Mrs Harrison saw John Mills walking home on the opposite side of the road, looking up at the house. He reminded her of a tortoise, the way his head slid out from his shoulders with such suspicion. She waved to him from the window of Mrs Pearson Thorpe’s study, but since the outside of the glass was so pristine clean from the ministrations of the early morning window cleaner, all John saw of her wave was a black reflection. Mrs Harrison had been dusting, removing en route the odd bottle and sticky glass from behind the small sofa which still held the shoebox of the family jewels, making her tut-tut in disapproval. So careless. Harrison, the better half, was downstairs watching Tee Vee with the children, boring stuff of which she disapproved, either cricket or cartoons, she couldn’t remember which, suitable stuff for a stifling late afternoon. Jeanetta wouldn’t have put up with that kind of sop: she would have played merry hell with all the sitting still – why had she been so fat? Mrs Harrison punched the cushions on the sofa, hammering them into shape with her fists and then losing interest, going back to the window, full of unexplained restlessness, stoked with anger. Poor little brute, Jeanetta, hidden for two whole weeks, you would have thought they would have let her come round to play, just to get used to the idea, bad for children, all these abrupt changes of regime. Mrs Harrison had knocked at next door twice, offered to take the pair of the kids to the park. Were they grateful? No. The refusal from David what’s-his-face had been distantly polite, cheesy grin all over the place, so kind, so very kind, but she’s off with someone; maybe another time. She knew her place: knew her own version of her own station well enough to recognize repeated asking as being impolitic. She would, though: she bloody would. There was nothing inconsistent in the fact of her refusing to let Katherine in when she had come to the door. Harrison had done the same. She didn’t want the mother: she only wanted the kids.
Pausing still by the study window, Mrs Harrison fished in her pocket and found her cigarettes. Bugger it, room was stuffy enough and Madam would never notice the smell. Nevertheless, she took the precaution of opening the window, then thought for a moment, dragged up a chair and put her feet on the ledge, why not. Convenient, this: in the absence of a saucer, the ash could be flicked into the street. She coughed loudly. There was heavy dust in the green damask curtains. Shake these, she thought, and I’d suffocate in dead flies, but if Mrs P can’t care less, no reason why I should either. Then she leant forward sharply. Drifting upwards, her keen ear had detected the voice of young Jeremy Allendale, his words unclear, but the high, questioning treble quite unmistakable. She pushed her bosom over the ledge to watch father and child crossing from left to right and approaching his car, perfect companions, walking close without touching. Then her heart stopped, oh dear God Almighty, there was that bloody beggar, lurking on the driver’s side of the shiny vehicle, the same dirty man who had been inside this house like a magpie on legs, pathetic little creature, all wrinkled, tree-bark brown. Mrs Harrison leant further out of the window, ready to shout Stop thief, stop him, Jerry boy, don’t you see it’s the same one, same little runt, grab the bastard and call the cops, before she checked herself in time and drew back beyond the distance where they might see her face, shaking her head in sudden self-congratulation. Then she sat back in her chair and threw the half-finished fag out of the window in a gesture of impatience. No way would little Jerry point out this thief: she knew what the memory of a two-year-old was like, nothing more exciting than the last two minutes, but wasn’t she a fool, wanting to shout.
‘Can’t do that now, can I? Oh, shouldn’t tell fibs . . .’ She wagged one admonishing finger in front of her own face. ‘Now, now,’ she hummed to herself. One further thought crossed her mind, making her venture another bending forward with the bosom out of the window. Father and son had reached the car, but the vagrant man had moved beyond it. As she watched, he crossed the street at a gallop and in one fluid movement, picked up the cigarette she had jettisoned. He flicked at the end which had been lit with one experienced forefinger, put it in his pocket and moved quickly out of sight. Damn, said Mrs Harrison loudly, damn, blast and bloody, bloody hell.
When he had walked towards home up the street, John Mills had seen the tramp sitting on the pavement by the car and thought for one glorious minute he was guarding it, having heard of such things. Being very credulous about everything he read and never having owned a car, he thought a large BMW might be worth the guard, cheaper, probably, than any mechanical alarm. A body did not activate and embarrass the neighbours with yelping whoops simply because of the vibration of passing traffic, far more efficient. The man he saw squatting had eyes which were vivid pink against his ageless face. John’s observations were brief and superficial: he was thinking of the kittens and how to find them new homes although his heart wanted to break at the very idea. His face twitched into a smile as he passed the car, grinning at the man for no reason while the plastic bag full of Kit-e-kat tins, stretched by the weight, bumped painfully on to his shins.
Matilda Mills was home one whole long half-hour since, all because of a little tiff. The man had called – the man, elderly and adoring, who had courted her for weeks – waited while Matilda’s supervisor tutted and stood close by with a lot of heavy breathing, sniffing disapproval while Matilda spoke. As a result, Matilda had been terse, the man, who had wanted to arrange another jolly session in an even jollier bar, even terser in the space of a three-minute conversation which ended up in no arrangement at all. The resulting vacuum in herself left Matilda frightened: she wanted to shout about how she did not deserve yet to lose this promised escape route, so she had hurried home in order to phone him from there, maybe get back out of doors before John came home. But the impulse had somehow died along with the panic, the sense of going to prison increasing as she plodded from the bus and over to her own front door. The image of the smiling, slightly plump seducer was receding like the Cheshire cat she remembered from Alice in Wonderland, a vision disappearing only to return in a clearer sky. Tomorrow would have to do. She felt some hope in that, but in the meantime, the all too familiar paralysis.
Friday evening, early. For the last month or more she had celebrated the end of the week with the other man. Outside the takeaway, where one of the Asians took down the shutters, Ahmed with the grin was unloading the van. He opened the back doors and whistled. Matilda watched in amazement, thinking of a childish joke heard in the shop, between children, one she had heard before. How do you fit six elephants into a Mini? Easy, three in the front and three in the back. From the back of the once white van, there emerged one enormous black and tan dog, the size of a small pony. It stepped out with delicacy, showing a soft black muzzle and drooping jowls, eyes of liquid brown which regarded the owner with complete trust while the leash was clipped to the collar round the neck. The doors of this mobile kennel were slammed shut: the dog flinched at the noise while Ahmed noticed Matilda and smiled his automatic smile, showing very white teeth and pink gums. ‘’Lo, missis. You like our doggy? This,’ he patted the black and tan head, ‘is our Rotty.’
Matilda did like, after a fashion. She waited behind them as Ahmed unlocked the side door which led through the building and on to her stairs. Following man and dog inside, she was fascinated by the swagger of the dog’s rump, with a pair of enormous testicles swaying between the muscular legs. This impedimenta disgusted her, but she admired the rest, extended one hand to pat the rump before she departed upstairs. Ahmed turned and saw the beginnings of the gesture, jerked the leash so the animal sprang forward out of reach.
‘Don’t do so, missis. He is not quite knowing you, yet.’
‘He’s very handsome,’ Matilda said warmly, withdrawing her hand all the same. ‘I thought you said he was friendly.’ Ahmed shifted from one foot to the other. ‘Oh, yes, yes, yes. Very friendly, liking everyone, everything. Excepting cats.’ He laughed uproariously. ‘But only when he is knowing you better, you see. Then you pat him, take him for walking if you like. Very friendly dog. We take him home tonight. Bac
k again, always Saturday. Busy then.’
His grin flashed in the dark corridor and he walked round the dog, which remained entirely still. Matilda watched as the door beyond was opened, revealing one square of the weedy, paved yard, stacked with boxes, still brilliant with sunlight. Then she went upstairs in the airless darkness, nostrils twitching, remembering the scent of cat litter, the cupboards full of muesli which looked the same, all the tins, accumulating over a week, waiting for the smell of feline life, the noise of hungry kittens and the feeling of venom which would overtake her.
Not entirely by coincidence, since it was Katherine who had taken them there the year before, Monica and Jenny went to the Royal Academy on their own. Monica had proved so difficult to pin down, but somehow she fell in with this idea. Jenny suggested they invite Katherine too, but Monica said, don’t bother: she’s at home today, leaving Jenny to wonder how she knew, not deigning to ask but relieved that they had spoken. Katherine’s friendship was something she wanted to share, never mind dilute, and she was not going to ask any unnecessary questions or do anything at all to increase Monica’s tetchiness. Neither had an eye for a picture, but people talked about this exhibition, like the American couple they both knew well: you had to say you had been or be dismissed as a Philistine. In any event, Monica fancied something big and modern for her house, she said. Anything halfway decent will be bought already, Jenny said. I don’t want anything decent, said Monica. OK, don’t argue. Jenny would settle for something small and pretty or nothing at all. She was becoming impatient with what she took to be sulks, wished in a way Katherine was with them after all. At least in her dreamy way she would have enthused and Jenny knew she would never buy a picture without her approval.
No chance of that anyway. Canvases of landscapes, pretty bowls of flowers, pictorial beauties and anonymous portraits of gorgeous women were all gone. Jenny shuddered at the nudes which Monica pretended to like while Monica pooh-poohed pictures of children which Jenny adored. By the time they reached abstracts and simply non-figurative, their steps were getting quicker, breaking into a canter towards the general direction of the exit and restaurant. ‘Right,’ said Monica. ‘I think I’ve had enough of culture. Oh, Christ, look at that.’
She slewed to a halt before the lurid depiction of adultery, taking in the lewd shapes without reading the title. ‘Great, isn’t it?’
‘You must be kidding,’ said Jenny. ‘What’s happening anyway? Has that poor woman given birth to twins? Oh, I see. They’re at it.’ She peered at the title. ‘I can’t understand what on earth that’s got to do with it.’
‘Neither can I,’ Monica responded grimly. ‘How much does it cost?’
Jenny looked at a price list on the wall. ‘Five thousand pounds. Katherine might say it was a masterpiece.’
‘I doubt it. Unsold, I see. Colin would love it on the living-room wall.’ Monica put a hand over her mouth and snorted with laughter, a look of misery in her eyes which was misunderstood. ‘I like the frame,’ Jenny contributed, pleased to see at least the laughter. Something in the picture stirred an entirely unconnected guilt. She must, absolutely must, telephone Katherine, but Monica, awkward, troubled Monica, came first, and for reasons she could not fathom, Monica would not like it. Jenny was hungry and thirsty: the day was hot even in these vaulted halls. She no longer wanted to buy. Monica was preoccupied and selfish. What about me, Jack, Jenny wanted to say: please listen to me.
‘Hungry, thirsty. What about you, Jack?’
Jack be nimble, Jack be quick: Jack jumped over a candlestick. Jeanetta played with Jack, quite unable to remember the chance rhyme which had brought him into existence in her head. Jack also climbed a beanstalk out of the roof. He had come to live in the playroom ever since she had spent so much time in there alone: he was hungry too, but very, very clever. Jack sat still and pretended to eat, sitting solemnly with his legs crossed in the corner, a knife and fork in his hands, cutting at the floor very tidily, putting bits into his mouth and saying, ‘Mmmm, mmm, very nice.’ She followed suit, juggling the cutlery with great expertise and making the same noises. ‘I think I’ll have ice cream now,’ she told Jack aloud. No you won’t, he said:There’s none left. Jeanetta stared wide-eyed and vacant towards a space on the wall. ‘Greedy Jack. What’s for me? Oh, nothing much. Yogot and cornflakes and a few biscuits. Goody goody, I’ll have the biscuits.’ She picked them tidily off the floor, the small mouth working and the whole of her swallowing, desperate to feel the solidity, imagining the sweetness. But all the swallowing made her thirsty: she was getting tired of this game. Jack was even cleverer. Yesterday, whenever was yesterday, or another day anyway, she followed Jack on top of the chest to reach up to the window. Together they had licked off the moisture from the pane until she fell from craning too high, but then he showed her how to dabble her fingers in a small pool of condensation on the ledge and transfer dirty water into her mouth. She did not mind the inclusion of dust. Dust was funny: she had never seen it before except in Mrs Harry’s house, not here, except when Daddy built things. The little pool of water was vaguely grey but the colour hardly mattered.
‘Come on, Jack.’ She blundered over to the window, coughing.
Swallowing did that too. No, she really was getting fed up of this game. She stopped importantly to pull up her shorts, which tended to waggle down over her behind. Since they were soiled and tended to get in the way of clambering on to the chest, she took them off instead. Every ounce of energy was needed for climbing the chest: something about it got higher and higher, the ascent harder and harder, but she finally got there, winded, coughing again. The sun was sharp. No water. She shut her eyes and counted one, two, three. Sometimes there was water, sometimes not. Pretending made her weary. ‘Not enough for you, Jack,’ she called down. Not enough for anyone. She searched the wood along the edge of the pane, picking at the paint. Then slithered back to the floor, trying not to cry. Be good, be good. Her throat hurt. You lied to me, Jack, you fibber: you did. She wanted to be sorrowful but instead was angry, weakly angry, and wanting to pull things apart. Jack disappeared whenever she was cross.
From outside in the kitchen, she heard the downstairs telephone. Daddy’s voice.
‘No, I’m sorry, not today. She’s not in. How are you?’ No screaming, she remembered, and the throat was too dry for such protest, her face all squeezed up and her hands clenched with the effort not to cry. Where are you, Jack? Where’ve you gone, come back, please. He would, she supposed. Someone had to come back. In the meantime she was still angry, still remembering not to scream.
Jeanetta, feeble yet furious, looked round for something to tear with her teeth.
CHAPTER 15
Katherine lay spreadeagled on the bed, aching in every limb, listening for the sounds of his breathing and the sounds of the night. How wrong, she thought, in a burst of perspiration, a sweat of panic, how wrong can a person be? Controlling herself, keeping her being as calm as she could, imagining that the only threat was against herself, letting it all get out of control. Imagining she was the only one who might be at risk: thinking that if she was good, everything would be all right. In the bathroom mirror, she had seen this evening older and wiser eyes, known, unbelievably for the first time, where the real threat lay and who might be the victim. The belief was tenuous: she did not want it, but it would not go away.
She was aware of hurting without being able to tell the source of the pain, smoothed one inner thigh to relieve the sensation of bruising and distract the nausea. She had been dry as a bone, the sexual exercise forced without protest and without response. One floor above the playroom, she could no longer hear what might have been Jeanetta’s screaming, or the talking, or the singing, or the strange, keening noises she made, all of the childish sounds faded into merciful oblivion, drifting downwind when David had half helped, half lifted her upstairs, she leaning on to his arm like an old lady.
Jeanetta had not eaten today, nor yesterday. Virtually nothing on all the days since
Katherine’s meeting with Mary, confused to find on her return those fractious howls filling the kitchen air, sure sign of a presence beyond the door. The same each day since. Jeremy had been asleep, siesta-ing quietly away from the noise which tended to make him shriek in symphony. David had emerged from his studio, infuriated by Katherine’s interruption, hearing her protests with calm indifference.
‘Of course she screams, darling. She’s been naughty. It’s guilt, that’s all.’
‘Hunger, that’s all. She hasn’t had any food since . . . when? Why did you keep her in? She could have stayed with you.’
He shrugged.
‘She’s too fat to eat.’
‘David . . .’
‘Leave her.’ He had closed the door on himself and the playroom key.
That day, she seemed to remember, they had let the child out for cold supper, a fragment of the bread, but for the days since she had now spent far more time inside the playroom than elsewhere although there had been one or two spells in the garden. She had tried to eat some leaves: next door’s dog did that, she said. As well as grass. Today Katherine had looked at her and experienced some difficulty in perceiving this as her own, fat child. The clothes on the body were standing away and the arms which emerged from the sleeves of the stained cotton blouse were no longer plump; surely she was slender enough now for this streamlined house. Mother always imagined David had in mind a sort of enforced diet, simply to make her appearance more amenable. Katherine had moved to embrace child, but child screamed, leant backwards, the scream releasing spittle from her mouth which landed on the pristine white of Katherine’s skirt. David was ignoring the sound and looking over the child’s head into the carnage of the playroom. ‘Christ Almighty,’ he said. ‘Look what the little bitch has done now.’
The Playroom Page 22