A is for Angelica

by Iain Broome

  ‘Are you going?’

  ‘I can if you want me too.’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  ‘Give me your car keys. I’ll follow the ambulance.’

  The hospital waiting room was full of people like me. Dumbstruck husbands, wives and lovers. And people like Don, there to provide the transport home. We sat together on cheap plastic seats, drank tea and waited for updates. I listened to the women on reception. The way they switched their conversations and changed their tone of voice. Soft and understanding with the in-patients. Laughs and jokes with each other. Don tried to speak to me, attempted conversation. He put his hand on my shoulder. ‘She’ll be okay,’ he kept saying. ‘They’ll have her right in no time.’ And I didn’t mind him saying it, even though I knew it wasn’t true.

  Eventually, a doctor came to speak to us. He was tall and under thirty. His spectacles hung from a chain around his neck. He told us he was sorry about the wait. He said Georgina was stable but sleeping, and that I could see her if I wanted. I followed him down a long corridor and into a tiny room. They’d moved her to a bed and hooked her up to wires, tubes and machines, like an extra in a film or one of the people wheeled past us in the waiting room. She didn’t look like my wife. I turned around and walked away. The doctor followed me.

  ‘Mr Kingdom, are you all right?’

  ‘Fine, thank you.’ He was chasing me down the corridor. I tried to speed up.

  ‘You’re wife’s going to need to stay here tonight. Have you got any clothes for her?’

  ‘Don picked them up. He gave them to the nurse. I’ll come and get her tomorrow.’

  ‘She may be here a little longer than that, I’m afraid. She won’t be able to leave tomorrow. She’s had a very serious stroke.’ I was back in the waiting room. I grabbed Don by the arm and ushered him out the door.

  ‘Mr Kingdom?’

  ‘I think they’re calling you, Gordon.’

  ‘It’s fine, everything’s going to be fine. Like you said.’

  I got in the car and started the engine. Don climbed in beside me. I pulled out the car park, looked in the rear view mirror. The doctor and the receptionist were stood in the entrance waving their arms. The automatic doors opened and closed behind them. I kept driving. Don sat fidgeting nervously in the passenger seat. After a few minutes silence, I pulled into Cressington Vale. It was half past midnight. I parked up and undid my seatbelt. Don did the same. I continued to say nothing. I sat, and I stared.

  ‘So, what happened? I mean, she must be okay. You spoke to her, I take it?’

  ‘I wasn’t able to speak to her.’

  ‘They wouldn’t let you speak to her?’

  ‘She was sleeping.’

  ‘Well, that’s understandable. How long will she be in for?’

  ‘They didn’t say. It could take a while.’

  ‘Would you like me to go with you in the morning?’

  ‘I’ll ring the hospital first.’

  ‘You know, Gordon, if there’s anything I can do, you just need to ask. She’s going to need some looking after when she gets home.’

  ‘They’ll send someone out, I expect.’

  ‘Yes, but anything you need. I’m only over the road.’

  ‘Thank you, Don.’

  He nodded at me and smiled with his mouth closed. It was a helpless smile. I pressed the button on the dashboard that unlocks the doors. He stepped out of the car and into the street. He kicked his heels on the kerb, tapped his fingers on the bonnet. I wanted to say thank you.

  ‘Don,’ I said.

  ‘Yes, Gordon?’

  ‘Don’t forget your shift in the morning.’

  God almighty

  It’s easier to watch Angelica from behind a curtain than it is to go unnoticed when you’re following her down the street. It’s now twenty-four minutes past nine and I’m on my way to church. Angelica has lived on Cressington Vale for almost a fortnight. Each morning, she leaves the house between nine and half past. She returns with three newspapers, which are never the same, although at least one of them will have a free CD attached or a picture of a naked woman on the cover. The newsagent is on the main road, fifty yards from the corner of Cressington Vale. Angelica has dropped her bag and is crouched on the floor, picking up her belongings. She’s wearing the same black fluffy-cuffed coat she wears when she goes to the doctors, winter gloves and a pair of pink slippers with nothing covering her toes. The slippers must be new, her hands must be warm and her feet must be freezing. I can see this from my position, also crouched on the floor, twenty yards behind, on the opposite side of the road, under a hedge.

  ‘Gordon, are you all right down there?’

  John Bonsall is towering above me. I stand up quickly and scratch my forehead on a branch. He’s on his way to B&Q. He goes every Sunday to buy food for his plants. The smallest packet available. So it’s always fresh.

  ‘Have you lost something?’

  ‘I thought I saw a hedgehog.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘But I didn’t.’

  ‘What was it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You’ve been down there an awfully long time.’

  ‘Yes. You’re right.’

  ‘We have a hedgehog that comes into our back garden. Pamela likes to leave a saucer of milk by the gnome. It’s always gone in the morning. The milk, not the saucer. Or the gnome. Sometimes she leaves food as well. He rather enjoys the odd biscuit. We call him Harry. Harry the hedgehog. Pamela said it had to have a name. I wasn’t so sure, what with the kids and everything. We don’t want them coming home from school to find poor Harry’s been hit by a car. Squished and squashed.’

  I’m barely listening. Angelica has gathered her items and put them back in her bag. She walks away from us and into the newsagent. Mass starts in fifteen minutes. I’m getting later.

  ‘When’s that skip going to be moved, John?’

  ‘Someone’s filled it full of branches. I think it was the same person who vandalised the memorial tree. Pamela said she heard someone in the street the night it happened.’

  ‘Probably a drunk.’

  ‘I rang the police.’

  ‘The police?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I told them I was innocent.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Not much. They’ve not even been out to look at it. It’s only a tree, apparently. Try telling that to the children at Diwali.’

  ‘I really should be going.’

  ‘How are you anyway, Gordon? How’s Georgina? We’ve not seen her since Christmas. Is she still doing well?’

  ‘We’re both fine. I’m sorry John, I do need to go or I’ll be late for church.’

  I try to get away, but Angelica has left the newsagent and is walking back towards us. She’s carrying her newspapers. One has breasts on the front. Two have CDs. I’ll write it down when I get home. She’s reading the back of one of the papers. Now she’s looking up and across at us. I think she’s smiling.

  ‘Do you know that lady, Gordon?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘Who is she?’

  ‘She’s called Angelica.’

  ‘Like the plant?’

  ‘What plant?’

  ‘Angelica is a plant. It means “You are my inspiration”.’

  ‘Is it a flower?’

  ‘No. It’s definitely a plant.’

  I turn away. John turns with me. We’re headed in the same direction. We’ve finished our conversation and now we’re walking side by side. I can’t speed up because my knees won’t let me. I can’t slow down because I don’t have time. Ten minutes later we go our separate ways, and I know how to build a conservatory.

  Note: Dispose of gloves, coat and balaclava. Bonfire. Note end.

  Reverend Benjamin Christopher Gregory moved to Thailand eighteen months ago. He was marrying a young couple when he broke down in tears and had to be escorted from the altar.
He came back minutes later, walked up to the best man and head-butted him square between the eyes. Soon after, someone sprayed graffiti across the side of his house and a picture appeared in the local newspaper of him sat on his doorstep, smoking a cigar and drinking whiskey from the bottle. He had bright red paint behind him, giant letters on a white pebbledash wall. It read, ‘arsehole’. One word, no hyphen.

  He was replaced by Judy. That’s what we call her. If you try to call her anything else she stops you and says, ‘Just call me Judy, that’ll be fine’. Some older members of the congregation objected to her appointment because she cancelled Reverend Michael’s day trip to the theme park. And because she’s a woman. Some of them stopped attending Mass. One of them made a leaflet. Jesus not Judy.

  Judy says hello to every single person as they enter the church. It’s something she likes to do. Even if it means everyone has to turn and glare disapprovingly at the latecomer. It’s ten thirty-three, I’m stood outside the church and Judy’s already started. I can hear her through the thick wooden door as I twist the metal handle and step inside, take its weight as I close it. The door makes no sound. The congregation are facing the other way. Maybe she won’t see me.

  ‘A latecomer! Good morning, Gordon. Sit yourself down.’ The sound of heads turning and elbows in coats rubbing against one another. The creak of handbags clutched in laps. And I look up at Judy standing behind the pulpit, several feet above the rest of us. I can’t shout back and ask her how her week’s been, so I nod and attempt a smile, which she misses completely because she’s back to what she was saying before I rudely interrupted. I find a seat at the back near the door.

  ‘And today is a special day. We add to our normal service, the welcoming of a new life into our world. We’re here to celebrate, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, the baptism of baby Matthew Alan. He was born just two months ago, a wonderful gift in this new year. We welcome his mother, Tracey, and his loving family.’

  Tracey stands up, waves her hands and shouts, ‘Hiya everyone.’ She’s wearing a denim miniskirt. She can’t be more than sixteen. She looks like a child.

  ‘But first I’d like to tell you about last Tuesday. You might have noticed this delightful scarf I have around my shoulders. Well, I had the pleasure of spending some time this week with the young children of St. Mary’s Junior School. I talked to them about many things, including the importance of love. Love for God. Love for the family. Love for one another. And when I left, they gave me this scarf. It has its own unique design created by the children of St. Mary’s, especially for me. If you look here, you can see the sunshine with its rays bursting forth. And below it, this beautiful red car. Isn’t it just wonderful?’

  A chorus of ‘oohs’. A chorus of ‘aahs’. And an, ‘Isn’t it lovely, Maureen.’

  ‘And over here, there’s a boat sailing on a bright blue sea. There, just by my shoulder. And if I turn around, you’ll see a giant space rocket on my back.’

  Judy turns to show us the rest of her scarf. I can just about make out the rocket. It has two curved areas at the base, which make it look like it’s coming up through a cloud. It looks like men’s parts.

  ‘Can you see it at the back?’ says Judy.

  There’s no commotion. No-one says a thing. They just sit there. Judy stretches her hand over her shoulder. She points at the rocket. ‘Isn’t it just fantastic?’ she says.

  It definitely looks like parts. And in a place of worship.

  Baby Matthew Alan is christened. Tracey has chosen a hymn for us to sing at the end of the ceremony. ‘All Things Bright and Beautiful’, or as she calls it, ‘All Creatures Big and Small’. Judy stands at the front and leads the way while two elderly women walk between the aisles with a collection bucket. They shake it to make it rattle, which would be illegal if they were in the street. When they get to me they stop, look up and wait. I keep singing, put my hand in the bucket and avoid eye contact. I tap the side as I take my hand out again. It makes a noise that sounds like I’ve put money in. They thank me very much. Keep on rattling. Like Don Donald’s pockets.

  Judy brings Mass to a close and stands by the door. She likes to say goodbye as well as hello. I was last in and I’m first out. She stops me with the usual sympathetic smile. A newly-christened baby is wailing somewhere behind me.

  ‘Glad you could make it, Gordon. How are you?’

  ‘I’m well, thank you.’

  ‘I saw Doctor Morris yesterday. I was picking up my mother’s tablets. He says you’re in good health.’

  ‘Did he?’

  ‘Yes, I was asking after you. He says you’re keeping on top of things.’

  ‘Well, that’s very kind of you both.’

  There’s a hundred people and a screaming child behind me. I’m keeping them from leaving and I’m hogging Judy. Some of them are breathing down my neck. Literally.

  ‘How’s Georgina?’

  And now I’m not talking. Everyone wants to know why Gordon’s not talking. Who does he think he is? Why, when Judy’s asked him a question, is he standing in silence, staring into space? If he doesn’t want to answer the question, he could at least do the honest thing and change the subject. They’re right. I should change the subject.

  ‘The rocket’s not a rocket. It’s a penis.’

  The noise behind me disappears. The church is silent again. Even the baby stops crying. A woman next to me puts her hands over her daughter’s ears. Judy looks straight at me. For a few seconds she says nothing. I have no regrets.

  ‘Gordon, would you like me to visit you at home?’

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’

  ‘How about next week? Or the week after?’

  ‘Honestly, there’s no need.’

  ‘I’ll just come round for a chat, I think. That’s what I’ll do.’ She moves on to the next person, the noise starts up again and I shuffle outside. The sky is a deep, dull grey. It looks like it’s been raining.

  Gratuity

  It’s Wednesday afternoon, three days since ‘The Rocket Incident’. Judy is yet to visit. I’ve been looking out for her, preparing the house to make it look like no-one’s in. Church people have a tendency to wander into people’s homes without permission. I keep the windows shut during the day and use the power-cut candles at night. It’s just gone noon. Angelica has been to collect her newspapers, Benny has gone to school and Morris Webster stood at his window for a while. He put his hand on the glass and looked up at the sky, as if longing for rain. He was there for eleven minutes and thirty-four seconds. Then he disappeared. I made notes on it all. He’ll need a cloth to wipe his fingerprints. Now, I’m sat on the chair next to the bed in Georgina’s room. I’m preparing another bath. I roll my sleeve and put my arm in the washing-up bowl.

  Note: Use bath thermometer. Temperature should not be higher than 115 degrees F, 46 degrees C. Help remove clothes and cover with blanket. Keep warm and give privacy. Note end.

  I reach under the bed and pull out my shoebox. This is where I keep my supplies. Disposable gloves. Bath towel and flannel. Soap, powder, lotion, deodorant, toothbrush and toothpaste. Half an hour ago, I turned on the portable radiator to heat the room. It makes the air smell slightly burnt. I pull on a pair of gloves. They are transparent and tight on my hands. I have to clasp them together to push my fingers into the ends.

  Georgina is naked and sleeping. I undressed her fifteen minutes ago, when the room began to get warm. I open my manual at the right page, place it on the bedside table and prop it against the wall. I put the flannel in the water, wet it without soap and squeeze to rinse. I gently wipe her eyelids and dry them with a towel. I do it from the inside corner to the outside corner. I use soap to wash her ears and neck. A slice of winter sunlight comes between the gap in the curtains and creeps across her face. I have to stop myself from counting the wrinkles between her mouth and nose. I have to ignore the line of dust caught in the light, settling on her lips. I put the towel under her arms as I wash them and I hold her hand when
I clean her palms and between her fingers. I dry thoroughly. Especially the hair under her armpits, and the skin under her breasts. I fold the blanket down so I can wash, rinse and dry her chest and stomach. When I finish, I fold it back again and lift it from the bottom to do her legs, feet and toes. I shove the towel under her knees. Wash, rinse and dry.

  This used to be a team effort. We used to do this together. I pick up the basin, walk to the bathroom and pour the dirty water into the sink. She would’ve shouted, ‘Don’t waste it. You can use that for your tea’. I walk back to the bedroom, dig my heels against the wall and use all my weight to push Georgina onto her side. She would’ve said, ‘I can do that, you be careful of your back’. I use fresh water to wash, rinse and dry her back, buttocks and shoulders. ‘Give us a rub while you’re there’, she would’ve said. I smear lotion over the open sores on her bare skin. She says nothing.

  The last area to wash is the groin. I put a new pair of gloves on. I’m supposed to ask Georgina to lift her buttocks for me, but she’s far too tired so instead I have to move her myself and put a towel under her at the same time. I can hear someone laughing outside. It sounds like a woman. Can I see through the curtains? I should ignore it. I hold Georgina’s knee, spread her legs and jar them open with my shoulder. What if it’s Angelica? With one hand I separate the labia. With the other I wash from front to back with the soapy flannel. I rinse then dry the area with the corner of the towel. More laughter. It’s the only sound to get through the double glazing. I walk to the window. I was right. It’s Angelica. There’s a car parked outside her house. It’s red apart from the driver’s side door, which is green and looks like it used to belong to a different vehicle. Angelica is on the pavement, smoking a cigarette and smiling. Benny’s on his knees at the back of the car. He’s scrubbing a hubcap with a dirty sponge. I can’t tell what he’s saying, but I can hear Angelica laughing and I can see her shifting her weight from one leg to the other. I can trace the outline of her hips. This morning, when she collected her newspapers, she wore the same fluffy-cuffed coat as last week and a pair of jeans. I look at her now, hours later. She’s taken her coat off and applied pink nail varnish. There’s a gap between her jeans and t-shirt and I can see her skin. Benny dips his sponge into a bucket of water. He’s naked from the waist up, like he is when he’s painting. Angelica’s arms are folded. They keep her stomach warm and her breasts together. If it weren’t for the frost on the lawn behind them, you’d never believe it was winter. I can’t imagine how cold they are.