I Keep Thinking It's Tuesday

by BarnaWilde

  I stand helplessly by the door. Now what do I do?

  CHAPTER 26

  Listen. Do you remember that I told you a pint of water weighs a pound and a quarter? Way back. Sometime around chapter fourteen.

  Look. If you aren't going to remember these things I shall stop telling you. It might be important one day. Might save your life.

  Well, did you know that more than three quarters of you is made of water? The rest is made up of coal, and phosphorus and calcium, plus a few other bits of this and that. Oh, and about enough iron to make three nails. I suppose something has to hold you together.

  That's all you are. A bag of water with a few pounds of cheap chemicals thrown in. A leaky bag at that. Perforated with millions of little holes that let your insides leak out. All the while you are trying to look suave and sophisticated you are slowly leaking out through your skin.

  More than a third of what you eat or drink is either breathed out or leaks out through your skin. Not a lot of people know that.

  Topologically you are a walking donut.

  Biologically, a fruit salad of genes. Chemically, just a leaking bag of water.

  Sometimes it feels really good to be me. I feel like a bag of water right now. I think I feel a leak coming on, too.

  Little sounds continue to percolate through the closed door. Whatever it is behind it, it sounds big. I wonder if I should knock?

  "Excuse me. Sorry to trouble you. You don't know me, but....."

  Maybe if I wait long enough it will go to sleep. Or perhaps I could nail the door shut?

  I raise my arm to knock, but the muscles seem remarkably reluctant to respond. Perhaps it would be better to charge the door with my shoulder. Burst in, hit the floor and keep rolling. I've seen it done in the films. It doesn't look hard. Creates an element of surprise. Bruce Willis does it all the time. "What's happening?" whispers Carole. She sounds impatient.

  "Timing," I whisper back.

  "What timing?"

  "Element of surprise," I say. "All depends on perfect timing. A fraction of a second either way and it's a bullet in the lung."

  Charlie Chaplin was a master of timing.

  I make a couple of imaginary chops in the air with the side of my right hand. I'm not sure what it's supposed to do, but I've seen that in films, too. I almost lose my balance in the process. It's not easy standing on a joist with no shoes on.

  My eyes are beginning to adjust to the light. I can see that someone has built a partition across the loft. It looks fairly new.

  "Squatters," I whisper back to Carole.

  "Squatters?" she says.

  "Squatters," I repeat. "Probably dozens of them in there. I think we'd better call the police."

  "Nonsense," she says. She sounds closer than she was. When I turn round I can see that she is no longer crouching in the trapdoor, but is stepping across the joists to join me. There is a glint from the tassels on her chest, otherwise she is just a black shape in the gloom. She reminds me of cat woman.

  "You need a good six inches," I tell her when she gets up close.

  "You should have thought about that before," she says.

  "I did. It's in my report."

  "What report?"

  "The one I did for Mr Hudson. 'Nice bum Tom'. Don't you remember?"

  "What are you talking about, Tom?"

  "When I came here, before. You said 'you've got a nice bum Tom'. When I was measuring. I knew you should have six inches then, so I put it in the notes."

  "Huh! I knew you were interested. So why so coy today?"

  "Not coy. Just forgot."

  "Forgot? How can you forget something like that?"

  "I just did. Until we came up here. To tell you the truth, I was a bit out of my depth down there, but when we came up here I could see straight away. You haven't got enough on."

  "I thought you'd like it like this."

  "Oh, no. Waste of money, you see."

  "I wasn't going to charge you,Tom. It was free."

  "No such thing as a free lunch. That's what Mr Hudson always says. You always have to pay for it somewhere. Look at the small print, Tom. That's what he says. Well, actually he says, look at the small print, Fletcher. That's what he calls me. Julie calls me Mr F. I don't know why. Can you think why?"

  "Shut up, Tom. You're talking about insulation aren't you?"

  "Yes. Pays for itself inside two years you know. Everyone should have six inches in their roof."

  The two of us are perched on the same joist outside the secret door. Carole is hanging on to my arm for support. I can hardly maintain my own balance, let alone support her.

  "Do something," she hisses. She pushes me towards the door and I sway wildly, grabbing at a rafter to steady myself. Suddenly the door opens and floods us with light. A figure is silhouetted against the opening. I step back in surprise.

  My foot hits the floor midway between the two joists and keeps right on going. I feel my left leg disappear through a hole into a large void beneath. My arms flail wildly for a hold. Carole sidesteps neatly as my right hand makes brushing contact with her arm. My right foot follows the left one through the growing hole. I am aware of two silver tassels passing briefly before my eyes, followed a fraction of a second later by a small lace triangle. I manage to grab the neighbouring joists, and come to rest with my head level with Carole's feet. The bulk of my torso is dangling through the ceiling into the room below.

  "What the ....," says the silhouetted figure.

  "Geoffrey!" says Carole.

  "Help," I say quietly.

  "Geoffrey?" asks Carole. "It is you isn't it?"

  There is no immediate reply.

  "Help," I repeat. Neither person appears to hear me. Carole is gazing in disbelief at the figure in the doorway. She is standing in a slight crouch with one hand on a rafter for stability. The silver tassels are swinging gently in time with her breathing. The other figure, Geoffrey (?), is standing somewhat sheepishly in the doorway. He appears to be wearing bondage clothes and holding a whip. The two of them stand for a moment eyeing each other suspiciously. I get the feeling they have met before.

  "I thought you were at work," he says eventually. He looks somewhat dejected.

  "Uh, I took the day off," she says.

  "I say," I try, but noone notices.

  There is a pause as the two of them continue to study one another. There is a ringing somewhere in the distance. I think it might be the telephone.

  "I think the phone is ringing," I say, but to no avail.

  "I haven't seen you dressed like that before," says Geoffrey suddenly.

  "I was just thinking the same," she replies.

  "It's quite amusing really," I say. "Quite funny. Noone would ever believe this. Funny how a series of quite ordinary events, quite innocent little things, can build up into an improbable situation like this. You see there's probably quite a boring explanation for all of this. For example, I find that things have been happening to me a lot recently. All sorts of unusual little things. I keep losing jackets you know."

  "Shut up, Tom," says Carole. Geoffrey holds out an arm to her, which she takes as she steps across to join him in the doorway to his secret den. I hear the ringing again from downstairs. It isn't the phone. I think it must be the doorbell.

  "Excuse me," I say. "The doorbell."

  "Who's he?" asks Geoffrey as he helps Carole through the door.

  "Him?" she replies. "Oh, he's just an estate agent."

  "Estate agent? I didn't know we were selling the house."

  "Selling? Oh, we're not. He was just cold calling. Like double glazing, you know. They're all at it now."

  "Oh," says Geoffrey as they disappear from sight. A moment later Carole's head pops back round the door jamb.

  "Not today, thankyou," she says. "You can let yourself out. Drop the latch behind you, please, when you go." It goes suddenly dark as she pulls the door shut behind her.

  "Help," I cry softly to noone in particular.

/>   It's not uncomfortable here, surprisingly. I'm quite a snug fit in the hole, and my arms and shoulders are preventing me from falling right through. I expect they'll get me out soon. I think they have some talking to do. They probably need some time together.

  The ringing seems to have stopped.

  I wonder how I shall explain this to Mr Hudson. I suppose he'll sack me now. He did say that I had to sell this house if I wanted to keep my job. I think Carole has decided not to sell now. I suppose I'll need to find another job. I wouldn't mind being a zookeeper actually.

  Carole and Geoffrey are talking. I can hear them through the partition. It's a bit muffled, but they are talking quite loudly. I can hear another voice, too. It's muffled as well, but I'm sure it's someone I know.

  A head pops up through the trapdoor. "Hello Mr F," it says. "I thought it would be you. The door was on the latch so I let myself in."

  Julie. My heart begins to thump. Why am I always doing something naff when she's around?

  "Hello," I say lamely. "Is it still raining?"

  "More or less stopped," she says.

  "I got soaked," I say. "Had to take off my clothes."

  "I saw," she replies.

  "Where?" I ask in surprise.

  "Downstairs. I could see your legs with no trousers."

  "Oh," I say. "Where am I exactly?"

  "Most of you is in the main bedroom. You've made a bit of a mess, you know."

  "Oh... You were right by the way."

  "What about Mr F?"

  "Woodworm. These joists are riddled with it."

  "Oh... Mr F."

  "Yes."

  "I'd better clear up the mess. The client will be here soon."

  Her head disappears back down through the trap.

  "Julie," I cry, but she appears not to hear.

  Carole and Geoffrey are still talking. They sound as though they are getting on quite well together. I get the impression they haven't talked to each other for some time. I think Geoffrey must be Mr Carole. It happens quite often you know. Not the dressing up, I mean. Well, not as far as I know. No, I mean the not talking. People take each other for granted so much they forget to communicate.

  Listen. Did you know that the average number of words passing between a man and wife in the morning before they part for the day is less than twenty? I read it in a book. I remember it because the book was written by a man with the same name as me. I think I'd like to write a book one day, but I wouldn't know where to start. Nothing interesting ever seems to happen to me.

  "I thought you weren't interested," Carole's voice says through the wall.

  "I thought it was you that wasn't interested," Geoffrey's voice replies.

  I'm beginning to get a bit uncomfortable. I have the feeling that everyone has forgotten me. Perhaps I'll starve to death. I wonder if I can get out of here on my own? A few struggles convince me that I can't get back up. Perhaps if I put my hands up above my head I could slip down through the hole. I put both arms up in the air and I do move an inch or two, but then I stick again. Now my arms are wedged, I can't move at all. I try swinging my body. Very little happens at first, but as I build up momentum I feel myself slip another couple of inches.

  Julie's head reappears. "I think you ought to come down now Mr F," she says. "The client will be here in a few minutes."

  "OK," I say. I am about to ask her for help, but she disappears again as quickly as she came. This is silly. I resume the swinging.

  Swing. Move. Swing. Move. It is working. With each swing I slip another fraction of an inch. Swing. Move. Swing....

  Suddenly I'm through. I plunge feet first into the centre of the water bed.

  Hey! I've just thought. The mattress on the water bed is a bag of water just like me. We could be brothers!

  I lurch about on the mattress trying to gain my balance. At each step my foot sinks in up to the ankle. No matter how I try I can't seem to stop. I stagger about like a drunk.

  "Stop playing about, Mr F," says Julie from behind me. The client will be here any moment. Finally I work out how to stop by sinking to my knees.

  Julie bustles about while I regain my breath. She removes the bedcover, which has caught most of the debris from the ceiling. I watch her in the mirror. She is beautiful. Suddenly I realise what an opportunity this is. The two of us alone, in the bedroom. Me already undressed.

  What would Bond do?

  Why do I always ask that? Bond wouldn't ever find himself in this position. He wouldn't be sitting on a bed in his boxer shorts while the woman he craves does the dusting. No, he would sink onto the bed, and she would emerge from the shower in one of his shirts.

  "Hot shower?" I say out loud.

  "Gesundheit," she says, without looking up.

  "Pardon?" I say.

  "Gesundheit, Mr F."

  Why is she talking about my height? I know I'm not a tall man but I didn't know it bothered her. She's never mentioned it before. I sag back into the bed. This is a new development.

  "Does my height bother you?" I ask.

  "Sorry Mr F?"

  "Am I tall enough for you?" I ask.

  "Tall enough? I've never thought about it Mr F. Why do you ask?"

  "I just wondered if you thought I was too short?"

  "What ever made you think of that, Mr F? I think you are just right. Why, if you were any taller you'd have to walk with your knees bent, and if you were any shorter then your legs wouldn't reach the floor would they?"

  I wonder about this for a moment. I think she may be making fun of me. This isn't going to plan at all.

  "I wondered if you wanted to wear my shirt?" I suggest.

  "Why ever would I want to do that, Mr F?"

  "Just something I saw on a film," I say.

  There is the sound of a car pulling up outside. "Mr F. Come and look. I think the client is here."

  I walk over to the window and peer out to the road. A white Ford Escort has pulled up behind Carole's car. The figure getting out looks familiar. I've seen him before, very recently. As he starts to walk up the path to the house I suddenly realise who it is.

  "Bob Downe!" I exclaim.

  Listen. I know I said there would be only one coincidence in this story, but you didn't really expect me to pass up the opportunity to use that name again did you?

  Look. It's one of the best jokes in the whole story, and what possible harm can it do?

  Look. If I can't get Julie in bed with me, surely you'll allow me one small joke?

  Thanks.

  Julie drops down to the level of the window sill. "What is it, Mr F?" she asks.

  "Nothing," I say. "Nothing important. Just a jacket I used to know. That's all."

  CHAPTER 27

  "Of course it isn't a worm at all you know."

  "What isn't, Mr F?"

  "Woodworm. It isn't a worm. It's the larva of the furniture beetle, anobium."

  "Oh," says Julie. "That's interesting."

  "Yes," I continue. "It's a member of the anobiidae family of beetles. Closely related to the deathwatch beetle you know."

  "Really? You do know some funny things Mr F."

  "There's about eleven hundred altogether. Not woodworms of course. There must be millions of them. Eleven hundred types I mean. Of beetle that is. In the anobiidae family."

  I don't know why I'm doing this. Why am I talking about the classification of beetles? She doesn't want to know this. I always do it. Why am I such a boring person? Is that why Gail lost interest? Bond wouldn't do this. I must change the subject, talk about something else.

  My mind is a complete blank. Think man think. Say something.

  "My aunt had woodworm once," I say. I can't believe I said that. I was trying to change the subject. God, she must think I'm a pratt.

  Julie suddenly giggles beside me.

  "What's funny?" I ask.

  "What you said, Mr F. You said your Aunt had woodworm."

  "She did, quite badly," I explain.

 
Julie is still giggling to herself. "It sounded as though it was your Aunt that had woodworm," she says. "Don't you see?"

  "Of course I see," I say. "But it wasn't funny. Not to her anyway."

  "But people don't get woodworm Mr F. It just sounded funny."

  "But she did, in her leg. She used to leave little piles of sawdust everywhere she walked. My Uncle would have to run along behind her with a dustpan and brush sweeping it up."

  Julie hoots with laughter at this. "You're teasing me Mr F. I know you are."

  "No I'm not," I say. "We had to get her treated."

  There are tears welling up in Julie's eyes from her laughing.

  "It was a shark that did it," I continue. "When she was mackerel fishing. It was at Newquay. We stayed on a caravan site."

  Julie is holding her side as she rolls in her seat with laughter.

  "Bit her leg off when she dangled it over the side of the boat," I say. But I don't think Julie hears. "She had a wooden leg from that day on."

  The tears are streaming down her face from the laughing. "What happened to her Mr F?" she asks.

  "She fell over and died," I say. "Her leg just crumbled to dust one day. Over she went and hit her head on the wall. We left it too late you see."

  "What, Mr F? What did you leave too late?"

  "The treatment," I reply lamely.

  Julie's mirth dies down gradually, but every so often a little giggle escapes. She still isn't sure whether I'm teasing her or not.

  We sit in silence for a while. I keep thinking that I'm going to have to face Mr Hudson soon and explain about the house. I don't think he'll be amused. I think I won't be working there after today. This could be the last time I'll ever see Julie too. I try to think of something to say to her, but my mind is empty.

  We left Carole and Geoffrey up in the loft. I did call goodbye, but there was no answer. Julie sorted out Bob Downe. Explained everything. He said he quite understood. I kept out of the way. I thought it would be best.

  I asked Julie if we could stop for a while on the way back to the office. Couldn't face Mr Hudson just yet. And now I can't think of anything to say to her. She appears to be in no hurry, though. She seems content just to sit here for the moment. At least the rain has stopped.

  "Umbrella!" I exclaim, suddenly.

  "Umbrella, Mr F?" asks Julie.

  "Fifth one this year," I add glumly.

  "Oh," she says.

  "Jackets and umbrellas," I say. "Costing me a fortune."