by Isla Dewar
‘You lost your innocence to Billy Watson,’ said Anna.
‘Yes. Anyway, among the many things I do not want to do is this. Drive to a small office and congratulate someone I don’t know with a cupcake, a balloon and a song.’
They were in George’s car hurtling towards a small business park on the northern edge of the city. George was in a bad mood. ‘I can’t believe I agreed to this.’
There were balloons attached to the car. They bobbled in the wind as they hurtled. ‘At least they are dark red,’ said George. ‘They look quite smart with the yellow paintwork.’
Marla had insisted on the balloons. She wanted the car to look festive and had tied some to the handles of the back passenger doors and the boot.
‘Why would anyone want a festive car?’ Anna had asked.
‘To celebrate they can afford a car,’ Marla told her. ‘Not everybody can.’
‘We live in doleful times,’ Anna said.
George worried the whole thing was illegal. ‘What sort of fine will I get if the police catch me?’
Cars slowed to stare as they drove. Mostly, though, people smiled and waved. Anna waved back. George pretended this wasn’t happening. Their destination was a run-down and dusty collection of four single-storey buildings, each with a blue door (peeling paint) and a sign on the front. They were looking for Sea View Kilts. It was the last and smallest of the buildings. The wooden sign on the wall read Kilt Maker To The Stars. The two wondered which stars. But it was here Ewan Brown worked. Today was his lucky day.
Clutching their goodies, they entered. The place was tartan clad – walls and floor. Inside was busy. Three women worked sewing machines and a tall, very fat man with a huge beard stood at an ironing board smoothing out an expanse of Black Watch pleats. The ironer looked up. A ripple of shock ran round the room. The two intruders and the kilt workers stared at one another. The silence must have only lasted for a minute or two. But it felt like hours.
Anna broke the moment. ‘Ewan!’ she shouted, surprising herself. She was usually shy in new company. ‘Congratulations. We bring joy and treats.’
Ewan put down his iron and stepped towards them, arms spread for a hug. ‘I always love a treat.’ Anna held up the cupcake. ‘For you on this happy day.’ She didn’t want a hug. George pressed the button on the phone Marla had given her and an unfamiliar version of ‘Oh What A Beautiful Morning’ sang out. Ewan clapped and said, ‘Almost my favourite song.’ He took the nearest sewing machine woman by the arm, invited her to the floor and waltzed her round and round. He then cast her aside and took the next sewing machine lady waltzing. The music played. After a couple of laps he swept up the last sewing machine lady, held her in his arms and kissed her. The other two clapped. The room was filled with joy, love, morning song where the corn was high, and kilts. Anna almost wept.
‘We have balloons.’ George handed one to Ewan then hurried back to the car to get three more. ‘A balloon for everyone.’ She felt aglow with generosity. ‘What are we celebrating?’ she asked.
Ewan took her to the floor. She danced and repeated her question.
‘I am marrying Wendy,’ he said, and bowed to his wife-to-be. ‘We’ve been together for twenty years and now she says yes. And we got a contract for a hundred kilts for staff in a new hotel. They’ll be denim. Things are looking up.’
George thought it was all marvellous. But somehow a cupcake and a balloon didn’t quite do it when it came to celebrating. ‘There should be more.’
Ewan gripped her arm. ‘This has made us smile. A smile is enough. That’s my motto.’
She thought it an efficient and undemanding motto. ‘It will do,’ she said. ‘Twenty years?’
He shrugged. ‘It didn’t seem so long as I was living it. I saw her – Wendy.’ He pointed to the woman he’d kissed. ‘And I loved. But I was married. And by the time I wasn’t, she was married. So I waited. Waiting, longing and loving can be pleasant sometimes. Agonising at other times. It’s life.’
George knew all about that.
Driving to their second appointment they were happy. ‘What a job,’ said George. ‘You turn up, hand out stuff and make people jump for joy.’
‘Who knew there was such a way to earn a living?’ Anna agreed. ‘No beating yourself up writing a poem.’
‘No exams. No real routine. No rules. No seeing lovely people die. It’s marvellous.’
‘You don’t even have to bake the cupcakes. Or choose the tunes. Just turn up, hand out treats, smile, and that’s it.’
‘A breeze,’ said George. ‘Where to next?’
‘Leith. Lorna Simpson’s birthday. Chocolate cupcake and the Hallelujah Chorus.’
‘Big birthday, then.’
‘Sounds like it,’ said Anna. ‘Fortieth maybe. Sixtieth. Or one of the ones you didn’t think you’d get to.’
‘Well, a hallelujah moment there then.’
Lorna Simpson worked in a small boutique called Lavender. The clothes were special and expensive – velvet jeans and skirts, silk shirts, linen jackets, multi-coloured scarves. ‘Nice stuff,’ George told Anna.
‘I’d have to wait till someone decided they no longer liked it and put it in a charity shop,’ said Anna.
She was wearing black jeans, black jacket, red T-shirt and white training shoes. She thought she was looking smart. George was in blue linen pants, white silk shirt and long grey linen cardigan. She knew she was looking smart, but didn’t really care.
They entered the shop. It was quiet and smelled of lavender. There were three assistants. One was very young, one was thirtyish and the third looked to be in her fifties. George and Anna decided she was the birthday girl. There was a long silent quizzical period when the shop women stared at the balloon-bearing intruders. At last the oldest assistant said, ‘Yes? Can I help you?’
‘We bring treats,’ said Anna. But the silence had been heavy and her heart wasn’t in it. She stepped past a rail of skirts, holding out the cupcake in a small box. ‘Happy birthday.’
As the greeting came out the Hallelujah Chorus roared into the shop. George held the phone aloft.
The fiftyish woman shouted, ‘Really? You’re playing this? Really?’
‘It’s a special day. So a special piece of music,’ said Anna. ‘And we bring a cupcake.’ She put the little box on the counter. ‘And a balloon.’
‘Who ordered this?’ the fiftyish woman shouted.
George consulted the card Marla had given her. ‘William.’
‘My ex. My bloody ex. On my sixtieth birthday he sends the Hallelujah Chorus to humiliate me. He left me for a twenty-five-year-old.’ She picked up the cupcake and threw it at George. ‘Get out!’
‘She told me she was fifty-three,’ said one of the assistants.
The box burst open and the cake splattered into a rail of silk shirts.
‘Look what you’ve done! These cost a fortune. Out,’ shouted the birthday girl. ‘Out. Turn that din off and get out.’
George turned and fled. Anna followed. They clattered into the street, George stabbing at the phone, trying to stop the music. As they bustled to their car the birthday girl came after them. ‘Bugger off.’
Anna turned. ‘We are doing our best. Buggering off isn’t easy at our age. We were only trying to help a friend. She was meant to do this but she isn’t well. We didn’t mean any harm. I’ve left the balloon.’
She noticed to her horror, further down the street, Dorothy Pringle was standing outside her shop watching and shaking a disapproving head.
Inside the car George signalled and moved off. ‘That woman is hurting,’ she said. She drove round the corner and pulled over. ‘I know her pain. My husband wasn’t kind either. Not a happy time. Me working, looking after the kids, washing clothes, cooking, nagging about homework, and all the stuff – the sounds of their music and television programmes and me stumbling along, worrying. Frank just didn’t think it wrong to sleep with other women. He just thought he should pay for things and leave ever
ything else to me. The things we live through. Poor soul.’
‘Love’s shite,’ said Anna. She didn’t mention Dorothy Pringle.
27
I Know About Guilty Faces
Richard brought the finished bookcase. ‘Not oak,’ he reminded her. ‘Can’t afford oak. It’s fake oak. But wood-coloured. I thought the white stuff wouldn’t be right.’
Anna nodded. The bookcase seemed huge and filled her hall. Moving about was impossible, as along with the enormous bookcase there were three people. More than Anna could remember being in her flat at one time ever. Richard had brought Swagger Boy to help.
Swagger Boy looked at the piles of books against the wall reaching from the front door to the kitchen. ‘Are they not a fire hazard, them books?’
Anna said, ‘I hadn’t thought of them in that way. Perhaps they are. But if they do go up in flames, I’ll be happy to go with them.’
Richard said they’d better get on. ‘Fit the case then put in the shelves. Takes two, though. Heavy.’ He ran his palm over the wall and nodded. ‘Good wall.’
Anna asked if they’d like a cup of tea before they started.
Richard said, ‘Never say no to a cup of tea.’
Swagger Boy said, ‘Do poets drink tea?’
Anna told him, ‘Yes. What else would they drink?’
‘Whisky? These funny teas with fruit and herbs that nobody likes?’
‘No, poets drink ordinary tea. They dunk biscuits too. I do believe Auden was fond of a HobNob.’ She bustled off to the kitchen to put on the kettle, smiling. She didn’t like the notion of only drinking funny tea and whisky but was pleased to be classed in this absurd bias along with her hero poets. Though she knew she didn’t deserve to be there.
Richard and Swagger Boy drank tea in the kitchen as Anna pretended to be doing something important at the sink. She was uncomfortable with having a couple of workmen in the flat. She sensed Richard shooting Swagger Boy silencing looks. Eventually she said how much she was looking forward to having somewhere proper to put her books. ‘I should have had something like this years ago.’
Richard waved her thanks away. ‘It’s nothing. I’ve always liked doing bookcases.’
Silence again till Richard said, ‘So what are you up to today?’
‘I’m off to the landlords of the High Street flat to ask about the kitchen.’
‘Who would they be?’
‘Willis and Cobb.’
‘I’m coming with you. This’ – he waved to the bookcase in the hall – ‘will take all morning. I’ll pick you up after lunch.’
‘I’m quite capable of going alone. I just need to ask about the kitchen.’
‘What kitchen?’ asked Swagger Boy.
‘My friend lived in a flat in the High Street years ago. It had an amazing kitchen. She wants to know what happened to it.’
‘What was it like?’ he wanted to know.
‘I never saw it,’ Anna said. ‘But I believe it was beautiful. There was a wall of pictures of food. Paintings and so on.’
‘They’ll have sold them. That’s what they do. I’ll come with you if you need someone to look a bit wild. I’m good at that.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ Anna said.
‘Willis and Cobb have a bit of a reputation. You be ready at two o’clock,’ Richard told her. ‘I’ll come for you.’
She spent the rest of the morning in her living room reading. She secretly wanted to watch a rerun of Brief Encounter that was on but didn’t want Richard to think she was the sort of person who watched television in the morning.
She ate a carton of yoghurt for lunch as she leaned against the sink wishing she hadn’t arranged to go out. She’d fallen in love with her new bookcase and wanted to play with it. She’d put her reference books on the top because she rarely used them these days. Old-friend books would be near the bottom, where she could easily reach them, and favourite-friend books in the middle so she could say hello to them every time she passed on her way to the loo or bed.
At two, the car was parked outside waiting for her. She pulled on her jacket, hurried up the path and slid into the passenger seat. Swagger Boy was seated behind her.
‘No need for you to come,’ she said.
‘Willis and Cobb, I think there is,’ said Richard. ‘They’re not exactly . . .’ He started the car, put it into gear and moved off. ‘. . . nice.’
‘They’re landlords, for heavens’ sake. Not the Mafia. I’ll be perfectly safe.’
‘There are landlords and landlords,’ said Richard. ‘We’re coming with you.’
She sighed. Told herself to relax. All she was going to do was ask about a kitchen from a distant time. ‘I haven’t told you the address,’ she said.
Richard said, ‘No need.’
He drove into Leith, skirted the docks and stopped in a small dusty backstreet. There were tenements and a row of three shops – a bookie’s, a grocer’s and Willis and Cobb. The window was covered with notices of flats for rent. None of them looked in any way desirable to Anna. No bookcases, she thought.
Inside was stuffy. The floor was green lino, the walls a grubby cream. There was a cheery holiday poster on the wall advertising a happy time in Marbella. A woman who looked to be in her thirties – blonde hair, scooped-neck black T-shirt and jeans – sat behind a chipped wooden desk tapping at a keyboard. She considered Anna. ‘Yes?’
Anna didn’t know what to say. She knew she should have a plan. She should have worked out in advance how to ask about a vanished kitchen. ‘Um,’ she said. ‘I have a strange request.’ At this point she worried about what Richard and Swagger Boy were doing. They could be standing behind her collars up, arms folded, legs apart looking menacing. Oh no. She turned. Richard was just behind her, hands in pockets, looking like a disinterested husband in a supermarket queue. Swagger boy was on a seat by the door, looking masterfully adolescent. His legs were stretched before him and he was staring at his trainers.
‘I have a friend who lived in one of your flats in the High Street. It had a fabulous kitchen. She wonders what happened to it.’
The receptionist asked, ‘When was this?’
‘Quite a time ago,’ Anna told her.
‘If it was our flat, it was our kitchen and we can do what we like with it.’
‘Yes,’ said Anna. ‘Only the tenant of the flat did the kitchen. My friend went back to see it and it’s gone. What happened to it?’ She gave the address.
The woman started tapping at her computer. ‘Nope.’ She went over to an ancient filing cabinet, opened a drawer and took out a file. She flicked through it, put it back and brought out another file. A man – small, stocky, wedged into a brown suit – appeared from a door behind the reception desk. He looked at Anna and took a seat under a glass panel.
‘What’s this?’ said Anna. ‘Is this some kind of heavy? A tough guy come to beat me up? I only asked about a kitchen.’
The woman said, ‘There’s nothing on file about a kitchen in the High Street. I think you must have the wrong letting agency.’
Anna said, ‘No, I don’t. You must keep records. ‘Maybe you sold the kitchen off bit by bit. It had a lot of paintings. If I could trace one, I could give it to my friend.’
‘You really expect us to have a record of what happened to a kitchen from years ago? You’re off your head. Really. Go away.’
The man in the suit stood up and looked at Anna. She stepped back. Felt Richard’s hand on her arm. ‘I’m only making an enquiry. There’s no need to get aggressive.’
Now Swagger Boy was on his feet, standing beside Richard. They gently pulled her to the door. She raised her stick. ‘You’re being rude. I am sick of rude people. Sick, do you hear? Who do you think you are? Ageist creep standing there with your files and your disinterested looks.’
Richard yanked her out into the street. She stood glaring at him. ‘I will not be moved on the subject of my friend’s fabulous kitchen.’
‘Well, that’s obvious,’ said Ric
hard. ‘I don’t know what they would have done in there. But I felt hostility. I don’t think they knew about the kitchen.’
‘The old guy did,’ said Swagger Boy.
‘What old guy?’ Anna knew she sounded shrill but couldn’t help it.
‘The old guy who was watching from the glass panel behind the shouty woman. He was old. Really, really old. Older than you,’ he nodded to Anna. ‘I don’t know about making bookcases, and I don’t know about poems, but I fucking well do know about guilty faces. And he had one.’
‘We should go and talk to him,’ said Anna.
‘Perhaps not,’ said Richard. ‘He’d have come forward, if he thought it was okay.’
‘The atmosphere was a bit hostile,’ said Anna. ‘But that woman genuinely thought I was off my head. I’m sure she didn’t know what I was talking about.’
They stood by Richard’s car, looking across at the letting agent’s office and wondering what to do. Not one of them had experience of this sort of situation and they were so intrigued by an old man with a guilty face that at first they didn’t recognise that guilty man when he came out of the office, glanced at them and pointed to the pub at the end of the street. The three followed.
The pub pleased Anna. It was old-fashioned. The stained glass on the door, ancient wooden bar and worn leather chairs reminded her of pubs she’d seen in films years ago. It was almost a surprise to see it all in colour and not black and white. The man with the guilty face was sitting at a table in the corner. He nodded to them. Richard nodded back and bought a round of drinks – three pints of beer for the men and a half pint for Anna. She didn’t mention her feminism. She drank pints too.
‘You want to know about that flat in the High Street?’ the man with the guilty face asked.
Anna told him, ‘Yes. I’m Anna.’ She shook his hand.
‘Gordon,’ he told her. ‘I was in that flat. Never seen anything like it. It was full of things – books, jewellery, clothes, pictures, wine, records. Amazing.’ He turned to Anna. ‘You’ll know. The girl was your friend.’