‘God, you’ve made me ejaculate,’ he said.
Her laugh flapped like a bat up the sides of the well and out into the bright.
Chapter 27
*
I went into work early next morning, and sat alone staring out across the rooftops. At eight-thirty, the moment the switchboard became operative, my extension rang. It was someone from the hospital to tell me that Fay had died.
A pigeon was hopping on the ledge outside the window, nudging its dirty feathers against the glass.
‘No,’ I said, ‘that can’t be right. She was fine yesterday.’ The pigeon opened its crusty beak but I heard no sound and then it flapped away.
‘Sometimes happens, I’m afraid. Post-operative complication.’
‘But it was only her hip.’
‘She suffered a cardiac arrest during her sleep. She won’t have known a thing.’
‘Fay Martin?’ I said.
‘Mrs Martin, yes. I’m very sorry, dear. I’ve been trying to contact her son – your husband, is it? On his mobile but to no avail.’
‘Oh.’ An old bloke was limping round depositing the post on people’s desks. He looked surprised. We’d never seen each other before; I’d never been in so early. He handed me a pile of papers.
‘Do you have a landline number for him?’ the woman said.
‘I’ll tell him.’
‘Yes, dear. It would come better from you.’
She began to talk about arrangements but I couldn’t take anything in. ‘I’ll get back to you later,’ I said and put the receiver down.
I went across to Christine’s desk and picked up the bear, all pink now with kissy smudges. I took it to the window and stared out across the city at the tall hospital building where Fay was. Or where her body was.
‘Good morning,’ Gary said and I turned. ‘What’s this?’ He looked at the bear clutched in my hand.
‘It’s Christine’s,’ I said, ‘her good-luck mascot.’
‘Do you believe in luck?’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t have put you down as the superstitious type.’
‘I don’t think luck is something you can believe in or not,’ I said. ‘It either happens or it doesn’t. Like rain.’
He blinked at me. There was a little slice of unshaved skin under his bottom lip. I wondered if it was accidental or meant to be a style statement. His suit was navy blue, the sort that would crackle if you brushed against it.
‘Well, nice to see you in so bright and early,’ he said. ‘Work hard this week and let’s see if we can get back up to speed, shall we?’ He cocked his head encouragingly. ‘And you’re looking well. So much better.’ He patted my arm and went off, leaving a prickly smell of aftershave behind him.
I sat down, legs suddenly weak with the shock. Fay dead. Fay gone. I couldn’t take it in. I sat blankly staring at my screensaver. Christine came wobbling in. ‘Good God!’ she said when she saw me. She sat down, and sighed with relief as she freed her feet from her pink stilettos and shoved them into Dr Scholl’s. ‘What are you doing in so early?’
‘Why do you wear them?’ I nodded at the stilettos.
She gave me a quizzical look. ‘Want a coffee? I’m having one to kick off with.’ She took a chocolate muffin, wrapped in a paper napkin, out of her handbag. ‘Breakfast,’ she said and slopped off to get the drinks.
And then it came crashing in on me that Fay was dead. I saw the puppet head on the pillow, the bony hands that would never clutch at anything again. My hand still remembered the feeling of hers last night. I pictured the box of jellies on her locker. She had been pleased with them, I think.
Christine came back and put a mug of coffee on my desk. She was talking about the film she’d seen with Don last night. ‘And then in the pub after, you’ll never guess what he …’ She tailed off. ‘You OK?’
I took a sip of coffee, too weak and milky, and then my vision clouded. I lowered my head on to the desk and closed my eyes.
‘Oh my God,’ she said, ‘are you blacking out?’
‘No.’ My voice was squashed. I sat up. It was running up through me like light, like the sun rising, what this meant. I could leave here now, leave all this and go to Charlie. A hurting sort of smile broke on my face.
‘Nina?’ Christine said. She sounded nervous.
‘It’s all right,’ I said, ‘but something’s happened.’
‘What?’ She eyed her muffin, then gave in and took a bite.
‘Charlie’s mum’s died.’
Her pale eyes opened wide. ‘Oh my God,’ she said, through a mouthful of black crumbs, ‘when?’
‘Just now.’
‘Just now?’
‘Shhh,’ I said. ‘I mean last night. The hospital just rang.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘I need to go to the hospital … Tell Gary that … I don’t know, tell him I’ve gone down with something,’ I said.
‘Why don’t you just tell him the truth?’ she said.
She watched me gather together my things, slide my arms into my jacket. I opened my drawer and took out the picture of Charlie, such a smile; I hadn’t seen him smile like that for weeks. I put it in my bag, heart vaulting against my ribs.
‘Please, Chris,’ I said, ‘I can’t face him.’
‘What about tomorrow?’
‘I’ll ring in or something, don’t worry.’
‘Tell Charlie, I mean I know I don’t know him or anything, but tell him sorry from me, will you?’
‘I will,’ I said. One of her bra-straps had escaped from her sleeveless top. I realised I might never see her again. I paused. ‘So, everything all right with Don?’
‘We’re thinking about holidays,’ she said. ‘He asked me if I fancied it. Malaga or Tenerife.’
‘Have a great time then,’ I said.
‘It’s not till August!’ She picked a chocolate chip out of her muffin. ‘But it goes to show he’s thinking long-term.’
‘That’s great,’ I said. Gary’s door was closed. ‘I’ll nip out now. Thanks, Chris.’ I hesitated for a moment. ‘You’re a good mate.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ she said, blushing.
At home I banged the door shut and it seemed stiller and emptier than ever before. The budgie was silent and hunched as if he knew he was bereaved. I imagined taking the cage outside and opening it, and him soaring away, higher than he’d ever flown, a vivid scrap of blue amongst the sensible English birds. And what would happen then? He might be eaten by a cat or a magpie or a hawk. Or maybe not, maybe he’d adapt, pass himself off as a sparrow, join a flock.
I had the number ready to phone Charlie, and was preparing my words. It’s not an easy thing to say to someone. I couldn’t think how to put it. Should I come straight out with it, or try and soften it? But how can you soften news like that? While I considered I wandered down into Fay’s flat.
On her mantelpiece was an array of framed photos but none of me. One of the frames, which was in the shape of a heart, held Charlie and a girl. A girl with pale green, wavy hair. They were holding hands in the shadow of a leafy arch. He looked unbelievably young which proved that it was long ago. It must have been Nicky. I did what I’d been itching to do for four whole months and turned that photo to face the wall.
I looked at all Fay’s things, not hers any more: the special high-seated armchair; a tube of handcream; a crossword snipped from a magazine; the TV guide with her choices circled in red.
I walked into the bathroom, where peachy satin underwear hung on a line over the bath. I looked inside the bathroom cabinet at the denture cream, the Vaseline, the Alka-Seltzer, the brown jars of prescription pills with her name, Mrs F.J. Martin. I didn’t even know what the J. stood for.
As I went back into her sitting room the torn-out crossword fluttered to the floor though there was no breeze and I got the sudden strong uneasy sensation that she was there.
‘I’m sorry, Fay,’ I said and my own voice scared me. I don’t know what I was sorry for.
I went q
uickly upstairs to phone Charlie. I would put it simply: ‘Sorry, Charlie, Fay passed away in the night.’ Passed away was better than died, I thought. Or passed on, or passed over. ‘She won’t have known a thing,’ I’d say, while he took it in.
I actually had my hand on the phone when it rang. I thought it would be him, but, ‘Nina,’ the suede voice said, ‘shouldn’t you be at work?’
‘How did you get this number?’ I said.
‘Ways and means.’
‘John Smith?’
He didn’t answer.
‘Look, this is really not a good time,’ I said.
‘I’m just outside now.’ As he spoke, I saw, or felt, the shadow of him through the kitchen window. I opened the door and he stepped in. He looked so tall in the kitchen, far taller than Charlie. He had an Oddbins carrier bag with him and he took out of it a bottle of champagne.
‘I didn’t take you for a pet person,’ he said, clicking his fingers at the budgie.
‘It belongs to Charlie’s mother,’ I said. ‘Look, I’ve got a family crisis. Can we meet later?’
‘Family, eh?’ he said.
‘I’ve got to make a call. An important call.’
‘Don’t mind me.’ He smiled as he popped the cork off the champagne. The sound made Charlie Two jerk on his perch. I watched the little ghost rise from the bottle and disappear. It was ten-thirty in the morning.
‘Glasses?’ he said but I just stood there thinking how to get rid of him. He found glasses in a cupboard. ‘No flutes?’ he said. ‘Ah well, we can make do.’
He poured the champagne into the glasses and the faint hissy sizzle of it made my mouth water, gave me a sudden desperate thirst. And a drink probably was what I needed to steady my nerves.
He raised his glass to me and took a sip. ‘Mmmm not bad.’
‘What then?’ I said. He sat down on one of the kitchen chairs and stretched out his long legs. Moleskin jeans, I noticed, olive green, brand new. He was quite comfortable in his skin in this kitchen, more comfortable than I ever was.
‘I really do have to make an urgent call,’ I said. ‘I’ll go upstairs.’
‘Something secret?’ he said.
I put my glass down. Should not drink more. There must be lots of things to do, as well as phoning Charlie. What do you do when someone dies? First you tell the next of kin.
‘Private.’
‘Is there any difference?’ he said. ‘I know all your little secrets.’
The glass broke in my hand. Curved shards of glass, champagne, blood welling up and mixing to a rosy fizz like pink champagne. The alcohol stung, the blood dripped on to my skirt. It was linen; it would be ruined. I don’t know what would have happened next but then the back door opened and Maisie came in.
‘Hope you don’t mind … just wanted to drop this in for …’ She stopped and stood looking between my bleeding hand, the bottle and Rupert. ‘Oh my giddy aunt,’ she said. She put a parcel down on the table.
I reached for a tea towel to stop the blood.
‘I’ll give it to her,’ I said.
‘You’ve been in the wars,’ she said, her eyes fixed on the champagne. ‘Celebrating?’
‘Would you like a glass?’ Rupert asked.
‘Goodness me, no!’
I should have thought of something, introduced Rupert, he could have been anything, a champagne salesman maybe, but I couldn’t think straight. My hand was stinging and my eyes smarted.
‘Will you be seeing her today?’ Maisie said. ‘You look like you could do with a trip to Casualty yourself.’
‘No, I’m OK,’ I said.
‘It’s a bed-jacket,’ Maisie said. ‘I’d take it up myself if I didn’t have this blasted leg.’
‘She’ll be out on Saturday,’ I said.
‘Well, I’ll be off.’ Rupert took Maisie’s hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’ He slid me a smile. ‘I’ll be in touch.’ I heard his footsteps going down the side of the house, the jounce of the gate on its hinges, the clang as it shut.
‘What’s been happening then?’ Maisie said.
‘It’s nothing.’
‘Doesn’t look like nothing to me.’
‘It’s superficial.’ I made a ghastly sound, meant to be a laugh. ‘It’s just …’ but somehow nothing would come.
‘What you want is a cup of tea.’ She headed towards the kettle.
‘No,’ I said, more sharply than I meant. ‘I mean, thanks but I’ve got stuff to do.’
‘Well at least let me help you with that.’
‘It’s OK. Really.’
She looked from the champagne to the blood to me and tutted. ‘I don’t know. Well, anyway, send her my love,’ she said, ‘tell her we missed her at Spanish.’
Spanish?
She hovered for a moment. ‘Are you sure I can’t …’ but I shook my head and shut my eyes against her, willing her to go. I could hear her mind whirring as she planned what to tell Fay, and eventually the back door clicked shut. I took my hand to the sink, peeled off the tea towel, and held it under the cold tap. As the blood rinsed away the wound gaped open like the mouth of a fish.
I turned off the tap and watched the blood ooze across my palm. I thought then that it would be easier than anything just to let the rest of my blood flow neatly down the drain, to wipe up behind me and be gone.
But I wrapped my hand tightly in a clean tea towel. It was one brought back by Fay from a holiday in Wales. It was printed with a recipe for barmbrack held by a woman in a tall Welsh hat. The word Welsh was squashy and sickening. I heard a loud buzzing and my knees went soft. I think I fainted, at least I opened my eyes to blood, and the words two hundred and fifty grams, two hundred and fifty grams, and felt a jab of sharpness in my side where my ribs had fallen on the glass, a tear in my blouse and more blood. The table loomed above me and I could see the undersides of chairs and something that looked like a woolly chip under the cooker. When did we last have chips? I could hear Charlie Two cheeping and I don’t know what next, everything soft and leaky and warm, quite comfortable, until the phone sent sparks jangling through me.
I crawled across the floor and reached up to get it. Charlie’s voice came out. ‘Your mobile’s off,’ he said. ‘What’s up?’
I looked down at myself. There was actually still a curved piece of glass sticking out of my side and I choked out a laugh, I couldn’t help it, and then felt the gorge rise in my throat.
‘Come back,’ I said.
‘What’s going on?’
I breathed out. ‘Sorry, Charlie. Your mum. I was about to ring you.’
There was a silence then he said, ‘No.’
‘Heart attack,’ I said. ‘A post-operative complication. I’m so sorry.’
It seemed ages before he spoke again. I could hear his breath. I plucked the glass out of my side. It had only been dangling there. My blouse was ruined, and my skirt, but it didn’t matter.
‘I can’t believe you laughed,’ he said at last.
‘I wasn’t … it was just nerves. Shock.’
There was a pause, then he said, ‘When?’
‘Early hours.’
‘Oh God. Mum.’
‘Charlie.’ I tried to make my love stream down the wire and over the miles to him. ‘She won’t have known anything. It was in her sleep,’ I said.
‘Last night?’ he asked.
‘She was her usual self. I took her some jellies.’
‘I’d better ring the hospital.’
‘Then get back to me,’ I said.
‘I’ll get the first flight.’
‘Yes,’ I said, ‘yes, of course you must.’
When I put the receiver down it was sticky with blood. Of course he would have to come straight back. Funeral, funeral. I rang the hospital and asked them what to do. I called her my mother. She could have been my mother. They gave me the number of a funeral director. When Charlie rang I could say it was all in hand, all he had to do was get here.
I drank another glass of champ
agne while I gathered my thoughts; it was just as good as brandy for the shock. The budgie was cocking his head at me. I opened the cage and he came straight out, almost brushing my hair with his wings, and circled the room in a blue blur, claws scrabbling for something to clutch. He finally clung to the lampshade. Cheep, cheep, cheep. I was drinking from Rupert’s glass because mine was in pieces but not me. I had pulled myself together and even when the bird, from the lampshade, said, ‘Charlie-boy, Charlie-boy,’ I was all right.
I phoned the funeral director’s and it was easy, it was easier than booking a train trip: a few questions, the first available date, cremation I chose, that’s what we did with Dave and it seems the best solution. I thought I should invite people. Do you call it ‘invite’ for a funeral? Maisie was her friend. I should have told her. That would have been the normal thing to do.
I took off the bloody blouse. It was only a scratch. I took off my skirt and stuffed it with the blouse into the bin. I swept up the bits of glass, the tea towel making me clumsy. I peeled it off; it was heavy with blood but I could still read the recipe: steep fruit overnight in tea. I wondered if barmbrack would be suitable for a funeral.
I rang Rupert’s mobile and to my relief he answered. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘Charlie’s mum’s just died.’
There was a pause. ‘Just now?’
‘Early this morning.’
‘Why are you telling me now? I mean, why didn’t you say?’
‘Don’t know,’ I said and it was the truth. ‘I hadn’t even told Charlie …’
‘Have you now?’
‘Just did. He’s coming back, there’s going to be the funeral and everything. Rupert, look, I’ll meet you when it’s over. We’ll talk. Please just leave me alone till it’s over.’
There was a silence. I could hear voices in the background of wherever he was. It sounded like a pub. ‘Promise?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I absolutely do.’
‘Why should I believe you?’
‘I’m just … asking. Begging. Please.’
‘My mum isn’t too well,’ he said and I was so surprised I had to hold the receiver away from my ear and look at it.
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