Needlemouse

by Jane O'Connor

  The awkward moment was forgotten when Igor’s urgent barking indicated a visitor standing on the other side of the gate, clutching a cardboard box.

  ‘Is this the hedgehog sanctuary?’ the man called.

  Jonas shouted back to him and waved him in. He was a tall, skinny man in his late teens or early twenties with a shaved head and fretful eyes, dressed head to toe in the sort of expensive sports clothes that aren’t intended to be worn at the gym.

  ‘My dad was breaking up rocks for the foundation for our new shed and he killed the mum by mistake.’ He was quite flustered and clearly upset by what had happened.

  I took the box from him and carefully laid it down on the lawn. Opening the top flaps revealed a litter of three tiny hoglets on a red cushion, squirming and wriggling, seeking the comfort and safety of their mother, who was no longer there. They were about the size of apricots and their little pink bodies were covered in white prickles which were still soft.

  ‘Hoglets? This late in the year?’ Jonas was astounded and peered intently into the box. ‘They’re young ones too,’ he said, rubbing his beard with concern.

  ‘Are they too young to survive?’ I asked, glancing at the man’s anxious face.

  ‘We can have a go with them,’ said Jonas. ‘We can get them warm, get them feeding and give them a go. They might be all right, but probably not that tiddly one.’ The smallest hoglet was already less active than its siblings and Jonas touched him lightly with his little finger.

  ‘Sylvia, you set up the warm box and I’ll get some milk. They are going to need feeding every three or four hours round the clock for the next few days.’

  The young man looked relieved to have passed on the responsibility and stood watching us galvanise into the action required to try and save the baby hedgehogs.

  ‘Thank you for bringing them in, you did the right thing, lad. You can go now,’ Jonas patted the man’s shoulder and walked him to the gate. ‘Give us a call in a couple of days if you like.’ Jonas always offered, but nobody ever did ring again. Whether they didn’t want to hear potentially bad news, or that life had taken them on and away from the momentary wildlife emergency they found themselves involved in, I don’t know; perhaps a bit of both.

  The little one had died by the time Jonas had prepared the first feed. He picked it up gently and stroked its tiny body and said kind things before burying it in the earth beneath the runner bean poles.

  ‘That one wasn’t meant to be,’ he said, firmly wiping his eyes as he picked up one of the others and started feeding it with a pipette. ‘Have we got that box nice and warm with the heat pad for them, Sylvia?’

  I nodded and put my hand on his back. ‘I’ll make us a nice cup of tea, shall I?’ I said, falling back on the British answer to every upset. I made my way to the kitchen, circumnavigating Igor, who was sitting in the middle of the garden path, staring sadly at Jonas.

  Tuesday 3 November

  I watched with distaste while Lola was in with Prof this afternoon, flicking her hair and laughing her wide-mouthed laugh. She had come in in her usual manner, all busty and windswept and disorganised, ignoring the withering look I gave her over the top of my tortoiseshells.

  ‘Professor Lomax is busy. You’ll have to wait,’ I said coldly, indicating the plastic chair outside his office door.

  To my horror, Prof then dashed out of the inner sanctum with a massive smile on his face, and actually held onto her arm as he said, ‘Hello, you’ (hello you!), helped her off with her coat and carried her bag and files into his office. It was as if he was some kind of lackey and I feel utterly humiliated for him. God knows what sort of sob story she has been spinning him about needing his help and support and about her incredibly stressful life and terribly vital research, but he is on the verge of making a fool of himself and I can’t bear to see that happen.

  I knew something was up when Prof and Lola both came out of the inner sanctum together after their meeting (which again had overrun by at least twenty minutes).

  ‘Great news, Sylvia,’ Prof announced grandly. ‘Lola has had her paper accepted for the Rome conference so, with the thumbs up from the faculty finance committee that she got, she is all set to go. It is such an achievement at this stage in your career, Lola – the panel are extremely selective about who is allowed to present their research. You should take it as a great honour they have included you in the programme.’ Prof looked fit to burst with pride. Lola at least had the humility to put on a falsely fearful face as if she didn’t want to go at all but Prof just beamed at her. ‘Don’t look so worried. You’ll be great. These are exciting times for you, young lady. Sylvia, can you organise the travel and hotel arrangements for Lola out of the research budget, please?’

  And he went back into his office, leaving Lola and I in an embarrassed, stunned silence. Lola looked at me expectantly and I told her curtly I would email her the appropriate forms and then looked straight back at my computer screen. If she was expecting any sort of congratulations or words of encouragement from me, she would be waiting a long time.

  ‘Sylvia, can I tell you what I need now? It’s so much quicker than waiting for an email from you, replying and waiting for you to contact me again.’ She emphasised the word ‘waiting’ each time she said it, making a pointed reference to the tardiness with which I communicated with her, but I pretended to be oblivious.

  ‘I do apologise if the university procedures for arranging conference attendance are not efficient enough for you. Perhaps you would like to make a formal complaint to the faculty board and they can review their decision to fund your trip to Rome?’ I removed my glasses and stared at her while she squirmed.

  ‘No, I’m not saying that. Of course not. It’s just that it would be easier to tell you now which days I want to travel and so on as it is coming up so soon.’ She trailed off, losing confidence in her position.

  I pushed a pad and pen towards her across the desk. ‘Write it down and I’ll see what I can do.’

  She looked at me warily, taken by surprise by my sudden helpfulness, then picked up the pen and wrote a long list of requirements, dates and times. When she had finished she held out the paper to me and I took it gingerly, as if it was covered in germs.

  ‘Well, thank you,’ she said as she backed towards the door.

  ‘No problem, always happy to help,’ I said, waiting until she had turned into the corridor before scrunching the sheet into a ball and dropping it in the bin.

  I then went straight to our travel operator’s website and booked Lola on different flights to and from Rome from those I had booked for Prof. He won’t want to be bothered with her during the journey – he likes to use travelling time to catch up on work. I had to book her into the same hotel as it is an international chain that the university always uses, but I was at least able to put them on different floors. Prof needs his space to think and write and reflect, and there has to be a respectful boundary between students and their academic superiors. I was tempted to email Lola a note about expected conduct, but I wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t run to Prof with it – and for the first time I was not entirely sure how he might react to my protectiveness. This made me feel uneasy, as if something was going on that I didn’t know about, something that might be dangerous to Prof professionally or personally. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it wasn’t sitting well with me. I felt restless and committed to my duty to protect him from that woman.

  Jonas called at around seven, asking if I was all right as I hadn’t gone to the sanctuary after work as I usually do on a Tuesday. I had completely forgotten, I was in that much of a state. I apologised to Jonas and told him I was unwell. He wished me better and there was an awkward moment where I wanted to get off the phone but he seemed to be waiting for me to say something. I said goodbye curtly and it was only after I hung up that I remembered I hadn’t asked him about the baby hogs.

  Wednesday 4 November

  It is 3.34 a.m. and I have just done something slightly crazy,
but also rather thrilling. I have booked myself onto a flight to Rome the day after Prof and Lola are due to arrive and have reserved a room in a little albergo around the corner from their hotel.

  I will book two days annual leave tomorrow, directly through the university’s Human Resources department, so Prof won’t even know I’m not going to be in the office. Margaret will be away next week at her daughter’s wedding in Florida, so she won’t know I’m gone or ask any awkward questions when I get back. I will take my phone and laptop so I will still be in contact with Prof if he needs me for work-related matters: he just won’t know I am actually in Rome as well. I need to be there to keep tabs on Lola. I don’t trust her, and I don’t want her making things awkward for Prof or being too demanding of his time. I want to be there just in case things go wrong or she needs warning off. This is an important conference for him, especially as he has been asked to give the keynote speech, and it’s vital it goes well. I feel like a weight has been lifted from me. I think I will be able to sleep now.

  Wednesday 11 November

  I didn’t tell Millie or Mother or Jonas that I was going away, which has given the whole trip a surreal dimension. I made my way to Gatwick airport in the middle of the night, feeling a little like a fugitive. The taxi driver was exceptionally chatty as always seems to be the way when you long for quiet.

  ‘Where you off to then, love?’ he asked, ready to dispense expert knowledge on whatever destination I pronounced.

  ‘Rome,’ I replied, my deep-set politeness not allowing me to ignore him.

  ‘Italy, yeah?’ I assumed he didn’t actually require an answer so held my tongue. ‘I love all that stuff, the Romans and that. Never been to Rome meself but I love Italy. Me and the wife went to Madeira for our ’oneymoon; lovely it was, all that pasta and chianti.’

  I let him go on detailing the food, accommodation and day trips that he and his wife had enjoyed on the Portuguese island, not having the heart or the inclination to correct his geography, and gave him a larger tip than I intended, possibly out of guilt. As I went through the usual lengthy security procedures I couldn’t help furtively checking over my shoulder from time to time for the remote possibility that Prof or Lola had drastically changed their travel plans.

  I began to relax on the flight over and thought about the last time I was in Italy, several years ago, and how it had prompted a brief, and in retrospect rather misjudged, change in my behaviour towards Prof. Crystal had been doing the Romans at school and Millie had the brilliant idea that we should all go to Sorrento and visit Pompeii to make ancient Roman life come alive for her. Kamal had to stay behind to look after the deli, thank goodness, but I had to share a twin room with Mother, who was at her absolute fussiest during the whole trip, complaining about the food (the food!), the heat, the Italians (‘Well, I suppose it is their country, Mother …’). What annoyed her most was the fun Millie was having. She and Crystal had a wonderful time eating their way through gallons of gelato, marvelling at the architecture and the petrified bodies. Mother was unimpressed and said she found the whole site rather gruesome, as if she were fully expecting a visit to a mass grave to be a pleasant and uplifting day trip. I was somewhere in the middle – fascinated by the history, but hating the crowds and the touristy feel of the place. Wandering around there by moonlight, hand in hand with Prof, listening to his wise musings on the nature of love, death, and the fall of the Roman Empire – now that would have been different. After a couple of hours of aimless drifting we hired a tour guide to throw a bit more of a shape at the day. I say we, but it was Millie who hired him. I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist as soon as I saw him approach us with his clipboard and headphones. He stood out from the other more serious, conventional guides like a beacon. He was young and bubbly and, most compelling for Millie, was styled like a rockabilly, albeit a super clean and tidy Italian-style rockabilly, with a quiff, check shirt and perfect turn-ups in his ironed blue jeans. Millie loves quirky people and she loves gregarious people and Fabio was the whole package.

  ‘Ladies! Beautiful ladies, let me show you around Pompeii – I will show you everything.’

  He flashed his splendid smile at Millie and so began the flirting they both revelled in for the rest of the day. Mother couldn’t have looked any more sour, but he made it fun for Crystal who was equally smitten and it was nice to change the dynamic for a while. He turned his attention onto me while Millie was taking photos of Crystal outside the gladiator barracks.

  ‘Bella Sylvia,’ he said, gazing at me with concern, ‘where is your husband today? He shouldn’t let such a beautiful lady go on holiday alone.’

  ‘No husband, Fabio, and I’m not alone, I’m with my family,’ I replied briskly, although I could feel the familiar blush rising up my neck and was ridiculously flattered by his oozing charm. We locked eyes and I recognised his suggestive look with a nostalgic jolt. Mother broke the moment with an enormous, possibly fictitious, sneeze into her handkerchief and Millie and Crystal reappeared full of busy chatter about some ribald ancient graffiti they had seen.

  The frisson between Fabio and me was immediately forgotten by him, but had awakened a tentative feeling of sexual confidence in me that had been dormant for a long time. I decided to bundle it up and preserve it and take it out again when I was with Prof. It dawned on me that this was what was needed to take our relationship further. If Fabio could find me attractive, then surely Prof could too? I just needed to flirt with him more. I carried this delicious idea around with me for the rest of the holiday and devised potential scenarios whereby I could engender the same look of unbridled lust from Prof as I had from the, admittedly more practised and less discerning, tour guide.

  Back in our hotel room after dinner, Mother commented spitefully that, as a married woman, Millie should behave with more decorum around young men and that she had put on a vulgar display today in front of Crystal. I sprang to her defence.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Mother, it’s just a bit of harmless fun. Millie would never be unfaithful to Kamal. She adores him, for some reason, and they are very happily married.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ Mother said. She rummaged in her mini suitcase for her nightie and ignored me while we both got ready for bed. She turned off her bedside light before me and, as mine didn’t work, I lay there in the darkness listening to her snuffling and then light snoring. I was just falling asleep when I heard the door to Millie and Crystal’s room next door close and some whispered conversation. I jumped up to check everything was all right and, as I opened the door, I saw Millie standing by the lift, repeatedly pressing the call button.

  ‘Mills, what’s wrong?’ I must have surprised her as she almost jumped out of her skin.

  ‘Nothing! I-I just … Crystal’s got – got a headache so I was going to see if they sold aspirin in the hotel shop downstairs.’

  ‘You should have knocked at our door; you know Mother never travels without a full medicine kit in her case.’

  ‘I didn’t want to wake you; your light was out.’ We stood looking at each other for a few moments in an awkward silence.

  ‘Well, as long as you’re both all right.’ I backed into my room and slipped into bed. As I drifted off to sleep I thought fondly that only my eccentric sister would have felt the need to wear her red high heels for a trip down to the lobby.

  We got home early in the morning the following Monday. I could have taken the day off and caught up on sleep before returning to work, but the thought of another day without seeing Prof was unbearable. It was grey and drizzly and the commute was grindingly familiar and yet I was fizzing with excitement, feeling sure that my new-found confidence would alter the course of my relationship with Prof into a more romantic direction.

  I had showered as soon as I got in and spent a long time choosing what to wear. I wanted to send subtle messages that I was open to advances without looking cheap. In the end, I plumped for a peacock-blue cocktail dress with a lowish neckline with a black jacket and black mid-height
heels. I added some multi-coloured dangly earrings that Millie had given me for Christmas, but it looked too barmaidy so I took them off. I blow dried my hair upside down with the volumising attachment I hadn’t used since the nineties and was quite pleased how glamorous it looked, even without the blonde highlights I used to have. Make-up wise I was bolder than usual. Smokey grey eyeshadow and a red lipstick as well as mascara and eyeliner. I halted at the mirror in the hall, though, and wiped off the lipstick with a tissue, not quite brave enough to wear that classic symbol of sexual receptiveness. I promised myself that I would wear it on our first date after he had left Martha for good.

  I arrived at work early and sat watching the clock move slowly towards nine o’clock when I knew Prof would arrive as he had a meeting at 9.30. At 9.08 he burst through the door in his usual bonhomie manner. He did a double take as he walked past my desk and my heart leapt.

  ‘Oh dear, Sylvia – caught in the wind were you?’ he said, holding his hands widely to each side of his head and, laughing, he grabbed the agenda I had printed out for him and disappeared into his office.

  Margaret, who was still a temp then, and who sat opposite me, stifled a giggle and I turned back to my computer screen, staring but not seeing anything through a blur of embarrassed tears. I had overdone it with the hair and Prof had not even had the chance to see my figure in the dress. I quickly checked his diary. Damn it. Now he would be in that meeting until lunch and then over at the central campus for the rest of the day for a symposium, only returning for a PhD supervision meeting at 6.00 by which time I would have left.

  The next day I tried again with a 1950s style black and white polka dot dress that Millie had given me, assuring me it was vintage, and a pair of heels I had last worn at Shona and Ian’s wedding. This time I kept my hair in its normal style, but wore the red lipstick. I knew Prof would be in the office all day and I had planned several reasons to visit him at his desk such as forms that needed his signature that I ‘forgot’ to put in his pigeonhole and so on. As a final flourish, I spritzed myself with Chanel and tried to reimagine the frisson I had felt with Fabio. I arrived early again: I wanted to be seated serenely at my desk when Prof came in, with my hair just so, not faffing around with my coat and bag. He stormed in at around 10.00, complaining that his train had been delayed and cursing the weather and the fact that he had lost his umbrella. He didn’t look at me at all, not even a cursory glance, as he shook off his mac and hung it on the coat stand before throwing open the door to his office and slamming it behind him. The outer office reverberated with his bad mood and Margaret looked terrified as she crept up to his door with an expenses claim that needed to be signed for another academic.