'I'm running a bath.'
'What? Wouldn't that be better after you've done your cleaning?'
The door wrenched open. 'That's what I was going to do. It just takes so bloody long to fill I thought I'd start now. Okay? Just get off my case!'
'Sorry.' I heard myself apologise, the abject tone, and cringed. I had handled my own teenagers better than this, surely — but they hadn't been pregnant, pretending to be grown up. Sheree was a very confusing person to be around. Sometimes she made me feel seriously out of date rather than adult. My head was aching. 'Give it up,' I told myself out loud, and did what Una had done — retreated to my room and shut the door. Apart from a livid green silk scarf someone had left behind on the bedside table, this room was unsullied. My head on the feather pillow. Bliss.
Someone was knocking on the door. Thumping. I roused myself, thinking of the police. I was a character in The Bill, but couldn't remember the nature of my crime. What had I done? By the time I collected myself Una had struggled out of bed to answer the door and stood clutching at the wayward straps of her nightie, darting a startled sideways glance past me towards the alcove in front of the bathroom door. A line of water was seeping from under the crack, darkening the carpet, and when I tugged questioningly at the handle the tide increased. Someone had overflowed the bath.
'Oh my God! Sheree!' Una howled, splashing past me and diving for the taps.
Kevin, the 'downstairs gentleman', was standing on the doormat, flinging his wrists about. He seemed to have run out of words.
I managed to say, 'I'm sorry. Well, come in. Hello.' Everything in the wrong order.
Sheree had snatched the earplugs from her ears and advanced to witness the bathroom drama with her mouth sagging. 'That was your fault,' she accused me, squeezing her fat lips together. 'You interrupted me.'
'Is it very bad?' I asked Kevin. 'In your place?'
'Bad enough. I just happened to look up and there was this big damp patch, spreading . . .'
I listened, trying not to visualise this man sitting on the loo with a soggy Penthouse magazine propped open above concertinaed trouser legs. When Una called I gave myself a shake and headed for the linen cupboard and the towel supply to join her in mopping up the floor. To Kevin I called over my shoulder. 'I'm really sorry. You'll have to excuse us.'
'Offer him a drink!' Una hissed from the bathroom. Her nightie was clinging to her, defining the dimples in her thighs, and the bath was flowing with sodden towels, while she handled the sponge mop using powerful muscles I hadn't previously noticed.
For a moment I was silent with admiration. Then I said, 'This doesn't seem like the right time.' And after a quick look around the corner — 'He's gone, anyway. Here, let me have a go. That'll take forever. Sheree can fetch the washing basket for those towels.'
'She can have a go at wringing them first — it's the least she can do.'
'I don't know why you're getting at me,' Sheree said later when we were sitting slumped at the kitchen table, breathing hard. 'I'm sorry, but you wanted to meet the guy and now you have.'
'What do you mean?' snapped Una. 'You call that meeting? He doesn't even know our names.'
'It was on the invitation,' I reminded her.
'Not the same thing. He might think I'm Clarice and you're me.' She considered for a moment. 'Actually, we will have to go and apologise and have a look at his ceiling. Eh?'
'Eh plus,' said Sheree and giggled, surprising me. Perhaps she wasn't as stupid as she made out.
Beryl
Something was wrong with Beryl's eyes. She must go back to the optician. It was certainly harder to decipher words on a page and the idea that they might escape her altogether was scary. But the optician would remedy that. More worrying was the way her vision was playing tricks on her with Greg: she felt sure she'd seen him more clearly a few years ago. And idiotic as it might sound — she knew it was idiotic — she had the distinct impression this morning that she had witnessed his duffel coat and peaked cap striding away from her, up the road towards the park and the zoo. How could it have been Greg? And yet what real person would have worn such clothes on a sunny day with not a breath of wind?
It was two days since he told her she had blown it. It had rained for all of Sunday but now the sky was as smooth a blue as the inside of Don's favourite serving bowl. She hesitated with her hand on the crooked front gate, watching a young mother approach with her baby slung on her front; she was holding hands with a young fellow in jeans. Not a pram in sight. Surely it couldn't be good for the girl's back? Times had changed. Beryl was propelled out of the gate against her will, timing her step so that she would get a quick look at the child, lapping at the sight as if it were a longed-for ice-cream cone. Cool, as young people say. There — she had known the child must be beautiful with parents like those two. Envy played across her ribs like a piece of familiar music. She shook her head quickly before another nastier memory could crash noisily into her ears.
And when the couple had gone — walking faster than Beryl liked to walk, almost dancing — she continued at her more leisurely pace to the yellow-columned zoo entrance. They must have thought she was mad to buy a ticket so often out of her super — she was aware her blouse and skirt were the garb of a superannuitant. In fact she was still six months away from her superannuation entitlement and until then she was battling poverty. She didn't know how to manage debt as young people seemed to. The zoo should be free for pensioners. Hardly much skin off the nose of the city council and the animals wouldn't mind, might even enjoy it. But today she had another motive aside from monkeys and the solitary bear. Idiotic she might be but she would indulge herself: Greg wouldn't be easy to miss in his curious get-up. Worth looking, anyway. Just in case. He knew it was one of her places.
She had forgotten her purse but the woman let her in anyhow. She blushed with shame — they would think her a silly old duck and perhaps she was. Too bad. She was in now and the sun was still shining, getting in her eyes. It was Tuesday so it wasn't surprising that there were few people about. She strolled, pretending this was her own garden. If it weren't for the giraffes nuzzling each other and admiring their wonky-legged offspring she could have pretended she was on Greg's farm. And while she was thinking this she remembered a Survivors episode that had featured an elephant, escaped from a place like this. Sadly there was no elephant here now — the smelly elephant house she visited as a child had been converted to a sort of educational space with chairs and tables and a drink machine that had no smell at all. She checked out this building, then moved on to the bear pit. One of her childhood books had featured a precocious little bear — Mary Plain — and this sad middle-aged bear looked to her rather like Mrs Mary Plain, disillusioned.
As Beryl reached the rail she had to step backwards to avoid a man in khaki and green who was dismounting from a golf cart burdened with plastic buckets. He wasn't a young man and he looked as if he could do with a new electric razor to get rid of those bristles. She stared at him because while his back was turned and when she blinked he had looked nearly like Greg Preston. Her hand on the rail was slick with perspiration; she put up a damp finger to rub her eyes. She watched while he inserted a large pink pill inside a piece of orange and cast it into the enclosure. Then, summoned by a younger man who waited for him on the cart, he moved off, not waiting to see if the bear would eat the piece of fruit. Beryl watched, hypnotised. She wanted Mrs Mary Plain to take her medicine, if it was medicine, but there was something shifty about the man — who was nothing like Greg really — and she wondered if it could be poison, a form of euthanasia. Why hadn't the zoo workers stayed to watch?
The black bear ambled toward the doctored fruit, nosing it hopefully. Then, just when Beryl was sure she would leave it alone, she juggled it into her mouth with a snaky tongue and swallowed, pointing her snout directly at the watching woman, but without a flicker of interest in her gluey eyes. She was all alone in the bear pit and had been alone for months now. Beryl stayed by the rail
and watched, keeping the animal company while she digested her pill. 'Perhaps it's Prozac,' she said aloud.
'Antibiotic,' said a gritty voice behind her. It was the older zoo worker who had come back, on foot this time.
'Is she sick?'
'A bit poorly. She'll be right, we hope. With bears it's all about smell — did you know? Things have to smell right. We smell wrong to a bear.'
'What happened to her friend? Didn't she have a friend?'
'Not in my time. And she won't get one in my time. I've been given my cards, as they say in Brixton, where I come from.'
For a moment Beryl believed he had been told he was going to die, he looked so miserable. Then she thought again. 'You've been made redundant?'
He laughed. 'Hah! Is that what you call it? Three months they've given me. It should have been six, my solicitor told me. I've worked here for a good few years. Not worth the fuss to argue, not at my time of life. There's no one I have to support these days. I'm like her.' He pointed into the bear enclosure. 'Nothing smells right in my life. They say the Internet's how you do it these days.'
'Do what?' She looked blank.
'Look for a life partner. It isn't easy. I prefer the more direct approach myself.'
Beryl was alarmed. She took her hand off the rail.
'See what I mean? You're running away from me and I haven't even asked you yet. Don't run away.'
When Beryl left the zoo entrance and briskly retraced her steps she saw a figure at the edge of her vision, loitering outside her house. It was a woman with a green linen jacket and red hair. Clarice. Beryl stepped backwards like a startled horse. She didn't remember giving Clarice her address.
'Hi,' said Clarice. 'I was looking for you. Well — half . . .'
'Which half?' Beryl quipped, then ducked her head apologetically. It was a habit of hers to make semi-clever remarks when she was nervous, a habit Donald had derided, lengthening his top lip and wagging his head to signify affectionate boredom.
'I knew you lived in one of these houses from what you said.'
'But you guessed it was this one,' said Beryl, laying her hand on the gate. Her house was the only one in the street that hadn't been tarted up by new owners. 'You're right, it does need a bit of TLC.'
'It's a pretty house. I love it — from the outside anyway. We didn't see you the other night and I just wondered if you were all right.'
'I'm fine. Fine. I'm sorry I couldn't make it.' Her hand was still on the gate but she hadn't lifted the catch. 'Er. I'd ask you in for a cup of something, Clarice, but . . . it's not a good time. Actually we think there's a gas leak . . .'
'It's not supposed to smell these days, is it — natural gas?'
'Well no. Or it's different. Anyway we're keeping out of the kitchen till they get it sorted out.' She turned away and then turned back. 'But we could go for a coffee or something. There's a café along the road, if that . . . ?' She waited for Clarice's nod and then added, 'I'll just have to get my handbag. Won't be a minute.'
When they reached the café a paint-splattered stepladder blocked the entrance and the interior had been invaded by men in overalls wielding rollers.
'God, nothing stays the same for five minutes these days,' Clarice mourned.
'McDonald's does.'
'Oh — McDonald's.'
In fact when they walked on this was where they found themselves, in McDonald's, drinking coffee out of polystyrene cups. Warring siblings squealed in the red and yellow play area tunnels, climbing up and falling down with little legs flying.
'This is really disgusting, I'm sorry,' Beryl said.
'Yes it is. But at least it's hot — I can't stand lukewarm coffee. And it's nice to sit down. I've done quite a bit of walking this afternoon. I'm trying to walk off the party. Parties are bad for the health.'
'Oh yes. How was it?'
Clarice told Beryl about the flooded bathroom and the incensed downstairs owner. She made a joke of Una's despair when the man failed to stay for a drink. Men can be disappointing — you can only laugh. 'He won't be looking for you, will he? Your husband?'
'Greg? Oh, Greg's not my husband. He's — my friend.' She gave a shrug.
'Well, congratulations. I like to hear stuff like that. People think we oldies are past it. They ought to be told that we're just like the young, only older. Right?'
Beryl, instead of looking gratified, looked embarrassed. She buried her nose in her coffee, then began in a rush to tell Clarice about the sick bear in her cold stony space and the pink pill that should have been Prozac. She told her about the aging zoo worker and his redundancy. 'I think he might have been chatting me up — in fact I'm sure he was. Imagine. I mean, look at me.'
'What's wrong with you? You look quite nice and he obviously thought so.' Clarice laughed. 'Ironic, isn't it, how men always make advances to women who have no need because they've already got someone, thank you. It's like you send out a different kind of vibe; perhaps it's chemical. When I was married it was always happening. Whereas someone like Una at the moment — she's attractive, really she is — well, you met her — but she's desperate. She says she's desperate. That's bad.'
Beryl shifted uncomfortably on her seat. 'Perhaps you should send her down to the zoo then. This man — this Garth someone — he can't wait to meet somebody like your Una. He's not a bad-looking chap.' From behind, she added to herself. 'And he's kind to animals.' I think, she added but didn't say aloud. 'He must be, to work in that place. Mustn't he?'
'I might just do that.' Clarice looked into her empty mug and stood up. 'I'm getting another. One for you? Two of everything's good. My first husband used to say you need two wings to fly — although he was talking about whisky.' She didn't add that the whisky might have helped him fly from life, from her.
When Clarice had come back with the coffee Beryl thought she was beginning to understand why the woman needed that second wing. She wanted to talk about her friend Una.
'I really didn't know her that well when we decided to buy a place together. We did do it a bit fast but I still don't think it was a daft thing to do. On most levels it makes a lot of sense. The thing is I'm not sure she always tells me the truth about — well, anything really. It's a puzzle. This Sheree — is she her cousin or what? Una says one thing, Sheree says another. And Una doesn't tell me anything much about her husband, who's dead by the way. Some time ago, if you can believe what she says. It isn't that she tells lies — well, I don't know. Maybe she does tell lies sometimes. It's not what I'm used to. Perhaps I'm naïve but I'm used to believing what people tell me — I mean, people do tell the truth most of the time, don't they? Why bother to make stuff up? It would be a waste of time.'
'I suppose. How many months gone is she? This Sheree girl?' Beryl remembered the electric scream that had pierced the supermarket aisles.
'Four or five. I don't even know that.'
'So what is it that you mind most? That she doesn't tell you stuff? Or that she might tell lies?'
'The lies, to be honest.' Clarice snorted. 'Honest! Listen to me! But I can't stand dishonesty, it makes things so slippery and confused. I'm not just being moral about it. You know what I mean, don't you?'
Beryl nodded without speaking, then again more firmly. 'Of course. I can see it's a problem.' She lifted her wrist and studied her watch. 'You're probably right about Greg. He might be looking for me — I'd better go.' Then she suddenly blushed, a warm flood like one of those hot flushes she hoped she'd seen the last of, and had to reach down under her chair, taking a long time searching for her handbag.
'You said she didn't want to know me!' Beryl lifted her head up in the steamy kitchen, calling over her shoulder triumphantly to Greg, who was lounging in the living-room leather chair. She was making a big pot of beef stew to freeze in individual portions. She had enjoyed cooking for Donald, watching him dive in with his fork and give her a wink over the table sometimes if it was especially good. Now she cooked for the freezer, purchased on interest-free credit, and
it gave her a different kind of pleasure, reminded her that she had moved with the times in some ways at least. 'She came looking for me specially.'
'Half looking,' Greg murmured in his nasal tones.
'Oh, that's just what she said.'
'And you said, "Go away, we've got a gas leak"!'
'I'm good at thinking fast when I have to.'
'We're keeping out of the kitchen — we! I thought you weren't going to talk to other people about me? And there you go, running off at the mouth, implying you've got a husband and he's called Greg.'
'I didn't. Not this time. I said you were my friend.'
'Not imaginary friend.'
'Of course not. I couldn't tell her that.'
'She told you she couldn't stand dishonesty. She thinks people tell the truth most of the time. She talks to you because you listen and you don't tell lies.'
'All right!' Beryl flung the Teflon serving spoon into the sink and bits of tomato gravy splattered the formica. 'I'm not perfect. But you aren't really a lie, are you? You can't be. You're something else. I don't know what to say to her!' She buried her face in a tea-towel and gave one dry sob before she blew her nose on the coarse linen. 'You sanctimonious pig!' she added.
Greg had followed her down the step into the kitchen and now said, more gently, 'I'm only kidding. You don't have to quote Abby at me. The TV series is over — gone — and she's gone with it. I'm your friend and you didn't lie, okay? Wipe your face and put that cloth in the washing basket. I'm just a little bit jealous.'
'Of Clarice? Jealous? That's ridiculous. What's Clarice got that you haven't? It's not a competition — you're completely different.'
Playing Friends Page 5