by Isla Dewar
‘I will,’ said Anna. ‘A protein-fest for me. You are probably right about Shelley and nappies. But I should imagine his wife left that to some maid or other. I don’t know. Such details were not in any of the books I read.’
George said, ‘If you took the job you could buy steak.’
‘Hmm. Perhaps not.’
‘Maya Angelou.’ George punched the air. ‘She’d definitely have done it. She’d have turned it into something wonderful. There would have been songs and cake and fabulous food and poems. Love – she’d have taught the boy about love.’
Anna put a forkful of steak into her mouth and then shut her eyes to properly savour the flood of wine and pepper and meat. She didn’t speak. She took a sip from her glass and let it mix with her food. This was perfect. She loved this. And she wasn’t going to let her suspicion that George was right spoil anything.
George noted her friend’s pleasure and said nothing. She knew Anna was reconsidering her decision not to look after Marlon. She was taken with the notion of cake and song and love. Maya Angelou had swung it.
It was almost four o’clock when Anna got home. Marla’s car was parked across the road. Time then, Anna decided, to go and discuss terms before she changed her mind. She wasn’t used to discussing terms, but imagined it to be a civilised exchange between reasonable adults.
In fact, she’d only had one job and hadn’t negotiated anything. She’d received a letter offering her the position as editor of her beloved low-circulation poetry magazine after a short interview where it was obvious she was the only applicant. In her working life she’d had six wage raises and had come to accept poverty as a way of life. Present-day prices shook her to the soles of her charity shop shoes. ‘It costs what to have a mobile phone? I could eat for a month on that.’ She’d stand staring, mouth open, into shoe shops amazed at the amount people would pay for a pair of flimsy, strappy high heels. ‘Ridiculous,’ she’d say. She’d cycled to work on an ancient expolice bike she’d picked up at an auction sale till arthritis got the better of her.
She pressed her forehead against the windowpane of her living room and indulged in glimpses of her times past. Oh, what a bike that old police bike had been. She’d painted it red to match the Doc Martens of the day. It was heavy, had no gears and pedalling uphill was a sweat and a grunt. But downhill was a thrill. Hair flying and breathless, with legs splayed out either side, she’d whoosh through narrow streets shouting at people to get out of the way. She’d been forty-two and on the way to her poetry magazine. What could be better than that?
There had been parties in posh living rooms dominated by huge pianos and in whitewashed candle-lit cellars. She’d danced, swigged cheap red and argued passionately about books and films and poetry and politics. She’d swigged pints of beer in smoky pubs and kissed lovers in back rooms. Oh my, she thought, happy times. And look at me now. Arthritic and old and needing money. She sighed, took up her walking stick and set out for Marla’s.
The living room was warm and seemed crowded, though there were only three people there. Marlon sat, legs curled, on a blue and white striped sofa watching a cop show on a large television. Voices boomed, ‘Put the gun down, son.’ Marla stood, hands on hips, taking this moment in before turning to Anna and waving her towards one of the bashed blue seats either side of the fireplace. ‘You’ll be wanting a cup of tea.’
In fact, she didn’t. But Marla disappeared into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Alone with Marlon, Anna felt awkward, old and out of touch with youth, but here was a chance to break the ice with him.
‘So what are you up to?’
‘Watching television,’ he replied. A monotone.
‘Do you watch a lot of television?’
Marlon made a snorting grunting noise that Anna assumed meant he did.
‘What are your favourite programmes? I like University Challenge. Sometimes I even get a question right.’ She laughed a feeble laugh.
Marlon didn’t answer. It amazed Anna that someone could express extreme irritation without moving, speaking or even registering any facial emotion. She shifted in her seat. She scolded herself for being patronising, sounding like an annoying grown-up. God, she was irritating.
Marla appeared carrying a tray containing three mugs and a plate of chocolate biscuits. She put it on the floor, handed mugs to Anna and Marlon, and took one for herself. She took the chair opposite Anna’s, sipped her tea and smiled. ‘You’ve changed your mind.’
‘I have,’ said Anna. ‘I think it would be good to get to know this young man.’
‘You could do with the money.’
‘Yes.’
She saw Marlon slide from the sofa and over to the plate of biscuits, take two, work his way back and slip back to where he’d been sitting. He didn’t spill a drop of tea. That was quite an art.
Marla turned and grinned at him. ‘No need to sneak.’
‘Biscuits are better when they’re sneaked.’ He grinned back. His face changed. It lit up and, bathed in his mother’s smile, he was suddenly handsome. He was loved.
Anna warmed to him. She thought she might quite like him. She agreed about the sneaking. Sneaked goodies are always juicier. ‘The job can’t be hard,’ she said. ‘Just make sure he doesn’t wander off and get run over sort of thing. He can come to my place. Read and do jigsaws.’
The boy flinched, as did Marla. But she recovered. ‘Well, you can work out what you do. It would be three days a week. The other two he does after-school stuff and I pick him up.’
‘After-school stuff?’
‘A dance class and drama. Can you start next week? Monday, Tuesday and Thursday, half-past three to six. Seven sometimes.’
Anna said, ‘That would be fine. No problem. What do you do?’
‘I deliver things. Celebration things. Balloons, cards, cupcakes, Champagne, cheap fizz, chocolate, that sort of thing, to people who are celebrating. You know birthdays, passing exams, having a baby. I find it depressing.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘Driving about through traffic, finding happy people who are whooping it up and sometimes start to scream when I come in wearing my uniform. It’s upsetting. And it’s been a hell of a long time since I celebrated anything. And when I did, I never jumped up and down and whooped.’
‘Quietly cheering,’ said Anna. She stood. It was time to go.
Marla walked with her to the door. ‘Monday, then. You’ll meet him at the school gates.’
‘At the school gates? I thought he’d come to me.’
‘He’s not walking home alone. Not these days. You don’t know who’s about. Bullies and perverts. You meet him.’
*
Monday afternoon, three-thirty, Anna was waiting at the school gates. She was nervous. Editing a poetry magazine? Yes, she could do that. Discussing the works of Yeats or Auden? No problem. Picking up a child after school? She’d never done that. This was a new and perturbing thing. Suddenly she was the stranger at the gates. She was getting worrying looks. There was a scattering of mums with pre-school infants, an in-crowd talking animatedly, laughing and looking fashionably superior. But most of the picker-uppers were sitting in cars patiently watching for the main doors to open.
When they did, children tumbled out and sped across the playground. They looked like wildly enthusiastic escapee puppies. The air rang with their cries of glee. For a panicky moment Anna couldn’t remember what Marlon looked like. What if she took home the wrong child? How would she sort that one out?
Marlon was one of the last to come out. He was alone, had no pal chattering at his side. His day in the classroom had taken its toll. Half his shirt was hanging out, one shoe lace was undone, his hair was lank and his face pale. His school bag, which resembled one Anna used all those years ago, had slipped to waist level, the straps at his elbows. He looked pained and watched the ground as he walked. He stopped briefly in front of Anna, made a sort of greeting that was more of a grunt than an actual hello, and set off down the street a
head of her.
She followed but not at the child’s furious pace.
‘Will you stop and wait for me? I can’t keep up.’
He slowed till she had overtaken him. Then he trailed behind, moving so slowly Anna seemed to steam at a pace in front of him. She stopped.
‘Why don’t you try walking beside me? We could chat.’
He looked horrified. ‘No. Won’t chat. I don’t want to go home with you. I don’t want to walk along the street with you. You’re old.’
Anna sighed. ‘I know. It happened one day when I wasn’t looking.’
He stared at her, that look young people give old people they consider to be not just unreasonably old but also insane.
‘I’d like you to walk at the same pace as me,’ said Anna.
Marlon said, ‘Okay.’ And he crossed the road to oblige her by walking at the desired pace on the pavement over there.
Anna said, ‘Thank you.’ It was a start.
They walked in step, but silently. Marlon resented every moment. Old ladies were clearly embarrassing. Anna had imagined they’d stroll through the late afternoon chatting about school, her reminiscing about her own young life, the corridors she haunted, the teachers she’d loved and those she’d hated and the books she’d read. This was awful. Children were a mystery. She gazed down at her Doc Martens moving over the pavement and worried. What if the child ran back across the road, got run over by a car and ended up in A&E, or worse died? How to break this news to his mother? This was not going well. She thought she’d dressed appropriately for the occasion – jeans, baggy red jumper. But it seemed that some mothers dressed up for this. She sighed again and wished she was back in her old life – safe in her tiny office, desk covered with typescripts, telephone ringing from time to time and a cup of coffee at hand. She’d been happy then.
Marlon suddenly, and without checking the road was clear, bolted to the pavement she was on and disappeared down a narrow lane. Alarmed, Anna hobbled as fast as she could after him.
‘Hoi. Where are you going?’
He stopped, turned and said, ‘Home. This is a short cut.’
‘Do you behave like this when you’re with your mother? Not talking? Shooting down little narrow lanes on your own?’
‘No.’ He looked surprised at her suggestion. ‘We’re in the car, silly.’
‘Oh.’
She’d passed this lane often, but had never in all her years living in the neighbourhood explored it. She’d assumed it led to more houses and gardens. It was almost too narrow for two people to walk side-by-side and was fenced. Anna thought that for a short cut, something that should offer some sort of danger or thrill, it was boring.
In fact, it led to a joiner’s yard. Marlon lit up as he went through the gate. In painstakingly handwritten letters a sign on the fence read
RICHARD BARCLAY
JOINER • MASTER CRAFTSMAN
This place had been here for a long time, but Anna knew nothing about it.
A man was concentrating on sawing a long plank. He didn’t look up. Anna stood with Marlon, watching. She felt awkward. It was obviously private here. He stopped and greeted the boy.
‘Hey, Marlon. How’re you doing?’
‘Fine,’ Marlon grinned.
‘And who’s this you’ve brought?’
‘Anna.’ There was a certain disapproval in Marlon’s tone. ‘She’s looking after me when my mum’s at work. I had to bring her.’
The man stood up straight and put down the saw. He nodded to her. He was tall, muscular and old. His hair was long. He wasn’t quite ugly, just getting there. His nose was a bit big for his face, lips full and his eyebrows on the wild side. He looked to Anna like one of the interesting extras she’d seen in French movies. He was a Parisian gangster, a man of many opinions, some of which she’d find annoying. He looked like a man who knew himself and was content with that. Anna was transfixed. She was in love.
8
How Long Have You Been Old?
Was it love? Anna didn’t know. Probably a crush, she thought. She’d had many crushes in her life, but not recently. She didn’t think such a thing would happen to her now. Old people don’t fall in love, or indulge in wild infatuation.
Trying not to stare at Richard, Anna remembered her first and longest-lasting crush. It had been in her distant days, when her fellow school pupils had swooned over John Lennon and Ringo Starr. The object of her adoration had been Lord Byron. One day, she sighed, he would be behind her in the queue in her local shop where, on messages for her mum, she’d come to buy bread or milk or sugar. He would see beyond the navy school blazer, white blouse with permanently askew tie and white ankle socks to the shy sensitive literary genius she was. He’d smile. ‘But words are things,’ he’d say, ‘and a small drop of ink, falling like dew upon a thought produces that which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.’ ‘True,’ she’d reply, pocketing her change and tucking her pan loaf under her arm. Nights in bed she’d imagine he’d come to her, stroke her cheek and tell her there was no instinct like that of the heart. She knew he was long dead, but when she slipped into her imaginings this didn’t matter.
Byron’s kiss is but a trembling butterfly pressed a moment on my lips, she’d written on the inside cover of her Geography jotter. Her mother, who had left school at fourteen and had ambitions for her daughter’s education, had come across this and asked about this Byron person. ‘Are you seeing him? You’re too young for all that nonsense.’
Anna had sighed dramatically and flounced from the room. ‘He’s a poet, mother.’
‘A poet. You stop that. You’re too young for boys and you’re way way too young for a poet. I forbid you to see him.’
In the park next day Anna and George sat on a bench – two worldly girls sharing a Mars Bar and discussing parental relationships.
‘My mother thinks I’m seeing a bloke called Byron,’ Anna had said.
George snorted.
‘She told me I’m too young to go out with a poet. God, she’s embarrassing. She doesn’t understand anything. I’m misunderstood. It’s boring.’
‘You have no idea what I have to suffer,’ George said. Tears blurred her eyes. ‘My mother is awful. I hate her. She understands me. She’s kind and gentle and makes me hot chocolate when I come home. I tell you, if there’s anything worse than being misunderstood it’s being understood. You just can’t rebel.’
Standing in Richard Barclay’s messy yard remembering this, Anna smiled. There was no crush like a first crush. Richard noticed her grin and gave her a quizzical look.
‘I like your yard,’ Anna said. ‘It’s lovely, full of interesting things.’
It was indeed. There were a couple of unfinished doors awaiting locks and handles, planks of wood leaning against the wall, more wood in piles inside the workshop, a circular saw and a scattering of sawdust on the ground. Anna indicated the interesting things with a sweep of her arm, caught Richard’s dismissive expression and gave him a watery smile.
‘I’ve never been in a working yard,’ she told him.
‘They’re full of interesting things,’ he said and turned to speak to Marlon. ‘You want to get on with your spice rack?’
Marlon was already in the workshop putting the half-finished spice rack onto a bench. His school bag and anorak were abandoned in a heap in a corner.
‘You want to take a seat and wait?’ Richard said. ‘We’ll be half an hour or more maybe.’ He led her inside to a low leather seat beside an ancient woodburning stove. He stood back watching as Anna lowered herself into the seat. ‘Came from out of a Jaguar.’
‘A car seat, how clever,’ said Anna. Getting into it had been a little bit tricky. She fancied her knees creaked. Getting up again was worrying her, but she nodded and praised the innovation. ‘Very comfy.’ Now, however, she was close to the ground and sitting looking up at him.
‘How long have you been a child minder?’ he asked.
‘I’m not a child minder. I’m do
ing some light babysitting so Marla can go to work.’
‘Ah,’ he said. He went to join Marlon and his spice rack.
The heat from the stove was soft and soothing – a gentle enveloping warmth. Anna leaned back and let it soak in. The walk here had been a trial. She needed this. She stretched out her legs. Listened to Richard instruct Marlon on the business of sanding his wood. ‘Just back and forth till it’s like silk. Size do you want to make it?’
Marlon didn’t know. ‘Big enough for all the spices, I think.’ His voice was thin and shrill. ‘How many spices are there?’
Richard said, ‘Not sure.’ He came over to Anna. ‘How many spices are there?’
‘Probably hundreds,’ she said. ‘But I only know of a few. Cayenne, nutmeg, turmeric. If you allowed for about ten, that would do it.’ There was sawdust under her feet and the smell of burning pine in the air. If it weren’t for the embarrassment of falling in love with a man she was beginning to dislike, it would be pleasant here. ‘Cumin,’ she said, ‘and paprika.’
‘So what did you do before you took up light babysitting?’
‘I’m retired.’
‘Retired from what?’
‘A poet.’
‘You’re a retired poet? I didn’t think poets retired.’
‘I edited a poetry magazine. I no longer do that.’
He returned to spice-rack duties.
Anna wished she’d never abandoned her crush on Byron. At least dead heroes didn’t ask questions and make stupid remarks.
For half an hour she worried about getting up out of this car seat. But when the time came she heaved herself to her feet using her stick. ‘Managed,’ she said. Then she asked Marlon if he thought it time they headed home. ‘It’ll be dark soon and we should get back before your mum.’
The boy led the way. A short cut, he said. They left through a gap in the fence at the back of the yard. This took them into a dense weeded area that Anna was convinced was somebody’s garden. ‘I don’t think we ought to be here.’
‘Nah. It’s fine. Nobody minds.’ Marlon charged ahead. He climbed a low wall and stood waiting for Anna to follow. She sat on the bricks at the top, heaved her legs over and slid to the ground. Marlon stomped through long grass, dropped to his knees and crawled under a hedge.