Here I Am!

by Pauline Holdstock

  While I was there the penny dropped Ding! That is what MyDad says when it drops. Or perhaps you don’t know what When the penny drops means. You might be too young like me and need your Dad to tell you about the penny in the slot. Anyway Ding! Of course. The blue and yellow mattresses would not be in the room with the red hand anyway. They would all be at the swimming pool! Silly me! I felt really stupid. So I went along to see. And you know what? Someone had taken all the mattresses off the folding beds and piled them all up against the side of the little hut and put a kind of fishing net over them. A fort! Perfect! I squeezed in behind them and nobody saw.

  It felt a bit lonely. Nobody knew where I was. Especially MyMum. She probably couldn’t know anything anymore. She certainly couldn’t see anything because I closed her eyes. I pretended she did know. I pretended she could see me. I didn’t have to pretend she could talk to me because I could kind of hear her — Forts again you! I thought if she could see me I would be all right. And so would my cheese. I needed my cheese to be all right because if my cheese was all right I would be all right. But I don’t expect you will understand that. MyMum would say it’s silly superstition.

  The mattresses made me feel sort of safe. You could climb on if you were sinking. Even without a life jacket. I thought MyDad will be worried mad. He is probably looking everywhere to see where I am. He has probably called the police and probably all the policemen in Southampton and in England too have been looking. And their dogs have been sniffing. Perhaps everyone has been. My Gran and her friend and Aunty Julie. Perhaps they still are. They would have to have really good binoculars to find me. Or a telescope like the one that lets you look on the moon.

  Sometimes jokes only make you feel worse.

  Miss Kenney

  Miss Kenney is sitting in a deckchair in the shade at the back of her house with a glass of lemonade. A beaker, because glass could break. Glass always does. She has removed her nylons and left them, neatly folded, just inside the kitchen door. It’s Friday afternoon. She has been to confession the same as every Friday, obtained absolution and picked up a piece of plaice from the fishmonger’s on the way back. She saved the penance Father Morecambe gave her — five Hail Marys, three Our Fathers, and an I Believe — for the bus, something she’s been doing lately. It makes the journey go more quickly. The concrete pad beside the yellow lawn is giving back the heat of the day. She won’t last long out here even in the shade.

  Friday. The start of her ordered, her orderly weekend. That she’s earned. Saturdays are for shopping and sometimes the pictures if there’s a good one on like Lawrence of Arabia. And she must remember to take her sandals in to get that strap mended tomorrow. She can’t bear a sloppy appearance. Sunday is for Mass — but perhaps she’ll have a headache and won’t be able to go — and then the afternoon and the whole blessed evening to herself. She doesn’t go to see her dad anymore. Pointless isn’t it, really, when they don’t know who you are?

  Inside, her treats are all lined up on the coffee table. Tea cake, butter, jam, a pot of Tetley’s, milk already in the cup, sponge fingers she’ll eat right out of the packet, the Evening Standard and the Radio Times. And her weekly box of chocolates. The curtains are partly drawn against the sun. And the neighbours. You wouldn’t want to be on display when you sit down to your treats, especially with a whole box of Milk Tray. You can’t forget food rationing that easily, even if it’s been nearly ten years. But never mind. She might have cheated a bit, even pinched a tiny little bit now and then in the war — who didn’t? — but her conscience today is all bright and shiny and she can enjoy whatever she likes. Thank you. She’s worked hard for it. The bottle of sherry for later is still in the sideboard. She can still say she doesn’t drink because, well, she made a vow that VE Day, didn’t she? Actually it was the morning after, when she was sicker than she’d ever been in her life and hopes never to be again and it was more of a promise to her poor Eddie, who wasn’t there because he never came back and who she hoped wasn’t watching from up there but she doesn’t like to dwell on that and anyway sherry doesn’t count does it? It’s medicinal. That’s what she’ll have when she settles in later after her fish. The television’s already on with the sound down low. Warming up.

  So, yes. An ordered, orderly weekend. Out of reach of the disobedient, unmanageable lot of them. Thank God. Thirty-­two she had this year. Thirty-two six-year-olds! No one has any idea. It’s impossible. No wonder she needs a pick-me-up. She’d go mad otherwise. To be honest, sometimes she wonders why she didn’t stay in factory work. At least your mind was your own around the machines. And they didn’t talk back. But she was only twenty when it came up and the opportunity was too good to pass over. Trained, certified, and posted to a primary school in less than fourteen months. Almost too good to be true when she’d never been that good herself at maths. Or spelling. Actually she didn’t think about the teaching part much at the time. Only the pay and the holidays. And being able to say she was a professional person. Her first day in her own classroom was a bit of a shock, though, she has to admit. Fourteen of the children in tears by playtime. She couldn’t help taking it personally at the time (she knows better now), despite what the head said to her. Try not to take it too personally, he said. Oh, and here’s a tip: Don’t forget to smile. It’s a great help. She’s never forgotten that. But it hasn’t helped. Not one bit. You have to be strict with them. She’s found that out. It’s the only way. They run rings round you otherwise. It wears you out. With any luck she’ll get that summer cold that’s been going around. Three days at home right now would be just the ticket. No, the twenty-seventh of July can’t come quickly enough in her opinion. The last day of school before the holidays. She won’t have to force a smile then. Bye-bye. Dear.

  Miss Kenney doesn’t know what to think when she hears someone at the front door. It’s a bit of a surprise.

  I had a mouthful of teacake. I’d have swallowed it first if I’d known who it was going to be. I was thinking it was boy scouts again like last week or someone else collecting. But the Head! He said, So sorry to disturb you in the middle of your tea. Polite or sarcastic. I can never tell with Mr B.

  I asked him in of course. You have to. I was so mad with myself. My nylons were still in the kitchen. The television was on, my magazines were all over the settee. I made him a space and asked him to sit down. Crumbs everywhere. He said, Would you mind if we — ? and pointed to the television. I said, No. Not at all, and sat down. Sat down beside him! What was I thinking? (Well I know what. I was thinking about my nylons and how on earth I could I pop out and slip them back on again without him noticing.)

  He said, — Um turn it off?

  I am so slow!

  I got up and switched it off and asked him if he’d like some tea. I said, I can fetch another cup. It’s no trouble. He said, No, thank you. No. He said he had just come from the school. The police had asked him to meet with them there to check the registers. I nearly choked. Wondered what on earth I’d done wrong. Well you do, don’t you, when you hear the word police? It’s the first thing comes into your head. But I always do the register right off the bat. Always. Well, I’ve only forgotten once or twice — or three times perhaps — this whole year. And it’s usually on Sports Day, or trips, or special assemblies, the days when everything’s out of order. So no one can really blame you.

  He said they were trying to ascertain the whereabouts of Francis Walters. It seemed there was some family difficulty and he’d gone missing, apparently. He asked me how long Francis had been away. Of course, I knew exactly. A day and a half. It’s bliss when he’s not there. Pure bliss.

  He was away Thursday afternoon, I said, and he was away all day today. Mr B. said, Right. So no note, then? I said, No. He’ll bring one on Monday I expect.

  He said, It might be a bit more complicated than that. There’s been some troubling news. That’s when I felt a sort of cold hand on the back of my neck. I said, Oh, yes? He said, I pr
obably shouldn’t say too much just now. At the moment all they want is to find out if Francis seemed all right the last time you saw him.

  I laughed out loud. All right as Francis Walters ever can be, I said. You know what he’s like.

  He didn’t answer that. He said, But he wasn’t poorly?

  Not that I know, I said, and then I remembered. I said, But now you come to mention it, he wasn’t well on Wednesday. Apparently he’d had a — you know — bilious attack in the dinner hall. I let him spend the afternoon in the infirmary until home time. You have to, don’t you, the dears? Do your best for them, I mean when they’re poorly.

  He ignored me again, which was a bit rude, I thought. He said, So that was Wednesday? But on Thursday morning he seemed all right, did he? Some of the children were extremely upset by what happened to Mrs Mahoney, you know.

  I’d forgotten all about that. I said, Oh yes, terrible. Terrible shock. Terrible. I had my hands full I can tell you.

  He said, But not Francis?

  I said, No. Same old Francis. He makes a nuisance of himself all day long. As you know, I said. I can hardly finish a sentence without him interrupting. And the things he says! The questions he asks! I think sometimes…

  Well! Mr B. wasn’t even listening. He just cut right in exactly like Francis, now I come to think of it. He said, You almost sound as if you’d be happy to see the last of him. That made me so mad I didn’t hold back. I said, Mr B., I have put it to you on more than one occasion that my classroom would run more smoothly — But then I stopped. Mr B. was looking at me with a sort of sad smile. The way you look at the ones you’ve just used the ruler on. It was verging on insulting, so I didn’t say anything else.

  He said, Well, all right, thank you, Miss Kenney. I’ll let them know what you’ve told me. They’ll probably want to come and have a word themselves too. Just to be sure.

  My hands were shaking when he’d gone. I sat down and I couldn’t even pour the tea. The truth was, I couldn’t even remember seeing Frankie after Mrs Mahoney. And not only that, I hadn’t even taken the register, Thursday afternoon. I filled it in this morning.

  I had my supper and felt a bit better afterwards. Two glasses of sherry helped. To be honest I thought that was the last of the business about Frankie. I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear the doorbell again at half-past eight. I switched the television off this time. Mr Bladgeworth was right. It was the police. Actually only a policewoman, and she was probably younger than me. She said she just wanted a quick word and no she wouldn’t have a cup of tea, thanks. She sat down and said, You must be worried sick. I’m sorry.

  I didn’t really know what she was on about. I said Well, yes, I am a bit.

  She said, Have you any idea where Francis might have gone when he left school on Thursday? His whereabouts are still unknown as of this moment. I said, Well I suppose he went home for his dinner. He didn’t come back in the afternoon. She said, Miss Kenney, it’s very important that we gather all the information we can, in light of Mrs Walters’ demise.

  I think I went red. I know I did. I started tidying up the newspapers so she wouldn’t see. She said, Someone has informed you, haven’t they? I was on fire. I said, What do you mean? She said, Miss Kenney, hasn’t anyone told you? Mrs Walters was found dead at her home in Worcester Terrace this morning.

  I said, Oh, no! I had no idea! My face wouldn’t calm down. She said, And Francis wasn’t at school today? We really need to be sure of our facts here. I said, Oh I’m quite sure. Absolutely certain. Of course I was sure. I’d had the best day all year without little Mr Bossy Boots Frankie Fartface getting up my nose. But of course I didn’t say that. Even if it was true. Little wretch.

  I don’t know why I felt so guilty after she left. As if I’d done something wrong. As if it was my fault his mum died. I poured myself another sherry. You can blame the teacher for a lot these days but not that one. No thank you. I’m not taking that one on.

  Miss Kenney tidies up. She’s missed Take Your Pick and by the time she’s done the washing up it will be Friday Night Playhouse and she’s not in the mood. She could do with some company. Her bright, shiny weekend is tarnished. She wishes her friend Hilda were around, but Hilda is in Switzerland. Switzerland! On a coach trip! The prospect of Friday, Saturday, Sunday all to herself is suddenly as inviting as Shingle Spit in January.

  Len

  Len Walters sees the police car in the street as soon as he drives round the corner. He pulls up at the curb thinking they’ve finally come about the damn dog next door, thinking, Good. He is still inventing Patti’s rant, smiling, as he gets out and slams the door. When he looks up he sees for the first time a young constable stationed at his own front door.

  Good God, how life can pull a fast one! Leading you on one minute then grabbing you by the throat the next. What in God’s name has he done?

  In seconds the two officers from the car are standing in his path, blocking his way to the house.

  Hello, hello, he says brightly. What’s all this then?

  One of them says, Good evening Mr Walters, and announces himself as Detective Sergeant Mickleson. Len is too busy ransacking his memory of the last three days to reply.

  Sergeant Mickleson says they’ve been trying to reach him concerning the whereabouts of his son, Francis. He says, Can you tell us where your son might be at this moment, Mr Walters?

  Len says, Well if you just let me get in the house, you lot, I’ll take a look.

  Sergeant Mickleson says, Uh no, sir.

  He says there is no need to go in. There is no one in the house. They will go down to the station together. If he wouldn’t mind.

  — My wife —

  The detective interrupts. He says, That’s what we’d like to discuss, sir. At the station.

  — Is that where my wife is? Are you detaining my wife? What’s she been up to now? But no one is smiling. He tries again.

  — Arrests a bit thin on the ground tonight, are they?

  Sergeant Mickleson, holding open the door of the police car, says, Let’s just get out of the street shall we, Mr Walters?

  Obediently, Len climbs into the back seat and waits while the officer closes the door and gets into the front. The uniformed officer has already turned the key.

  The two policemen sit in silence as they pull away. It seems like a good idea to place himself on their team. Len asks if they’ve had a busy day, suggests they must get used to all types sitting in the seat behind them. The policemen stare obdurately ahead.

  — At least tell me if my family’s all right, says Len. He says he is sure they would like to know the whereabouts of their families, if they were in the same boat.

  — Car, he adds weakly.

  The officer in the passenger seat says he will be fully informed down at the station. Of what? he wants to know. Of what? Though somehow he doesn’t want to ask.

  She’s gone beserk, he concludes. It is all he can think of. She’s been into something that’s made her crazy. She made herself a cocktail, mixed things you never want to mix. That’s it. She’s gone out of her head. Some kind of damage. Some kind of harm. God. If she’s hurt Frankie. If she’s so much as.

  — Where’s my son? His own voice interrupts his thought, blurting now, urgent.

  — Almost there, Mr Walters, says the officer.

  At the station a policeman behind the desk takes his name and makes a note of the time. He says the detective sergeant has some telephone calls to make. He says he is to wait in the interview room. The officer who had been driving takes him there and he sits down at a table.

  — Won’t be long, the officer says, while they’re making the calls. He goes out and shuts the door. A young policeman, a boy really, is standing in the corner. A young woman comes in with tea. The smell of it makes him nauseous.

  Len Walters leans forward in the chair, propping his elbows on the in
terview table, his thumbs behind his jaw, his fingers pressing his temples, his forehead, as if by physical pressure he can knead a single cogent thought from the throng of images now at riot in his brain. He’s begun to imagine the worst. They’ve found Francis. Dead of course, his eyes wide open, at the bottom of the coal hole where he fell while Patti was in a stupor. Or, worse, he’d had a tantrum and Patti put him down there. As a punishment. Stuffed him down there and closed the lid. Or she smothered him first because he wouldn’t stop his tantrum and she couldn’t cope. Then she realized what she’d done and swallowed the first fistful of pills she could lay her hands on.

  His mind is racing, switching gears, switching track. It was a traffic accident. A bus overturned. They’re in the hospital. He can’t think fast enough to trap the narrative he needs, the story of what happened while he was driving the A3 down from Ipswich. Why didn’t he leave earlier? He could have been home sooner. Perhaps even in time to stop whatever it was. But he knows why. He likes the drive. He makes it last. It gives him time to catch his breath between the pleasurable creaking of the bed in the room over the pub and the emotional onslaught that will greet him at the door. He likes the stops along the way, the Nag’s Head at lunchtime. The peaceful drive through Epsom. No demands. No questions. No suspicions or recriminations.