A Private Moon

by Peter Benson

  ‘Doesn’t he look happy?’ said Mrs Platt.

  Frank wondered. Agree and keep her happy, tell the truth and dismay her. His mouth decided. ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘The vet was such a nice man,’ she said, smiling. She had false teeth; the top plate dropped down. She clicked it back into place. ‘You know what he did?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He had Joey out of his cage, and he was treating him like one of his own. He’s got healing hands.’

  Frank looked carefully at Joey, and he knew the bird was dead. Dead things give off no air, no colour and a flat, high smell. They are finished.

  ‘He’s very tired,’ said Mrs Platt, ‘aren’t you?’ She tapped the cage with her fingernails. The bird slipped so its beak was resting against the water bowl.

  ‘I think we ought to let him sleep,’ said Frank.

  Mrs Platt put her hand on his arm and said, ‘You’re right.’ She led him to the door. As he was about to leave her rooms and go upstairs, she said, ‘You’re such a nice man, Frank.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. Once, the compliment would have pleased him, but now he barely noticed it. But he remembered how he would have been pleased, and he recognised his indifference, and the memory of the woman attacked him again. Janet Black, Minehead, 1959, Rock ‘n’ Roll, boots of Spanish leather, Butlins, snooker and Ray Butts. Ray Butts, Janet Black and Butlins. Minehead. Elvis. The boots that did not work. Frank climbed the steps to his flat and did not stop outside Lisa’s. He did not stop until he was sitting in a chair by the window with a bottle of Volvic in his hands. Then, as the night froze and the stars were covered with clouds, he closed his eyes.

  Lisa and Adrian were sitting in a pub. They had chosen a quiet corner. She was drinking a dry Martini and tonic, he had a pint. She had lemon but no ice, he had the threat of a paunch. She was a spark, he was stupid. She was full of joy, he was scared. He stared at his drink and thought about Carlisle. He had a friend there she knew nothing about, a mechanic. This friend had told him that Carlisle was all right, and that there was plenty of work. Adrian decided to lie to Lisa and tell his friend the truth. He would play along with her, and then disappear. She looked at him with her loving eyes and wanted to hold him so close. She wanted to know when they were getting married, and she wanted to know if she could move in with him straight away. She said she wanted to get used to being with him all the time, she wanted to go shopping for groceries with him. He felt too warm, and wanted to go outside for a breath of fresh air.

  She followed him, and they stood on the pavement together. Their breath plumed in the cold night, and her eyes watered. She put her arm around him and tucked herself into his side; he put his arm across her shoulders, but he did not mean it. He did not squeeze her, or look at her. Yesterday she had been a lay but now she was not. For a second, he thought that he would tell her there, outside in the pub in the freezing cold. Then the second went. Say nothing and go.

  Janet Black, Minehead, Ray Butts, boots of Spanish leather; these memories drained from Frank’s head when he heard Lisa come home; he picked up Miriam Stoppard’s book and read for twenty minutes and then started to make a pot of tea. Five minutes later he hid the book under the sink as she climbed the stairs to his place. Before she could knock, he called out, ‘Come in, Lisa, it’s open.’

  She sat down and he poured her a cup of tea. She was subdued; he said, ‘You okay?’

  She nodded, sipped her tea, said, ‘That’s better,’ and ‘Adrian dropped me off.’ He drove an old car. ‘He was quiet tonight.’

  Frank crossed his legs and looked serious. ‘Pregnancy,’ he said, ‘can be as traumatic for the father as it is for the mother. Many men feel jealous, they feel their woman has been taken over by something they can’t control, and—’

  ‘Frank,’ said Lisa, ‘you sound like a guidebook!’

  ‘Do I?’

  ‘Yeah, you do.’ She laughed at him, and he felt his face tingle.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ She sipped some more tea. ‘It’s good to know someone’s interested.’

  ‘Adrian’s interested.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Isn’t he?’

  ‘I wonder.’

  ‘I thought he was over the moon.’

  ‘So did I.’

  ‘What you’re feeling,’ said Frank, and his serious face came again, ‘is not unusual. Mothers-to-be often experience feelings of insecurity. You might even begin to feel—’

  ‘You have been reading something!’

  ‘No I haven’t,’ he blurted. ‘Nothing.’ The lie was out

  before the truth had a chance to get its shoes on; it was left standing in his brain with its mouth open.

  ‘ A whole lot of nothing, Frank?’

  ‘I know a lot about a lot of things,’ he said. ‘It’s my job.’

  ‘You staked out a maternity unit today?’

  ‘No, but I wish I had.’ Frank’s voice betrayed his confusion; he tried to control it but failed.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Frank could not refuse Lisa. When he looked at her, he imagined her as a baby in the wrong man’s arms. She could have been his. They deserved each other. He sighed, took a deep breath and then began to tell her about Austin, Bob, Tai Chi, piles of paper and more stuff about Bob. He made some more tea, and listened as she told him that you can never be sure about people, however well you think you know them. One minute they’re there and the next they’re gone. Or one minute they tell you something you can’t believe, but that thing has been the truth for as long as you’ve known them. She said that she thought the secret of life was control, and he liked that. Then she looked at her watch and said that she had to go to bed. He agreed and apologised for keeping her up with her troubles, and told her that she was sleeping for two now. He offered to walk her to her door, but she said that it was only ten stairs.

  ‌6

  Frank was up early. The sun was showing for the first time in a week; its pale light reflected off the snowy roofs and began to melt the lines of icicles that ran beneath the gutters. He showered, shaved and ate breakfast listening to the radio news. On his way down, he stopped for a moment outside Lisa’s door. He heard nothing, so he carried on and was letting himself out when Mrs Platt put her head around her door and said, ‘Joey’s still asleep.’

  ‘Joey?’

  ‘Yes,’

  ‘Of course,’ said Frank.

  ‘Do you think I should try and wake him up?’

  Frank thought about this. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Let him rest. He was probably awake during the night; he’ll get up in his own good time.’

  Mrs Platt nodded. Frank was right. He left the house, stood on the step, buttoned his coat, took a deep breath of morning air and drove to work.

  Bob slept late. When he arrived at the office, Frank was waiting for him. He had tidied the files away, thrown two empty whisky bottles in the bin, and opened the windows. He’d gone over the floor with a vacuum cleaner, wiped down the desks and made a cup of tea. He was looking through Cases Pending when Bob arrived. ‘Hell,’ he said, ‘it’s freezing in here.’

  Frank got up and closed the windows. ‘The place stank.’

  ‘That’s what places do,’ said Bob, and he sat down with his coat on, and held his collar.

  ‘You look like shit.’

  ‘I feel like shit. I am shit.’

  ‘No,’ said Frank, ‘you’re confused.’

  ‘Thank you, doctor.’

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘Confused. You said that.’

  ‘And you’re feeling sorry for yourself.’

  ‘Who else is going to?’

  ‘You need someone to?’

  ‘Who doesn’t, Frank? Don’t you? When you sit up there in your room, sipping water and talking to your girlfriend…’

  ‘She’s not my girlfriend,’ Frank snapped.

/>   ‘… and talking to your girlfriend, don’t you ever wish that she’d take your head, put it on her little shoulder and stroke your worries away, tell you that she understands why you’re tired?’

  ‘Lisa and I…’

  ‘Because you do get tired, don’t you, Frank?’ Bob’s face hovered between smiling and grief, not sure which way to jump. ‘Say you do.’

  Frank looked at his friend and closed his eyes. He remembered what life had been like three days before. He’d left the office secure in the knowledge that life was secure. It was winter, Mrs Platt was a fair landlady, Bob could have no complaints, he’d seen a teapot in the shape of an old-fashioned kitchen range that would make a perfect Christmas present for Lisa. Volvic was drawn from springs that rose in the heart of France. He opened his eyes, and now he wondered if Volvic was a lie. Maybe it came from Ireland, and its sweet taste came from peat it filtered through, not volcanic rock. Confusion was contagious. It was a disease, the easiest to catch. It was enough to look at it; you can catch it as easily as that. Then you were two stops from confusion’s father. Chaos was waiting for you on the platform, with his whips, his pierced ears and his enormous eyes. Frank’s vision was out of focus; Bob was a blur of beige, the office was squares of colour. Bob snapped his fingers and said, ‘Frank?’

  ‘Bob?’ Frank focused. He had not been dreaming.

  ‘One.’ Bob held up one finger. ‘What I said last night; I meant it. You’ve got first refusal on this place,’ he spread his arms, ‘otherwise, I’m putting it on the market. Two.’ He held up a second finger. ‘I don’t want to tell you what to do today. From now on, I’m treading water.’

  ‘Treading water?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is there a three?’

  ‘No, That’s it.’

  Frank swivelled in his chair, stood up and walked to the window. He said, ‘It still stinks in here,’ and opened it. He leant out. People were shopping in the street below, walking carefully between piles of slush. From where he stood, they looked so simple and unconcerned. As they passed, they all seemed to know each other. Some stopped to talk, others nodded, a few walked hand in hand. From a height, nothing seemed wrong; everything, even in chaos, seemed ordered. He watched two babies in their pushchairs. They were dressed in mittens, thick coats and woollen hats. One of them was crying; this set the other off, and their pained cries rose to where Frank was leaning, but when they reached him they sounded like song. Nothing, he thought, is what it seems. He turned around and said to Bob, ‘Either do something useful or go home.’

  ‘I’ll go home,’ said Bob, and he did.

  Lisa phoned Adrian from work, but his boss said he’d gone out. The boss was angry; Adrian had said he had to go to the dentist. That was two hours ago, and now they had a rush job on a Volvo.

  ‘Dentist?’ said Lisa.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the boss, and hung up.

  He’d said nothing about the dentist to her. Last time she’d seen his teeth, they’d looked white and even. His breath had smelt of mint, and he hadn’t held his jaw and moaned. ‘The dentist?’ she said to the buzzing receiver, then she put it down. She stared at it. It accused Adrian, but she didn’t notice. His face, his words and his promises filled her head. She put her hand on her belly. She listened. Her embryonic fluid was singing. Her heart filled and all her dreams flowed into her desires as a woman came into the shop and asked for some aspirin and a comb. Lisa was helpful and the woman left the shop with exactly what she wanted. Lisa was meeting Adrian at seven; she would remember to take him some aspirins, in case his teeth were hurting.

  At half-past eleven, Mrs Platt decided to wake Joey and offer him some seed. She tapped the bars of his cage, and when he didn’t move, she opened his door. She put her hand in and tickled him under the chin. His head dropped, he slumped forward, held this new position for a second and then fell over. As he lay on his side, Mrs Platt picked him up and took him from the cage. She held his head in her fingers and puckered her lips at his beak; ‘Joey love,’ she said, ‘it’s Mummy.’

  Joey did not move.

  ‘Do you want something to eat?’

  Joey was cold.

  ‘You’re cold,’ she said, and then the truth began to dawn. It came from behind her, carrying lilies, spreading its arms and smiling insincerely. It had blood around its mouth, and its teeth were made from cuttlefish. She looked at Joey’s eyes, and they would not open; she noticed a circle of mucus around his nose, and the unnatural clench of his claws, and she remembered what the vet had said. ‘He hasn’t got more than a few hours left.’ Mrs Platt knew Joey was dead, and this hit her. She staggered backwards and stumbled towards an armchair; she tripped on its legs, put her left hand out to break her fall and dropped the bird. He bounced once then lay on a small Persian rug, his wings tucked in tight to his body and his head bent back. Mrs Platt grabbed a standard lamp and pulled it down on top of her. It crashed down, the bulb exploded and the room went dark. She lay on her back with the lamp across her stomach, one of her legs pushed back under the chair and the other stretched out. She felt faint, she felt watery, and her mind flashed a hundred images of her life in straight sequence. Her mother, her father, her brothers, her sisters and all the things they did. The house she lived in now when it was a family house with servants and bells in every room connected to the pantry and steaming ranges and tradesmen in caps calling with baskets of fresh produce. School, courting, Mr Platt, the war, her first Joey and the five Joeys since. A piece of hot glass had fallen on her last Joey and had singed his feathers. The smell of burning tinted the air. Mrs Platt’s right leg hurt. She closed her eyes, and that made everything better. She felt as though she were swimming, something she had never enjoyed before, but now it was pleasant. Warm water, darkness and sympathy.

  Frank spent the day with the telephone and Cases Pending, and tried to organise Bob’s organisation. Bob had a system based on colours; urgent work was coded with a red dot, less urgent with a yellow, even less urgent with a blue, then a green, and a purple. Personal documents were dotted white, and office invoices/receipts, black. This was a system that worked; its practicalities demanded understanding and tolerance, and in the morning, in the hour after Bob had left to go home, Frank determined to master it, but by noon he was confused.

  Working through the red dots, he discovered one file dated 24 February 1987, and another that contained nothing but garage receipts for the year 1990–91. Then he found Mr Austin’s correspondence in a blue file, and a back copy of Go Fishing! in a black, Bob, whose system had developed over many years, knew why Go Fishing! was in a black, but he was not the sort of man who explained the obvious. He had been waiting all his life to act on an impulse, and he was not going to clutter his reasons with anything. Explanations, excuses, regret, cold sweats and cigarette burns; life was too short. He had discovered an appetite, and few people really do that.

  Between a red file stuffed with pages torn from Exchange & Mart, and a purple file full of used stamps, the phone rang. For a moment, Frank waited for Bob to enter the office and answer it, but after three rings he remembered, he smoothed his chin, he took a deep breath and answered it.

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘Bob?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Bob. He was sitting in the bath with a bottle of beer and the radio on. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Working.’

  ‘Why?’ said Bob, and he hung up.

  ‌7

  At half-past five, as the air began to bite after the day’s thaw, Frank let himself into Mrs Platt’s house, stamped his feet on the mat and checked the hall table for post. There was a hand-delivered letter waiting for Lisa. He began to climb the stairs, but when he had passed the fifth he stopped.

  He stood and waited. He listened to his watch ticking, and he heard a pipe gurgle above him. The sound drifted down and he thought he heard words in it. Nothing specific, and nothing Mrs Platt would say. He retraced his steps and rang her bell. When there was no reply, he put his
ear to the door and said, ‘Mrs Platt?’

  There was silence.

  ‘Mrs Platt? Hello?’

  Nothing.

  He waited for a moment, then tried the door. It was unlocked. He let it swing open, stood on the threshold and said, ‘Mrs Platt?’ again. Her name floated into the room, bounced around the furniture and settled on a mantelpiece. He turned on the light and saw her lying on the floor.

  He ran to her, and knelt down. He put his ear to her nose and listened. She was breathing, the air fluttering out of her body like wings. ‘Mrs Platt,’ he said, and he straightened her arm. He put his hand under her head and she moved her right leg. She winced, opened her eyes and said, ‘Joey?’

  ‘No,’ said Frank. ‘It’s Frank.’

  ‘Frank?’

  ‘From upstairs.’

  ‘Oh,’ she wheezed, ‘Frank.’

  ‘What happened, Mrs Platt?’

  She lifted her hand and pointed across the floor. ‘Joey’s dead. I couldn’t help him.’

  Frank looked at the dead bird, nodded slowly and whispered, ‘I’m sorry.’

  Mrs Platt tried to sit up, but slipped back.

  ‘Steady,’ said Frank. He righted the standard lamp and stood it to one side, put an arm around her shoulders and the other around her waist. He could feel her bones shivering through her skin. ‘I’m going to lift you up. Okay?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He sat her in an armchair.

  ‘Comfortable?’

  She rubbed her arms. ‘Nothing broken.’ She looked at the lamp. ‘Apart from that, I think.’

  ‘It’s just the bulb.’

  ‘And Joey,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sure,’ said Frank, and he felt stupidity rise in him, ‘he didn’t feel any pain. He’s gone to a better place.’

  ‘Do you think so?’ said Mrs Platt.

  ‘Yes.’

  She put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. She was crying.