Deborah Moggach

by Deborah Moggach

  On the other hand Eddie had grown larger. He loafed around the flat, getting in the way. I needed to talk but nobody was the right person. Just once I said to him, raising my voice over the afternoon racing: “Did you know I was called Alexandra?”

  “What?”

  “My Mum and Dad called me that, but when I was 12 I changed it to Sandy.”

  “Did you then?” He hadn't turned the volume down. Then he added vaguely. “Bully for you.”

  I didn't know how to face him. On the other hand, I would have died if he didn't turn up. I waited and waited. I nearly gave up hope. I had to wait until 10.30. I felt hot in my cowgirl frills.

  He came in and sat down at the table nearest my counter. I walked over with the menu, calm as calm. I didn't think I could do it.

  “I thought you weren't coming,” I said.

  “Me?” His eyes twinkled. “You didn't trust me?” He took the menu. “Oh no, Sandy, you give me a chance and you'll find out.”

  “Find out what?”

  “That I'm a man of my word.”

  I couldn't answer that. Finally I said, “Oh yeah?” in a drawling voice. “Tell us another.”

  “Honest to God, cross my heart.”

  I looked at him, directly. His eyes were blue, like mine. And his nose was small and blunt, a familiar little nose in his large, flushed face. I wanted to hide my face because it suddenly seemed so bare. He must be blind, not to recognise me. I was perspiring.

  Then I thought: why should he recognise me? He last saw me when I was four. Has he ever thought of me, all these years?

  Taking his order into the kitchen, my mind was busy. I stood in front of the dead charcoal range, working out all the places I'd lived since I was four….Shepperton, Isleworth, Crawley….There was nothing to connect me to Brighton.

  SMILE, said the sign as I walked out.

  “You travel a lot?” I said, putting his plate in front of him.

  “A conversation at last!” He split the ketchup sachet and slapped it over his chips, like blood. He nodded. “For my sins. So what's my line of business, Sandy?”

  “You're a rep.”

  “How did you guess?”

  “Your hands.”

  He looked down with surprise, and opened out his palms. There were yellowed calluses across his fingers.

  “You're an observant lass. Do I dare to be flattered?” He put out his hand. “Here. Feel them.”

  I hesitated, and then I touched his fingers. The skin was hard and dry. I took away my hand.

  “You always been a salesman?” I asked.

  “Well…”He winked. “Bit of this, bit of that.”

  “Bit of what?” I wanted to know.

  “Now that would be telling.”

  “You've been all over the place?”

  “It's the gypsy in my soul” he said. “Can't tie me down.”

  There was a pause. Then I said, “Eat up your dinner.”

  He stared at me. “What's got into you?”

  “Nothing.”

  There was a silence. I fiddled with my frills. Then I went back to the counter.

  When he paid he said, “I know you don't like old men but it's Help The Aged Week.”

  “So?” I put on my pert face.

  “You're off at half eleven?”

  I nodded.

  “Let me buy you a drink.” He paused. “Go on. Say yes.”

  The bar had closed. Besides, it was against the rules for me to go there. You're only allowed to smile at the customers.

  But who knows where a smile might lead? It had led me here.

  He had a bottle of Scotch in his room, and he ordered me a fresh orange juice from Room Service. When it arrived I hid in the bathroom, so noboday could see me.

  His things were laid out above the basin. I inspected them all: his toothbrush (red, splayed), his toothpaste (Colgate); electric shaver; aftershave (Brut, nearly finished). I wanted to take something home but that was all there was. The towels belonged to the hotel so there was no point. I wondered where he kept the marmalade sachets. But they weren't for me.

  “Welcome to my abode,” he said, pulling out a chair.

  I sat down. “Where is your abode?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Where do you live?”

  He paused. “You don't want to hear about my boring little life.”

  “Go on,” I said, giving him a flirtatious smile. “Tell me.”

  He hesitated, then he said shortly, “Know Peterborough?”

  “No.”

  “Well, there.” His tone grew jaunty. Eyes twinkling, he passed me my glass. “A fresh drink for a fresh young face. How old are you, Sandy?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Nineteen.” He sighed. “Sweet 19. Where have you been all my life?”

  I tried to drink the orange juice; it was thick with bits. There was a silence. I couldn't think what to say.

  He was sitting on the bed; the room was warm and he'd taken off his jacket. The hair was an illusion; he was thinning on top but he’d brushed his hair over the bald patch. Far away I heard a clock chiming.

  I wasn't thirsty. I put down the glass and said, “What do you sell?”

  He climbed to his feet and went over to his suitcase, which had a Merriworld sticker on it. He snapped it open.

  “Let me introduce Loopy.”

  He passed me a rubbery creature dressed in a polka-dot frock. She had long, bendy arms and legs and a silly face. He fetched a pad of paper, knelt down on the floor and took her from me. Her arms ended in pencil points. Holding her, he wrote with her arms: TO SANDY WITH THE SMILE. Then he turned her upside down and said “Hey presto.” He started rubbing out the words with her head.

  “Don't.” I pulled his hand back. I took the paper, which still had TO SANDY WITH, and put it in my apron pocket.

  He said “Rubber and pencils all in one. Wonder where the sharpener ought to be…”

  “What?”

  “Just my vulgar mind.”

  “Where do you take these things?”

  “Ramsdens, Smiths. That big shopping centre.”

  I knew all the places; I connected him with them. I'd bought Donna's layette at Ramsdens.

  He took out a clockwork Fozzy Bear, a Snoopy purse and a magnetic colouring book.

  “So you sell toys,” I said.

  “It's the child in me,” he said. “I'm just a little boy at heart.”

  “Are you?”

  “Happy-go-lucky, that's me.”

  “Anything for a laugh?”

  “No use sitting and moaning.” He took another drink. “Got to enjoy yourself.”

  I gazed at the scattered toys. “Just a game, is it?”

  “Sandy, you've only got one life. You'll learn that, take it from me.” He shifted closer to my legs.

  “Anything else in there?” I pointed to the suitcase.

  He leaned back and took out a box. “Recognise it?”

  I shook my head.

  “Ker-Plunk.”

  “What?”

  “You were probably still in nappies. It's a 'Sixties line, but we're giving it this big re-launch.” He patted the floor. “Come on and I'll give you a game.”

  He took out a plastic tube, a box of marbles and some coloured sticks. “Come on.” He patted the floor again.

  I lowered myself down on the carpet, tucking my skirt in. This damn uniform was so short.

  “Look - you slot the sticks in, like this.” He pushed them into perforations in the tube, so they made a platform; then with a rattle he poured the marbles on top, so they rested on the sticks.

  “Then we take it in turns to pull out a stick without,” he wagged his finger at me, “without letting a marble drop through.” We sat there, crouched on the floor. “If it does, you're a naughty girl.”

  I pulled out a stick. He pulled out one. I pulled out another.

  “Whoops!” he said, as a marble clattered through the sticks.

  “Bad luck!” he c
ried. “I'm winning!”

  Sometimes his marbles fell through, sometimes mine. I won.

  “Can't have this,” he said. “Got to have another game.”

  He poured himself some more Scotch, and settled down on the floor again, with a grunt. We collected the sticks and pushed them into the holes, then poured the marbles on top.

  I didn't want to play, but then I didn't want to leave, either. We pulled out the sticks, the marbles clattered down the tube.

  He slapped his thigh. “Got you!”

  Outside the window, the clock chimed again. Sitting there amongst the toys I thought. Why did you never do this with me before? At the proper time?

  “Your turn,” he said. “Stop daydreaming.”

  I pulled out a stick. My throat felt tight and there was an ache in my chest.

  “Whoops!” he cried. “Bad luck!”

  I felt a hand slide around my waist. The fingers squeezed me. He shifted himself nearer me, so our sides were touching.

  “Silly game, isn't it,” he said.

  I moved back, disentangling myself. “I must go.”

  “But we haven't finished!” He looked at me, his face pink from bending over the game.

  I climbed to my feet. “Mum'll be worried.”

  “Come on, you're a big girl now.” He held up his hand. “Come and sit down.”

  “No.”

  He winked. “Strict, is she?”

  I shrugged. He climbed to his feet and stood beside me. We were the same height.

  “What about a kiss then?”

  I looked into his eyes. Then his face loomed closer. I moved my head; his lips brushed my cheek. I felt them, warm and wet. I bent down and picked up my handbag. My hands were shaking.

  “Must go,” I said, my voice light.

  He saw me to the door, his hand resting on my hip. “Can I see you home?”

  “No!” I paused. “I mean, no thanks.”

  He opened the door. “I'm leaving tomorrow, but I'll be back next month. Know what I'd love to do?”

  “What?”

  “Take you down to the pier. Never been to the pier. Eat ice-creams.” He squeezed my waist, and kissed my cheek. “Know something?”

  I whispered. “What?”

  “You make me feel years younger.” He paused. “Will you come?”

  I nodded. “OK.”

  He buttoned me into my coat, and smoothed down my collar. He stroked my hair.

  “You're a lovely girl,” he murmured. “Tell your Mum to keep you locked up. Say I said so.”

  I couldn't bear to wait at the lift, so I made for the stairs. As I went he called. “Tell her it's my fault you're late!” His voice grew fainter. “Tell her I'm the one to blame.”

  Six weeks took an age to pass. I'd looked at the ledger in Reception: he was booked for 15th April.

  Donna was sleeping better, but for the first time in my life I slept badly. I had such strong dreams they woke me up. I'd lie there, next to her calm face, and gaze at the orange light that filtered in from the street. I'd put his piece of paper under my pile of sweaters. That was all of him I had, so far. I said nothing to my Mum.

  On 15th April Eddie knocked on the bathroom door.

  “You're planning to stay there all day?”

  I was washing my hair. “Go away!” I shouted.

  At seven o'clock prompt I was on station in the Coffee Shop.

  Time dragged. 8.00…8.13…Each time I looked at my watch, only a minute had passed.

  9.30. The doors swung open. It wasn't him. Business was slow that night; the place was nearly empty.

  10.30…11.00…

  At 11.30 I closed up and took the cash to Dennis in Reception.

  “Not got a smile for me?”

  I ignored him and went home.

  When I got back. Mum was watching the midnight movie. I was going to my room but she called. “Had a flutter today.”

  I nodded, but she turned.

  “Don't you want to see what I've bought?” She reached down and passed me a carrier bag. “Put it on Lucky Boy and he won, so I splashed out at Ramsdens.”

  I stared at her. “Ramsdens?”

  “Go on. Look. It's for Little Donna.”

  I went over, opened the carrier bag and drew out a huge blue teddy bear. “Cost a bomb,” she said. “But what the hell.”

  Next day I made enquiries at Reception. He'd checked in, they said, during the afternoon as usual. But then he'd come back at six and checked out again.

  Later I went to Ramsdens and asked if the Merriworld representative had visited the day before.

  The girl thought for a moment then nodded. “That's right. Jack.” She paused to scratch her ear-lobe. “Jack-the-lad.”

  “So he came?”

  She pursed her lips. “Came and went.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She looked at me. “What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  She shrugged. “Dunno what got into him. Left in a hurry.”

  He'd seen Mum. He'd seen her buying the bloody teddy bear.

  He didn't come back. Not once he knew she was in Brighton. At Ramsdens, six weeks later, there was a new rep called Terry. I checked up. Not that I had much hope. After all, he'd scarpered once before.

  But Donna smiled. It wasn't because of the teddy, she was too young to appreciate that, though Mum would like to believe it.

  And it wasn't wind. I could tell. It was me. She smiled at me.

  END

  Stiff Competition

  Terry didn't want to go to the Fathers' Class for childbirth preparation - well, it's women who give birth, isn't it? Real men cut the relaxation class and make a break for the pub. Or do they?

  I knew I shouldn't have gone to the Fathers' Class. Well, would you? Perhaps you're the pseudy participating type. Perhaps you're one of those gonad-less Guardian readers who talks about growing with your wife. There's plenty moved in round our way; they never close their blinds so you can see which sharing lives they're leading, him at the sink, her working on her gender grievances. There's always these corduroy sag-bags on the floor where they talk things through.

  I don't. When they're exposed to the frank air, all those little mysteries wither away, don't they? Well, in this class we'd learn how to breathe them through. Breathe her, the wife, through childbirth, that is. Angie said it was all about facing one's emotions. I'd faced mine; they'd told me I didn't want to go. But I wasn't allowed to face that particular one. Illogical, eh?

  We'd all have to lie down on cushions; that's what she said. I'd feel a right berk.

  But I had to go. She didn't tell me to, of course. She just exerted that familiar old pressure, like a thin iron band slowly tightening round my skull. We've had it about my smoking, and the way it's always her who phones her parents (well, they're her parents, aren't they?), and the way she always has to phone mine (…Well?) And how I hadn't opened the Mothercare catalogue she'd left on my desk. It's got worse since she's been expecting.

  So we went. We were going to go up in the lift but it said Maximum 8 Persons and there were already 8 women in it, all massively pregnant.

  “You're breaking the rules!” I told them, pointing to the sign.

  Their heads turned slowly, like a herd of cows. They didn't get it.

  As we climbed the stairs, Angie sighed. “I wish you wouldn't get flippant,” she said. “Just because you're nervous.”

  “I wasn't flippant! Just accurate.”

  She was starting to pant. “You find it a threat, don't you?” she puffed. “This sort of thing.”

  I didn't answer because by now I was puffed too. Must be all those fags.

  Upstairs Angie disappeared on her hundredth daily visit to the loo. I went into the room. There were rows of chairs, facing a screen, and a giant, unpleasant-looking plastic object on a plinth. Amongst the vast women sat their small men; they wore that smug look people have when doing their duty, you see it on drivers when they pull in t
o let a fire engine pass, or voters emerging from a polling booth. What a load of wets. I'd seen a promising-looking pub opposite the hospital. I wondered how many of these blokes wished they were sitting there with a pint of Fullers in front of them. I wondered how many of them admitted it.

  I sat down next to an inoffensive, bespectacled chap.

  “Sorry,” he said. “This seat's taken.”

  I sat one seat further away. There was something familiar about that voice. I looked at him again.

  “Bugger me,” I said. “It's Condom.”

  He stared at me. Then he said. “Nobody's called me that for fifteen years.”

  “Who'm I, then?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You look awfully familiar…”

  “Go on. Guess.”

  It took him ages. Finally he said, slowly: “It's not…Slatterly?”

  I nodded.

  “Sorry,” he said. “I didn't recognise you.”

  “You're looking at my gut?”

  There was one of those pauses. What the hell could we say? So I volunteered, “Here we are then, back in class.”

  He paused, and his Adam's apple moved up and down. “Older, wiser… but with a lot to learn.”

  What a prig! He'd always been one, of course. Edward Codron…His nickname had been laughably unsuitable. Once we'd been in the cloakroom, four of us, engaged in what we called Stiff Competition. I won't go into details but the general gist was that first one to fill a matchbox won. Anyway, Creepy Condom came in and would you believe he reported us to the Head? You didn't do that sort of thing.

  Still, he and I had been kind of friends - not mates, friends, because we lived in the same street. Anglepoise Mansion, I called his house, both his parents being professors.

  “Lots to catch up on,” I said. “Bet you went to university.”

  He nodded. “Jesus.”

  “What?”

  “Jesus. Cambridge. And you?”

  I shook my head. “Insurance.”

  He wore a cord jacket, Hush Puppies and a badge saying Protest and Survive.

  I said, “Bet you teach in a poly.”

  “How did you guess?”

  “I can tell.” Another pause, then I said, “One thing I needn't ask you…” I gestured at the other couples. “If you got married.”