The Unfinished Tale Of Sophie Anderson

by Martyn J. Pass

  "See you in the morning, Sophie," called Tom as I began the ritual of packing away my things, ready for home. "Same again - seven?"

  "Yeah. We'll try again, eh?" I said. He waved a piece of paper in the air.

  "This should help."

  "The permit?"

  "Yeah. At last. Good night."

  "Good night, Tom."

  My routine for going home (when I wasn't on site) was, I admit, a bit of a ritual. When you do the same thing for five days a week, nearly fifty weeks of the year, you turn them into big parts of your life. They become important for reasons you don't understand and the moment someone screws them up you're tempted to fly into a huge rage. It's easy to understand how prisoners struggle to cope on the outside if they've become 'institutionalised' after a long time in the joint. You become a slave to them (notice the recurring theme when I talk about work!) and mine was quickly making a slave out of me.

  First, my cup (the chipped Mickey Mouse one Mel bought me years ago) MUST be put back in the top of my tool box on the open-top bit where my phone goes. The spoon must be inside it and it must be rinsed out if I've had cack (dirt/rubbish/left-over tea) in it. That's so that in the morning, when I come in, I can pick it up and get straight on with making a cup of tea without having to go searching for it (usually where I was working last). When I change out of my boots into my trainers to drive home in, they must go in the little alcove where I keep them with my extra socks (the boots are a little too big so I double up on my socks to pad them out). I hang my overalls up on a nail I've hammered into the brickwork and I make sure my locker is locked and not just swinging open (for all to see). Lastly, I make sure the gas is off on my welder (the pipe leaks somewhere and I'll get around to fixing it one day) and I put my phone in the top of my bag so I don't forget it. Once all this is accomplished to my satisfaction I can think about heading towards the clock machine.

  Our clocking machine was one of those swipe ones and it added to the feeling that I was drawing my life cash from an overdraft I never seemed to be able to pay off. Every day I swiped out was another day lost that I'd never get back. Some people crave more money. I just wanted more time. It was the one commodity you couldn't just walk into a shop and pick up off the shelf. Every day gone was another day I'd never see again (morose, I know, but I'm deep like that!)

  My card was near the top of a long list of names - ANDERSON, SOPHIE and I passed it through the reader with as much zeal as I could muster at five pm on a Monday evening. It was dark outside too which made the act even more important. Swiping like this was an act of defiance against 'The Machine' and I believed that if I could just beat the scanner, if I could just make it malfunction, then I'd have won a great victory for the common worker. There was a time when, if you timed it right, you could silence the building's bell by swiping your card just as the clock hit the precise finishing time. Imagine how earth shattering that one small action could be? With one flick of the wrist you altered the working day itself. Imagine the power you could wield with that knowledge? I never got chance to find out anyway. Once it became clear what was happening when a certain unknown rebel pulled this off, they called the engineers in and had the glitch fixed. Still, it was nice while it lasted. I suppose The Man has to keep putting down these small rebellions the moment they arise or who knows what might happen?

  On this occasion I failed in my duty to break the machine. The display flashed my name - CLOCKED OUT and buzzed. I guess the revolution would have to wait until tomorrow.

  My tatty Ford Focus was sat alone in my usual parking space. I was always one of the last out of the door but it had nothing to do with my work ethic. It had more to do with the fact that getting out of the car park during the hectic 90 seconds after the bell had rung was more akin to a destruction derby than a workforce bound for home. In my time at Riley's there'd been no less than six accidents thanks to the layout of each parking space being directly in line with another. I had no love for my Focus but I felt the motherly protective urges stirred in me whenever I watched this insane spectacle. I noticed that Frank, in his sleek new Audi, was the most successful at getting out unscathed and in the quickest time. This was owed to the tactical positioning of his parking space. Now, it wasn't as good as mine because I always came in early so I could take my pick and I always chose the place facing the exit. But Frank had found himself the only spot that allowed him to cheekily block everyone else by parking with the nose of his car a little too far forward. It was enough to be considered an honest mistake and just not too much to be accused of doing it deliberately. It was enough though and when the race began he was always the first out with a line of angry colleagues right behind him.

  By not taking part in this melee, it did mean that I had to face the traffic though. It's amazing how a few minutes can be the difference between an empty road and total gridlock. There was a rumour though of a golden minute between finishing time which, if tapped into, would cut nearly ten minutes off your journey home time. I'd never seen it though and I was inclined to believe it was a myth.

  On the way home I stopped off at the Spar to grab some milk and bread. To call Mel a flatmate would have been to over exaggerate her role in our relationship. Squatter might have been more accurate a term. Or dosser. It was only the history we shared that made me overlook her many shortcomings - mainly her inability to contribute to the running of our little social experiment.

  First of all, if there's the chance that something is about to run out - be it bread or milk or shampoo, she'll make sure there's enough left to trick me into using it up. Then, like a ninja, she'll pounce out of nowhere and tell me to get some more, given that I was the last one to use it. Once I was sat on the toilet with only three pieces of paper left when I heard her call from downstairs that we needed some more. Such friendship is precious, they tell me.

  Did I mind? Sometimes. Then I had to remind myself that she was a thirty-something woman living with her high school friend. That her hopes of being more than a secretary were long gone. That her marriage to someone we thought was amazing turned into a living hell when she miscarried. That she'd spent two months in hospital with the injuries he'd given her after getting drunk one night. It kind of put the occasional empty milk bottle into perspective.

  Our flat was above a hairdresser which, I can tell you, is mighty convenient. I'd got the rent at a steal when I saw that the landlord was a cousin of mine who I never knew existed until I applied to the advert. He knew me though and slashed fifty quid off the monthly rent. Was it my catwalk good looks that won him over? No, it had more to do with the fact that he fancied my auntie on my Dads side. I could overlook this though because he always carried out the repairs - like the time our boiler blew in the middle of winter leaving us freezing to death, and he always made sure the hairdressers below (he owned that part of the building too) gave us a hefty discount. There had also been some spare furniture that he was able to give us, such as the battered old coffee table in the living room and a nice Ikea wardrobe which Mel promptly claimed for her many outfits. The foundation of this claim was that, of the two of us, she was the better dressed and thus needed the space. I couldn't really argue - my 'wardrobe' consisted of jeans, work clothes and a few tee shirts. What can I say? I like simple.

  Still, a flat is a flat and ours was quite nice. It had two spacious bedrooms which the living room had paid for given that we could only just fit a cracked white leather settee, an ancient arm chair and the coffee table into it. There was a small kitchen that still had the old fashioned overhead gas grill in it. I mentioned to my cousin that it wasn't particularly safe but he dismissed my monoxide-based concerns with a wave of his hand. He did put one of those detectors in (reluctantly because he got a letter telling him it was the law to have them) but I suspect he got that free from somewhere. Still, there was my Mum's old microwave in the corner, a coffee machine - the type that uses grounds - and an assortment of odd bits of crockery pieced together from my own stuff and Mel's former din
ing set.

  The bathroom was a little poky and the tub was long enough to fit most of me in. If I wanted to soak my shoulders then my feet had to scale the tiled wall at the foot end until they were up in the air. If I wanted to warm my toes, then the shoulders had to suffer the draft that came from the vent. More often than not I'd opt for a shower but you had to be quick when you wanted to get out. If you weren't the bloody thing would gather the last of its heat and attempt to spray you with scalding hot water like some fire-breathing serpent.

  Character. That's what the flat had. Lumps of it. Like those big thick globules you sometimes got in dissolved gravy granules. It'd been my home since leaving my parent's house. They didn't like it. In fact, they went as far as refusing to visit me there. I guess you can't please them all. It was mine though and I loved it even with its faults and its flaws and the fact that when Mel had a 'friend' round I could hear every bloody sound and moan.

  I parked up around the back - the hairdressers hated us parking where their customers could see our old bangers, and went up the back steps. As I opened the door a stack of mail was pushed along the carpet and jammed it from opening any further. It took some manoeuvring but eventually I was able to get inside and tear most of the offending correspondence out of my way. It was a letter from the bank for Mel - another overdue credit card bill. Mel paid debts in the same way people visit their relatives. She sees it as something you can put off with a phone call like 'yeah, I'll pop round next week - promise' knowing full well that she has NO intention of doing so. For some reason the credit card companies are okay with this. Sure, they'll send a few angry letters to jam up my front door, but a phone call from her seems to satisfy them enough to call off the debt collectors for another six months. Boring old me, I just spend my wages. I don't borrow and never have done and if I did I'd just pay it back. It makes sense to me that way. It requires far less effort.

  I threw the mail into the empty fish bowl we had on a stool near the door. I turned on all the lights, gave the heater dial a turn until it roared into life and dropped my bag just inside my room. The milk went in the fridge and the bread went in the bin (the bread bin of course). Then I cracked open the cheeky bottle of red wine I'd bought and left it breathing whilst I went for a shower.

  At some point my phone chimed but I ignored it. I didn't have a vast network of friends and so it was probably either Mel or Mum texting me. It could wait until I was in my SpongeBob pyjamas. It felt like a SpongeBob day. I towel dried my hair and went back to the kitchen to put the oven on for tea. I was feeling adventurous and so I opted for an Iceland ready meal - a nice healthy, tasteless, low-fat lasagne (if there is such a thing). Mel wouldn't be home until gone eight o'clock and I wasn't going to wait for her. One glass of red wine later and I was laid out on the settee with my duvet and my meal-for-one on a flowery tray. The high life.

  When my phone chimed again I forced myself out from under the warmth to go get it. I'd left the blasted thing in my bag, committing the cardinal sin in Mel's eyes. According to her I must always keep my phone on my person in case there was some kind of global disaster. By disaster I think she means the times when she needs me urgently. On this occasion a thumb swipe revealed two text messages from my Mum. One to warn me that Emmerdale was a weepy one tonight and the other to tell me I was on TV.

  I tapped her face icon (a rare photo from Christmas-past) and waited for it to call her.

  "What?" I asked when she picked up the phone.

  "I saw you on the news!" she said. "In Liverpool!"

  "I never saw any cameras."

  "Well, you did have your back to them, talking to Melanie. I hope your boss doesn't see it." So did I. "What were you up to?"

  "Not a lot. I was supposed to be welding there but we didn't have permission. Bit of a wasted day really."

  "And what are you doing now?"

  "I've just had my tea and now I'm going to lie down on the settee with my book. You?"

  "Oh, nothing. Your Dad's just gone out with the dogs and then we're going to put a film on." I felt the ebb and flow of the conversation starting to die off. I guessed it might have helped if I had more to say, but I didn't. I'd never been the chatty type. There's only so much metal work you can explain to someone who isn't really interested and seeing as though my 'friends' amounted to Mel and the hairdresser downstairs we didn't really have anywhere to go with it.

  "Well then, I'll let you get back to it," said Mum.

  "Okay, take care and thanks for letting me know," I said.

  "No problem. Bye."

  "Bye."

  I retreated under my quilt and picked up my novel from where I'd tucked a folded piece of notepad paper. Emmerdale would have to cry without me tonight. I wasn't in the mood for more triviality.

  At some point I was woken up by the door being slammed shut. I must have dozed off because the book was sat face down on my chest, still open and my arm felt numb. Mel stormed into the room and flopped onto the rickety wooden chair in the corner, throwing her handbag to one side.

  "I hate traffic!" she cried. "Three hours! Three bloody hours because some moron didn't know how to drive and smashed his car into a truck, blocking three lanes of the motorway. Three hours!"

  "Are you ready to admit that you need a more local job yet?" I asked. My eyes felt sticky and my mouth was dry.

  "I'm not having that conversation," she said. "I love my job."

  "But you can't be making enough to cover the travelling costs, surely?"

  "I manage. Where's tea?"

  "I'm on it," I said, standing up. "Why don't you grab a bath while I make it?"

  "How's that going to help?"

  "You might just relax."

  "Fat chance. Do you know how many paedophiles came into the office today looking for representation?"

  "How do you know they're paedophiles?" I asked.

  "They just are. They have that look about them. We had at least six today. They creep me out." I went into the kitchen and poured her a glass of rose from the box in the fridge, flicking the oven back on as I went past. "You're a star, girl."

  "I hope you kept your thoughts to yourself." Another benefit to our little flat was that any conversation could be maintained no matter which room you were in. As I went to run the bath, Mel was still talking.

  "Of course I did. What do you take me for?"

  "I take you for someone who almost destroyed her IPhone posting her life online. Please tell me you didn't take any pictures this time!"

  "You really do have very little respect for me, don't you?"

  "It's not that," I said, laughing. "I just know you better than you know yourself."

  "Well I know you, Miss Anderson. SpongeBob PJs can only mean one thing - man issues." I sat across from her and refilled my glass.

  "What on earth gives you that idea?"

  "Don't play coy - you only wear those when you're either thinking about a man or talking to a man or both. Is it Tom?"

  "What? NO! Of course not."

  "Then who is it?"

  "Nobody! I felt like putting them on. What are you? Oprah?" Mel had the grin of the Cheshire cat.

  "I'm on to you, Soph. Be warned."

  When I carried her lasagne into the bathroom, Mel was snoring softly as the water went cold around her. I felt a pang of guilt thinking about how she'd come to be there, in my bath, instead of in her Houghton detached house overlooking the woods. It felt like a lifetime ago when I'd stood in her kitchen, looking out at her massive garden as she told me how Phil had been beating her for years. She'd cried and cried until her eyes were dry and sore. Then he'd come home and I remember how afraid I'd felt, wishing I could get her out of there, away from him and somewhere safe. But I'd been too late. The next time I saw her was in a hospital ward with tubes running in and out of her bruised mouth. She hadn't been snoring then.

  "Here," I said, touching her shoulder. "You need to get out before you catch your death." She clambered out of the bath and into a robe befo
re accepting the food.

  "I'm going to bed," she muttered. "Thanks."

  "No problem."

  3.

  The problem with Mondays is they are always followed by their younger, more annoying brothers - namely Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Tuesday was waiting for me just before six with a wild grin on his face and a bad taste in my mouth. I must have finished the night on my back because it took two pulls of the mouthwash bottle to free up my tongue. Mel had just left. The toothpaste lid was MIA and there was a streak of soap running down the side of the sink. There was also a mass of bottles, potions and lotions in various states of disarray under the mirror - a clear sign of hurricane Melanie's passing through.

  I tidied up before seeing to the tangled mess of hair on my head. One of the great benefits of being a welder was that I didn't need to bother with make-up but I always went as far as doing something with the Medusa-esque mop. It took all of three minutes to brush out the knots and tie it back with a blue bobble. It would match my overalls. When I looked at myself in the mirror I considered the eye liner. Such an innocent little thing. It stood there, winking at me. It was still there when I brushed my teeth and I left it there, untouched, to go and make my lunch.

  I liked to get to work early. When I mean early I mean a full hour early. The building was always opened by Mick who insisted on being the first there, turning the heaters on in winter or opening the windows in summer. I suspected he went back to sleep when no one was looking. There were some comfy chairs on the top floor.