‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said Alix. ‘As far as I can see, it was no one’s fault. It just happened.’
Sian looked far from convinced. ‘Nice of you to say. But I’m not sure my mum, God rest her soul, would agree with you. But then she was an auld frickin’ battle-axe as well.’
*
Things were going rather well, Janine thought. He was so keen that he met her in the Café Nero for breakfast the next morning. She asked him lots of questions about his property business. He said it had been tough for the past few years, but that the market was starting to pick up.
‘Well, for some,’ said Janine.
‘I thought your paper was doing okay. At least it’s coming out every week.’
‘Just about. We get plenty of the wee local advertisers – but the big companies, they hardly know we exist. When they’ve money to spend, they take one look at the circulation figures and then go with one of the big city papers. They really don’t understand what we do, how much a paper like ours penetrates the local community, how much...’
Frank held up his hands in surrender. ‘Okay, enough, I’m convinced, where do I sign?’
They both laughed.
‘But honestly,’ said Janine, ‘it would drive you to drink.’
‘Or at least another cappuccino?’
‘Deal. But it’s my turn to...’
‘Not a bit of it.’ He stood – but instead of going immediately to the counter he stopped and leaned on the table. ‘It’s lovely talking to you,’ he said. ‘My wife – unless you’re an addict yourself, it’s very hard for someone else to understand. But you absolutely get it. You’ve been there.’
She raised her empty cup. ‘And not going back.’
He raised his own and they tapped.
She was buzzing from both the caffeine and her breakfast date when she got back to the office. He’d walked her to the corner and they’d chatted for a few minutes, at least until Pete came walking past, his eyes suddenly out on stalks when he saw her up close with Frank. She was hardly at her desk before he was over wanting to know who he was and she responded with, ‘None of your beeswax.’ Then Alix came in and wanted to know why she was glowing and Pete said, ‘She’s got a new man,’ and Janine responded with, ‘Have not. And besides, it’s purely business.’
Alix was pretty buzzy herself. She’d taken a drive past Bertha’s on her way in and struck lucky – there was a council employee there helping to clear out the perishables who wasn’t quite as jobsworth as Irene and didn’t object to her poking round the house. She found a goldmine of photos and was surprised when the woman didn’t object to her borrowing some of them. The council worker was firmly of the opinion that they’d all end up in a skip anyway – ‘If no one comes forward in the first twenty-four hours, then they hardly ever do. Sad but true.’ So Alix returned to the office with a cardboard box full of pictures reflecting every stage of Bertha’s life – from long-skirted schoolgirl to the factory floor, and from married life to the civil-rights marches and beyond.
‘So she was married, then?’ Rob asked after she’d excitedly plunked the box down on his desk and they began to search through them.
‘Oh yes, but he seems to have died about thirty years ago. The old dear was past ninety, so she was.’
‘Any kids?’
‘No evidence of.’
‘She’s like The Last of the Mohicans.’ Alix looked at him blankly. ‘It’s a book,’ he added. ‘A very famous book. And a movie. A very good movie. Daniel Day-Lewis.’
‘Oh, I like him.’
‘Anyway...’ And he lifted another framed photo.
She peered over his shoulder. ‘Civil-rights march – that’s more your era.’
‘Yeah, right. But still – union agitator, civil-rights campaigner...’ He raised an eyebrow.
Alix took hold of the box. ‘All right smarty-pants,’ she said, ‘it still doesn’t mean there’s something special about everyone – you just got lucky.’
She turned for the door, but he said her name – she spun back, still smiling, but something about the set of his face and the way he was rubbing at his chin caused her to drop it and push the door closed behind her. She leaned against it with the box in her arms. And waited.
‘I’ve been offered my old job,’ said Rob.
‘Oh – right.’
‘They want me back in a fortnight.’
‘Well. And you’re going?’
‘My kids.’
‘Of course. Ahm. Congratulations. Is this common knowledge?’
He looked slightly hurt. ‘No, of course not. I wanted you to know.’
‘Now I know.’
‘I wanted to ask your opinion.’
‘Why?’
‘Just because. We’re... We’re...’ He shrugged. He was looking in her general direction, but not actually at her. Every few moments their eyes would make contact, and then his would flit away. She didn’t know how she felt. There was a jumble of thoughts. The bottom wasn’t dropping out of her world, and she wasn’t about to do a Mills & Boon swoon, but her head was definitely confused. There were butterflies in her stomach, but not in a good way. Like before an exam. At the gynaecologists. Or like eating wild mushrooms and not being certain they weren’t toadstools. Then she realized that that was rubbish because she’d never eaten a wild mushroom in her life. It was more like taking ecstasy and not knowing whether it was the real deal or something some undertrained Chinese pharmacist had concocted with the aid of rat poison that was going to kill her but not until she’d enjoyed several hours of mesmeric dancing...
Alix tried to focus.
Rob was leaving.
There was a little fluttering angel on her shoulder whispering that she could apply for his job.
‘So,’ he said, ‘what do you think?’
‘It sounds like your mind is made up.’
‘No – not at all.’
‘Your wife is there.’
‘My kids are there.’
‘Your kids – like you say. Better pay, I’m sure, lifestyle, promotions...’
‘Yes, undoubtedly...’
‘Although these are the people who thought you were a...’ She trailed off. Not brave enough to say it.
His brow furrowed. ‘Thought I was a what...?’
‘I don’t really know – whatever it was they thought you were that caused you to scurry over here to take Billy Maxwell’s job before he was cold in his grave.’
Rob laughed suddenly.
She said, ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean, I just mean...’
‘I didn’t scurry anywhere.’
‘I know that. I said I was—’
‘And really, why exactly did you think I left my paper?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Well, you clearly have...’
‘No, really, but you never said why, so naturally – people speculate.’
‘And what did you speculate?’
‘I didn’t speculate at all.’
‘So what did Pete speculate?’
‘Pete? I never mentioned Pete.’
‘You really don’t have to.’
She nodded. He nodded.
She said, ‘It’s none of my business.’
‘What I did or didn’t do or me going back to England?’
‘Either.’
‘Really?’
Alix shrugged. Now she was avoiding his gaze.
‘Anyway,’ she said. She thumbed behind her. ‘Things to do.’
‘Okay. Ahm, keep it under your hat for now?’
‘Yes, of course.’
She returned to her desk.
Pete said, ‘What was that all about?’
‘What was what all about?’
‘The big powwow?’
‘It wasn’t a powwow.’
‘You okay?’ Michael asked. ‘You look upset.’
‘I’m not upset, why would I be upset?’
‘Because he hates your story,’ said Pete. ‘It’s a load o
f old rubbish.’
‘Why would you say that?’
‘Because they usually are.’
‘You’re so inspirational, Pete, that’s why I love you.’
‘You love me?’
‘Take a wild guess.’
Michael began to sing: ‘Alix loves Pete, Alix loves Pete...’
‘Okay, children,’ said Janine, ‘I’m going to the bun shop, anyone want anything in the bun shop?’ She had her bag on her desk and was rifling through it for her purse. She found it and took out a tenner and tossed it back in. There were no takers. ‘Please yourselves,’ she said and skipped happily for the door.
‘Someone’s happy,’ said Pete.
‘Maybe she’s in love,’ said Michael, ‘like you and Alix.’
‘More like Alix and Rob,’ said Pete.
‘Yeah, right,’ said Alix. She turned to study her computer, aware that her face was reddening. She swore to herself and prayed that nobody had noticed. Pete certainly hadn’t because he was out from behind his desk and crossing to Janine’s: in her hurry out of the office her bag had toppled over and the contents had partially spilled onto the floor. He crouched down and began to pick them up.
‘You’re such a Good Samaritan,’ said Sean.
Alix snorted.
Michael looked round from his computer and said, ‘Why the red face?’
‘Blood pressure,’ said Alix, as she got up and grabbed her coat, before adding, ‘and overwork. See you later.’ And she was away, her head still a jumble and making a determined effort not to glance towards Rob’s office as she left.
Pete returned to his desk, looking thoughtful. Michael turned to him and said, ‘Do you think they’re doing it?’
‘What?’
‘Rob and Alix.’
‘He’s married.’
Michael nodded. ‘Well, that rules that out, then.’
But Pete wasn’t listening. He was up again and crossing to Gerry’s office. He knocked on the glass. Gerry waved him in.
‘Any chance of a quiet word?’
‘Come in, come in, my door is always open. Except of course when...’
‘It’s about Janine.’
‘What about Janine?’
‘Well, I know you two are... were... close...’
‘Yes, Pete...?’
‘And you know I’m not one for gossip...’
‘Yes, Pete...?’
‘It’s just that this... just fell out of her bag.’ He strode across to Gerry’s desk and set down the A5 flyer he’d picked up. He tapped it. ‘Alcoholics Anonymous.’ Gerry’s brow furrowed as he studied it. ‘Just wondering if... well, you knew about it... or if you don’t... if you should know about it... in case you can... you know... help in any way.’
Gerry nodded. ‘Thanks, Pete,’ he said, ‘your concern is noted.’
*
By now she really had enough information for her story, but she badly needed out of the office. Alix took her iPad, with Bertha’s old photos scanned and uploaded, and called in at the Mace/post office on the corner to show them who she was talking about and to ask if they dealt with many older folk in similar situations – their nearest relatives and friends gone and withdrawing from the world to such an extent that they could lie dead for weeks or months without anyone really noticing. And by chance the first woman she spoke to, Agnes Muirhead, remembered Bertha well and got all tearful when Alix showed her some of the wedding photos. ‘Gosh,’ Agnes said, ‘when they come in, they’re so old and decrepit you forget that they were young once – she was so gorgeous.’
‘So when was the last time you would have served her?’
‘Bertha? Oh, it’s been a while. More than a year. The granddaughter comes in on a Thursday and picks up her pension.’
There was a little catch in Alix’s breath.
‘Her – I wasn’t aware there was a granddaughter. Or even a daughter.’
‘Oh yes – I always asked after Bertha and I remember because she always used to make that wee face you make when you’re trying to sound positive but actually everything is going downhill. Do you know what I mean?’
‘Of course. I don’t suppose you remember her name or know where I might...’
‘I do... but I can’t tell you. Data protection. They’d have my guts for garters. Is that okay?’
‘Yes... of course.’
‘It’s so sad. She was only in last week picking up the pension, so I suppose it must have been quite sudden in the end?’
And this, Alix decided, on the way back to the car, was exactly what it must have felt like to be closing in on a Nazi. The granddaughter was still collecting Bertha’s pension even though she’d been lying dead for weeks. And if she didn’t know she was dead – she might even turn up tomorrow to claim it as normal.
As she pulled out of the car park she jabbed the button to phone Rob.
He said, ‘What’s got you so excited?’
She told him. He told her to slow down and tell him again.
He said, ‘Well that’s a turnip for the books.’ And she giggled happily. ‘So what’re you going to do now?’
‘See what I can find out about the daughter, then this granddaughter who left her to rot. Maybe try the Public Record Office in Belfast for a start.’
‘Okay – very good. But... without raining on your parade, let’s not get too carried away. You’ve other work to do, too.’
‘And it will be done.’
‘We could put this on the back burner until this week’s paper is—’
‘Absolutely not! You’re the one wanted this done.’
‘Okay. All right. See what you can get and let’s discuss later.’
‘Yes, boss.’ He chuckled. She liked the sound of it. She said, ‘Oh... and... about earlier.’
‘Earlier?’
‘Your news. I am pleased for you.’
‘Oh. Well. Thanks. Nothing decided yet.’
‘And very happy that you’re not really a pedo.’
Alix cut the line.
★
There was, hopefully, the news story still to come about the uncaring granddaughter who collected and possibly spent Bertha’s pension, but that would depend on tomorrow’s events. For now the main feature article about her life and times and the circumstances of her sad demise had to be written, and that meant Alix doing it on her own time if there was to be any chance of it being ready for that week’s paper. That also meant switching off the TV, opening a bottle of red and laying out her notes and research material on the kitchen table. She began sifting through it, writing her notes and editing them down. She was about fifteen minutes into it – and, somehow, on her second glass – when the doorbell rang.
Rob was standing there. He held up a bottle of wine. ‘I was just at the offie,’ he said, ‘and passing by here and thinking there’s nothing worse than celebrating alone.’
Alix folded her arms. ‘What are you celebrating?’
‘Apparently I’m not a paedophile. Or, for that matter, a phone hacker.’
‘Phone hacking? Was that it?’
‘That was it. Or not it, as the case may be.’
She nodded her head slowly. He stood somewhat awkwardly.
‘You really haven’t lived here for that long, have you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘There’s no route from any of the local wine shops that would take you past my house on the way back to your house.’
‘Sat nav,’ said Rob, ‘is notorious for this kind of thing. Besides, I meant to ask you to join me when you got back to the office, but you didn’t come back.’
‘I was working. And actually, I still am.’
‘Okay.’
‘But I suppose you can come in.’
She stepped aside. As he brushed past her she detected Lynx Africa and Polo mints. She directed him to the kitchen table. They finished her bottle off first. Then they opened his. She kept saying she should get on with her story, but somehow she didn’t. Their talk
didn’t flow smoothly. Neither of them knew what this was. He could sense a chill when he mentioned his wife or kids. They were on safer ground with music and movies and old boyfriends. They laughed about Pete and what he was like at home, or on holiday, or how he might dance to The Smiths. They talked about Alix and what she wanted to do with her life. They talked about the paper, and she pointed out its many flaws and how she wanted to change it. They talked about Gerry and Janine and whether they were still doing it and what a chancer Gerry was and what a dragon Janine could be and tried to imagine what they’d be like in bed together. Rob said, ‘Gerry’ll be ducking and diving as usual,’ and they got into hysterics over that and then realized that the second bottle was empty and Rob said, ‘I suppose I’d better be going.’ Alix said he better had because she had a story to write still. And somehow they hadn’t addressed any one of the small herd of elephants in the room. Rob pulled on his jacket and she walked him to the door. They stood there, with it half open, and Rob said ‘Well...’ and she said ‘Well...’ and he gave her an awkward hug and then he was just pulling away when she caught hold of his lapel and pulled him back and kissed him on the lips, just very briefly and then shoved him out of the door saying, ‘Go, go, go...’
She closed it after him and returned to the kitchen muttering, ‘Bloody hell, bloody hell, bloody hell...’ She stared at her work spread out on the table and knew that nothing more would be written that night.
Rob stood on the doorstep, and said, ‘Bloody hell.’ He looked at his car, and then looked at his keys. He swore, and started walking, and before he reached the corner the heavens opened. At first it didn’t feel too bad, but after a while the cold and the chill began to bite into him and his head started to ache and he wondered what the hell he’d been thinking of, turning up at her house like that – he was her boss, he was married, he had kids and he was going back to his old job.
Papercuts Page 29