Coming home, I reckon I was more loaded than Mandy was last night. I couldn't have got any more into my carrier. Chock-a-block it was with all the things that young girls like. Angel Delight (various flavours), gypsy creams, French fancies, Viennese whirls - it was all there. Not that Mandy is all that easy to tempt when she's by herself; it's hard enough to get a cup of tea down her normally. But I thought, once she saw her friend tucking in, the chances were she might do the same.
So I'd done my bit in one sense, then. But there hadn't been time to get downstairs for my rounds this morning - though doubtless Ethel would have been in before me - so the first thing I did was nip back down to the middle landing to see if there was anything for me to do. And straightaway I noticed. There were flowers, everywhere, stacks of them, stuck up in jugs in every room. Don't ask me how many there were or what kind, just ask yourself the number of bus rides she could have had for what they must have cost.
What I do know is, the moment I set eyes on them, and caught the whiff of them in the back of my throat, I could feel myself getting unsettled. It was so - how can I put it - out of character for Mandy.
And that wasn't all. There was the sheer amount of stuff on her larder shelves, half of which I'd never even seen in the shops before. I mean, anchovies. What would young girls want with anchovies?
After that, the day just seemed to go on for ever, I've never known one like it. Then, as if she was trying to make matters worse, Mandy seemed to have forgotten about coming home. All I could do was sit here, watching the clock, waiting for something to happen.
Then at last, on the dot of ten, I heard it - the sound of the front door. I could hardly have missed it. The wind must have snatched it out of someone's hand, and slammed it shut with an almighty crash that shook the entire house. Not that I minded. You could forget the din, at least the waiting was over.
Then there's Mandy's voice in the hall, not just talking, but chattering away, nineteen to the dozen, and every word clearly audible despite there being two flights of stairs and a landing between us. And the first thing that hit me was - this was not the Mandy I know, the one who tiptoes between rooms as if she's scared of disturbing the mice. This was a different Mandy altogether.
If you'd heard her, you would understand why it was I couldn't move, why I just stayed where I was, clutching the side of the sink wondering what to do next. The plan had been to toddle on down the moment I heard them, introduce myself on the stairs and save Mandy the embarrassment. But suddenly I couldn't do that now, not with a Mandy I didn't know.
Then, blessed relief, she actually stopped talking. Maybe she had run out of breath, or even - and here was a thought to brighten me up no end - that was the end of it; she had calmed down. Excitement over. In which case, I could go and shake hands all round, offer them a warm fire, even a cup of hot chocolate seeing it was so late ...
And then it happened.
Another voice, picking up where Mandy's had left off. Not saying very much - no more than half a dozen words. But that's all it took to turn the world upside down.
You see, it was a man's voice.
It was no good trying to think. Thinking was the last thing on my mind. 'Mandy,' I shouted. 'Mandy love is that you? Are you all right?'
The words were out before I could stop them. Downstairs everything went quiet. Then Mandy's voice floated up, awkward, like you'd expect, scarcely loud enough to be heard, yet at the same time, clear as a bell. 'Of course it's me, Larry. Who did you think it was?'
And that was a small shock in itself. Because it was exactly the sort of thing Doreen would have done - answer a question with a question. Twisting your words right back at you. You can't win.
And she knows it. A second later there comes her voice again, only louder this time. 'Larry, that friend of mine is here. Would you like to come down and say hello?'
To which the answer was most definitely, most emphatically and positively 'no'. Larry had been all set to meet a young woman. Had waited here all day to make her welcome for Mandy's sake. A girl, that is, not a man. Never, for one second, a man.
But what could I do? I let go of the banister, said goodbye to the good times, and made my weary way downstairs.
Chapter Ten
At first all I can see is Mandy. For the simple reason it's impossible to take my eyes off her. I'd seen something of the way she could change before this - quick flashes of temper lighting up her cheeks, the same when she's excited. But it never lasted. One well-chosen word, and all that unnatural colour would simply drain away and she'd be her sweet pale self again. Not now, though. Even in this light you could see it was here to stay. She was rosy as a child who's run all the way home from school, the exact same colour Doreen used to be when she'd go out night after night and tell me she had been visiting her cousin. The trouble being, her cousin didn't know anything about it. Her eyes are as bad, still sparkling from the cold and the traffic fumes - and something else again. For the first time ever you could imagine men noticing her in the street. Only what I would say to them would be: walk on by. Because I know all about what goes on behind those sort of eyes and that sort of colour. Better not to look. Except I have to, just in case she's still there, somewhere, Mandy, my lovely pale girl.
And then she smiles at me, and straightaway I know she's gone. My Mandy never laughs at me when she smiles.
So it's almost a relief to look past her, and see who's there instead. As if even a stranger would be less strange than the girl who was standing where Mandy should be. Besides, it might only have been a minute since the whole world was turned on its head, but I was already getting used to the idea. I knew what to expect - a boy, the same age as her, another kid.
It was a small certainty - I hadn't even put it into words as such - but it was comforting in its way. Knowing what to expect in all this mayhem. And at least we knew where those jumpers of hers had come from.
Which only made it worse when I saw what was really there.
There was no boy here. Standing behind her was a man, I repeat, a man. By which I mean not a day under forty, older than that even.
'Larry,' says Mandy. 'Larry, this is Francis. Francis, this is Larry.'
I didn't shake hands. What reason was there? He didn't make a move towards me. In any case, I was too busy looking. Trying to get it straight. I can only seem to take in the bare essentials. He's tall and dark, with a lot of hair. His own.
But I still have ears. In a crisis they can sometimes tell you more than eyes. So I don't miss a trick when he casts a look in my direction and says, 'Aha. So this is the famous Larry. Amanda's told me all about you.' He's doing an impression of a man who's just lifted the stone off some interesting wildlife. And to go with it, the voice. Fancy accent. Officer class. Although this man has never been in the army.
I expect Mandy's waiting for me to say something, but she can wait for ever as far as I'm concerned. I'm still too busy, listening to that voice, trying to see my way past it, and what I suppose would pass as good looks, all the time trying to get through to what's really there. And it's coming, it's dawning on me. I'm beginning to put him together; His eyes are set too close, his nose is too long. When I said he was dark, I meant it. There might even be foreign blood there. What's more, that tweed jacket of his might set off his shoulders just nicely, but I reckon there's not an ounce of muscle on him. And I'll tell you this for nothing - Doreen wouldn't have thought much of him, not after the first impression.
But what you can't get away from is the fact that he's so sure of himself. Confident. That's what they all are, men like him. He knows what I'm doing, but he doesn't give a monkey's. He's said his hello, now he's just pretending that I'm not there, the way these people can. Namely, the upper classes. In others you'd call it plain ignorance. However, he can't move while I'm still there, taking up all the space, not budging till I've looked at him, and then looked at him some more, searching till I've found something I can pin on him.
It takes time though. Besi
de me, Mandy is clearing her throat, wondering how to get past. But it's no good. Not when I've almost found what I'm looking for.
And suddenly, there it is. It was staring at me all the time, in the set of his shoulders and the crease in his shirt.
Married.
The satisfaction is wonderful. Suddenly I feel as if I could almost laugh in his face, because it cuts him right down to size. It's enough to cheer anyone up. After that it's almost a pleasure to step aside and let him pass, because now I know what we're dealing with. What's more, I reckon he knew it too. I'd no sooner got out of the way than he was hurrying on into the sitting room, propelling Mandy in front of him. And me, I'm letting them go, all buoyed up because I'd got his measure. Then the door closes and half a second's satisfaction dissolves into nothing. Because if he is married, then what does that make Mandy?
Fifteen minutes pass, and I hear them on the stairs again. You couldn't have missed them. He was taking her out to dinner - at this time of night. But then, you could tell he was the sort who could make places stay open. And you could just imagine the place they'd be going to now. Somewhere where the waiters look down their noses at you, and ask you to test the wine, just so they can see the look on your face. Only not him. They would be all over him. He was the right sort.
Oh yes, you could imagine it all right. Big hellos, then on to the wine and the steak and the gateau, and mints and Cointreau. After the last tipple and the taxi home, what would you say would be coming next?
I saw them walk along the road together on their way out. From up here, in the gloom, she even looked like my Mandy again - no more than a kid - going out for a late-night walk with her dad. Then all of a sudden at the end of the road, she stops and throws her arms around his neck, and because of it their faces meet and merge, and it's no good thinking of fathers any more. Fathers get arrested for less.
You won't believe this, but after all that I never did hear them come in. I was asleep. Oh I meant to listen out for them all right, and when I finally did get to my bed, sleep was the very last thing on my mind. There was that one fact I needed to know, and I was only going to discover that by staying awake. But maybe that's what happens when a thing is that important: your brain plays you false and sends you off to sleep before you even know what's happened. Added to which there was the shock of it all. It takes it out of you.
The upshot is, I'm sound asleep within minutes, and there's Doreen. She's standing in front of a mirror putting on a scarf. Orange lipstick and a mouth that says, I told you so, I told you so. Women and their mouths. Some things never change, no matter what you do. Still, at least she should have been some kind of preparation for waking up, for all the unpleasantness ahead. But she wasn't. Nothing could have prepared me for that.
At first I thought I was still dreaming, or that I'd woken up in the wrong place. Other people's voices shouting to one another. Her voice, his voice, and no attempt to keep a lid on it, not letting you get away from the truth for a second: there was a stranger in the house. Two strangers. And of course this was no dream.
Having fallen asleep, I hadn't learned the answer to my question, either.
The fact was, even now, twelve hours later, the shock hadn't gone away. It took until they went out again for the second time - to some art gallery on the other side of town, as if we had wanted to know - for the rest of it to sweep over me, the sorrow and the anger, the disillusionment. In one word, the disappointment. It made no difference which way you tried to look at it, the truth always remained the same, blinding from each and every angle. Mandy had lied. No more, no less. She had led me, led us all, in one long merry dance up the garden path with all that talk of a 'friend' and so on and so forth, yet somehow forgetting to mention that this 'friend' of hers just happened to be a man. It didn't matter that nothing was said as much in words; you can lie by omission every bit as well as by other means. Ask any woman. And that's what she had done. She had lied. Lied to her Larry.
If it weren't for that one question that remained to be answered, it would all be very simple. In short, she never was any different. All you had to do was trust Larry to find it out. Then again, I'd forgotten how other people would react. Reminder, when it came, was like another explosion, smaller, but at closer quarters.
'Mr Mann? Cooee, Mr Mann, are you there?'
Ethel. Yes it's true. In all this, I really had forgotten Ethel. My heart heaves itself out of the pit of my stomach with a mighty bound. Whoever would have thought that the mere sound of Ethel's voice could, out of the blue, lift a chap's spirits like that? But it did, because it changed everything. As if Ethel would ever put up with a man in the house, for a single hour let alone a night. The very idea was laughable. There couldn't be a moment's doubt what she was calling me for now; she wanted him out. Only she needed someone there to help - just in case it all turned nasty. Now it was a case of plans having to be made, the police called even, just to be on the safe side ...
'I'll be down in two shakes, Mrs D,' I called out, loud and clear. The woman must know that she could depend on someone. She deserved it. For once in her life, there could be no faulting her character. And for the first time that morning, there was something close to a smile on my face.
I was halfway down the stairs before it hit me. What about Mandy, though? It was all very well chucking him out - the sooner the better for all concerned - but what about Mandy? She was the one who had gone ahead and done It, broken the very first Law of Ethel Duck, and of all landladies of the old school. No Men in the House. Ever.
Only when it came to this one, he wasn't the problem, not really. All she had to do was close the front door and lock it. No, there was another reason for wanting me. Age had finally caught up with her. The good old days had gone when she could haul suitcase after suitcase into the street all by herself. She needed help for that. In other words, it was Mandy she wanted out.
And it's then, just to add to the chaos, that something else occurs, not so much a thought but a face - Mandy's, the way it is usually, when he's not there. Mandy's face, turned towards yours, listening to every word. I reckon I've come to know that face as well as my own - and the person who goes with it. And suddenly, that's all it takes - one flash of those sweet features, and I’m seeing clearly again. My Mandy could be naughty, she could come out with her little fibs and think she was fooling us all, but she wasn't the sort to bring men home just so she could... do whatever it was Ethel had in mind. Surely not. Not my Mandy.
Not my Mandy.
What was needed here was a second chance. A bit of give and take. Not that anyone would suggest that she get off scot-free, but several sharp words should be enough, resulting in a few tears maybe, proof that she realized how serious it was. After that, a fresh start, a new beginning all round.
Only someone would have to tell Ethel.
Ethel. She was always going to be the problem, You do not lightly set about persuading a woman like Ethel Duck to change the habits of a lifetime. Because that's the way of women, always wanting to think the worst of others like them. And nine times out of ten they'd be right. Unless it's my mother you're talking about, in which case make that ten out of ten. She saw through Doreen from the very start, and it's matter for thankfulness that she never lived to see herself proved right. But it's Ethel we're talking about now. The very thought of her would be enough to drive most men back up those stairs. But not Larry, not when there was Mandy's face, lighting every step of his way.
At the bottom, Ethel is actually smiling.
In the circumstances, I found it rather confusing, but this was no time to be sidetracked by small things. Not when I needed to plan what I was going to say. There were the sentences to be shaped and got into line, polished and stored up ready to be trotted out no matter how thick the enemy fire. And most important of all, there was knowing when to choose the moment.
In the kitchen, Gilbert waves a hand (and both of us know where that's been) and Ethel folds her arms across her pinny. For a moment no
t one of us says a word. The temptation is to throw caution to the four winds and go in all guns blazing.
'... Only young, Mrs D. That's all... Just needs a second chance... We all need to learn...'
Willpower triumphed, however. Some-how I managed to hold my fire and in the event, it's Ethel who speaks first.
'We need a few moments of your time, Mr Mann...'
I nod. But the words keep trooping through my head, threatening to spill out if I so much as open my mouth. 'Mere slip of a girl. No doubt about it. Needs a mother's hand ...'
'I hardly have to tell you, at our age, some things will always need another pair of hands.'
'Of course you're right. You need help. And she's been naughty, I'll not deny it...'
'Just look at it. You can blame the frame of course. Adds to the weight no end.'
'I'll speak to her though. Strong words, mind. A week from now we can forget this ever happened.'
'There's no way we could manage, not with Mr Duck in his condition. But you can see, we have to get it down. It's been up there so long. And what with all the dirt that blows in...'
'A wise heart knows how to forgive ...'
'What we need is someone strong enough for the task. So there you are, Mr Mann. Would you, Mr Mann? Be so kind?'
She's waiting for an answer. Which can only mean that it can't be put off any longer. It's time to grasp the nettle. Grab the bull by the horns and give it to her straight.
I look her in the eye, and say: 'Oh come on, Mrs D. You can't want to throw her out just like that. I mean, where would she go?'
A dead silence. Ethel stares at me as if all of a sudden I've broken into purest Turkish, then looks at Gilbert, who looks at her. Then with a dreadful effort (unlike the last time) leans forward in his chair, and rotates a single bony finger against his temple. And for the first time it strikes me that there's been no mention of Mandy, or fancy men, or anything you could recognize for that matter. The only clue is Ethel and the fact that she's forgotten to lower her hand from where it's been pointing all this while, namely, towards the picture hanging above the gas fire. It's a three foot by three foot expanse of mountain scenery, complete with skyblue lake and sunset. In the present situation all it does is add to the general confusion.
The Last Girl Page 11