The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days

by Juliet Conlin

  Isobel turned away from him. ‘Aye. You do whatever you think is right, Alfie,’ she said.

  Alfred took her shoulder and pulled her back around. He felt her muscles tense. ‘No, Isobel,’ he said grimly. ‘I won’t do anything you’re not happy with. Not if that means . . . ’

  She breathed out heavily, and then relaxed under his grip. ‘You’re right, Alfie.’ He put his hand to her face and felt her tears. ‘I just want to be happy, and not so frightened.’

  Sliding his arm beneath her shoulders, he pulled her tight. ‘I’m sorry, Isobel, for everything. I love you so.’

  He held her in this way until her breathing became slow and regular, and soon, he fell asleep too.

  Contacting Mrs Singer-Cohen was more straightforward than he had expected. A young woman at directory enquires confirmed that she had a Mr Samuel Singer-Cohen listed as resident in Staffordshire, at March House. She could put a telephone call through, if he wished. Beside him, Isobel nodded, a brave smile fixed on her face. Alfred was making the telephone call from Drummond’s study, and would rather have made it in private, as the determination he’d felt last night had now ebbed away completely. But he couldn’t send Isobel out. He would just have to see it through.

  Through a crackling line, amidst a jumble of faint-sounding voices on other lines, a woman’s voice appeared, introducing herself as Miss Woolcroft, secretary to Mr Singer-Cohen. Alfred, stumbling over his words, said that he was an acquaintance of Mrs Alice Singer-Cohen and wished to speak to her. After a brief hesitation, Miss Woolcroft said, ‘Very well, one moment please,’ and there was a muffled silence as she connected him to Mrs Singer-Cohen’s private line.

  Alfred felt the heat rising to his face. The woman probably didn’t even remember him, and as he waited for the call to be put through, the foolishness of what he was about to do almost made him hang up. But when she finally answered, his uncertainty vanished at once.

  ‘Mr Warner!’ she said brightly. ‘What a surprise!’

  ‘Hello Mrs Singer-Cohen, I, um, well – ’

  ‘Are you also having such a hot summer? A bit of sunshine is all well and good, but we could certainly do with a few days of rain. The heat has been doing ghastly things to the lawn.’

  ‘Aye, it’s been hot here, too. Actually, Mrs Singer-Cohen, I was calling to enquire . . . Well, if you recall, on the train – ’ He hesitated. Isobel took his free hand in hers and squeezed it. He continued quickly, just wanting to get it over with, now. ‘On the train, you asked whether I might be in need of a job. It was a very kind offer, and – ’

  Her reaction was not what he’d hoped. ‘Oh gosh, Mr Warner, this is terribly awkward. We just hired a new chap last week.’ She sighed and clicked her tongue. ‘He isn’t much of an improvement as far as I’m concerned, but Mr Claxton seems quite taken by him. Oh dear, I do feel awful. But, you see, I did rather act on the spur of the moment on the train. I’m not really in the habit of offering jobs to men I hardly know.’ She sighed again.

  Alfred swallowed. His cheeks were burning. He freed his hand from Isobel’s grip and turned away. ‘That’s fine, Mrs Singer-Cohen, I’m sorry to have troubled you.’

  There was a long pause; the line crackled and fizzed and for a moment, Alfred thought she might have ended the call. But then her voice came back on.

  ‘No, hang on,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll have a word with my husband. This new boy, well, he’s all thumbs, and none of them green.’

  ‘But I dinnae want – ’

  ‘No, it’s all right.’ She paused again. When she spoke, her voice was low. ‘This is all my stupid fault. Listen, Mr Warner. I can make you no promises, but I shall talk the matter over with my husband, and Mr Claxton, and get back to you as soon as I can. Leave your number with Miss Woolcroft. How does that sound?’

  ‘That sounds very kind of you, Mrs Singer-Cohen,’ Alfred answered, wishing for this conversation to finally end. ‘Well, good-bye. And thank you.’

  ‘Goodbye, Mr Warner.’

  Two days later, Miss Woolcroft telephoned to invite Alfred for a formal interview.

  Nineteen Ninety-Six (Part I)

  The air is hot. The A/C has been off since this morning when the caretaker guy came to take the final meter reading. You wade slowly through the hot air in your room – no, the back bedroom, it isn’t your room anymore – counting steps from door to window, wall to wall, trying to imprint the size, the shape, the feel of it onto your memory. The power has been switched off at the mains to stop the meter

  Tick, tick, ticking –

  so no lights, no cool air, even though outside, it’s close to 100 degrees

  Fahrenheit, but what’s that in Celsius, huh? Huh? Come on, Brynja, work it out –

  minus thirty divided by two, give or take, but even hotter in here

  So, 100 degrees Fahrenheit minus thirty divided by two. Is what? I’m waiting…

  seventy, divided by two – thirty-five! Thirty-five degrees Celsius. Here used to be the bed, the shelf with your books, tiny pieces of scotch tape stuck fast to the walls, impervious to your mom’s fingernails.

  You’ve been biting them again, haven’t you?

  A circular rug made from Sabine’s old nylons. White melamine nightstand left by the previous tenants.

  Right down to the quick. I can see a hangnail . . . Go on, tear it off!

  Bedside lamp with pink shade and white unicorns. You clench your fists. Suppress the urge to pick at the skin around your fingers. There stood your guitar stand sans guitar, left behind at summer camp two years ago. Here on the carpet a round burn mark, left by Sabine, despite the No Smoking Past This Point sign you stuck on the door a couple of years ago.

  Bryn! BRYNJA!! Get moving! Where are you? your mom shouts.

  You stand in the center of the room, surrounded by the heat. Time to go. You leave the room, slowly, and walk down the short dark hallway. Sabine – surrounded by boxes, picture frames, potted plants that will never survive the move, garbage bags, more boxes – stands leaning against the kitchen wall, smoking. Nervous, you can tell, from the way she sucks on her cigarette and blows out short puffs of smoke. You hate the smell, the way it clings to your clothes, your hair. Some of your friends at school smoke, but there’s no way you will. Ever.

  Yeah, she’s disgusting. You need to keep an eye on that one.

  She’s my mom! you answer in your head. Accept and Acknowledge, is what the last therapist advised you to do: I ACKNOWLEDGE YOUR PRESENCE BUT I AM FREE FROM YOUR INFLUENCE.

  Sabine turns, spots you. Pushes herself away from the wall. What have you been doing in there? I need you out here. They’ll be here any minute. She draws on her cigarette, winces as the glowing tip almost reaches her fingers and looks around, helpless, for somewhere to put it out. Shit, she says. I knew I should have kept one ashtray unpacked. Walks to the window, opens it, flicks out the butt and gives you an apologetic shrug. Oops.

  Selfish bitch.

  It scares the crap out of you, talking back to the voice. You’ve tried, but you’re scared of her and she knows it. How could she not know? She lives in your head.

  Sabine glances around, looks puzzled, as though she suddenly has no idea what’s going on. Then, Grab that box, Bryn. She points to a cardboard box on the floor. You look inside. It’s full of books and is hopelessly heavy.

  There are too many books in here, you say. The bottom will fall out.

  Your mom says, Nah. We’ll put See? Stupid a couple of and selfish. Like blankets in. mother like We have to, anyway, daughter, huh, Brynja? I got no Huh? boxes left.

  Your mom and the voice-woman speak at the same time. What?

  A couple of blankets, your mom says. Any more stuff in your room? Come on, Bryn, focus. I can’t do all this by myself.

  You stand there, undecided. Sabine comes and stands in front of you. Looks into your face and pushes a strand of hair behind your ear. Smiles softly. We’ll be good, liebling.

  The doorbell rings.
That’s the movers! Excited. They’re here!!

  1949 - 1950

  Alfred and Isobel rented a small, semi-detached furnished cottage, in a row of houses all owned by Mr Singer-Cohen. It was located in the small village of Checkley, just a mile from March House. It had green-painted window frames, a gable roof with gutters in need of repair, a sturdy-looking chimney and faux timber beams on the greyish brickwork. To Alfred’s delight, a lilac wisteria plant covered most of the brickwork, clinging to the front of the house and dripping with tiny purple flowers. The rent was higher than at their previous house, but the wages Alfred had been promised were double that of his old position, so Isobel quickly began to plan adding some personal touches – net curtains for the windows, matching floral bedspreads, a few small porcelain ornaments for the mantelpiece – and Alfred was pleased that she looked to their new life with such optimism.

  On the morning of their third day, the day Alfred was to begin work at March House, there was a knock at the front door. Alfred was upstairs in the bathroom, shaving, so he cracked open the small window and looked out. A grey Bentley was parked outside – the only car on the street. He quickly washed the shaving soap off his face and pulled a shirt on. By the time he got downstairs, Isobel had already opened the door to Mrs Singer-Cohen. She wore a close-fitting jacket and skirt, showing off her very narrow waist. Her black hair was pinned up and arranged in artful curls around her head.

  ‘You must be Mrs Warner,’ she said, flashing a broad smile at Isobel and extending a white-gloved hand. ‘I’m Alice Singer-Cohen.’

  Isobel hesitated for a moment, and then wiped her own hand on her print cotton dress and held it out. The skin was slightly reddened; Alfred presumed it must have been the hot water from the washing-up. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she responded and, noticing Alfred, turned to give him a quizzical look.

  Alfred combed his hair quickly with his fingers. ‘Won’t you come in?’ he asked.

  Mrs Singer-Cohen gave a quick shake of her head. ‘No, I wouldn’t dream of imposing. I just wanted to come by and say hello and welcome. I can’t tell you how pleased I am that you took the job.’

  For a moment, the three of them stood there in silence – Alfred and Isobel in the gloom of their small hallway, and Mrs Singer-Cohen on the other side of the doorstep in the bright summer light. Then Alfred and Isobel spoke simultaneously: ‘That’s very kind of you,’ Alfred said, while Isobel said, ‘Are you sure you won’t stay for a cup of tea?’

  ‘You’re most welcome, and no, unfortunately I can’t stay,’ Mrs Singer-Cohen answered. Then, as if changing her mind, she took a step forward into the house. She brought with her the honeyed scent of the wisteria that grew at the front of the house. ‘I’m on my way into Hanley for a nine o’clock appointment.’

  She didn’t explain further, but instead glanced around the small hallway and through the door that led into the living room. Alfred saw her take in the worn stair-carpet, the cheap reproduction oil painting that hung above a scuffed sideboard, the faded fabric of curtains and sofa – and although these things had all been in the house when he and Isobel moved in, he knew Mrs Singer-Cohen was associating their tawdriness with him, and it made him slightly uncomfortable. But her face betrayed no judgement. Instead, she just said, ‘You know, my husband owns all these houses, and I don’t think I’ve ever set foot in one of them.’ She fixed a smile on Isobel. ‘What a pretty dress you have on,’ she added.

  Isobel’s face reddened and she rubbed the fabric of the cotton dress – small blue flowers on a pale yellow background – between her fingers, nervously, Alfred thought.

  ‘Well, I shan’t keep you any longer,’ Mrs Singer-Cohen said finally. She said her goodbyes, and that she looked forward to discussing all things gardening with Alfred in due course. When that would be, she didn’t say. She was almost at the car when she turned. ‘Oh, Mr Warner. Would you like a lift up to the house?’ she asked. ‘We pass by it on my way into town.’

  Isobel spoke quickly. ‘Oh no, thank you, Mrs Singer-Cohen. Alfred’s nae had his breakfast yet.’

  Mrs Singer-Cohen rolled her eyes. ‘Of course. Silly me. Well – ’ she waited for the driver to open the car door. ‘I’ll see you later, then. Good-day, Mrs Warner.’

  As soon as they heard the car pull away, Isobel shot a glance at Alfred. ‘You told me she was an old lady,’ she said sourly.

  ‘No I didn’t,’ Alfred answered, surprised at her comment as well as her tone.

  ‘Well, you made her sound like one.’

  Alfred frowned. ‘I don’t think – ’

  But Isobel interrupted him. ‘“What a pretty dress you have on”,’ she mimicked.

  He put his hand on her arm. ‘Isobel. What’s the matter?’

  She shrugged him off. ‘With her posh frock and silk stockings, knowing full well pigs’d fly before I could afford something that fancy. And did ye see the way she looked around the house?’

  Alfred shrugged. For some reason, he didn’t want to tell her he’d found it awkward, too. ‘I thought she was quite charming,’ he said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Isobel replied and walked into the house and through to the kitchen, letting the door swing shut behind her.

  Alfred stood for a moment in the dark hallway. He knew that Isobel was house-proud; he guessed – although he didn’t know for sure – that she felt embarrassed about the faded curtains and the unswept floor. That perhaps . . .

  Goodness me, Alfred. Wake up! She’s jealous!

  ‘Jealous?’

  A second voice. Oh, he’s such an imbecile at times. Kssss, of course she’s jealous!

  ‘But why is she jealous?’

  You know perfectly well. We know what you’re thinking, Alfred. Always.

  The third voice-woman joined them: Let’s not be too hard on Isobel. She just feels a bit lost, that’s all. So far away from home. And you have to admit that Mrs Singer-Cohen was just a touch condescending.

  Kssss, I admit no such thing! She was being nice.

  You saw the look she gave Isobel. I don’t call that being nice.

  It was.

  It wasn’t.

  Yes, it was . . .

  Alfred tuned out their squabbling and went into the kitchen. Isobel was at the kitchen table with their ration books laid out in front of her. The kitchen was as dark as the hallway, north-facing with only a small window set in the back door that led out to the garden. Alfred switched the light on, but the low-watt bulb did little to brighten the room.

  ‘I’ll have to take these to the Food Office,’ Isobel said without looking up. ‘Get the address changed.’

  Alfred went and sat beside her and put his large, warm hands on her small ones. Looking down at her from this angle, he could see the bluish shadows under her eyes – she hadn’t slept well since they’d arrived here. Her fair hair, cut into a short bob just before they’d left Mauchline, was frizzy from the humidity of the hot water in the sink, and he suddenly understood how unfavourably she must feel she compared to the elegance of Alice Singer-Cohen.

  ‘I’m sorry, Isobel,’ he said.

  She retrieved her hands from his and placed the ration books atop each other. She said, in a controlled whisper, ‘Whatever for?’

  Alfred was at a loss for words. He reached out and stroked her hair, feeling the softness of it beneath his fingers, like the down of a small bird.

  ‘I’m sorry that you’re so unhappy,’ he said finally.

  Isobel sniffed and gave a pinched smile. ‘I’m nae unhappy, Alfie. Ach, I don’t know. I’m just . . . I suppose I’m missing home, is all.’ She looked up at him. Her summer freckles, which appeared on her face and across her shoulders after only the briefest exposure to the sun, were pale in the dull light of the kitchen, and she looked to Alfred as pure and delicate as she had the day they met. His heart lurched at the thought that he’d been the cause of her unhappiness.

  He got to his feet and pulled her out of her chair, holding her small, slender body in his arms.
Her shoulders, which only reached up to his chest, felt frail in his grip, and he was again reminded of a young bird. ‘You’re homesick, my love,’ he said. ‘And I know how wretched that can feel. But I also know that it’ll pass. Just give it time.’ He kissed the top of her head, where her hair smelled of almond soap.

  With a somewhat heavy heart, he set off for his first day at work. It was only a short distance – fifteen minutes at a brisk walk, with his voices chattering away incessantly, though quietly, at the rim of his hearing – that led him out of the village along a country lane bordered by hedges. The hedges were high and well-kept, but a closer look revealed brown, paper-dry leaves on the insides, a consequence of the too-hot summer. Once, a car sped past him, churning up clouds of dust and making him wary of walking on the road, so he kept as close to the hedges as he could. Then the hedgerow dropped away, opening up to large meadows with scatterings of sheep grazing sleepily beneath a fat, hot sun. Finally, sweating already in his heavy jacket, he reached a large gate, which he recognised as the one he’d been driven through on his first visit. It was a double wrought-iron gate, with a fancifully scrolled decoration that was reminiscent of a peacock fanning its tail. He stood before it, looking around for a bell-pull, but not finding anything, stepped forward and pushed against one side of the gate. It opened easily, and so he started walking up the gravel path, March House white and clean – a very modern building with angular geometry and a total absence of decorative fancy – sitting up ahead at the top of the drive.

  When he got to the front door, he rang the bell noticing the small silver cylinder attached to the doorframe on his right. It was the first he’d seen in over ten years, and as he lifted his hand to touch it – an instinctive gesture – something tugged painfully at his memory. But before the feeling turned into a stronger sense of nostalgia, he heard footsteps approaching from inside. The door was opened by a young dark-haired housemaid, dressed in a black skirt and blouse with a lace cap and apron.