by Isabel Wolff
‘Er, cleaning the banister spindles.’
‘Correct.’
‘Oh,’ he said. He looked dumbfounded for some reason. ‘I’m just on my way out. Well, er, have a nice evening,’ he added uncertainly. ‘See you.’
‘See you,’ I replied. As he left, carefully locking the front door behind him, I wondered about that remark. ‘Are you up for it?’ Hmm…that could only mean one thing. He’d obviously got someone. Well, that’s fine, I said to myself broad-mindedly—as long as he conducts his romantic affairs elsewhere. There’ll be no hanky-panky under my roof I decided firmly as I went into the kitchen and found a pack of instant soup. ‘Country-Style Leek and Asparagus’ said the box. Disgusting but it would have to do. I loathe cooking—I’ve never learned—and I don’t bother with food that much anyway so I simply buy things that are quick. Pot Noodles for instance—yes, I know, I know—bought pies, that kind of thing.
‘This is Radio Four!’ yelled Rudy as I emptied the greenish powder into a saucepan. ‘Scilly Light Automatic. Five or six. Rising. Occasionally good.’ Oh no. I’ve been leaving Radio Four on for him during the day and he’s started regurgitating selected bits. ‘Viking North Utsire. Steady. German Bight. Showers. Decreasing. Good.’ However, unlike the radio, I can’t turn Rudy off. ‘And welcome to Gardener’s Question Time!’ he announced warmly.
‘You start singing the theme tune from The Archers and you’re in big trouble,’ I said as I opened the fridge in search of some grapes to keep him quiet. Normally there’s not much in it. A heel of cheese maybe, two or three bottles of wine, half a loaf and Rudy’s fruit. But today the fridge overflowed. In the chiller were tiny vine-ripened plum tomatoes, three fat courgettes, and a glossy aubergine; on the shelf above a roll of French butter and a wedge of unctuous Brie. There were two free-range skinless chicken breasts, a tray of tiger prawns, and some slices of rosy pink ham. Theo was clearly a bon vivant.
As I stirred my monosodium glutamate, I wondered who he was meeting—‘Are you up for it?’—and what she was like. Or maybe…yes. Maybe she wasn’t a she, maybe she was a he. Theo had told me he wouldn’t be having women over—‘that won’t be a problem’he’d said: and he’d laughed, and grimaced slightly, as though the suggestion was not only ludicrous, but somehow slightly distasteful. Maybe he was gay. Now I wondered why this hadn’t occurred to me before. After all, there was plenty of evidence that he might be. For example, he’d been living with this ‘friend’ of his, Mark, before, and then there’d been that gauche comment of his about my hair. He was obviously totally inept with women—he clearly hadn’t a clue. And he was quite well dressed and toned-looking, plus he had suspiciously refined tastes in fresh produce. I mean, I really don’t think a straight man—especially a Yorkshireman—would be seen dead buying miniature vine-ripened plum tomatoes, or, for that matter, free-range skinless chicken breasts. Yes, he probably was gay. What a waste, I thought idly. Oh well…
As the soup began to boil I suddenly realised that I’d found out next to nothing about Theo. So far we’d avoided contact—treading warily around each other like animals forced to share the same cage.
And now I thought about Ed again—but then he’s always on my mind—with a dreadful, knotting sensation inside. Then I suddenly remembered: the shoebox… Oh God. It was still under Theo’s bed. Heart pounding, I rushed upstairs, pushed on his door, and got down on my hands and knees. There it still was, undisturbed. Phew. The chances of Theo finding it were slim but I wasn’t taking the risk. So I fished it out, but as I straightened up I turned round and suddenly stopped. For, positioned by the window, on a shiny tripod, was an old brass telescope. Hmm. So that, presumably, is what had been in the mysterious-looking black case. I listened at the door for a moment to make sure he hadn’t come back; then I went up to it, removed the lens cap and peered through the end. Although the thing was clearly antique the magnification was very strong. To my surprise I found myself looking right into the backs of the houses opposite. There was a woman lying on her bed: her legs were bare and I could even make out the pink nail polish on her toes. I swung the telescope to the left and saw a small boy watching TV. In the next house along I could see a human form moving behind frosted bathroom glass. So that’s why Theo said he liked the room’s aspect so much—he was a peeping Tom! His ad had said he’d wanted ‘privacy’—other people’s privacy it appeared!
I just knew that there was something odd about that boy and I was absolutely right! That’s why he spent so much time in his room and why I heard him pacing the floor late at night. Snooping on people is the pits I thought crossly as I decided to take a good look round his room. It was a complete and utter shambles—I had to fight the urge to tidy it up. The floor was strewn with discarded clothes, piles of old newspapers, rolled up posters and boxes of books. On the desk was a laptop computer surrounded by a mess of paperwork. His writing was appalling but on one pad I could just make out the words, ‘heavenly body,’ and there was a pair of binoculars—well! So he clearly wasn’t gay, he was a bit of a saddo I reflected crossly, or maybe he was a Lonely Young Man. But what a disgusting invasion of privacy I reflected indignantly as I inspected the rest of his room. On the mantelpiece were some strange-looking bits of rock, and, in a silver frame, a black and white photo of an attractive blonde of about thirty-five. She was laughing, her left hand clapped to her chest as though she’d just heard the most wonderful joke. Now I glanced at the bed. A maroon duvet was pulled loosely over it, but from underneath—oh God, not another one—protruded a square of floral silk. I lifted up the quilt. Under the pillow was a short silk nightie with a Janet Reger label. Well, well, well! And I was just thinking about leaving my Am I A Transvestite? leaflet lying casually about when I heard the telephone ring. I quickly replaced the nightie, swung the telescope back into position, then grabbed the shoebox and ran downstairs.
‘Hello,’ I said breathlessly. There was nothing at the other end. ‘Hello?’ I said again. Suddenly the silence was broken by the sound of heavy breathing. Goose bumps raised themselves up on my arms. ‘Hello?’ I repeated, more sharply now. ‘Hello, who is this please?’ I suddenly remembered the silent call I’d had the night Theo had first come round. Now all I could hear was deliberate, slow, heavy breathing. I shuddered—oh God, this was vile. Tempting though it was to let loose with a stream of unbridled abuse I decided just to put the phone down.
‘I think I’m getting nuisance phone calls,’ I said to Henry as we walked around the Windsmoor concession in Debenhams the following Saturday. ‘How about this?’ I held up a stretch lace, high-necked blouse. He cocked his head to one side.
‘I’d prefer a scoop neckline,’ he said.
‘Not advisable—you’ve got a hairy chest.’ I showed him a red crushed velvet jacket—size twenty. ‘This take your fancy?’ He shook his head.
‘So what happens with these calls?’ he asked as I riffled through a rack of large frocks. ‘Do they speak to you?’
‘No they don’t. All I hear is heavy breathing.’
‘Oh, nasty. So what do you do?’
‘I do what I advise my readers to do. I don’t speak to them, or try and engage them in conversation, and I don’t blow a whistle down the phone. I simply wait a few seconds, say absolutely nothing, then quietly put down the phone. They want you to react Henry—that’s why they do it; so it’s much better to spoil their fun. Eventually the tiny-minded wankers realise that they’re wasting their time and they stop.’
‘How many calls have there been so far?’
‘I’ve had four in the last two weeks. It’s not that many but it’s unnerving and it makes me feel jumpy about answering the phone. How about this?’ I held up a blue floral skirt the size of a windbreak. He pulled a face.
‘Too chintzy. Well if it carries on, then complain.’
‘I probably will, but to be honest I’m so busy and it all takes time. No, not that bubble-gum pink, Henry, it’s much too “Barbie”—try this fuchsia. But no shoulder pads,
okay?’
‘Okay. And do you press 1471 afterwards?’
‘Of course, but it always says that the number’s been withheld.’
‘Hmm,’ he murmured, ‘that’s significant.’
‘I know it is. It’s beginning to bother me,’ I added as we passed through Separates on our way to Eveningwear to the sound of synthesised ‘Jingle Bells’. ‘But until they say something malicious or threatening it’s rather hard to complain.’
‘Perhaps it’s Ed?’ Henry suggested as he surreptitiously fingered a taffeta ball gown.
‘I doubt it. It’s not his style. In any case he doesn’t even have my new number—we’ve been on total non-speakers since our split.’
‘I still think you should check.’
‘But how? I can hardly ring him up and say, “Hi Ed, this is Rose. I was just wondering if you’ve been making nuisance phone calls to me lately.” Anyway, I know it’s not him.’
‘Have you fallen out with anyone lately?’ Henry asked.
‘Not that I can think of, although…I did have a bit of a run in with a mad woman on my phone-in the other week.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I heard her. I must say she sounded a bit of a brute.’
‘And she’s convinced I advised her husband to leave her; she said I’d be “sorry,” so maybe it’s her. Though God knows how she got my number.’
‘That’s the trouble with what you do,’ Henry said as he held a pink feather boa under his stubbled chin, ‘you get some weird people contacting you.’
‘I know. Now I think you’d look lovely in this,’ I went on as I pulled out a black bias-cut silk satin dress. ‘Ooh, and it’s got twenty per cent off!’
‘Really?’ he said.
‘Yeah, shall we give it a whirl?’ He nodded enthusiastically and we headed off to the fitting room.
‘That’s not your size, Madam,’ said the sales assistant peremptorily, ‘it’s a twenty, I’d say you’re a ten.’
‘But I like things nice and loose. My husband will be coming into the cubicle with me,’ I added briskly, ‘as he always likes to see what I buy.’
We pulled the curtain shut and Henry quickly undressed. Then he strapped on a pair of silicone-jelly breasts he’d got from Transformation, and struggled into the dress. As I did up the zip he looked at his reflection and sighed with happiness.
‘Oh yes!’ he said, turning this way and that, ‘it’s just so…me.’ He looked like a gorilla in a ball gown. That hairy back! ‘What accessories should I wear?’
‘A velvet scarf maybe, or some pearls. Or better still, a choker, to cover your Adam’s apple. And you’ll need some black tights, sixty denier at least unless you’re prepared to shave.’
‘Can’t I have fishnets?’
‘No, Henry. Too tarty.’
‘Really?’ He looked disappointed.
‘Yes, really. Your mother would be horrified.’
‘That’s true.’
He bought a sparkly handbag and then we went down to cosmetics on the ground floor.
‘Were the Beaumont Society helpful?’ I enquired sotto voce as we perused the make-up.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘they were great. They told me how to avoid being “read” when I go out.’
‘You’re not planning to wear this stuff in public are you?’ I whispered.
‘Not at work, no; I might get the hem caught in my tank. But, who knows,’ he breathed, ‘when I’m on leave, if I’m feeling daring, I might.’
‘But you’re six foot one, Henry!’
‘So are you!’
‘But I’m feminine.’
‘Well you’re not the only one!’
‘Now, your skin-tone is fair,’ I said, changing the subject. ‘I think you’ll need this Leichner extra-thick foundation to hide the five o’clock shadow and of course translucent powder—pressed or loose? Coral lipstick, rather than red, would suit you for that English Rose look, and eye-liner should be navy not black. We’d better get you a good pair of tweezers too while we’re here and something to minimise those pores.’
‘Christ, you’re right,’ he said, as he peered, horrified, into an adjacent mirror. ‘They’re the size of grapefruits. And I need a wig and some scent.’
‘I think you should go for something really feminine, like Ô de Lancôme or Femme.’
We emerged from the store two hours later with six large carrier bags, Henry beaming from ear to ear.
‘You’ll look ravishing in that lot,’ I said as he hailed a cab. ‘Really gorgeous.’
‘Gosh thanks, Rose. You’re a real sport.’
‘My pleasure,’ I said, as he gave me a hug, and it was. As I walked down Oxford Street in the milling crowds I realised that I’d loved going shopping with Henry whereas with Ed it was always a trial. Not because he didn’t like doing it but because he’d always try and beat people down. If something cost eighty quid he’d knock them down to sixty; if it was fifteen he’d try and get it for ten. ‘What’s the best price you can give me?’ he’d ask while I’d blush and look the other way. He once bargained ninety pounds off a fridge-freezer.
‘Why do you bother?’ I’d said.
‘Because it’s fun, that’s why. It gives me this adrenaline rush.’
But I knew that that was a lie. The real reason was because Ed’s family were incredibly hard-up and there was never any cash. His dad had been foreman at a builder’s yard, but he’d died from asbestosis when Ed was eight. Ed’s mother didn’t get the government compensation for ten years and there was often barely enough to eat. That kind of start in life leaves an indelible mark, so I knew where Ed was coming from. But the fact that he was one of five children was one of the things that drew me to him; although, well, it’s rather sad really, because he hardly ever sees them these days. Only his mother and one sister, Ruth, came to our wedding; as for the others, they’ve drifted apart. For example, Ed hasn’t seen his youngest brother, Jon, for six years; they fell out badly, over money, I think. Nevertheless, Jon still sent us a lovely alabaster lamp for our wedding, even though Ed hadn’t invited him. It made me feel terribly sad. Anyway, I liked Ed’s mother, and the thought of her looking after all those children, on her own, and working full-time fills me with total awe. Whereas some stupid women well, it’s too pathetic, they can’t even cope with one…
Now, as I sat on the number thirty-six, a woman came and sat in front of me with her little girl who was about two and a half, maybe three. The bus was full so the child sat on her lap, encircled by her arms like a hoop. And as I looked at them I felt the old, old pang and thought, my mother never held me like that…
I always try and distract myself at bad moments, so I got out my Daily Post. There was the photo of Bev and Trev on the masthead and inside a big, two page spread. It was headed ‘LABRACADABRA!’ and there were pictures of them at home, ‘Clever Trevor’—dressed in his red Helping Paw coat—drawing the curtains and bringing in the milk. There was a shot of him getting the washing out of the machine and passing ‘Tragic Bev’ the pegs while she hung up the clothes. There they were in Sainsbury’s, at the check-out, with Trevor handing over Bev’s purse. Finally there was a shot of them both at the cashpoint, Trev getting out the money with his teeth. ‘Trevor’s much more than my canine carer,’ Bev was quoted as saying, ‘he’s saved my life.’
I realised now, how modest Beverley had been in describing herself to me as a ‘PE teacher’. She’d been so much more than that. Yes, she’d taught games at a girls’ school, the article explained, but she’d also been an outstanding sportswoman in her own right. As an eighteen-year-old she’d been county tennis champion, and in her mid-twenties, as a middle distance runner, she’d won silver in the Commonwealth games. After retiring from the track she’d taken up women’s hockey and had played for the national side. She’d been selected to play for England at the Sydney Olympics but her injury had shattered that dream. Her accident had left her ‘suicidal’ and ‘devastated’ until Trevor transformed her life. ‘He
’s my hero,’ she said. ‘We adore each other. Without him I just couldn’t go on.’ It was touching stuff and at the bottom was the number for Helping Paw.
When I got home Theo was in the kitchen, cooking. I could hear him singing to himself. Repelled by the thought of him spying on my neighbours dressed in a floral nightie, I decided to give him a wide berth. And I was just taking off my coat when I glanced at the half-moon telephone table and saw a pile of unopened post. There were my first utilities bills, a cashmere brochure and an Oxfam Christmas catalogue. Underneath, in a white plastic cover was some magazine or other, it looked like Newsweek or Time. I turned it over and saw that it wasn’t either of those: it was Astronomy Now magazine. Oh.
‘Hello, Rose,’ Theo called out suddenly.
‘Oh. Hi!’ Astronomy Now? But that didn’t explain the Janet Reger nightie did it?
‘Had a good day?’ he enquired politely as I went into the kitchen.
‘Er, yes. I’ve been shopping with a…friend. You’ve got some post, you know.’
He wiped his hands, ripped the cover off the magazine, glanced at it, then put it down. Star Clusters in Close-Up! announced the headline and beneath, Magellanic Clouds and Nebulae!
‘Astronomy Now?’ I said with studied casualness. ‘I’ve never seen that before. May I look at it?’
‘Course you can. I get Sky and Telescope too.’
‘So you’re interested in…astronomy then?’ I said feebly as I glanced at an article about the Leonid meteor showers.
‘It’s my passion,’ he replied as he got out a knife. ‘I’ve been mad on it since I was a boy, I—’ Suddenly his mobile rang. Or rather it didn’t ring; it played ‘Would you like to swing on a star, carry moonbeams home in a jar?’ He took the call, but it was clearly an awkward conversation for his throat became blotched and red.
‘Hi. Yes. I’m okay,’ he said slightly tersely. ‘Yes. Fine. That’d be grand. Whatever you want. Yes. Yes. I’ll drop the keys off at your office on Monday. No, I don’t want to come to the house. Sorry about that,’ he said with fake brightness as he put his phone back in his pocket, ‘where were we?’