“How marvelous! I shall look forward to regular updates on this project of yours, Eleanor,” she said brightly. “You know how much I’d love for you to find someone special. Someone appropriate. All these talks we’ve had, over the years: I’ve always had the impression that you’re missing out, not having someone significant in your life. It’s good that you’ve started looking for . . . your other half. A partner in crime, as it were.” She laughed quietly.
“I’m not lonely, Mummy,” I said, protesting. “I’m fine on my own. I’ve always been fine on my own.”
“Well now, you haven’t always been on your own, have you?” she said, her voice sly, quiet. I felt sweat cling to the back of my neck, dampening my hair. “Still, tell yourself whatever you need to get you through the night, darling,” she said, laughing. She has a knack for amusing herself, although no one else laughs much in her company. “You can always talk to me, you know. About anything. Or anyone.” She sighed. “I do so love to hear from you, darling . . . You wouldn’t understand, of course, but the bond between a mother and child, it’s . . . how best to describe it . . . unbreakable. The two of us are linked forever, you see—same blood in my veins that’s running through yours. You grew inside me, your teeth and your tongue and your cervix are all made from my cells, my genes. Who knows what little surprises I left growing inside there for you, which codes I set running? Breast cancer? Alzheimer’s? You’ll just have to wait and see. You were fermenting inside me for all those months, nice and cozy, Eleanor. However hard you try to walk away from that fact, you can’t, darling, you simply can’t. It isn’t possible to destroy a bond that strong.”
“That may or may not be true, Mummy,” I said quietly. Such audacity. I don’t know where I found the courage. The blood was pounding through my body and my hands quivered.
She responded as though I had not spoken.
“Right, so we’ll keep in touch, yes? You carry on with your little project, and I’ll speak to you at the same time next week? That’s settled, then. Must dash—cheerio!”
It was only when the air went dead that I noticed I’d been crying.
5
Friday at last. When I arrived at the office, my colleagues were already clustered around the kettle, talking about soap operas. They ignored me; I have long since ceased to initiate any conversation with them. I hung my navy jerkin on the back of my chair and switched on my computer. I had not slept well again the previous evening, being somewhat unsettled by my conversation with Mummy. I decided to make a refreshing cup of tea before I got started. I have my own mug and spoon, which I keep in my desk drawer for hygiene reasons. My colleagues think this strange, or at least I assume so from their reactions, and yet they are happy to drink from filthy vessels, washed carelessly by unknown hands. I cannot even countenance the notion of inserting a teaspoon, licked and sucked by a stranger barely an hour beforehand, into a hot beverage. Filthy.
I stood at the sink while I waited for the kettle to boil, trying not to listen to their conversation. I gave my little teapot another hot rinse, just to be sure, and drifted into pleasurable thoughts, thoughts of him. I wondered what he was doing at this very moment—writing a song, perhaps? Or would he still be asleep? I wondered what his handsome face would look like in repose.
The kettle clicked off and I warmed the teapot, then spooned in some first-flush Darjeeling, my mind still focused on the putative beauty of my slumbering troubadour. Childish laughter from my colleagues began to intrude upon my thoughts, but I assumed this was to do with my choice of beverage. Knowing no better, they are content to drop a bag of poorest-quality blended tea into a mug, scald it with boiling water and then dilute any remaining flavor by adding fridge-cold milk. Once again, for some reason, it is I who am considered strange. But if you’re going to drink a cup of tea, why not take every care to maximize the pleasure?
The giggling continued, and Janey started to hum. There was no attempt at concealment now; they were laughing loud and hard. She stopped humming and started singing. I recognized neither the melody nor the lyrics. She stopped, unable to go on because she was laughing so much, still performing a strange backward walk.
“Morning, Wacko Jacko,” Billy called out to me. “What’s with the white glove?”
So that was the source of their amusement. Unbelievable.
“It’s for my eczema,” I said, talking slowly and patiently, the way you explain things to a child. “I had a very bad flare-up on Wednesday evening and the skin on my right hand is extremely inflamed. I’m wearing this cotton glove to prevent infection.” The laughter died away, leaving a long pause. They looked at each other silently, rather like ruminant animals in a field.
I didn’t often interact with my colleagues in this informal, chatty way, which gave me cause to stop and consider whether I ought to make the most of the opportunity. Bernadette’s fraternal connection to the object of my affections—surely it would be the work of moments to glean some additional, useful information about him from her? I didn’t think I was up to a protracted interaction—she had a very loud, grating voice and a laugh like a howler monkey—but it was surely worth a few moments of my time. I stirred my tea in a clockwise direction while I prepared my opening gambit.
“Did you enjoy the rest of the concert the other night, Billy?” I said. He looked surprised at my question, and there was a pause before he answered.
“Aye, it was OK,” he said. Articulate as ever. This was going to be hard work.
“Were the other singers of a similar standard to . . .” I paused and pretended to wrack my brains “. . . to Johnnie Lomond?”
“They were all right, I guess,” he said, shrugging. Such insight, such clear, descriptive prose. Bernadette piped up, as I knew she would, unable to resist an opportunity to draw attention to herself by any means available.
“I know him, Johnnie Lomond,” she told me proudly. “He used to be pals with my brother, at school.”
“Really?” I said, not, for once, having to feign interest. “Which school was that?”
The way she said the name of the establishment implied that I ought to be aware of it. I tried to look impressed.
“Are they still friends?” I asked, stirring my tea again.
“Not really,” she said. “He came to Paul’s wedding, but I think they drifted apart after that. You know what it’s like—when you’re married with kids, you sort of lose touch with your single pals, don’t you? You don’t have that much in common anymore . . .”
I had neither knowledge nor experience of the situation she’d described, but I nodded as though I did, while all the while the same phrase was scrolling across my brain: he is single, he is single, he is single.
I took my tea back to my desk. Their laughter seemed to have turned into low whispering now. It never ceases to amaze me, the things they find interesting, amusing or unusual. I can only assume they’ve led very sheltered lives.
Janey the secretary had got engaged to her latest Neanderthal, and there was a presentation for her that afternoon. I’d contributed seventy-eight pence to the collection. I only had coppers in my purse or else a five-pound note, and I certainly wasn’t going to put such an extravagant sum into the communal envelope to buy something unnecessary for someone I barely knew. I must have contributed hundreds of pounds over the years to all the leaving presents, baby gifts and special birthdays, and what had I ever received in return? My own birthdays pass unremarked.
Whoever had chosen the engagement gift had selected wineglasses and a matching carafe. Such accoutrements are unnecessary when you drink vodka—I simply use my favorite mug. I purchased it in a charity shop some years ago, and it has a photograph of a moon-faced man on one side. He is wearing a brown leather blouson. Along the top, in strange yellow font, it says Top Gear. I don’t profess to understand this mug. It holds the perfect amount of vodka, however, thereby obviating the need for frequent refills
.
Janey was planning a short engagement, she’d simpered, and so, of course, the inevitable collection for the wedding present would soon follow. Of all the compulsory financial contributions, that is the one that irks me most. Two people wander around John Lewis picking out lovely items for themselves, and then they make other people pay for them. It’s bare-faced effrontery. They choose things like plates, bowls and cutlery—I mean, what are they doing at the moment: shoveling food from packets into their mouths with their bare hands? I simply fail to see how the act of legally formalizing a human relationship necessitates friends, family and coworkers upgrading the contents of their kitchen for them.
I’ve never actually been to a wedding ceremony. I was invited to Loretta’s evening reception a couple of years ago, along with everyone else from the office. It was in a horrible hotel near the airport, and we organized a minibus to get there; I had to contribute to the cost of that, in addition to my bus fare into town and back. Guests were obliged to buy their own drinks all evening, which shocked me. Entertaining is not my area of expertise, I’ll admit that, but surely, if you are a host, you are responsible for ensuring that your guests are provided with a libation? That’s a basic principle of hospitality, in all societies and cultures, and has been since recorded time. In the event, I drank tap water—I rarely imbibe alcohol in public. I only really enjoy it when I’m alone, at home. They did at least serve tea and coffee later in the evening, free of charge; this was accompanied by poor-quality savory pastries and, bizarrely, slices of Christmas cake. For hours and hours, there was a disco, and terrible people danced in a terrible way to terrible music. I sat on my own and no one asked me to dance and I was absolutely fine with that.
The other guests did seem to be enjoying themselves, or at least I assume that to have been the case. They were shuffling on the dance floor, red-faced and drunk. Their shoes looked uncomfortable, and they were shouting the words of the songs into each other’s faces. I’ll never go to such an event again. It simply wasn’t worth it, just for a cup of tea and a slice of cake. The evening wasn’t completely wasted, however, because I managed to slip almost a dozen sausage rolls into my shopper, wrapped in serviettes, for later. Unfortunately, they weren’t very tasty—nowhere near as good as the always reliable Greggs.
When the grim engagement presentation was over, I zipped up my jerkin and turned off my computer, excited at the thought of switching on my personal laptop at home as soon as I could. There might be some useful information online about his school days, given the nugget of new information I’d inveigled from Bernadette earlier. How wonderful if there was a class photograph! I’d love to see how he looked in his youth, whether he’d always been beautiful, or whether he’d blossomed into a glorious butterfly at a relatively late stage. My money was on him being stunning from birth. There might be a list of prizes he’d won! Music, obviously, English, probably: he wrote such wonderful lyrics, after all. Either way, he definitely struck me as a prizewinner.
I try to plan my exits from the office so that I don’t need to talk to anyone else on the way out. There are always so many questions. What are you up to tonight? Plans for the weekend? Booked a holiday yet? I’ve no idea why other people are always so interested in my schedule. I’d timed it all perfectly, and was maneuvering my shopper over the threshold when I realized that someone had pulled the door back and was holding it open for me. I turned around.
“All right, Eleanor?” the man said, smiling patiently as I unraveled the string on my mittens from my sleeve. Even though they were not required in the current temperate atmosphere, I keep them in situ, ready to don as the eventual change in season requires.
“Yes,” I said, and then, remembering my manners, I muttered, “Thank you, Raymond.”
“No bother,” he said.
Annoyingly, we began walking down the path at the same time.
“Where are you headed?” he asked. I nodded vaguely in the direction of the hill.
“Me too,” he said.
I bent down and pretended to refasten the Velcro on my shoe. I took as long as I could, hoping that he would take the hint. When eventually I stood up again, he was still there, arms dangling by his sides. I noticed that he was wearing a duffle coat. A duffle coat! Surely they were the preserve of children and small bears? We started to walk downhill together and he took out a packet of cigarettes, offered me one. I reared back from the packet.
“How disgusting,” I said. Undeterred, he lit up.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Filthy habit, I know.”
“It is,” I said. “You’ll die years earlier than you would have otherwise, probably from cancer or heart disease. You won’t see the effects on your heart or your lungs for a while, but you’ll notice it in your mouth—gum disease, loss of teeth—and you’ve already got the smoker’s characteristically dull, prematurely lined skin. The chemical constitution of cigarettes includes cyanide and ammonia, you know. Do you really want to willingly ingest such toxic substances?”
“You seem to know an awful lot about fags for a nonsmoker,” he said, blowing a noxious cloud of carcinogens from between his thin lips.
“I did briefly consider taking up smoking,” I admitted, “but I thoroughly research all activities before commencement, and smoking did not in the end seem to me to be a viable or sensible pastime. It’s financially rebarbative too,” I said.
“Aye,” he nodded, “it does cost a fortune, right enough.” There was a pause. “Which way are you going, Eleanor?” he asked.
I considered the best response to this question. I was heading home for an exciting rendezvous. This highly unusual occasion—an appointment with a visitor to my home—meant that I needed to curtail this tedious, unplanned interaction posthaste. I therefore ought to pick any route but the one Raymond would be taking. But which one? We were about to pass the chiropody clinic and inspiration struck.
“I have an appointment over there,” I said, pointing to the chiropodist’s opposite. He looked at me. “Bunions,” I improvised. I saw him looking at my shoes.
“I’m sorry to hear that, Eleanor,” he said. “My mother’s the same; she’s got terrible trouble with her feet.”
We waited at the pedestrian crossing, and he was silent at last. I watched an old man stagger down the opposite side of the road. He was small and square, and had caught my eye because of his tomato-red sweater, which burst out from beneath his standard-issue pensioner grays and muted pastels. Almost in slow motion, the old man began to weave and wobble erratically, swaying wildly from side to side, his bulging carrier bags creating a sort of human pendulum.
“Drunk in the daytime,” I said quietly, more to myself than to Raymond. Raymond opened his mouth to reply when the old man finally toppled, fell backward hard and lay still. His shopping exploded around him, and I noticed he’d bought Tunnock’s Caramel Logs and a jumbo pack of sausages.
“Shit,” said Raymond, stabbing at the button on the crossing control.
“Leave him,” I said. “He’s drunk. He’ll be fine.”
Raymond stared at me.
“He’s a wee old man, Eleanor. He smacked his head on that pavement pretty hard,” he said.
Then I felt bad. Even alcoholics deserve help, I suppose, although they should get drunk at home, like I do, so that they don’t cause anyone else any trouble. But then, not everyone is as sensible and considerate as me.
Finally, the green man flashed and Raymond jogged across the road, having flung his cigarette into the gutter. No need to be a litter lout, I thought, walking at a more measured pace behind him. When I reached the other side, Raymond was already kneeling beside the old man, feeling for a pulse in his neck. He was talking loudly and slowly, silly nonsense like Hiya, old-timer, how you doing? and Can you hear me, mister? The old man didn’t respond. I leaned over him and sniffed deeply.
“He’s not actually drunk,” I said. “You’
d smell it, if he were drunk enough to fall over and pass out.” Raymond started loosening the man’s clothing.
“Call an ambulance, Eleanor,” he said quietly.
“I don’t possess a mobile telephone,” I explained, “although I’m open to persuasion with regard to their efficacy.” Raymond rummaged in his duffle coat pocket and tossed me his.
“Hurry up,” he said, “the old guy’s out cold.”
I started to dial 999, and then a memory punched me full in the face. I couldn’t do it again, I realized, I simply couldn’t live and listen to a voice saying Which service do you require, caller? then to approaching sirens. I touched my scars, and then threw the phone back at Raymond.
“You do it,” I said. “I’ll sit with him.” Raymond swore under his breath and stood up.
“Keep talking, and don’t move him,” he said. I took off my jerkin and placed it over the man’s torso.
“Hello,” I said, “I’m Eleanor Oliphant.” Keep talking to him, Raymond had said, so I did.
“What a lovely sweater!” I said. “You don’t see that color often on a woolen garment. Would you describe it as vermillion? Or carmine, perhaps? I rather like it. I wouldn’t attempt such a shade myself, of course. But, against the odds, I think you just about carry it off. White hair and red clothing—like Father Christmas. Was the sweater a gift? It looks like a gift, all soft and expensive. It’s far too nice a thing to buy for yourself. But perhaps you do buy nice things for yourself—some people do, I know. Some people think nothing of treating themselves to the best of everything. Mind you, looking at the rest of your clothes, and the contents of your shopping bag, it seems highly unlikely that you’re that sort of person.”
I braced myself and took three deep breaths, then slowly put out my hand and placed it over his. I held it gently for as long as I could bear.
Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine Page 4