Imperfect Strangers

by David Staniforth

  If I wasn’t already silent, I would be stunned into silence. The child I thought hated me suddenly seems to like me, though I wish she wouldn’t have mentioned Steve. And why would she want me to wear red contact lenses? I recall Pete’s sculpted hair. Yes, women seem to like that sort of thing, but red eyes?

  “We’ll go to Coles’, ‘cause that’s Sal’s fave place. Everything in Sal’s House is from Coles. Like there’s no other shop or whatever.”

  Poppy jumps to her feet when Sally returns. “Come on, Sal,” she says, taking Sally’s hand, dragging her toward to door. “We’re taking Keith shopping with us. I’m going to be, like, his personal stylist. He wants us to transform him like them programmes he’s seen on telly.”

  Sally titters, picks up her coffee, and takes a sip, before sitting. “You two drunk up already? Sorry, there was a crisis in the toilet. Some old dear, who’d got herself locked in the cubicle, and panicked. Anyway, what have you two been chatting about, telly?”

  “I don’t have a television.” I do however like the idea of shopping with Sally, even if it means dragging Poppy with us. Suddenly I feel conscious of the jumper I’m wearing and its apparent foulness.

  “No telly. Oo-est, that’s just wi-erd. Anyway, like I said, Keith’s coming shopping with us.”

  “I’m certain Keith has better things to do than go shopping with us, Poppy.”

  “How do you live with, like, no telly.”

  “No, I’m not busy.”

  “Do you have a bed?”

  “Yes, of course I have a bed.”

  “I don’t think Keith wants to come shopping with us, Poppy.”

  “It’ll be like Beauty and the Geek.”

  “POPPY!!!”

  “I, I, would like to.”

  Sally flushes a deep shade of crimson as she knocks back the rest of her coffee. Obviously it was too hot and the heat made the blood rush to her cheeks. She agrees that they will take me shopping, if only for an hour, because Poppy’s mum will be expecting them back.

  “Oh! By. The. Way,” Poppy says, emphasising every word with her hands, as we step from the cafe. “Keith does not like coffee.”

  CHAPTER

  23

  “Why didn’t you say you don’t like coffee?” I shout above the squeal of brakes as a coach pulls up full of kids that must be out on a theatre trip. I doubt they’re going to see Calendar Girls at the Lyceum, so it must be A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Crucible.

  “Because he’s shy.”

  “I didn’t ask for your opinion, Poppy.”

  “Sorr-eee.”

  Keith hangs his head, as if shamed and mumbles, “don’t know, really. Seemed impolite.”

  His reaction churns me up inside. I feel as if I’ve been overzealous in the chastisement of a young child. “You really need to speak up, Keith; tell people what you actually think, rather than what you think they want to hear.”

  “Maybe he didn’t know what a crap-in-chino was.”

  “Don’t be silly, Poppy, everyone knows what... Oh, you didn’t, did you?” Keith colours with embarrassment. “Well, if you don’t like coffee, I don’t suppose you would, necessarily.” How bad do I feel now? Seems like Poppy is more attuned to Keith than I am. In some ways he seems closer to her age. That’s it, I realise, intellectually he is very adept, but sociologically, he is perhaps not even a match for my niece.

  We make our way up the high street in an uncomfortable near silence that I find rather uncomfortable, but which doesn’t seem to bother Poppy or Keith in the slightest. I wonder if he has some sort of condition. I look across at the Winter Gardens, and for a moment I forget what used to be there before it was built. Funny how the mind soon forgets. Wedding cake, I think, the round registry office. No, it wasn’t. It was the town hall that had weird windows, like the surface of one of those trays that hold thirty or so eggs. Pity the wedding cake’s been knocked down, Steve once said. That’s where I’d have got married. Good job it had been knocked down because it saved me having to say that I wouldn’t have got married there, if even if it was the last place available. Maybe Steve has a condition too, maybe we all have. Maybe there’s a sociological sliding scale and we’re all on it at some level, those that cope well with people but end up being arrogant shits, and those who don’t cope so well, and despite being decent people get taken for, and treated like, morons.

  The expanse in front of the theatres, which has seen many changes, looks really good. Bedraggled pigeons mill around, scratching for crumbs thrown by children waiting by their teachers, while a tramp sits on a bench, ignored, not as worthy of charity as the winged-rats that seem to crap everywhere. The pigeons scatter and settle ten feet away, and I’m shocked to see Kerry exiting the doors of the winter garden. Even on a weekend she is looking as severe as ever. As yet, it doesn’t seem as if Kerry has spotted me. Being with Keith, especially dressed as he is, is one thing; batting aside Poppy’s comments another, but the last thing I need – the last thing Keith needs for that matter – is Kerry’s acerbic tongue as a finishing touch.

  “Come on, we’ll go this way,” I say urging Keith back towards the crucible with the intention of heading up Fargate, grabbing Poppy’s wrist and tugging her behind. “It’s quicker.”

  Keith stops dead and appears to be considering various routes. “No, it isn’t. It’s quicker to cut through the peace gardens.”

  Great, now he decides to speak his mind. “This way is quicker! If you want to call at a cash-point, that is. Thankfully all the banks are on Fargate. Now come on, move, quickly, I haven’t got all day.” I sound like one of the teachers standing outside the theatre: Why didn’t you go before we left, I hear one of them ask a child who’s plaiting his legs.

  “Surely he uses plastic, Sal. I mean, cash, it’s like so last year.”

  “Do you have a credit card, Keith…? No, I guessed not. Now come on, Poppy, move.”

  At the cash point Keith places his bag on the floor, between his legs, gripping it with his ankles. He looks around, as if for men in balaclavas, then cautiously draws back the zip. He crouches over the bag and rummages inside, hiding what, I can’t even begin to guess. We’ve not walked far, and Kerry could easily be coming this way, and I wish he would just hurry up. I resist the urge to hurry him though, because, if my theory about him is correct he would become flustered and end up taking even longer. Finally he stands and takes his place in a queue of three. Kerry must have gone down to the bus station, or straight across towards the markets. She would have been upon us by now otherwise.

  There was a cheetah on a wild life documentary I saw some time ago. I feel just like her. The cat was worried about her cub hiding in the long grass and concerned about losing the carcass she had recently killed, no doubt hoping neither would be spotted and ripped apart by approaching hyenas. Should I duck low and hope to be camouflaged by the crowd, or hide the cub, abandon the carcass and run across the hyena’s path in hope of causing a distraction. Fargate is busy though, so we’re partially masked at least.

  Keith finally reaches the front of the queue. Poppy jumps in front of him as he slips his card into the slot, her eyes fixed on the screen.

  “How much will I need?” Keith enquires, glancing over his shoulder as the card registers.

  “Whatever,” I reply, distractedly, looking in the direction of the High-street, eager to move on at the earliest opportunity. I think there used to be a fountain at the top of here, but now there’s a wheel that’s a poor interpretation of the London Eye, as if I need any reminding that I’m the poor sister still living up north.

  “Best max it, Keith.” Poppy begins pressing buttons. “How much you got in there?” She presses the button by the green letters requesting a balance update. “Wow dude! Twenty-seven grand. You’re proper minted.”

  “Poppy!!!” I take a step back and yank Poppy away with me. “That’s private. Sorry Keith, I–”

  “Hi there, Sal. Who’s this?”

  See what you’ve
done now, Poppy? A mere moments distraction and the hyena closed in. Please ground open up and swallow me now. Sheffield once had a big hole in the road – Dad used to point it out at the opening titles of the Full Monty film (There it is, he’d say with pride. That’s hole in’t road) – maybe it was built for occasions like this. I hold a fixed grin on my face, hoping that Kerry’s only spotted the cub, and knowing I must look as false as a plastic manikin, I turn to face Kerry. “Hi Kerry. This is Poppy, my niece.”

  “And security-Keith, too... My, don’t we look a bunch of happy shoppers.”

  Kerry looks Keith up and down as if he actually is a carcass. What’s more, that he’s already been picked over and gone so rotten that even a hyena would not dream of touching him, never-mind eating him.

  “Nice jumper,” Kerry comments. “Ooo, and a matching bag as well, the perfect ensemble. Very fetching.”

  Come back with something, I silently urge, but Keith says nothing. I’m certain he’s intelligent enough to run rings around her, but he’s so lacking in sharp wit he couldn’t cut blancmange. He just stands looking in the direction of the cathedral, biting the inside of his cheek.

  “We’re giving him a make-over,” Poppy announces. This has the effect of splitting me in two. Half of me winces at the shame of Kerry knowing such a thing and the other half is filled with pride, because Poppy intoned her voice in such a way that there could be no mistaking the fact that she was speaking in defence of Keith. This is my friend, she’s implying, so don’t you dare hurt his feelings. Listen up Keith; learn from a master. As much as I generally like Kerry, as much as I would much prefer to shop with her rather than with Keith, my pity for the man combined with wanting to do the right thing in front of Poppy directs my choice of words.

  “Yes, we’re off to Coles, actually, to see if we can’t smarten Keith up a little.” It’s no biggy, my tone implies. At least that’s what I aimed for.

  Kerry raises her brows at me and sucks on an insistent smirk. “It’s gonna cost hell of a lot to smarten him up.”

  “No worries, he’s, like, minted.”

  “Poppy! Private. Remember?”

  “I– I’d b-best go.” Keith steps away into a reluctant-looking backwards retreat. His body posture collapses, reverts back to its usual semi-crumpled-awkwardness, an appearance which states his discomfort in the outside world, a look which gives the impression that his joints have seized and that movement of any kind is a pain-filled exercise.

  “Best p-p-pick up a penguin,” Kerry mimics with a snort of derision. “Go on then night-man, shoo. Go away, now. Bye-bye.” Kerry raises her right hand, palm by her shoulder, and waves with only her fingertips, as if any more effort spent on Keith would be a waste.

  Keith turns away from us his shoulders slumped, and begins to trudge up the hill. He looks so unsure of himself that as others approach he allows them to determine his path and waddles indecisively, truly verifying Kerry’s penguin reference. There’s a battle going on inside me. I never actually wanted to take Keith shopping; I still don’t. I know that Kerry probably feels as if she’s done me the biggest favour of my life. For all she knows Keith could have bumped into me and simply latched on. Poppy looks up at me, then at Keith, then back at me. I try to convince myself that I can pretend to have not seen Poppy looking at me, but something weighs heavy in my gut. Guilt? Pity? Shame? It’s Hoppy the three-legged dog in the animal pound all over again, and Kerry’s playing the part of my mum saying no to giving it a home. The feeling this brings is a strange one: one that feels like having something ripped out of me. It leaves me feeling hollow, unworthy of being Poppy’s aunt. It’s a feeling that feels so horrid that I’m actually concerned it might fester and bring on a genuine sickness.

  “I like you as a friend, Kerry.” I say this with a heavy sigh, “but, sometimes, you can be such a bitch.” Looking into Kerry’s eyes I shake my head, refusing to acknowledge Kerry’s, what-it’s-only-Keith look. “Come on Poppy.” Taking Poppy’s hand, I stride out after Keith.

  “Keith, hold up,” I shout, my weekend-flats pounding a soft beat on the retro-cobbles amid a flurry of pigeon wings.

  Poppy turns around, sticks her tongue out. “See ya, bee-atch.”

  “Poppy!!! Language.”

  “What? You said it.”

  “That’s different... Keith. Keith, wait up.” As I quicken the pace, knowing that Kerry is likely to still be watching, I wonder, have I just chosen Keith as a friend over Kerry. If I have it was not by choice, I was pushed into it by circumstance.

  Kerry pushed me into it, and I feel angry.

  “KEITH! I SAID, WAIT.”

  CHAPTER

  24

  It turns out that Sally was not a big fan of Leanne Rimes after all, which was a little disappointing. I made the discovery after I purchased the entire back catalogue for her, as a thank you for taking me shopping. She is a fan now. Whilst dusting, I whistle, not tunefully, but happily, to the music I associate with Sally. At least she said she’s a fan now. She must be; Sally’s not the type to lie. She did say that she likes other artists too and loaned me a stack of compact disks to listen to. They were not what I expected. Not the sort of thing I thought Sally would listen to. Hard music, hard and harsh and too abrasive for a woman as delicate as her: Guns and Roses, and Scorpions, and Aerosmith, and Alice Cooper, and others of a similar vein who sing about the devil and drugs and sex and drink. I listened to each of them – once – studiously capturing the words as I pondered over a rather difficult jigsaw puzzle. A couple of tracks caught my attention. Only women bleed was one. I ran the phrase over and over in my mind while picturing Kerry prostrate in a pool of blood. Another track I liked was called angel. The singer wailed ‘she’s my ay-ay-ay-ayngel’ and I thought of Sally. I listened to that one a couple of times before putting the harsh music to one side and returning Miss Rimes to the player, where she has sat ever since; the first connection to Sally; our song – if not truly so at the time, definitely so now.

  In the cold light of early winter, the new net-curtain gleams with an ice-crystal quality and captures little diamonds of blue-sky when I hang it in the window. Keep prying eyes out, mother would have said. I haven’t heard a peep from her in weeks, nor have I heard from little Keith with his horrid memories, not since that first date with Sally. The net hung, I step down from the chair and pause to inhale the new-carpet smell: another connection to Sally, which filters through the ever present, though subtle fragrance of leather and fresh-flower-perfume. A welcoming mix of homeliness: a smell reminiscent of a gentle cuddle rather than a painful squeeze: comforting with no hint of tightness. The rope burns on my wrists are almost invisible to the eye, but – even with the voices gone – I still feel them sometimes, on the inside. I cannot help but give them a soothing rub whenever it comes to mind.

  I wonder if Sally will like the net curtain as I step back and adjust the spacing of ripples in the fabric. It’s gathered too heavily on the left. This disturbs me. As I even out the spread of fabric, the outside world diffuses and then comes into sharp focus, as if being viewed through a mystical mist, a fairy-tale fog of a glimmer into an alternative reality. A quick glance at my new watch – the coolest one, according to Poppy when I bought it, replacing the wind-up, leather-strapped, scratched faced one of my youth – tells me I have not got long before Sukie will need her walk. I’m rather getting used to the dog. She will never be as pleasant company as Mrs Seaton of course, but nonetheless I’m glad I never fed her chicken bones.

  The music comes to a stop and I’m swallowed in a void of silence. I stand a moment, the quietness seeming to worm into my ears, a hint of tightness on my wrists, a burning sensation that I smooth away with fingertips. My voices may be silenced but they’re waiting. The thought makes me anxious. I remove the feeling by breathing the fragrance of the room: the carpet, the leather couch and an undertone of Sally’s perfume diffused throughout the air. I slide a hand down to the rise in my trousers and closing my eyes, the light
from the window casting red through my eye-lids, I imagine Sally standing before me, her breath on my face, her fingers massaging me. She kneels on the floor and draws down the zip–

  I’m building a nice momentum, when a rap on the window makes me gulp so suddenly I feel like I’ve swallowed a scream. I tuck my rapidly softening rudeness away but can’t so easily dismiss the guilt that floods through me, nor can I sooth the binding touch of fire biting into my wrists.

  Boys who soil sheets need their hands tied at night.

  Zipping my trousers, I whip my hand away from the area of shame, open my eyes and see a shape in silhouette peering through the window, forehead against the glass, hands cupped on either side of the face. For a moment I am twelve again. My breathing quickens with panic. I look to the kitchen half expecting mother to appear.

  The comforting fragrance enters my consciousness and soothes the pain in my wrist like a salve. The aroma of Sally’s place, that fragrance in my own house, eases my discomfort. For a moment Mother’s voice returned, and I thought the magic had weakened. Tomorrow the fire will be replaced. Gas, but designed to look like coal: like the one in Sally’s living room. Not a front room, but a room for living – for the living. Not just a room at the front of the house, but a room for actually living in, a room that feels alive because it is so welcoming. I’m looking forward to the gas-fire. All the comfort, all the warmth, all the embrace of a living flame, but with none of the mess – none of the tightness.

  The dark-wood sideboard will go next.

  Mend and make do, mother would say were she not stifled by the comfort of this room.

  I flinch as I glance into the kitchen, still dark and dank and gloomy. Mother will not come into the living room. Not now. It is too cosy. Too soft. Too welcoming. She’s in there though, waiting, in the kitchen. The fitters can’t do the kitchen until January. Always a rush leading up to Christmas, the man had said.