'It's the new girl, you see. She's got him that excited.'
Has she indeed. As a matter of fact, I can feel my own ears pricking up a bit. But it's no use saying anything, not if it's information you want. You show the teeniest bit of interest, and she'll drag it out for ever. Mind you she can talk about Gilbert being all of a fluster, but it's herself she really means. I could have sworn I heard a touch of the old West Country there, what she brought up with her from the sticks all those years ago. And look at her - she's like a dollop of jelly underneath that apron. In fact I'd almost bet it wouldn't matter what I said; it's going to come out anyway. So I risk it.
'Oh yes, Mrs D. And why's that then?'
She lets go of the banister, pushes herself up against me. You'd think it was nothing less than a state secret she was about to drop. 'Well it's her parents, Mr Mann. Hong Kong.'
'Hong Kong?'
'That's where they live - just like Hubby years ago, when he was still with the Merchant Fleet. He swears it's where he caught his chest. Anyway, it's hearing that that's got him all in a tizz. He still talks about it as if it was yesterday - when he's got the strength, poor soul. Now suddenly, he's going to have someone else to talk to, someone who knows all about it.'
Well, maybe. Though it seems to me that a girl like her is hardly going to want to waste time with an old codger like him. Hong Kong. My eye. He might have spent a year or two there, way back in the olden days, but I happen to know he spent a good deal more time as a filing clerk in an office below the White Cliffs of Dover. I bet he doesn't tell her about that.
There must be more to it than that, then. And there is. Ethel is moving closer still. I'll be dusting the rouge off my cardigan after this. She's coming to the meat of the matter. Between clenched teeth, the words reach me, the real reason for the excitement:
'Out there still, of course. Father. Doctor. Brain surgeon.'
That's it. That's what excitement has done to Ethel. Turned her into a talking telegram. But the message is there, loud and clear, and it explains everything. Such as why after years and years she's reverted to having a person on the middle floor who actually speaks the language. Who's one of us.
Except that she isn't one of us, not her, this Miss Tyson. The fact is, this house hasn't seen the like, not in seventy years, not since the days when it and all the other big houses belonged to just one family apiece, with a room for every man woman and child, and then some left over for the servants. It might even have belonged to a doctor. Now what should have walked back through the door but the actual daughter of one. To Ethel's way of thinking, that's the next best thing to having the doctor here himself.
Not one of us then, not in the normal way. But I'll say this: She's the same colour, and that goes for something, surely?
Still, it doesn't do to go on letting Ethel believe herself to be the fount of all knowledge. It's high time to break it to her that Larry Mann knows a thing or two himself.
'That's as maybe, Mrs D. But you didn't need to tell me all of that in a whisper. She's not going to hear, no matter what you say. She's gone out. In fact, I reckon she must have been hard on my heels.'
Now there's a thought. Like she was coming after me.
As for Ethel, that stops her. It's a law of nature in this house that not a soul goes in or out without her knowing about it - and the reason to boot. Only somehow or other, this time, little Miss Tyson has caught her off guard. But then, you try getting Ethel to admit she's wrong.
'I'm sure not, Mr Mann. In fact, I can assure you, the young lady has done no such thing. And what's more, I'll show you how I know. Just take a look at that.' So saying, Ethel plucks a duster from the front of her pinny and shakes it in my face. When I've done coughing, she takes up the argument again. 'Half an hour I must have spent doing the hall From the moment you stepped out of the front door to the second you came back. And you can take it from me, there's not a soul been in or out in all that time.'
What could I say? Knowing Ethel, every word would be true. Set one foot outside this house and Ethel will be there, like the waves rushing in, filling up the space you've just left empty, till the moment you get back. I believe she was in the hall the second after me, then. That's how she is.
Yet talk about confused. There's Ethel ready to swear on the Bible that Miss Tyson is just where she left her, but less than two minutes ago I was knocking hard enough to wake the dead. And while I consider this, there's Ethel herself, getting more triumphant by the second, chalking up the points. I never knew a woman more small-minded. The only option left to me is to get away with as much dignity as the scene allowed. But I should have watched where I was going ...
'Silly me,' Ethel's voice floats after me. 'There was I thinking you were on your way out. And yet here you are, halfway up the stairs again.'
And it's true. Because entirely thanks to Ethel, I'd forgotten what I'd come down for in the first place. Now there was nothing for it but to turn full circle to head back towards the front door, while Ethel watches, enjoying every second.
Once I'd bought the cigarettes though, I felt a whole lot better. In the time it took to get to the newsagents and back again I'd worked it all out. Quite simply, I hadn't knocked as hard as I should have. I might have thought I had - but that was my mistake. This is the sort of house where you do everything quietly. Not wanting everyone to know your own business, not wanting to cause offence - it all becomes second nature really. The result is, even when you think you're making a great racket, you're not doing any such thing. That knock of mine - you'd laugh if you thought about it - it probably wasn't any more than a tap. As for her, Miss Tyson, she was probably asleep. I mean, I could tell she was tired when I saw her, just from the way she was standing. Poor girl could probably do with a good rest. And if that was the case, the most important thing now was not to wake her on my way back upstairs. I didn't hurry though. I was still half hoping that she'd come out of her bedroom at the very moment I was passing, covering up a yawn maybe, mouth all dry after her kip. What better time could there be in that case to ask her up for a refreshing cup of tea?
No luck though. It must have taken me a good two minutes to get from one end of the landing to the other, but nothing stirred. The poor kid must have been dead to the world. What's more, I didn't hear a peep out of her all afternoon, and believe me I couldn't have missed her.
Then at last, just at the very moment I’d put kettle on to boil, there was the sound I'd been waiting for all that time - namely the click of the bedroom door, followed by the faint pitapat of feet on the landing. I was still holding my breath when I heard the flush of the loo, more footsteps, and at long last the noise of the kitchen door. This was it, you see, the moment of truth, when she walked in and saw all that fruit waiting for her, not to mention my little note.
Funny thing though, now that it had come to the crunch, I suddenly started to feel ever so nervous. You could put it down to us not being properly introduced. I mean, what hope have two people of getting acquainted when there's Ethel smirking away between them? Luckily there's a mirror above the sink, kept there for shaving purposes, and I only had to take one quick peek to see there was nothing to worry about there, at least not in the looks department. Larry Mann was the soul of respectability - and a bit more besides. Being the modest sort, I'd be the last one to boast, but the fact is I'm not half bad for my age: nice and trim, good colour in my cheeks. And smart - it's not every man who'd take the trouble to wear his hairpiece night and day, but Larry does. Today I've got it combed forward in a light fringe, not too formal you see. And then there's the old moustache below, not the same colour admittedly - it would have to be brown for that - but there's nothing wrong with good old salt and pepper. There are plenty of military men who've got the same. Anyway, the upshot is, I don't have to run around at the last minute to make myself look decent. Larry Mann is that already. Which meant I could breathe more easily, calm down and remember to throw another bag in the pot.
After tha
t, all we had to do was wait.
Chapter Two
Even then it seemed like an age, though to be honest it couldn't have been more than five minutes. It's just that I thought she'd be up sooner than she was. I mean, all she had to do was see the fruit, read the note and then put two and two together. Then suddenly there comes this little knock on the wall at the bottom of my stairs. Even then it made me jump because I'd expected to hear her come along the landing. Still I must have remembered to say something, because the next thing I know, she's standing in my kitchen door, large as life and twice as natural.
But just that little bit different from what I remembered. She was wearing a woolly jumper, way too big for her, that could only have looked right on a man, plus a-pair of those trousers that are one step up from pyjama bottoms. And I don't know if it was simply my imagination but, tucked behind Ethel, she had seemed smaller than this. Now she seemed to be taller. For a second I thought she might have popped on a pair of heels just to come up and see Larry, but when I looked at her feet I was a bit taken aback to discover she wasn't wearing shoes at all. She just had on a pair of socks, black, the sort that men wear. That's why I hadn't heard her. Now don't ask me why, but in anyone else I'd see that as a warning. I mean, you've got to wear shoes when you go visiting, and maybe be a touch smarter in your dress. But again, it was like with her hair. You simply didn't think any the worse of her because of it. You see, her saving grace was her face.This really was just as I remembered it - although I'll admit I might have overdone the part about her being so pale. But she had had a sleep, after all. The important thing was, her expression was just the same. Something shy, bordering on the anxious even. What I suppose I'm saying is, she looked like the serious type, a far cry from the young hussies you meet everywhere who'd laugh as soon as look at you. The good thing about a face like that is, it puts you at your ease. I mean, it's the over-confident types who throw you off your stride, isn't it? The know-alls and the clever dicks. In other words, the Doreens of this world. But you only had to look at her to see she was different. That's what made it so easy for me to smile and say cheerily as if she was an old friend, 'Hello stranger. Had a nice sleep then?'
To which she answered: 'Sorry?'
Isn't it wonderful? Some people you can feel you know from the very start. If anyone had asked me what I thought her first words might have been, I'd bet you almost anything I would have said: an apology. Not knowing what she was apologizing about was neither here nor there. Maybe it was for sleeping all that time when there were folk just waiting to be neighbourly.
'Sleep,' I said. 'It works wonders. One minute you're feeling like an old rag, then you have a little snooze and you're on top of the world again.'
'Oh,' she said. 'But I haven't been asleep.'
Well, that put an end to that. I waited for her to tell me what she had been doing all this time, but she didn't. In fact, she didn't say another word. Another few seconds passed while she looked at her toes and the danger was that things were getting a bit awkward. Then just in time she stepped in with:
'Mr Mann, there's an awful lot of fruit sitting on my kitchen table.'
'Oh yes?' I said, all innocence, but in actual fact breathing a big sigh of relief. This was the bit I'd been waiting for, you might even say, been rehearsing for, all the time she'd been keeping herself to herself. Also I was enjoying just listening to her. No wonder the snob in Ethel got so excited. Beautifully spoken she was, but not in the way that makes you feel put down. She had the accent for it all right, but her voice was too quiet for that, and so high that if you heard her on the phone you'd think you were speaking to a kid of about twelve. It said a lot for her, that voice, showed you that here was a girl who had been nicely brought up, yet wasn't trying to be superior. What her actual words were hardly mattered.
Trouble was, now she was frowning because I'd made it sound as if I didn't know anything about any fruit. But that was only meant to be part of the joke. There was my note as well, and that should have given the game away. Otherwise who else did she think could have left that stuff? The Ducks? Surely not. See what I mean about her being the serious type?
I'll come clean and admit it. I panicked, then. Jettisoned all ideas I'd had about being coy and stringing her along in friendly fashion. There was too much at stake. You just couldn't tell how she might react. She might have been the sort who wouldn't wait to hear the end of a sentence because she was that eager to rush off and thank the Ducks for their kind gift.
'Don't look so worried;' I said. 'Of course I know about the fruit. It was me that put it there. It's just my way of saying hello. I try to get on with all the new girls. Specially when they seem as nice as you.'
Well there you are. I don't think anyone could have put it more pleasantly than that. Not clever, not pushy, just kind. But would you believe it, even that didn't seem to wipe the frown off her face. I'd be starting to think she was born with it soon.
'Mr Mann...' she begins. And that's when I decide to be firm.
'Now, look here, love,' I said. 'There's only one way you can upset me, and that's by calling me Mr Mann. That's strictly for the Ducks, My name is Larry. Got that? Anything else just isn't friendly.' And since even that didn't seem to cheer her up - she was biting her lip like she was trying to chew it right off - there was nothing for it but to give her a little push towards the lounge. Otherwise she might have stood there all day, at the top, of the stairs as if we were a couple of perfect strangers, and where would that have got us?
Mind you, it's as we're stepping into the lounge that I could see why it might seem a bit much to take all in at once. There wasn't a lot for her to notice in the kitchen, what with us crowding each other out, but here in the lounge it's a different picture. Standing here, she wouldn't have been human if she hadn't taken one look and wondered if we were living in the same house, the same street even. Judging by what she's got downstairs, she could hardly have been expecting - this.
But she is human. You can see the effect on her straight away. She takes that one look, then stops. Clams up completely, doesn't say a word. It's the surprise you see, it gets some folk like that. They see the state of the rest of the house, and then they set eyes on this. It’s the reason that I don't even hold it against her that there's half a barrowload of fruit sitting on her kitchen table, but there are still two little words that have yet to be spoken.
All the same, its nice to have a bit of feedback, and you never know, opinions might vary, so I press her just a little
'Well then, what do you think? Bit different from what Ethel's charging you for, don't you think?'
'Oh,' she says, and you have to hand it to her, those lovely brown eyes of hers are nearly falling out of her head. 'It's ...it's very nice.'
Well, that was fine as far as it went. But when it was clear that was all she was going to say, I couldn’t help thinking she could have done a little better. Brought up the way she was, and probably educated to boot, you'd have thought she could have managed something more than just plain old 'nice'. You might as well call Buckingham Palace 'nice'. Not that I'm suggesting for one minute that this could compare to what HM is used to. Only you wouldn't be doing it justice if you didn't admit this room is a bit of an achievement.
To start with, everything's got it place; nothing jars. Not even the TV. There's a forty inch beauty behind those mahogany doors, but you'd never know it, not unless it was on. And cosy. You should see me in winter. You don't have to worry about draughts up here. I sealed up the windows years ago. The gas fire pumps out the heat and not a scrap of it escapes. You can still feel the warmth, trapped in the flock of the wallpaper, the next morning when you get up. Lovely. But most importantly, it's me that put it all there.
You probably think I'm leaving something out, claiming all the credit like this, that somewhere along the line there's been a wife putting her oar in, making sure that what she says goes. Not here. She left, didn't she, and good riddance. Except then it turns out that leav
ing isn't enough, not when every mortal thing she's left behind has her stamp on it. It's like having the woman here herself, looking over your shoulder, never letting you know a moment's peace. A man doesn't need that sort of thing, not after what Larry's been through.
So I threw it out, all of it. Every last stick of furniture, ornaments and all. Got rid of every mortal thing she ever touched. The best way of course would have been a blooming great bonfire - with her sitting on the top but there's regulations against that sort of behaviour. So I did the next best thing. I started again, only this time with no expense spared. Always wanted wall-towall carpet she did, and that's what I've got. Pile. Shag. And a three-piece suite with matching pouffe and magazine stand. Not to mention the cocktail cabinet with drinks dispenser and feature lighting, display shelving; and the. two wall niches installed by none other than yours truly. All in the best possible taste. My taste. There's not a thing here that's not me. What's more, I've been adding to it over the years, a novelty ashtray here, a statuette there. And one day, just to cap it all, I'm going to have one of those Royal Doultons - maybe a young girl with billowing skirts holding on to her hat. I'll be a happy man then.
Meanwhile there's enough here to impress. Only more importantly than that, you'd never know that a woman called Doreen had ever been born, let alone lived up here for thirty-five years. A triumph, that's what this room is. A veritable triumph. No wonder I feel so much at home.
Of course, I don’t go into the reason for the place with Miss Tyson, not now. For the moment it's enough just to see her face - even if all she can think of to say is 'very nice'. Yet to be perfectly honest, even that doesn't matter. Because if you were to ask me why it was I'd suddenly gone all quiet, I'd say it wasn't just a case of standing here with a new acquaintance. It was as if I was looking at the future, a future where two people get together in the spirit of friendship, in a room that fits around them like a glove.
The Last Girl Page 2