Well, that just did for me. Knocked me right out of the ring. No way could I find it in me to battle with the buses and crowds all across town. So I traipsed back home, thinking-that none of this might have happened if Mandy had never put her foot into what I can only call the right flow of things. Added to which there was always the thought that this might not be the end of it. That things might even get worse.
With the best Will in the world on my part, then, Mandy was hardly going to get the sort of welcome she was used to. She was up here early enough this evening, I'll say that for her. But then I was half expecting that. If we were going to have our usual time together plus an apology, she was going to need to allow for a few extra minutes. What I hadn't expected was to feel so lacklustre about her visit. I suppose I was dwelling on it all - first the manner in which she spoke to me yesterday and then the way everything seemed to have gone wrong after. In other words, I couldn't see why I should put myself out to make her feel so comfortable that she might decide to do it again. After half an hour, then, of me being polite but distant, and of her struggling to make some kind of conversation (hard for her at the best of times I reckon), she tried another tack.
'I'm looking forward to the weekend, Larry. Are you?'
'You got that friend of yours coming?' I said by way of a reply, and when she nodded, I told her. Oh yes, I told her. 'Then I don't suppose I shall be looking forward to the weekend very much. I'm a man who likes his peace, and if you'll excuse me, I think I'd like a little peace now.'
In point of fact, I didn't say it nastily, even if I was surprised to hear myself say it at all. But you should have seen her face. Shocked is hardly the word. Mind you, it's only what I should have said to her months ago. Trouble was, I didn't know how she'd have taken it then. But it's different now of course. If someone is a close enough friend, you can say practically anything you like. Besides, she couldn't afford to be too offended, because who else has she got? 'Where are they all, Larry?' Her own words.
All the same, I felt the teeniest bit sorry when I saw the colour drain from her face. And she even looked a touch shaky when she got up. It was almost enough to make me want to shout, 'April Fool Mandy, love.' But I didn't. For one thing, it's the wrong time of year. And for another, I couldn't see any harm in it. Let her think she's in Larry's bad books for a while. On the big day she'll see there's not a soul who can forgive and forget like he can.
But oh, Larry, you can be stupid when you like. There you were, telling yourself you knew it all, thinking that the first thing she'd do was run down those stairs and start sobbing into her pillow the way she does when he goes and upsets her. Thinking you'd be kept up all night with it.
Well, I was wrong, wasn't I. About half an hour later, I start to notice this racket coming from downstairs. So I took a little walk to the smallest room hoping to find out what it was all about. It was her, Mandy, in the bathroom, splashing about and - singing again. Christmas carols this time. Christmas carols at the top of her voice at nine o'clock in the night.
She's still there, and what's more that's the second time she's sung 'Away in a Manger'. She sounds as happy as a lark. How can that be? I told her off. I sent her packing. She's my sensitive Mandy. She should be sobbing her heart out at least. I'm all she's got.
But of course I'm not. That's why Stupid is my middle name. He's coming to stay, which means she's thinking on different lines altogether. She's got her company after all. So she doesn't need Larry. Why should she?
And there was I, giving her the idea I don't need her. Thinking I could let things slide, we were that settled. Even thinking I'd got Christmas sorted out. But I haven't. Nothing's sorted.
And I still haven't found the one thing that could put her straight. Her present.
Next morning, it's no better. I tried to catch her on the stairs on her way out, but she mutters something about a bus, and with just a quick glance at the hall table, off she goes. Leaving me like a lemon, staring after her.
After an encounter like that, the only thing to do was to get out and get going. Remind myself that this is Thursday and with eight shopping days to go, I should be there with the best of them, buying our Christmas.
But it's an unforgiving world. No exaggeration, half of London was out today, cramming up the streets, filling up the buses, causing the sort of queues you only ever expected to find in Russia. Normally there's nothing Larry likes better than holding his own in the riot for the 104, but not today. Believe me, it was no place for an OAP.
Still, queues or no queues, you know where I was headed, even if it meant finally stepping off in the middle of the Brompton Road and walking. That bus was going nowhere, trapped in all the traffic like one of those flies in amber. Even Larry had never seen it that bad.
It's only then, half a mile further on, that I see the reason. Blue lights flashing and police ribbon everywhere. Walkie-talkies clicking and people standing around waiting for something to happen. Bomb scare. They've closed the entire block. Go home Larry, if you can.
All of which must have taken me the best part of three hours.
I know how men must feel coming home with the battle behind them lost. Walking up the garden path, the only note of comfort was the thought of a basin of steaming water for my feet, and the hope that Mandy would have come home in time to read what I'd left for her on the kitchen table. 'Dear Mandy, was ever so out of sorts last night. Please do not take offence or do not know what I shall do. Love, Larry.'
A short note, but heartfelt. Then there was the little box of presentation nuts that I'd bought this morning and been carrying around with me all day. They were for her as well. She could have them the moment I got back.
Then it happens, the event to cap it all. The front door opens and there he is. Francis. A whole day early.
'Ah, MrMann,' he says. 'The second person I’ve surprised today.'
As he speaks, Mandy comes and pushes· her way between us, actually brushes my arm, yet she never gives me a look. It’s as if I wasn't there. She goes and stands by the gate, waiting for him. You'd have thought he would have joined her, but he doesn't. He stays where he is, suddenly all charm and smarm, wearing one of those long posh overcoats you only find in gentlemen’s catalogues 'Been doing a spot of Christmas shopping, I see.' And so saying he points to that little bag of speciality nuts. After all this long exhausting day, the one thing I've brought home with me. And he smiles.
For a second, I don't get it. That smile is about something, but I don’t know what. And then it clicks. He's smiling because he's thinking he's just seen the full sum of Larry Mann's Christmas. A bag of nuts and the Queen's speech.
Now, the good Lord knows I've been tempted before this, tempted to blow the gaff and ruin it all, spill the beans and let the cat out of the bag entirely. But those times were nothing, nothing compared to this. That umbrella hanging off my other arm, I wanted to take it by the handle and thrust it, pointed end into his stomach, turn him round and march him up those stairs, past Mandy's rooms, and up again into my kitchen. And while I held him there at bay, empty out the cupboards before his lizard eyes and show him what Larry's Christmas was all about.
A bag of speciality nuts.
Only in the nick of time does the voice of reason come to my rescue, whispering in my ear. 'He's not worth it, Larry boy. Think what you've got to lose. Just get yourself up those stairs and you'll be all right.'
And I was - just about. But it meant getting everything out of its place to prove it, pulling out the crackers and the chocs and the drink and the nuts and the paper and the baubles, and the rest, to make myself remember it's the future that counts and not the here and now. That the Mandy we know and love is waiting, sitting there in the middle of next week, feasting her eyes on a World of Christmas created and brought to her by her own Larry. Other parties will be significant only for their absence.
And the night helps.
Yes, it does, really. Staying awake, listening to the silence in the room below
, knowing that she's there, sleeping like a baby, alone, herself again.
See, she might only be doing it in her sleep, but so long as she stays that way, asleep, alone, innocent, she's fighting the good fight for both of us.
Chapter Nineteen
And so we come to today.
Haul myself out of bed. There's no rest, even if I had the time for it. It only takes the sound of a laugh to drag you out of what little sleep you've had.
No-one saw me set off - not even Ethel. Today was her day for Christmas Cheer, when she rounds up the house and gathers them into her kitchen. She does it every year, treats us all to cheesy snacks and Cyprus sherry and a lot of talk about us all being one happy family. So that's where they all were now - her, Gilbert, Mandy, him. The whole household, except one, who preferred to leave quietly.
Naturally I was invited. When was there ever a Christmas when I wasn't? Not turning up this year was my idea of giving them something to think about. If I wasn't there, who was going to pass round the cheese straws?
It wasn't a question that needed answering - I thought. Then just as I was walking out, it came to me. If I wasn't there to do the honours, and Gilbert was incapable, then guess who would step in to fill the breach. All of a sudden I could see Ethel smirking and nodding at the plate. 'Oh Francis, would you be so kind? I wouldn't ask, only seeing as Mr Mann has let us down ...'
Mr Mann? Who's he? The last person on anybody's mind.
I almost turned around to go back. But it was too late, of course. I'd already said I wasn't going, so what would they all think if I showed up now? I for one knew exactly, and I wasn't going to give them the satisfaction.
So there you have it. Here was a day that should have started off with so much promise, and already it had gone sour on me.
But there's something called the Dunkirk spirit, which is another way of saying that even when all the world has turned its face against you, you keep up the good fight no matter what.
So what did I do? I gave myself a good talking-to right there on the doorstep. Said to myself, 'Larry, my boy, this is no time to go weak at the knees. No, lad, this is the time to stiffen the sinews, show them what you're made of. They may be in there enjoying themselves at your expense, but there's only one among them worth the heartache. And it's for her you're doing this.'
And then I added something else - the clincher, the ideal strengthener. 'Yes, my boy. Today is the day when you walk back with the goods under your arm. Because today is the day you find her present. The one that says it all.'
And that's when I felt it. The thrill of anticipation chasing up and down my spine. I was a man with a mission again. Suddenly it was almost as if I was there already, returned from the fray, holding her present under my arm, hugging it close, feeling what it was going to say to her. The best feeling ever.
In five short seconds I had become a man renewed. It didn't matter if it was raining, it didn't even matter that it was cold enough to freeze your heart. I took off my cap and let the weather wet my forehead - good London weather giving me its blessing. Then I put my cap back on and marched off, into the day.
And what a day it was. At first it seemed as if all the world was keeping up the conspiracy. I tried the Tube this time. But that was no better, sitting there for hours in the dark like something undigested. Back up amongst the living, it was almost worse. The pavements had disappeared under a heaving swell, as likely to wash you up in the nearest door of Harvey Nichols as let you come safely to where you wanted to be. But I kept my head, never lost my cool, not even when the hands on my watch kept showing that more and more of the day was escaping just in the travelling. I felt that all these things were sent to try me. A test, if you like, of whether I was worthy.
And then, a few steps more and I was there. The police ribbons had gone and there was nothing to stop me walking through the swing doors, feeling the wafts of warm air blowing a welcome on my face. Not that the old ticker knew the difference, not at once. For the first two minutes all I could do was stay there, between the inner and the outer doors, waiting for the steam hammer pounding away inside to rest up. When I took off my cap for the second time that day the inside rim was wringing wet, a sure sign I'd been overdoing it. Elderly folk aren't meant to sweat, after all. They're meant to take things easy. But today it was all part of the test. Mandy love, I told myself as the breath came back, if only you knew.
Then it was time to go inside, properly. And all I can say is: thank the good Lord I knew what to expect. Namely that the moment I stepped through that door there really would be an explosion. A deafening blast of colours and shapes of things, all different, all wonderful - all impossible to tell apart. And wouldn't you know, I was right.
For a second I thought maybe I was going to panic after all, but that little voice of reason that's been standing me in such good stead recently, said, 'Hold hard there, Larry. Get a grip. What you want to do now is relax. Take an interest. Look around you, and enjoy.'
And gradually, very gradually, that's what I began to do. And just as gradually, I started to notice not the shop so much as the people. Hardly surprising in a way, seeing as how we were kindred spirits, all here while the rest of the world was somewhere else, in search of inferior goods at inferior prices which they would carry away with them in bags that bore an inferior name on the front. We were different from them - a different class of shopper. And these folk, who were the same as me, I began to see in glorious detail, from the headscarves on the women to the gold caps on the tips of their shoes. Most of them had a man in tow - someone has to pay the bills after all - but still it was mainly the women I watched. Watched them circling displays, watched while they stopped for no obvious reason that I could see. What made one cabinet of gloves which they ignored less interesting than another which they examined with the attention of a nuclear scientist? I didn't know, but I wanted to find out. And pretty soon, simply from watching the women, I thought I'd discovered a way of seeing things, of making objects come into focus out of the blur. What they looked at, I looked at too, just as closely, and ignored the rest, as they did. You could say that it was like finding a pair of spectacles that made you able to see everything that was worth seeing.
Of course, that's not to say I always agreed with their choice. Take the case of the woman buying that hat. I'd got that close, the shop assistant, mistaking me for a husband, turned and asked me what I thought. Now I could have stopped and been a bit more helpful than I was, in other words told the truth, namely that you could pay a quarter of the price for a sou'wester and not look any different, but seeing the way the other woman was staring at me I thought - why bother? Let her waste her money. And off I went.
Money. I can almost hear what you're saying at this point. Larry, Larry, what's it all for? Are you really going to shell out an arm and a leg just to impress some little bit of a thing who might not even appreciate it? And the answer is - yes. As much as it takes. Because the simple truth is, she will appreciate it.
It all boils down to the kind of girl she is. You only had to look around you to see the difference. At first sight you might think it would be no bad thing to be a man dragged along in the shadow of some of the women here. Attractive, they were, most of them, well dressed, every hair in place, as much at ease in this place as they would be in their own front rooms. A far cry from Doreen you might say. But no, not really. In one way they're no different. These are the women who have seen it all, done it all. The same as women the world over. It shows in their faces, in the way they walk. Worldly, that's how you could describe them. And what was Doreen if not that? And what's the betting that his wife isn't exactly the same? I'd wager anything that she tows him up and down the posh shops of Edinburgh with exactly the same expression on her face - the one that tells the world, 'He may be paying, but I’m the boss.'
There's not a farthing of difference between them. And I bet there's not a man here not praying for release.
And that's the secret, isn't it. I mean
it has to be. The reason he's messing around with a girl like our Mandy. Because she is different. Because she's young, and innocent as the day. She'll hang on to every word, never argue, never laugh. When they go out together, it's him that people will talk to, not her, because he's the one with the clout. In short, she's everything a woman should be - and everything that women aren't.
Bingo.
Young and innocent as a child, that's what I said, wasn't it. Naughty even, when she's got a mind to be. But she sleeps by herself and has all the experience of a baby. My Mandy. My old kid. Who will never let you down.
And all at once I knew exactly where to look.
Where I needed to be is right at the top of the shop, as far away as possible from where I had been searching all this time. No wonder nothing had appealed, down here amongst the perfumes and petticoats. All that stuff is for the likes of Doreen and June, not her, my sweet Mandy.
I'd been in the right shop, looking in the wrong place. Until now. But when I stepped out of the lift, I knew. I'd come to the end of the rainbow.
The Toy Department.
Like a rush of blood to the head it rises up to greet me - Christmas, the very essence of. They've got it all here, enough to make what you have at home seem like a poor imitation. So better not to compare. Just take a look and be satisfied.
You see, ifs a different world. It's as if every possible object and surface has been touched by a magic wand - glittering, frosted, reflected and trembling in the baubles weighing down the branches of Christmas trees greener than the real thing. It's a shop turned into fairyland. Those aren't walls any more, dividing one display from another, but banks of holly, or is it ivy? You could be in a garden, a garage sale in paradise.
The Last Girl Page 19