A Day Like Any Other

by Isla Dewar

  The famous words ‘whip, crack away’ rang out and Marla did a stiff knee-slap before bursting into the shop. The people inside turned, saw and froze open-mouthed. There was shock, bafflement and horror. George recognised the body language of people who didn’t know what to do. Dorothy Pringle turned red; her hand flew to her mouth. The other hand was flapping Marla away. Marla was holding out the balloon and the cupcake and appeared to be delivering a speech. Dorothy swept past Marla, opened the shop door, pointed to the outside world and with a gesture invited Marla to join it. The cupcake was left on the counter; the balloon was refused. Marla stepped into the street, switched off the music and walked back to her van. Inside the shop Dorothy was spreading her hands to her customers, apologising. There were smiles as customers returned to browsing clothes and CDs. Dorothy came out into the drizzle and stared this way and that, looking for people to blame. Anna and George ducked deep into their doorway, hiding.

  ‘That didn’t go as planned,’ said Anna.

  ‘She kept the cupcake,’ said George. ‘I liked the balloon. It was a classy dark red.’

  They set off through the damp air to find a coffee shop where they could sit and discuss their failure. They’d enjoy a flat white and wouldn’t linger long talking about the Dorothy fiasco. They were both well acquainted with failure.

  ‘It would have been the song. That’s not an I’m-sorry song. It’s jolly,’ Anna said.

  ‘I’d have liked “Into The Mystic”. I love that.’ George went misty remembering Van Morrison moments. ‘Lying on the floor drinking wine and listening to that song. I was happy then.’

  ‘Which floor?’ Anna wanted to know. Details were important.

  ‘Home. The home floor is the only floor for dreaming on. Away floors are populated by strange feet that can spoil things.’

  ‘Michael and I used to sit on the floor of an evening, and he’d read his day’s writing to me. We played Pink Floyd.’

  ‘Didn’t you read your writing to him?’

  Anna shook her head, ‘Nah. I wasn’t writing much. I’d come home. Park the bike. He’d have cooked something. Veggie usually, with rice. We’d eat. Afterwards I’d sit on the floor and listen. I was happy then.’

  ‘Happiness is a bitch. Slips away when you’re not looking.’

  Anna agreed. ‘Michael just left. One day I went home and he told me he was off the next day just like that. I never saw him again. I was pregnant and I had an abortion.’

  ‘I know.’ George reached over and put her hand on Anna’s.

  ‘He never knew he was going to be a father. I was so angry and hurt. So angry.’

  ‘I know.’ George squeezed the hand under hers.

  ‘It was awful. Man in a white coat saying he’d grant my termination. Then a week later doing it. I was guilty for years. Y’know, if I’d had a baby, been a mother, Marlon wouldn’t be such a surprise.’

  ‘You looked after mine when Willy died.’

  ‘I know,’ said Anna. ‘But they were almost fully formed. You’d worked your magic on them.’

  George said, ‘They didn’t need magic. They were wonderful anyway.’ She sighed. ‘I miss Willy.’ She sighed once more. Don’t scream, she thought. Not now, not here. It’s only life. One day you’ll get the hang of it. ‘They do take you by storm sometimes. Odd, because I’ve had a few now and in fact I used to be one.’

  ‘Me too. That’s how I know the importance of being a mother. If I’d had a child, I’d have someone who loves me. Like you do.’

  Don’t be daft, George thought.

  ‘My mother didn’t love me. Didn’t even like me very much. So she said, anyway. That goes to the very core of you. As much a part of you as needing to breathe. I always thought nobody would like or love me. I think my mother was shocked at my appearance. When we first met, I was a baby. I was toothless, bald and incontinent. I wasn’t at my best.’

  ‘That’s a problem for us all,’ said George.

  ‘I just accepted my mother’s rejection. I kept Michael at a distance, wouldn’t commit. And he was happy not to commit. Two numpties destined to part. I’m a fool.’

  George said, ‘No, you’re not. No more than me or anybody else.’

  They drained their cups. George paid. Back on the street, they strolled. Two old ladies, one with a stick. They hummed the Van Morrison song. Than sang it. George gave a little twirl. They’d done a silly thing together, and now there was a song they loved to sing. They were a little bit happy. Just a little bit.

  17

  Mother Dainty and Old Dungarees

  Anna took a delight in Mother Dainty’s garden. Mornings, she stood at her living-room window and marvelled at it. Evenings, she drank a late cup of tea and marvelled once more. The garden glowed under the street lamps. She cursed herself for not having noticed it before.

  She often watched Mother Dainty at work. She snipped and weeded. She worked at the soil and planted. She watered. People would stop at her gate and she would leave her work to join them for a chat. She walked slowly, smiling, head tilted to one side. She seemed to know everyone. There was laughter. Children lifted their toys to her, showing off their delights. Sometimes she’d reach out and touch someone’s arm. She was gentle, kind, sweet and compassionate.

  There goes Mother Dainty, Anna thought. She wished she’d had a mother like that. One who listened and would never insult her daughter. If she’d been my mum, I wouldn’t have had to daydream. I wouldn’t have removed myself from the living room of my childhood to read about lamplighters and minarets and fantasise about Robert Louis Stevenson and Byron. I’d have been normal. I’d have been a bus driver or a marketing manager or a business consultant. She knew this to be nonsense but indulged in a few moments imagining herself at the wheel of a double decker working her way through thick traffic, whistling.

  Mother Dainty’s husband wore light cotton trousers at the weekend. Weekdays, he wore dungarees over a pale blue shirt. Mostly he sat on a deckchair reading a newspaper as his wife busied herself at her plants. But once a week he brought out his ancient lawnmower and cut the grass. He’d mow round the edges then carefully cut the turf, going up and down creating stripes. Anna watched in wonder. There was a soft green Wimbledon lawn down there. He didn’t stop to chat; he just nodded to anyone who stopped to watch. He was Old Dungarees. Anna loved them both.

  She wrote them a poem:

  It’s raining and bells are ringing far away

  Old Dungarees in the garden is making hay

  Inside Mother Dainty lies making sleep seem simple

  Within her head flowers dream, on her cheek a dimple

  At that point she ran out of inspiration. The poem was absurd. Old Dungarees didn’t make hay. He sat in his deckchair snoozing and reading the local paper. Mother Dainty did all the work. But Anna liked to think that when she slept, she lay under a floral eiderdown, head on a perfect pillow, sleeping the sleep of babies.

  She was sleeping better herself these days. Sometimes she managed a full six hours before she woke and stared into the gloom, worrying about something that seemed trivial when daylight arrived.

  *

  Today wasn’t the best of mornings; clouds overhead and it looked like rain. Anna made coffee and took her mug to the living room to consider the weather and enjoy Mother Dainty’s garden. There was a small hostile crowd gathered on the pavement by the garden fence. There were angry voices. It took Anna a few minutes to realise what was going on.

  The garden was in ruins. Plants had been ripped from the ground and tossed into the road. Delphiniums, pansies, lupins and more all lay in wilting piles on the tarmac. The lawn was trampled. Branches had been broken from the lilac in the corner and thrown to the ground. There was a wide and dreadful scattering of leaves and petals. The place looked post-apocalyptic. Anna moaned. ‘No. No.’

  She pulled on some clothes, took her stick from its place behind the front door and went to join the crowd.

  Mother Dainty was in the middle of the
group. She was looking round. ‘The mess. The mess. I have to clean it all up.’ She seemed to have shrunk. She looked about, obviously not seeing what she was looking at. Her face was pale, her eyes swollen and red. Old Dungarees was standing on his lawn, fists clenched. ‘If I ever get hold of who did this . . .’ Somebody led him to his deckchair. He was told to watch his blood pressure.

  Anna stood and watched. She wasn’t part of this. Nobody took any notice of her. Two people with large black plastic bags began picking up the debris. Somebody was sweeping the pavement. Someone else was replanting a few flowers that still had roots. Marla appeared and put her arms round Mother Dainty. ‘Come on, Chrissy. You need to sit. A cup of sweet tea will help. That’s what they say, anyway.’ Of course, Anna thought. Mother Dainty was Chrissy. She had a proper name. And she heard someone talking to Old Dungarees. He was Ed.

  She helped to pick up wilted plants and asked the man carrying the plastic bag if he knew what had happened. She knew him as Mr Beetle, on account of his car. His name, she discovered, was Pete. He told her the damage had been caused by vandals.

  ‘But I heard nothing.’

  ‘Silent vandals,’ Pete offered.

  Swagger Boy and Lil were in the crowd. They suggested that the culprits were in a gang. ‘They’d have been on something. Cider and something else. Something stronger.’ A woman Anna had up till now called Mrs Cauliflower Hair because of her tight perm slapped his shoulder and said, ‘Don’t you go mixing with them.’

  He said, ‘No, Ma.’

  When the wilted plants were cleared away, and all the anger and disgust had been talked out, people drifted off. It was eight o’clock on a soft summer morning, already hot, but there were breakfasts to be prepared and jobs to go to. Marla led Mother Dainty inside. ‘I’ll get the kettle on,’ she said. Anna went home.

  She sat on her sofa and leaned back. She was shocked. She put her hand on her chest and quietly breathed. ‘Awful. Awful,’ she said. She shut her eyes and wondered what her neighbours had made of Mrs Stomper joining them.

  She phoned George. ‘They all have proper names. I knew they did, but actually hearing them surprised me.’

  George said, ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’d given my neighbours names like Swagger Boy and Lil and Mother Dainty and Old Dungarees. I’d written their lives and I didn’t stop to actually consider they already had names and lives.’

  ‘How poetic of you.’

  ‘I know. I live on my own cloud,’ said Anna. She told George about the destroyed garden. ‘I want to do something. I should help. An unsaid apology for the names I’ve given them.’

  ‘Money,’ George told her. ‘That’s what people do when disaster strikes. They collect money and give it to the victims to help them get back to their lives. You might make Mother Dainty happy.’

  ‘Of course. Thank you. You are clever.’ Sometimes Anna was amazed at George’s worldly wisdom. She always knew what to do.

  *

  At six in the evening the next day Anna set out on her collection mission. She carried her favourite box, a red and ochre floral thing that once held her writing pens, and tried to calm the nerves that stormed her stomach. She willed herself forward. She’d start, she decided, with Marla and Marlon. She rang their bell. Marla answered.

  ‘I’m collecting for Chrissy and Ed,’ said Anna. Chrissy and Ed? It was difficult to say the names. They’d always be Mother Dainty and Old Dungarees to her. ‘I want to help them get their garden back together.’

  ‘This is good of you.’ Marla showed her into the living room. Marlon sat in front of the television. He turned and smiled to her. Marla took five pounds from her purse and put it in the box.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Anna. ‘Very generous.’

  ‘They’re a lovely couple. I want to help.’ She stepped back, folded her arms, sniffed. ‘Your pal wasn’t very happy.’

  ‘No,’ said Anna.

  ‘She kept the cupcake, though. Everyone keeps the cupcake. Anyway, I have to thank you. The boss never thought of these old people. She thinks we’ll get a whole load of new customers. Old people apologising.’

  Anna nodded. ‘Good plan.’ She smiled to Marlon. ‘I better get on.’

  Marla crossed the room and hauled Marlon to his feet. ‘Take him with you. He knows folk and folk know him. You’ll do fine with Marlon.’

  Anna said, ‘I don’t want to take him from his programmes.’

  Marla pushed the boy to her. ‘Take him. You need him. Nobody has a clue who you are. They’ll think you are some sort of con merchant. You need Marlon.’

  Outside, walking to the next house, Marlon took her hand. ‘This is great. People will think I’m a hero and give me sweeties.’

  He was right. They visited every home in the street and Anna was welcomed. She learned that Mr Beetle was a teacher, as was Mrs Beetle. Their home was filled with books, walls covered with prints of famous works of art. They each donated five pounds and Marlon got a Snickers bar. Mrs Cauliflower Hair was Mrs Thomson. She popped a pound into the box and insisted her son Swagger Boy did the same. Marlon got a packet of M&Ms. Anna had been invited into new living rooms, seen an assortment of wallpaper and sofas and television programmes. She’d smelled meals being prepared. Sometimes she wasn’t invited in. Still, she observed hallways – some carpeted, some with shiny wooden floors. People had books and magazines and pictures of cafés or stags or woodland scenes on their walls.

  At the end of her mission Anna had seventy-five pounds and Marlon’s pockets bulged with goodies. ‘It’s all for Chrissy and Ed,’ she told him. Chrissy and Ed, she thought. Not the same. They’d always be Mother Dainty and Old Dungarees to her.

  18

  Friendly Lessons

  ‘That was kind of you.’ Richard was making tea. He brought Anna a steaming mug. She was on her usual car seat and thanked him.

  ‘It was exciting. People were so kind. I got money for a new garden and I saw people’s living rooms and hallways. The things they have. Pictures on their walls, ornaments on shelves, magazines. I was taken aback.’

  ‘What did you expect people to have?’

  ‘Pictures on their walls, sofas, stuff and food cooking. But seeing it was thrilling. Life,’ she grinned at him, ‘is cheering sometimes.’

  ‘Only sometimes?’ asked Richard.

  ‘Well, not when you’ve got a headache or the love of your life says he’s off to the other side of the world and hasn’t asked you to go with him or when the doctor says you’ve got . . . you’ve got . . .’ She thought better of saying what the doctor might diagnose. ‘Or when you’ve missed the bus and have to wait twenty minutes in the pouring rain or when you get thrown off the bus for reading a poem to your fellow passengers.’

  He took a sip of his tea. Came to look at her. Considering how low the car seat was, he loomed over her. Across the workshop Marlon had stopped working on his spice rack to take this speech in.

  ‘And which of the things on your list are true?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Anna, ‘the getting left when someone went to the other side of the world. He wasn’t the love of my life, though. But it hurt not to get invited to go with him. That, and the poem on the bus.’

  Richard walked back to his bench. ‘Oh good. I wouldn’t want it to be the doctor thing. Wouldn’t want you to be coming down with a hideous disease.’ He was making a window frame. He measured strips of wood, keeping an eye on Marlon, and said, ‘You read a poem to people on a bus?’

  Anna wished she hadn’t mentioned this. ‘Yes. It was a long time ago. I was young, angry and full of myself.’

  ‘Youth,’ said Richard. ‘What a time it was. Thank God we don’t have to go through it twice. What was your poem about?’

  ‘Tonto,’ she told him.

  ‘Tonto?’

  ‘Yes. I got the notion, from the way he did all the dirty work and the Lone Ranger got all the hero worship, that Tonto was a woman. Well, an honorary woman. Tonto the feminist.’

  Richard
laughed. Oh, how he laughed. ‘You,’ he pointed to Anna, ‘reading a poem about Tonto to surprised people on a bus. I love it.’

  Anna shrugged. ‘I was a kid. I was obsessed with poetry.’

  Marlon asked, ‘Who’s Tonto?’

  The afternoon drifted on. Richard and Marlon worked. Anna sat on the car seat, sipped tea and tried not to think of things she’d done in the past. ‘We’ll have to leave soon,’ she said. ‘We have to take the money to . . .’ It was hard not to say Mother Dainty but after a deep breath she managed. ‘Chrissy.’

  She got up and gave Marlon a nod. ‘Ready?’

  He put away the tools he was using, picked up his bag and joined her at the door. Richard crossed the room to see them off. ‘Don’t suppose you’d like to come to a talk with me?’

  Marlon said, ‘Not really.’

  ‘I think he meant me,’ said Anna. She looked at Richard. ‘Did you?’

  He told her yes. ‘It’s about trees. We need more of them. So it’ll be about that, but there will be poets reading poems. I didn’t know there were poems about trees.’

  ‘Oh yes. Robert Frost, Blake and others. In fact, there are poems about most things.’

  ‘So you’ll come? I was going to go alone. I don’t know anybody who likes poems except you.’

  Anna said, ‘I . . .’

  Marlon said, ‘Is this a date? Are you asking her out?’

  ‘It isn’t a date,’ Anna told him. ‘It’s a talk. Dates are more films and food.’

  ‘You won’t be kissing, then?’

  ‘No,’ said Anna. ‘We’ll be listening to a talk about trees.’

  ‘Good,’ said Richard. ‘So you’ll come. I’ll pick you up at six tomorrow. I know where you live.’

  Walking home, Anna felt confused. How had that happened? She’d been going to refuse Richard’s invitation. She hadn’t forgiven him for laughing at her Tonto confession. But somehow Marlon’s intervention with the kissing comment had led to her accepting. Only she hadn’t really accepted. She’d corrected Marlon’s misconception. Then again, she was going out with the object of her desire. Not bad. Once upon a time, she’d have written a poem about that.