my bed.
To begin with they are far away, faded like memories of being small or a baby. But then they get louder and more forceful.
They get nearer.
It sounds like a bundle of people muttering together. Like a small room tightly packed with people who don’t really want to be there. Or a crowded bus stop. Sometimes I hear a distant shout or what seems like a sob. A cough here. A tut there. Then someone telling somebody else off and the other person crying. Someone else is calling out a name and someone else is singing. All this is coming to me from under my bed and getting nearer and nearer.
Suddenly, directly beside my ear, I feel the warm breath of a person. A girl. Close. Very close. Then, those words, still muffled but getting clearer, like a ship suddenly looming out of the mist.
‘…help me…help me…please…’
As usual I turn on all the lights and make my frightened way down to the kitchen for a drink.
