Having said that, even in a place like Harrods, there's only so much you can do when you reach my age. Suddenly, after three hours of heaven, it was getting on for five and I hadn't made it off the ground floor, and there was me, in the middle of Accessories discovering I was on my last legs. Although firm common sense told me to leave it for now, to stop where I was and go hack the way I came, I still couldn't bring myself to hurry. In three hours, the place had done all it could to make me feel part of it.
Which is to say, even in the last moments, coming through Perfumes, I was dawdling, breathing in the most expensive air in the world. I mean, have you ever looked at the prices on those scents? And besides, I've got a sensitive nose. Ask anyone who knows me. Coming at me from all sides it was, as shop staff sprayed bottles of the stuff into the air or on to the wrists of anyone who asked. And that's when I smelt it. The scent.
What happened next is...well, difficult. I don't mean that it was awful, only that it was unlike me. Just one of those things that happen when you're too tired to think what you're doing, or why you're doing it. You get carried away on the spur of the moment. And anyway, no-one could have said there was any harm in it.
The scent that I caught was not like the others. It was familiar for one thing. But it wasn't until I turned and tried to follow it around with my nose that I realized why. There on a counter was a framed picture of broken columns and the waves rushing in, and I knew. It was his smell. The one he insists on leaving on the landing of decent folks to kill the flies. And here was gallons of the stuff, standing around in bottles, and calling itself Andrex or whatever. You could even try it on if you wanted. There was one of those bottles with the word 'tester' round its neck which could only mean one thing. What's more the kid behind the counter wasn't going to object. If all of the seven dwarfs had come up for testing he would still have been too busy ogling himself in the mirror to see. It has to be said, they don't have the same calibre of staff working there anymore.
Finally, I noticed this. Here in the atmosphere of the place, it didn't seem to smell quite so bad, not when you consider the effect it had at home. And that, you could say, was what made me curious.
Well, you've probably guessed what happened next - when you bear in mind that everything there was telling me to have a go, and that when a place like Harrods tells you to have a go, that's what you do. The long and the short of it is, before I'd even thought about what I was doing, I'd reached out a hand for the bottle and started splashing it on wherever appropriate. And when that didn't seem to make much difference I did the same all over again until it was running down my neck, down under my collar and I don't know where else.
And this is where the really strange thing happened. Now that it was me that was wearing the stuff, not only did it not smell so bad, it actually smelt quite nice. Not my cup of tea in the usual run of things, not by a long chalk. But it was something different to do with your time. And it was funny to think that everyone would be able to smell you coming. More than that, although it was just a smell, it was almost like wearing something that was solid, like a disguise. If Doreen or anybody was to catch a whiff of me on a dark night, she'd think I was someone completely different. And if it was Mandy on that same dark night, she'd think it was....
Piece of fun, that's all it was, no different from trying on a hat. But I'll say this, it taught me something. I’m willing to bet anything you like that dressing up in fancy smells is half the secret of his success. No, really. Listen to this: there I was sitting innocently enough on the 104 looking forward to home and a well-earned rest, when up comes a woman who plonks herself down beside me without so much as a second glance. Next thing I know, before the bus has even moved off her nose is starting to twitch and - this is the honest truth - I'm suddenly aware of all these sideways looks coming in my direction. In short, the glad eye.
Considering that she was sixty-five if she was a day, and painted up like a shop-front to boot, it was a relief to get off the bus when the time came. Who knows what sort of thoughts were going through her mind? And in a woman of her age. Makes you shudder, honestly it does.
All of which made the sight of Mandy and her sweet face standing there behind the front door, almost as if she'd been waiting for me, even more welcome than usual. Mind you, she looked as if she could have done with a bit of a day out of the house herself, she was that pale. Lovely little smile she gave me, though, when I said to her, Cheer up Mandy, love. It might never happen.'
Still, if she'd been hoping for a bit of the old tea and chat, she was going to have to be disappointed. The only thing on my mind now was getting a bit of hot food inside me after eating practically nothing all day. Then again, being the considerate sort, I didn't want to just leave her standing there with no explanation apart from needing my tea. It wouldn't have seemed nice somehow, and besides, she might have seen that as a reason for not bothering to come up later.
So what I actually said to her was, 'I'm going to have to get on, Mandy love. I don't know what it is, but I’ve just come over queer. Think I'll go and have a liedown.'
Straightaway, she answers, 'Oh Larry, are you not feeling very well?'
That’s my Mandy. All concern. I tell you that girl deserves everything that's coming to her. 'I'll be all right love. But I tell you what, drop in later when you've got a minute, just in case.'
So that was that sorted.
But there was one last thing. On my way upstairs, taking it slowly, naturally, I had a feeling that something was going on behind me, down in the hall. So on the middle landing I stopped, took a little peek over the banister... and there was Mandy, down below, exactly where we'd been talking, only now her head was up, and that little nose of hers was twitching away like billy-oh.
Now, I know there were some nasty moments today, but when you think about the rest, I'd be tempted to say that this, the second Saturday before Christmas, was pretty close to what some folk would call a nearly perfect day. Mandy love, we're going to have a lovely time, such a lovely time.
Chapter sixteen
Just give me a moment to think. That's all I need. A few minutes' quiet reflection.
There are things I've still got to take in. Letters coming out of nowhere. The sort that fly at you, wanting answers, telling you to do this and do that, and all by such and such a deadline, not giving you any time. The sort of letters you don't need, not on top of everything else. The sort of letters you don't want.
One letter to be exact. One letter too many, though. One bloody letter.
Excuse language.
It's what you get for letting yourself look on the bright side. Just for a little while, I had started to think that maybe somebody up there loves me after all. That after twelve long years of watching the bad prosper, maybe the tide was on the turn. Because all of a sudden you've caught a glimpse of pure goodness shining like a silver lining in a wicked world - and keeping its shine. People come along, try to put it out, try to drag it into the dark, and wonder of wonders, the good stays good. Keeps on shining, brighter than ever. And it's then you find yourself thinking: maybe you're not alone. There's another voice beside yours, crying in the wilderness. And this, finally, is your reward.
But it's all piss and nonsense isn't it? Another one of life's little jokes. Because out of the blue there comes a letter. And it's not even as if it's addressed to me.
But I'm the one who's got it. I can't put it down, and it's not mine to throw away.
It arrived this morning. The letter she's been waiting for. I came downstairs to find Ethel there by the hall table, a pile of cards beside her which she ignores while she holds a large white envelope up to the light, no doubt wishing she had X-ray eyes.
If only that were all, though.
Ethel has no shame. She put the letter down fast enough when she saw me, but there was no mistaking what she'd been up to. Yet she had the cheek to look me straight in the eye and trill, 'Morning Mr Mann,' as if I'd done no more than find her checking her pools.
'And good morning to you, Mrs D.' The letter's lying between us, second-hand now, thanks to her. And all she does is smirk, and mince off down the corridor.
After she's gone, I check what's there for me. Two cards, both with the postmark of Reigate. And that's it, the whole year's news stamped on the outside of the envelopes. In other words, Aunts Gertie and Freda are still alive and kicking and fit enough to get out and buy a couple of stamps - and still refusing to do anything together. The insides of the cards themselves wouldn't tell you so much.
Then there was Mandy's letter. See, I knew straight off it was a letter not a card. Ethel never bothered to put it back on the table properly and it only took a slight brush of my arm for it to fall on the floor. Naturally I picked it up and it was the feel of it between my fingers that told me. Letter. No doubt about it.
And it was that, oddly enough, that got me wondering, even despite everything else, despite Mandy tripping up and downstairs to see if anything like it had arrived. It depended on the way you looked at it. If you thought it was normal on top of the labour of having to fill in hundreds of cards, for someone then to go to the trouble of writing a letter - and a thick one at that - all well and good. But if you thought it was a bit odd to be making that much more work for yourself at a time like this, then you'll know why it bothered me. See, the way I looked at it was, you would only go to the length of writing a letter at Christmastime if you had something very important to say.
Postmark Hong Kong.
All the way from Hong Kong then. All this way just to be fingered and mauled by Ethel Duck in her nosiness. What had been meant for Mandy's eyes only practically had thumb marks all over it. I put it back on the table as it was.
It was as I was climbing upstairs again with my own cards that the picture came into my head, as clear as if it was right there in front of me. Ethel standing by her kitchen door, just waiting to spring out again and take up where she'd left off. Holding Mandy's letter this way and that, trying to make out something, anything, of what was inside. Have I not said it before? The woman's curiosity knows no bounds.
And I knew then, there was only one thing I could do. I went straight back down, doubtless disappointing a certain party poised to return to the snoop, and picked it up, to take to Mandy's kitchen. But it was as I stepped through her door that another thought occurred to me, almost worse than the one before. The only way I could leave Mandy's letter here, on her table, and keep Ethel away from it was by stopping in all day. That would mean a whole day's Christmas shopping lost. And I couldn't do that, I just couldn't. Not when we were into the third week of the Plan.
The upshot was, the letter ended up propped against my kettle in full view to remind me it was there, while I got myself ready to go out. Only it would have been better in a way if I'd simply shoved it into a drawer and tried to forget all about it until Mandy came home. As it was, it just sat there on the side, ruining my concentration. Even when I wasn't in the same room, I could feel it there, like another person. Like a warning almost. And all the time I kept coming back to it, looking at it, and wondering.
I could try to explain, I suppose. This may sound mad, but where Mandy is concerned, it's almost as if I've developed a second sight. Or you could simply call it instinct, popping up whenever there's anything remotely connected with her. I know now the reason she does things, often even before she's thought of doing them herself. She's become familiar ground, you could say. And that's half the beauty of her. Someone who's at all decent is almost bound to act in a certain way. That's why, when you think about it, the Doreens and the Junes of this world are so unpredictable.
I even know what makes her unhappy - Francis not phoning, Francis not coming when he promises, Ethel snooping and....And any mention of her mum and dad.
Well, surely you remember that time she nearly bit my head off just for mentioning the subject? I was licking my wounds for days after.
Which brings me back to the letter. There couldn't be any doubt who it was from, and what could be more natural - a letter from her mum and dad? Nothing, until you remember she told me that she and her father hadn't said a word to each other in two years. She never did go into details, and to spare her feelings, I never did ask, but you knew who was at the bottom of it. Francis, a man who could split a family apart. Francis who was still on the scene.
In which case, why were they sending letters now?
Do you see the way my mind was working then? Everything logical and thought-out, and all leading up to the certainty that this wasn't just any old letter.
So what do you put in a letter that no-one in their right minds would be sending unless there was something special they needed to say? It's hardly going to be news about what the dog's been up to, or how too much rain recently has been ruining the dahlias. No, it would have to be something else. Something important. Something big enough to cross the Gulf of Discord.
I was sure of this, though. It's not good news. If Doreen won the pools, the last person she'd think about was me. Good news isn't important enough, not to other people, and least of all as a reason for making up a quarrel. So it has to be bad. Nothing else will do.
Bad news then. Please come home, your father is dead.
Yes well, we don't want to overreact. It doesn't have to be that bad, with Mandy disappearing off to look after her mum, whether she wants to or not. Better to be realistic, bearing in mind what they've all been up to already. Maybe something on the lines of: Your father is very ill. Perhaps dying. Do not come home, though, as the sight of you would only distress him. That would make sense. Putting her in the picture but making no bones about what they think of her.
Only, you tell me - what sort of thing is that for a young girl to have to hear two weeks before Christmas?
The effect on me was bad enough. But that's not what counts. It's her you've got to imagine - Mandy, reading something like that, on her own, when probably all she'd been doing was looking forward to a Christmas card from her folks. Mandy having to learn from cold print what should have been broken to her gently by a friend. Sit down Mandy love. I've got a bit of bad news. Mandy suffering because of it. Yet what have I been saying all this time? That Larry would do anything in the world to make her happy. Now here he was, about to hand over the one thing guaranteed to do the opposite.
What sort of man would that have made me? The kind who could happily go back on his word? The kind who could take a letter like that, knowing what it might contain, and hand it over for someone to read cold and unprepared?
I don't think so.
I'll show you the sort of man I am. I traipsed back and forth across my little bit of kitchen, brewing up pot after pot of tea, moving the letter for the kettle to boil, putting it back again, supping tea I didn't really want, asking myself again and again what I should do. And that went on for two hours. Two solid hours.
So what happened then? Well, in the first place the kitchen pretty soon started to drip with condensation. Hardly surprising given all the steam that had been pumping out of the old kettle. I reckon by the end of the morning that letter was halfway to coming unstuck all by itself. In other words, what happened in the end more or less came about without any help from me. And when you consider how Ethel would have done the same thing without thinking twice merely to satisfy her instincts, my holding out till it was nearly the afternoon just seemed daft. In short then, two minutes after finally facing up to the inevitable, I had the letter lying open in front of me.
But would you believe it, even then I couldn't bring myself to read it. Not straightaway. The old hand started to shake - just like it did outside her bedroom the first time I ever went in. I'd had to give myself a good talking-to then and it was the same now. After a deep breath I looked down and started to read.
The first thing noticed was the date. Three weeks ago. It's Christmas. Everything takes longer.
'Dearest Amanda,
Your letter arrived this morning. I don't have the words to describe
how we felt. All I can tell you is that you have not been out of our thoughts for a single minute. Sweetheart, if you could only have told us where you were ...
But already that sounds as if we are blaming you, which is wrong. Believe me when I say we blame no-one but ourselves. It is a terrible thing to be a parent and know that you have hurt a child. Especially when this was the last thing we intended.
I'm not going to waste precious words and time. The episode of your father and that woman shook us in ways we could hardly imagine. But whatever its importance then, it is over. Your father and I are closer than we ever were, perhaps because finally we understand each other a little better.
Amanda, I think what I am trying to say is, we are only people. Could you remember that when I tell you that all we want to do is hold you in our arms?
I would write more, but I have your letter here. It is too short. Every time I read it I feel there is so much you are not telling us. Are you in trouble? Or has someone else hurt you in any way, because if so...'
Do you really want to hear the rest? There wasn't very much. At least nothing that you could pinpoint as relevant. No mention of Francis. Not so much as a dicky bird. No real news even, not on the lines of how they both were and what the weather was like.
What had made the envelope so bulky was a wad of something else - little bits of paper stapled together. It took me half a minute just to work out what they could be - not having ever travelled on a plane. You see, it was an airline ticket. And attached to that was another piece of paper that read, 'Heathrow-Hongkong, 23rd December. Please confirm A.S.A.P.'
That's what the letter was really about. They're trying to bring her home for Christmas. They want to take her away.
So.
So do you want to know what I've been doing for the past hour? Emptying the cupboards, that's what. Bringing it all out - the stuff I’ve been buying these past weeks. There's too much to go on my little kitchen table, so it's piled up on the sides, and that's not including the Christmas tree lying on the bed in the spare room just waiting for someone to come along and unwrap it. Seeing it spread out now, it makes you wonder how I managed to fit it all in in the first place.
The Last Girl Page 17