by Syd Moore
It helped that Poppy just happened to be the best baby ever. And the best baby ever grew into the best little girl. And despite the fact he’d never boomeranged back to the Lucky Country, as he’d longed to, paternal love filled his heart and every fibre of his being so much that it cancelled out any negatives and, in fact, better than that, it made him feel proud.
Within another couple of years he’d put a ring on Anne’s finger and bought them a modest but perfectly adequate semi in Essex, where they settled down and created a home.
The only real fly in the ointment was the mother-in-law he’d inherited. Doreen had never been impressed. A lower-middle-class widow with aspirations to the upper-middle and beyond, his mother-in-law’s ambitions were thwarted by the untimely death of her spouse some thirteen years previously. A sudden heart attack while having lunch at the bank, brought on, Cliff believed, by the incessant demands of his wife. Frank Johnson was, at the time, grappling with a suffocating mortgage for an unnecessarily large four-bedroom house on a new development in Hertfordshire with its own Waitrose and shared green spaces, a holiday home in the Algarve and Anne’s university fees.
Doreen was devastated. She had loved that house. Its high-end finish was the envy of all her friends. Frank’s selfish expiration, however, forced her to face the consequences of the extraordinary debts her husband had conspired to conceal. But the creditors were unsympathetic and hungry for repayment, so the house and the apartment in Portugal were sold for a song. Doreen managed to eke out enough from the leftover change to purchase a two-bedroom flat in a neighbourhood with no parking and a Lidl. Anne took on student loans and then, upon graduation, hot-footed it off to Australia, which was pretty much as far away as she could get from her mother’s moans.
Doreen raised her head above the grim reality in which she found herself, and became committed to living vicariously through her daughter. Her aspirations, however, were brought to a skidding halt when she was introduced to Cliff. And although Doreen constantly wielded her axe, attempting to sever the cords that strung the two lovers together, Anne was not to be deterred.
The wedding, whilst in a church hall wearing Blue Cross reductions from the Debenhams sale, surprisingly however appeared to soothe Doreen. Or perhaps she just gave up for a while. And by then the delightful Poppy was toddling her way into everyone’s hearts, sweetening the sourest of lemons. For a time things floated on in a sea that was wavy but calm.
It was when she became ill and moved in with them that inevitably it all got worse. As a distraction to her growing pain, she fixated on Cliff’s domestic chores, which is perhaps why he did so much of the buttock-clenching routine and didn’t bite back, but let it go. Or tried to.
His stamina was remarkable.
In the mornings, at the squeak of a wheelie bin, he’d be issued with instructions to ensure he cleaned the receptacle after emptying – ‘I don’t know how you people can live like that?’ Lunchtimes would elicit a lecture on the ills of micro-waved food – ‘Well, if you want to die of cancer, so be it.’ The school run would produce comments concerning the unnaturalness of men who liked to linger about playgrounds – ‘Pervs with nothing better to do.’ He didn’t need Windolene to clean the windows of an afternoon but vinegar – ‘Nothing wrong with a bit of elbow grease, Cliff.’ And if he got the Hoover out – ‘You’ve missed a bit.’
And she was always friggin’ right.
But in the final week he’d almost felt sorry for the woman: the death rattle, the tears, the saying goodbye. Then she’d gone, and although he tried to feel guilty and a bit sad about it, all he really noticed was a huge sense of relief lifting from his shoulders.
He felt it again now, as he put the urn back on the mantelpiece in the lounge, a smaller lift, true, but an appreciation of Doreen’s absence nonetheless. He wanted rid of the container to be honest – it was a reminder of Doreen’s observations – but he’d agreed it could rest here until Anne decided where she should scatter her mother’s mortal remains.
Which kind of made it look like he’d meant to do it, even though, honest to God, he so, so hadn’t. Possibly somewhere in the recesses of his brain there might have been an impulse there but it definitely, absolutely, no way José, was a conscious thing.
The problem was that he’d got carried away with a couple of articles in the Guardian online and hadn’t realised that the hour for school pick-up was approaching. He’d promised Poppy this morning that he’d get the Christmas decorations down from the attic before she got home and they could put them up together. So once he’d got into the loft and hurriedly brought the boxes down he’d thought he’d better make a bit of an effort. Seemed silly just to leave them there untouched.
He pulled out a big arrangement of fake pine cones and holly, entwined with silk lilies and red berries. If he stuck that on the mantelpiece it would immediately change the look of the room and bestow some seasonal cheer. So he’d lifted it up, but instead of moving the urn out of the way with his hands, he nudged it along the sill with the arrangement.
One of the silk flowers at the edge, however, which he thought was flexible, turned out to be supported by a wooden stick, and unfortunately it was this that knocked into the side of the big blue brass urn.
Cliff watched with horror as the urn tottered sideways, then leant forwards and keeled, before it began to pitch off the edge. Cliff, his reflexes slightly lethargic at this late hour, attempted to tap it back onto the shelf, but he miscalculated and slapped the urn lid, which ricocheted back to the wall, leaving the contents unprotected. He could only watch, open-mouthed, as the mortal remains of his mother-in-law sprayed out of the somersaulting urn and scattered across the shag pile below.
Quickly Cliff fell to his knees, up-righting the urn and picking up the bits of grey sand in his fingers, foolishly trying to stick the grains back inside.
But it was no good: the damage was done. As he tried to rub the ashes away they caught into the carpet, staining it a deep shark-grey.
And it was everywhere.
There was only one thing for it, he thought, noting the time. He got out the Duchesse 127 and sucked the dark dust from the carpet, the surrounding hearth and sill. And though this time he did feel quite a measure of guilt, when he sat back and unplugged the Hoover, there was no spilled Doreen anywhere to be seen.
He thought he had probably just about got away with it.
‘You’ve missed a bit’ a voice said.
Cliff froze.
He knew that tone. The niggling superiority meshed with a dose of spleen.
‘Over there, by the poker.’ It came again.
Cliff gasped, as his eyes fixed on the source. The voice was coming from the Hoover.
‘Over there boy, you’ve got eyes haven’t you?’
And perhaps unfastened by horror or defaulting into his prior subservience, he ran his eyes over the place where the poker lay. Damn! The Hoover was right – there was a little patch of death-grey ashes underneath its stand.
Without consciously registering what he was doing, Cliff picked up the vacuum cleaner and sucked up the last offending splat of dust.
Then he sat down and looked at the vacuum cleaner, but it wasn’t saying anything anymore.
Poppy was just delighted to be putting the decorations up with her dad and did not notice his furtive glances at the Duchesse 127 in the corner of the room.
Nor did Annie see or hear anything unusual in the lounge, which led Cliff to believe that the stress of Doreen’s passing and the shock of the untimely urn accident had contrived to cause aural hallucinations.
So it was with a jaunt in his step the following morning he kissed his wife goodbye, scooped Poppy up for the school run and returned home to celebrate his wonderfully empty house with a nice cup of coffee.
But as soon as the kettle had boiled, he heard it.
‘Oh, a nice cup of tea would be ever-so kind.’
His hand paused in mid-air, the spoonful of instant dangling over the count
er.
He breathed in.
He looked behind him.
Nothing.
‘Although why would you now you’ve got your feet nice and snug and under the table?’
It came from the hall.
Slowly, feeling the air around him tense and sharpen, he turned his eyes to face the sound.
Something bleeped. Although …
That wasn’t a cough, was it?
His heart sped up.
No. How . . .?
For there in the hallway, staring at him, was the Duchesse 127.
Cliff dropped the coffee spoon on the floor sending the dark grains scattering across the tiles.
He took a step towards the vacuum cleaner and touched it to make sure it was real.
It was.
His hand recoiled for a moment then in one fell swoop scooped up the Hoover, ran down the hallway with it in his arms and then chucked it out the front door.
It was bin day tomorrow. Thank God.
That would be the end of that.
Doreen and her demonic Hoover would no longer infest this house. Dust pans and brushes had served Britons well for hundreds of years and would do for him just as well.
And it was this thought that sustained him throughout his chores.
He was slightly uncomfortable about the fact that he had disposed of his mother-in-law’s ashes in such an indecorous manner but, he reasoned, this was surely the awkward truth that had conjured the voice.
Yes, that was the most logical explanation. It was guilt of course that haunted him rather than his mother-in-law’s spirit reincarnated into a vacuum cleaner.
Now he thought about it, he could see how absurd he had been.
And a cackle of laughter tripped over his tongue and he shrugged his shoulders and decided to make a very special dinner for Anne and Poppy tonight.
And certainly his efforts did not go unappreciated. In fact, Anne informed Cliff he could have a lie-in and she would take Poppy to school in the morning.
So, it was a perfectly rested Cliff who stretched his body as he came lolloping down the stairs to find, at the bottom, the Duchesse 127 glaring at him again.
On its handle there was a Post-it. Cliff recognised his wife’s writing: ‘Why is this outside? It still works.’
Goddammit.
‘Us Johnson women have always rallied when there’s a weak link in the chain,’ the vacuum cleaner said.
No, no, no.
This was not real.
Cliff took a breath and popped his head out the door. The Davidsons were having a conservatory built and there was a skip on the road outside.
Without changing his pyjamas or slipping on shoes Cliff picked up the Duchesse and, after charging down the road, threw the rogue cleaner into the skip, adding a two-fingered salute as she crashed onto the splintered wood and glass.
He brushed his hands.
No more bloody Doreen. No more. The skip was full now, which meant the builders would have to take it away soon and the Duchesse would be escorted to her proper resting place somewhere in a landfill site near the M25.
‘I’m happy to help,’ pleaded the Hoover.
But Cliff shook his head and shouted back, ‘No you’re not. Good riddance is what I say.’
Once inside, feeling suddenly unclean, he jumped in the shower, only becoming aware as he shampooed his hair that there was someone knocking on the door.
Guarded and unsure, he threw on a towel and went downstairs.
Oh God, he thought as he opened the door and saw Sam Davidson standing there with the Duchesse 127 in his hands.
‘Look mate,’ said Sam. ‘I don’t want to be funny, but we’ve paid for that skip and we’ve got a lot of rubble to get in there today. If you want rid of this, take it to the tip.’ And he put the Duchesse down on the matt and closed the front door.
‘Perv,’ said the hoover, eyeing Cliff’s towel. ‘With nothing better to do.’
‘Right! That’s it!’ yelled Cliff and he raced upstairs and threw on some clothes.
It was possible, he thought, that he was attracting some attention as he strode down Southend Pier in mismatched shoes, with hair full of soap suds and the Duchesse 127 in his arms. But he cared not one jot. Doreen was going to find herself sinking into a watery grave. One from which she could never return.
When he reached the end, by the fishermen, there were a few who cast quizzical glances, but most people looked away.
So there weren’t many who witnessed Cliff get Doreen onto the railings and then push her into the drink.
‘I paid such a lot . . .’ she screamed and gurgled ‘for . . .’ splutter . . . ‘it . . .’ and she began to sink.
Cliff watched until the waves took down the plug and the last of the bubbles had popped on the surface of the sea . . . glug, glug, glug.
He had one nightmare about a zombie Hoover emerging from the estuary half-covered with seaweed and a determination to make its way back to their house, but other than that, he had enjoyed perfect peace since the pier episode.
With the advent of Christmas he became involved in preparations for the big day. The house was festooned with decorations, his mood began to climb. In fact, he had even caught himself in the living room mirror dotting crackers about the tree with a happy grin on his face. There was much to do and thus he was able to sink his unease into shopping for presents and the Christmas dinner he was cooking for his perfect little family and that of his brother’s, who were joining them for the day.
So, it wasn’t until everyone had gone that Christmas night, after Poppy had reluctantly climbed into bed, that he and Anne found time to exchange their gifts, sitting cross-legged and slightly tipsy in front of a roaring hearth.
He had bought his wife her favourite perfume and some silk underwear, which she loved and declared she’d get into at once. Or at least after she had given Cliff his gift.
It was a large square box and heavy, too.
Although when he opened the lid and saw the hoover inside, he paused.
‘What’s up darling?’ Anne cried. ‘I know the last vacuum had to be chucked. Is it too boring?’ she asked.
Cliff prodded it. Not a Duchesse 127, at least, he lifted it out of the box. It was squarish in shape and very male in appearance. In fact, it had a man’s face painted on it.
‘It’s a Henry,’ said his wife. ‘And it works, too. I tried it out earlier, right here where we’re sitting.’
But Cliff blanched.
Was he mistaken or was Henry’s smile broadening into a leer?
‘Happy to help out,’ it cried.
JOCELYN’S STORY
I could tell you a thing or two ’bout my soon-to-be-ex-husband and not much of it would be pretty. Saying that, even I had to admit, as I looked out the window this morning, ole Ron was starting to develop great taste in broads.
His latest flame was a knockout.
About time.
Stretched out across the black sedan. With her tight little butt perched up on the wheel hub, she displayed herself perfectly well. I watched a white butterfly dance about her skirt before she waved it away.
There it was again. My friend.
This chick had a pleasing style to her dress. She had on this poppy-red summer frock and a matching choker.
Clever girl. Brought out her lipstick and she had good lips, too: plump and young and fleshy.
There was no bust to speak of but that had never bothered Ron.
Ron was a leg man.
‘Come away from the window, Rita.’ Mama tried to imply there was some vague maternal concern going on. But she never got the tone right. ‘You’ll just upset yourself.’
I ignored her and let out a low whistle. ‘Will you take a look at the pins on that.’ Mama’s gaze cottoned on to Ron, who now was wrapped around one of the most exquisite calves I’d seen in a hell of a long time. The new gal’s proportions were exceptional. The curve of her ankle a pale crescent that hung like a waxing moon in the satiny
black sky of Ron’s chinos.
The knee was a little bumpier than I liked but that could be sorted.
‘Don’t start,’ Mama fretted. ‘Come away.’
But I could not take my eyes off the ankles, no siree. By my reckoning they had to be under eight inches all round. Well done, Ron, I thought, but didn’t say it out loud for fear of upsetting Mama.
Though I couldn’t help asking her, ‘Do you think they’ll be all right for …?’
I didn’t have to finish.
She knew what I meant.
It made her shiver.
And that made me laugh.
No guts, that woman. Got all my strength from Pa, God rest his soul. A hard man, but he did well for the family. Some folks thought him too severe. I appreciated his single-minded dogma even if I didn’t understand it as a child.
Mama coughed. I could tell she was trying to stand up to me. Her voice went low. ‘I said don’t start, Rita. I mean it. I’ll leave.’
She hadn’t fixed my tea yet so I didn’t say no more and let her pull me away.
I’ve never been what you’d call domestic. Suzetta, the housekeeper, had moved when Ron upped sticks and I’d not yet found a replacement. I find the Help come so fussy these days.
There had been a couple of engagements, but the women hadn’t lasted long.
Though it irked me to say, I was grateful that Irma, with her pustulating face and fierce body odour, had stuck around to do the household chores. The girl was a slut of a cleaner: skimming hours, missing corners, sweeping dust under rugs. You know the type. But she did the basics. And she kept her mouth shut, which was the main thing. Needs must when the devil drives.
And, we all know, he sure had driven me. It’s usually one or the other ain’t it. Don’t know when the ole King of the Underworld, Beelzebub, I don’t know when he started messing with me, putting ideas in this little ole head of mine.
If I had to put an age on it then I’d say it was maybe the same time that I realised I had certain attractions. I have always been one for excellence, never wishing for second best.
