by Lynda Renham
‘She’s a strong presence,’ said Phil shakily.
‘You’re a charlatan,’ said Henry, making for the door, forsaking his slice of Battenberg cake.
He’d have to ask Rita to speak to Imogen. There was nothing else for it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rita washed away her tears and pulled back the patchwork bedspread. Then, realising it was far too early for bed, flattened it back into place. She’d make a hot chocolate, she decided, and read more of her romance novel. By the time she’d drunk the hot chocolate and washed up her mug it would almost certainly be time for bed. She thought of Henry and wondered what he was doing. Were he and Imogen now in bed? Satiated from their dinner of sausages and talking about the strange happenings of the past twenty-four hours? Or, had Imogen not been able to see him? Could Henry really be dead? Perhaps this is exactly what happens when you die. At least, until someone comes to take you to wherever you have to go. Rita hoped she would go to a good place. She tried very hard to do everything that would make sure she did. Each night she asked God’s forgiveness for any wrongs she may have done. The devil was artful. Rita knew that. Sometimes she would forget to pray and then she’d spend longer the next night to make up for it. She took the milk from the fridge with shaking hands. She’d been very careful not to do anything with Billy that would be considered a sin. She’d never stolen or lied. Not lies that really mattered. Surely she would go to a good place. Perhaps she shouldn’t see Henry any more. People might start to think she was mad. She didn’t want to lose her job at the supermarket. She knew it wasn’t the best job in the world, but she rather liked it. If she kept talking to invisible people then they would most certainly have to let her go. The milk bubbled to the top of the pan and Rita rescued it just in time. Poor Henry, she thought. What an awful situation to be in. The room had now turned chilly and she shivered. She considered turning the heater on again. She didn’t like to keep it on for too long. It cost far too much money. But she hadn’t wanted to turn it off when Henry had been there. He seemed to feel the cold quite keenly, but I suppose he would, thought Rita, if he was dead.
The Mills and Boon novel lay on the bedside cabinet. She picked it up and began to read. The story about an everyday shop assistant who finds herself whisked off to a palace in the desert by a rich Arab sheik was really quite fantastic, rather like her and Henry’s story. No one would believe it if you told them. She thought back to Henry’s kiss and a little tremor of desire ran through. She wondered what he was doing right at that very moment. Most likely he had been right, and the business had now been sorted. He’s probably sleeping off all that food. I hope his dyspepsia isn’t too bad, she thought kindly. She imagined that after the sausages he and Imogen had talked and sorted everything out.
‘What a strange day,’ she said aloud.
The hot chocolate mug was washed up and Rita was about to take off her clothes and put on her nightie when the front door buzzer startled her. It was almost nine thirty. No one ever rang her doorbell that late. Sometimes she would get people selling dusters and pegs or peddling religion, however, they nearly always came before seven. If it was Billy then he would knock on her door, not ring the main bell.
She clicked the buzzer nervously.
‘Hello,’ she said apprehensively.
‘Rita, it’s Henry.’
Her heart fluttered and then immediately she panicked. She looked an absolute fright. She wrapped herself in a cardigan as though Henry could somehow see her through the intercom.
‘Oh, hello,’ she said.
‘I wondered if I could come up,’ he said.
She heard the hopefulness in his voice.
‘You didn’t have your sausages then?’ said Rita.
‘No, no sausages,’ said Henry miserably.
‘I’ll come down,’ she said.
‘Oh goodness,’ she muttered looking frantically around the bedsit. There was no time to tidy. She rushed to the bathroom and with despair, saw that her eyes were still red. Her hair wasn’t too bad, thank goodness. A quick brush would do. She put some powder over her eyes to cover the redness. She didn’t want Henry to know that she had been crying. She hurried down the stairs and opened the door. Henry stood on the step looking bedraggled. Behind him the rain pounded the pavement.
‘It’s thundering down,’ he said, dripping water onto the carpet.
‘Let me get you a towel,’ said Rita, hurrying back upstairs.
Henry followed her into the cosy bedsit and took off his rain splattered glasses but then realised his handkerchief was too damp to clean them.
‘I should take off my shoes,’ he said when Rita returned.
She handed him a dark green towel. It was soft and smelt of bluebells.
‘I’ll hang your coat to dry,’ she said.
He pulled it off gratefully and handed it to her.
‘I thought you’d be eating your sausages,’ she said and wondered why she couldn’t get her mind off Henry’s sausages.
‘They got thrown in the bin,’ said Henry sadly.
The thought of Henry’s sausages going in the bin made Rita sadder than ever.
‘I’ve just had a hot chocolate,’ said Rita. ‘Would you like one?’
‘Lovely,’ said Henry.
Rita reluctantly switched on the electric heater.
Henry felt weary. Everything seemed so hopeless. If the psychic couldn’t help him, then who could?
‘I went to see a psychic,’ he said.
Rita froze.
‘A psychic?’ she repeated, not turning to look at Henry.
‘He couldn’t even see me,’ said Henry tutting. ‘What kind of a psychic is that?’
‘You’re supposed to avoid anyone who practises divination or sorcery, interprets omens …’ she began. ‘Some of these people are possessed by demons.’
Henry came to stand beside her.
‘Well, I don’t believe in either God or demons,’ he said. ‘Do you?’
Rita didn’t want to talk about demons in her bedsit. It was far safer, she felt, not to bring up such a subject.
‘Do you want sugar in your hot chocolate?’ she asked instead.
Henry sat on the couch with a tired sigh. His legs felt heavy and his heart even more so. He would do anything to climb into his warm comfortable bed and lay his weary body on the memory foam mattress.
‘Just one teaspoon,’ he said. ‘Maybe it will help with the shock.’
‘You’ve had a shock?’ exclaimed Rita.
‘I travelled back in time.’
‘You did?’
Rita tried not to look disbelieving. She hoped Henry wouldn’t say he’d found a time machine.
‘I walked into my wardrobe and went back to when Imogen and I were first married. A very strange experience.’
‘Lots of strange things are happening to you,’ she said.
Rita placed a tablemat onto the table and sat the hot chocolate onto it.
‘I just don’t know what to do,’ said Henry.
‘Perhaps you just need to wait,’ suggested Rita. Henry wasn’t sure what he was supposed to wait for. He stroked his chin thoughtfully and then said,
‘I rather thought you could help me.’
‘Me?’ questioned Rita, surprised.
Rita wanted to help Henry but wasn’t at all sure what she could do. It seemed to her that trying to fix being dead was an impossible task. If only it were his dyspepsia, she thought. That would have been so much easier. The pharmacy at the supermarket sold loads of things for that and Rita could get them at discount price. That was one of the good things about working at the supermarket. Unfortunately, the pharmacy didn’t sell anything that brought the dead back to life.
‘I don’t see how I can help,’ she said gently. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt Henry’s feelings.
She glanced at the red electric bars. She couldn’t turn them off without appearing rude, especially not with poor Henry wet through. Not that it mattered, sup
posed Rita. He couldn’t very well catch pneumonia and die. So, perhaps she could turn them off after all.
‘I’ll get a blanket,’ she said, falling to her knees.
Henry taken aback, sat forward, spilling some hot chocolate onto his already damp trousers. Rita pulled out a drawer from under the bed and rummaged through it.
Very handy, Henry thought.
‘I was sure I had a thicker blanket. Will this be alright instead?’
Rita removed a grey and white checked blanket and handed it to Henry.
‘It’s not as warm as my other one. I don’t know why it isn’t here.’
‘This is perfect,’ said Henry.
‘Only it’s quite expensive to keep the heater on.’
Immediately she regretted mentioning it.
‘Oh,’ said Henry, taking the blanket.
It had never occurred to him to think of the cost. The heating was always on in their house. Henry didn’t believe in being cold.
‘I’ll give you some money,’ he said.
Rita clasped her hands together and shook her head emphatically.
‘Oh no,’ she protested. ‘I didn’t mean.’
Oh dear, I’ve offended him, thought Rita.
‘It can stay on a bit longer,’ she said.
Henry wrapped the blanket around his shivering body and marvelled at how everything in the bedsit smelt of bluebells.
‘I did think of all the ways you could help,’ said Henry. ‘As I walked here I went over everything in my head. I have to find out what happened to me and I don’t see how I can do that on my own. Not if no one can see me.’
Rita’s shoulders ached with tension. She waited on Henry’s every word. She could see his dilemma.
‘Will you help me?’ he asked.
‘I can’t go and see a psychic,’ she said breathlessly. She would do everything she could to help but she daren’t risk going somewhere like that.
‘Good heavens no,’ smiled Henry. ‘What would be the point of that?’
Rita’s shoulders relaxed.
‘How can I help then?’ she asked.
‘I thought you could speak to Imogen but I’m not sure that’s a good idea. She might call the police or something.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Rita, relieved.
Henry finished his hot chocolate and laid his head back against Rita’s cosy sofa.
‘I think I need to sleep on that,’ he said.
Rita’s face turned red.
‘I’ll stay on this sofa if that’s alright?’ he asked, looking into her eyes.
Rita’s eyes melted into his. He seemed more handsome than ever and he needed her. No one had ever needed Rita before. All the same, it caused a bit of a problem. How was she supposed to get ready for bed? She supposed she could change in the bathroom but even then, she’d still have to come back and Henry would then see her in her nightie. That wouldn’t do. She’d have to keep her dressing gown on. It would be a bit hot though, especially if Henry wanted the heater kept on. Goodness, thought Rita, I hope he doesn’t. Maybe she should take some money from him after all. But it was surely a bit risky taking money from a man. It was not the thing to do. Men expected all sorts when you took money from them.
‘I have to get to bed,’ she said shyly.
Henry looked embarrassed.
‘Oh yes, of course,’ he said flustered. ‘I erm …’
‘You can sleep on the sofa,’ she said. ‘The bathroom is on the landing.’
‘Splendid,’ nodded Henry.
Rita found herself wondering if Henry had found the need for a toilet.
‘I’ll go and get ready then,’ she said, standing up.
‘Yes,’ said Henry.
How strange, Rita thought again. Who’d have thought Henry Booker Frazer would have been staying the night in my bedsit.
Chapter Twenty-Six
No one had ever stayed the night in Rita’s bedsit before. Although Billy had once thought she’d had someone there. She hoped he hadn’t heard her talking to Henry.
The bathroom was empty, and Rita checked the bolt was securely in place before removing her skirt and jumper. The smell of Lily’s minty mouthwash hung in the air. Rita wiped at the steamy mirror and saw her lips were now stained a faint pink. The rosy red lipstick practically chewed off. The beans on toast had devoured the last of it. The waves had dropped too, Rita noticed with dismay. She pulled a pink polyester nightie over her head and looked carefully to see if her breasts could be seen. She should have shaved her legs. It wasn’t something she cared to do, and it seemed pretty pointless to shave them in the winter. It would seem rather silly to keep her tights on to go to bed but if she didn’t, Henry would see her in all her hairiness glory.
‘Oh dear,’ she groaned.
Rita wondered if she’d ever be able to leave the bathroom. Hairy legs and the shape of her breasts through a nightie had never been something she needed to concern herself with before. It was such a small problem in the scheme of things. Especially, when she thought of all the starving people in underdeveloped countries and the awful lives of those oppressed under totalitarian regimes. I really shouldn’t be worrying about hairy legs, she thought. However, she didn’t live under a totalitarian regime and she wasn’t starving, so hairy legs in Rita’s world were a priority. The dressing gown thankfully covered the breasts. Perhaps, hoped Rita, Henry wouldn’t think to look down at her legs. Carefully she laid the spare toothbrush on the sink and beside it placed a tube of toothpaste. No doubt, Henry would sleep in his clothes. Rita had no idea what she would do if he undressed. Her face grew hot at just the thought of it. She imagined Henry to be very muscular, with a hairy chest. Rather like the hero on the covers of her Mills and Boon romances. She couldn’t help wondering what kind of nightie Imogen wore. Maybe she didn’t wear one at all. Perhaps they slept in the nude. Decadent, intelligent people did things like that. A delicious shiver ran up Rita’s spine at the thought. She realised she had been sometime in the bathroom and it suddenly occurred to her that Henry may need to use the toilet. She cleaned her teeth, checked the dressing gown was securely fastened and left the bathroom. The sounds of Billy’s television reached her ears. She found Henry huddled beneath the blanket, dozing. Rita began to perspire the moment she entered. The heater could surely go off now.
‘Oh,’ said Henry, rousing. ‘I must have gone off.’
‘It’s very warm in here,’ said Rita.
‘Yes, indeed. Shall we turn it off?’ he asked nodding at the heater.
Rita, conscious of her hairy legs, didn’t want to do anything other than hide her body under the bedcovers.
‘The bathroom is free,’ she said shyly. ‘I’ve left you a toothbrush.’
‘Splendid,’ said Henry, yawning.
‘You must be quiet. We’re not supposed to have guests in our rooms after eight.’
‘I don’t think anyone is going to hear me,’ he smiled. ‘Which room is the bathroom?’
‘The one with the green door,’ said Rita, her ears pricked for footsteps on the stairs. ‘I’ve left it open.’
Once Henry had gone, Rita dived into bed. Then realising she hadn’t turned the heater off, reluctantly climbed out again. Her initial excitement at the thought of having Henry stay the night had now been reduced to an overwhelming anxiety. She didn’t want to lose her little bedsit or the reasonable rent. If Billy kicked her out where would she go? What if Henry was a loud snorer and Billy heard him. Rita reminded herself that no one else could hear Henry and that calmed her.
Henry stood in the bathroom and took in its shabbiness. He didn’t really need to clean his teeth, or do anything else come to that, but he didn’t want to see Rita take off her dressing gown. It would be too embarrassing for both of them. So he stood and waited until he felt enough time had passed and then returned to the bedsit. He looked curiously at Rita as she lay in the bed and said,
‘Shall I switch off the light?’
‘Yes please,’ she whispered .
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br /> Henry clicked the switch easily enough, but nothing happened.
Henry let out a long sigh. This didn’t happen in his house.
‘Of course I can’t turn the lights off,’ he said miserably. ‘I can only seem to do that in my own home.’
It was such a small thing, but Rita could have cried at the sound of despair in Henry’s voice.
‘I’ll do it,’ she said, climbing from the bed and in that moment completely forgetting about her hairy legs, although, Rita, in fact, didn’t have hairy legs at all. Her father’s constant incantations of what constituted perfection had damaged Rita more than she ever could have imagined. She clicked the switch, sending the room into total darkness. She crept slowly back to the bed, careful to feel her way. She did not want to touch Henry. That wouldn’t do at all.
‘Goodnight Rita,’ said Henry.
‘Goodnight Henry,’ said Rita.
Billy was watching a comedy show that Rita was familiar with. She recognised the theme tune. It strangely comforted her and within minutes, she was asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Henry listened to Rita’s gentle breathing. He couldn’t sleep. The couch, cosy as it was, wasn’t conducive to sleep. The pillow Rita had given him was hard and lumpy and although the pillow case smelt sweetly of bluebells, it still didn’t seem to help. He yearned for his bed with its cool linen sheets and duck feather duvet. It had been Henry’s idea to get duck feather. It was a bit of luxury, but Henry believed it was worth it if it gave you a good night’s sleep. He also wished Rita’s landlord would turn off the TV. It was very distracting when one was trying to doze. Not that he could sleep, not with all the things that were on his mind. He wondered what Imogen was doing. Had she finally gone to sleep with the baby clothes scattered around the bed?
‘Oh, Imogen,’ he whispered.
What would Imogen think, if she knew he was in Rita’s bedsit, with Rita in her nightie, just feet away? Then, as though a bolt of lightning had illuminated the room, Henry saw things clearly. The man at his funeral, the loner sitting on his own, of course Henry knew him. He’d hired him to fix their roof.