by Iain Broome
‘You don’t have a car.’
‘Forget it. I’d like to buy a packet of cigarettes.’
‘What sort would you like?’
‘What sort have you got?’
‘We’ve got all sorts. You can get these – they’re quite strong. Or these – they’re like a low fat version. What do you normally smoke?’
‘I don’t normally smoke.’
‘Then why do you want them?’
‘I’m buying them for a friend. I’ll take the strong ones.’
‘Is he sixteen?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is your friend sixteen?’
‘She’s just turned forty-two.’
‘That’s fine. They told me I had to ask. We’ve had men coming in to buy fags for kids. I thought your friend might be underage.’
‘We share the same birthday.’
‘Are you going to buy the Travel Scrabble and the magic set?’
‘I might do.’
‘I kind of need to know.’
‘Yes then. I’ll buy them.’
‘Anything else?’
‘I’d like a newspaper please.’
‘Which newspaper?’
‘Do any have pornography inside?’
‘What about this one?’
‘What’s it like?’
‘Just tits and stuff.’
‘That’s fine.’
He turns around and starts pressing buttons on the till behind him. His uniform is too tight. His t-shirt rides up above his belt. I can see the hairs on the small of his back and a line of bumps where his spine moulds the skin. He has a scar the length of his forearm, elbow to wrist. It looks like the seam on an old-fashioned rugby ball. He holds his hand out and tells me how much I owe him. I place the exact change on the counter, coin by coin. He watches me do it, and then sighs when he has to pick them up. I collect my things and walk towards the door.
‘You need to learn your petrol prices,’ I tell him.
Outside it’s started raining. The clouds have burst and I can’t look up at the sky because the water’s coming down so hard. I wish I’d put my coat on. Instead, I’m wearing my funeral suit. My white shirt has come untucked at the waist. It’s wet through. I can see my nipples. The police helicopter has disappeared in the rain, but I can hear it whirling up above, hovering over the dual carriageway. It’s four o’clock and starting to get dark. The traffic feels much closer than it did before, so I leave the hard shoulder and scramble halfway up the embankment. I can see a shower of red in the distance. Brake lights creeping towards me. A queue forming. It’s probably an accident. Someone driving too fast. They’ve lost control and piled into a tree or another vehicle. I can see the helicopter again. Two beams in the sky dissecting each other, looking for trouble. Now they’ve stopped. They’ve fixed themselves in position. They shine down on where the accident must have happened. To where the queue begins. But I can’t hear sirens. All I hear is the rain drumming against my shoulder pads and car engines aching to a grumble. I try to walk quicker so I can get closer, faster. But I slip and fall on one knee. It leaves a patch of mud on my trousers.
Ten minutes later. The queue is now huge. It will soon be on the motorway and in tomorrow’s newspaper. I try and get to the top of the embankment where the ground is flat. I should see more from up there. I have to climb on all fours. My fingers are filthy. Water fights its way through the grass to the road at the bottom. A steady stream. It takes me more than a minute, but I reach the top and look down at the road. There are no emergency services, but they must be on their way. There’s a bottleneck of traffic on the road heading out. People slowing down to get a better look. My leg seizes up with cramp. Pain shoots from my ankle to my calf to the tendons at the back of my knee. It makes me stop walking and shout out loud. Up ahead, the road is starting to clear and I’ve still not seen a thing. Just the lights and the rain. I turn and look back towards the garage. I can’t see it anymore, but looking for it reminds me. Angelica’s newspaper. It’s in my inside pocket, sodden and sticking to the fabric. She won’t want it like this. I stretch my leg until the cramp wears off. I stare at the heavy beams in the sky.
I turn the corner into Cressington Vale. It’s still raining. Water pours down the street and gushes into drains. I walk past lights behind windows, their brightness determined by the thickness of the curtains between them. I stand outside Angelica’s house. It looks empty. I walk to the front door, take out the cigarettes and the newspaper and go to put them through the letterbox. But it won’t open. It’s been taped up with coloured gaffer tape. Black, green and yellow. She must have done it herself. I put the cigarettes back in my pocket and carry the newspaper across the road. I open my front gate and look at Kipling’s grave. It’s full of nuts. I need to put some grass seed down. I look up at the bedroom window. Georgina’s room is in darkness, but there’s a light on downstairs. I must have forgotten to switch it off. It’s a waste of electricity. I try to turn the key in the door, but it has nowhere to go. The door is already unlocked. I twist the handle and step into the house. It feels cold. Someone’s turned the heating down. I can hear the kettle boiling. It must be Judy. She’s come back to find Georgina. I take off my jacket, hang it on the banister and walk slowly to the kitchen. The door is slightly ajar. I can smell cinnamon. And Angelica. She’s sat at the table, dressed in black from head to toe. Jacket and trousers.
‘You didn’t come to the funeral,’ she says. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I couldn’t face it. There’s been an accident. How did you get in?’
‘Are you all right?’ she says.
And I think about it. Am I all right?
Well, I’ve spent the afternoon walking up and down a dual carriageway. Last week, I lost my two best friends. My wife is upstairs incarcerated by her second stroke in eighteen months. And Angelica is in my kitchen. She’s wearing sweet perfume and she’s been looking through my manual. I’m soaking wet.
So am I all right? I guess not.
‘Would you like a cigarette?’ I ask her. ‘Or a game of Travel Scrabble?’
Oracle
Angelica has opened the Travel Magic set and is pretending to be a magician. The three cups are upside down on the table. One of them has the wonderball underneath. She moves them, mixes them up and looks at me at the same time. Every so often her hands stop and she asks me which cup I think the ball is under. ‘Which one this time?’ she says. And I get it wrong because I’m not paying attention. I’m thinking about Georgina. I’m feeling guilty.
‘I can’t believe this only cost 99p,’ she says. ‘It’s a shame about the newspaper. Have you been collecting the coupons too?’
‘Yes,’ I say, because it means I don’t have to tell her I bought the newspaper for her. And she might not think I’m a pervert.
‘You know today’s was the last in the set?’
‘Was it?’
‘Yes, I cut mine out and sent them all off this morning. I’ll get my free jar of coffee in twenty-eight days. They have to verify the coupons.’
‘Does that mean I’m too late?’
‘You’re in luck actually. I normally buy three papers and I picked up the same one twice.’
‘That’s handy.’
‘You can have the spare, if you like.’
‘Thanks. Georgina drinks coffee,’ I say. It isn’t true. She’s never liked coffee. Or tea.
‘Great. I’ll fetch it for you later.’
The kettle rumbles on the worktop and switches itself off. Angelica gets up off her chair and walks to the cupboard by the fridge. Her bag is propped against the radiator behind her, where Kipling used to lie. It’s black like her suit. Georgina’s manual is still on the table. Neither of us has mentioned it. But she must’ve had a look.
‘Where are your mugs?’ she says.
‘Second shelf up from the bottom.’
‘So they are. Shall I make us some tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
&nbs
p; I sit down at the kitchen table and watch Angelica making tea. Water drips from my hair and onto my cheeks. It feels like I’m sweating. I wipe my face with a tea towel.
‘Milk and sugar?’
‘Just milk.’
She puts my drink in front of me. Her fingernails are black. She probably painted them for the funeral. One of them is shorter than the rest. I take my suit jacket off and hang it on the back of my chair. The cigarette packet falls out the pocket. Angelica picks it up, puts it on the table and sits opposite.
‘I didn’t think you smoked,’ she says. I don’t know how to respond. I could tell her that I bought them for her, or I could lie. I don’t know which is worse.
‘I bought them for you.’
‘Oh, okay. That’s kind.’
‘They’re quite strong, apparently.’
Water drips down the back of my neck. I need to change my clothes. I need to check on Georgina. But I can’t. I can’t leave Angelica. She might follow me up the stairs. I wrap the tea towel around my shoulders and watch her take a box of matches from her bag. She pulls a cigarette from the packet with her mouth, tightens her lips around the end, strikes a match and lights it first time.
‘So, where’ve you been?’
‘For a walk.’
‘We waited for you. Morris said a few words in your place.’
‘Morris Webster?’
‘Yes.’
‘They hardly knew each other.’
‘They used to talk over the garden fence.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Morris told us. You should’ve been there.’
The rain is beating at the window. It sounds like someone throwing gravel at the glass. I hold my hands tight around my mug. What if Georgina smells the smoke? It could be ghosting up the staircase, into her room and lungs. I lean forward in my chair, rest my arms on the table and use my heel to shut the kitchen door.
‘You look freezing,’ says Angelica.
‘I’ll get changed in a minute.’
I don’t know what to say to her. I try not to look in her direction. She’s looking at me and smoking. The manual is between us. And the wonderball. Three upturned cups. Georgina will be awake. She’ll be worrying about me. I know she worries about me. I stare at the kitchen window, mud smeared across the glass, probably from a football. I need to clean it. I can hear Angelica breathing, sucking in air. A cloud of smoke drifts across my eye line. A thin mist of swirls.
‘How’s Georgina?’ she says. The words cut through me. I feel my skin tighten. She’s read the manual. She’s seen the blender on the worktop. She’s listened to my lies. The ambulance is on its way.
‘How did you get in?’
‘John used the key you gave him. We wanted to make sure you were okay.’
‘That was years ago. Did you go upstairs?’
‘John shouted but got no answer. His dinner was ready. He had to go. I said I’d wait on my own. I haven’t been here long. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘How do you know about Georgina?’
‘Don told me. A couple of weeks ago.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Nothing.’
‘He must’ve said something.’
‘I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.’
‘What did he tell you?’
‘That she had a stroke. He just said she’d had a stroke.’
Angelica looks away from me. She never looks away from me. She always keeps eye contact. I’ve got this written down. Sometimes she closes her eyes when she laughs and I can see the make-up on her eyelids. But she never looks away. She never seems uncomfortable. Not like this.
‘What else did he say?’
‘He just said she’d had a stroke last year. And that she’d just about recovered. I was only asking. I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘She’s at my mum and dad’s.’
‘Okay.’
‘That’s why you’ve not seen her.’
‘Okay, that makes sense. People have been worried.’
‘She’s fine.’
‘Of course. Where do your mum and dad live?’
‘Halfton Bridge.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘About ten miles from here. It’s on the other side of the motorway.’
‘Is that where you grew up?’
‘No, they moved when Georgina’s mother died.’
‘That must’ve been quite recently.’
‘It was twenty years ago.’
‘Really? How old was she?’
‘Fifty-six.’
‘Shit. That’s young. What happened?’
‘She had a stroke.’
‘Oh,’ she says, and looks away again, ‘I see.’
We sit in silence for a few seconds. It feels like forever. Then Angelica puts her hand on the manual, arches her neck and breathes smoke into the air, up and behind her, away from me on purpose. She turns the manual ninety degrees. I can see the red cross on the spine. I coloured it in with a felt tip pen. A blue ‘G’ in the centre. G is for Georgina. My sweet Georgie.
‘This is amazing,’ she says. ‘It’s so detailed. It must’ve been incredibly difficult for you. There’s so much to remember.’
‘That’s why I wrote it down.’
‘I guess so. I’m glad she’s feeling better.’
I don’t reply. My eyes are watering. It’s the smoke. Angelica is staring at me. She looks concerned. She thinks that I’m upset. I shouldn’t have bought the cigarettes. I rub my face with the towel and take a sip from my tea. Let’s talk about something else. What can we talk about? I could tell her the truth. Ask her to help me. But I’m not ready. Not yet. The argument. Angelica’s argument with Benny. That’s what we should talk about. I’d completely forgotten.
‘I heard about the fight,’ I say.
‘What fight?’
‘You and Benny Martin. In the street.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Don said he saw you. Before he died.’
‘Well he was wrong. There was no fight.’
‘Are you sure? He seemed pretty certain.’ Angelica put her palms on the table, leaned towards me and looked me straight in the eye. I wanted to look away. But I couldn’t. She wouldn’t let me.
‘Gordon. Listen to me. There was no fight. Don was wrong. Now let’s just leave it. Okay? Let’s move on.’ She paused a moment, held her glare. I didn’t respond to her question. She didn’t want a response. We were moving on.
Note: No information provided. Engineer conversation with Benny. Before school. Approach with caution. Risk factor = 8. Note end.
Angelica has gone. She left an hour ago with a slice of buttery cinnamon cake. But she’ll be back. She needs to give me a newspaper I don’t really want, and coupons I don’t really collect. She needs to return the plate she took the cake on. I’ve spoken to Georgina. She doesn’t suspect a thing. She’s taken her tablets and eaten her dinner. I’ve done her exercises. We’ve played noughts and crosses. She squeezed my hand to ask me why my hair was wet. I told her it was raining outside. I said, ‘Can’t you hear it?’ and she just lay there. I sat with her until her eyes closed. Then I stood by the curtain, waited for her breathing to deepen, kept an eye out for Angelica. She’d said she wouldn’t be back for a while. ‘I could do with a bath first,’ she said. ‘Do you mind waiting for an hour or two?’ And I’d said, ‘Perfect, there’s no rush,’ and watched her walk across the road in the rain, her jacket round the cake like a cape.
I left Georgina, pulling her door tightly shut. I walked to the spare room, took my files from the bookshelf and put them into piles on the bed. I used the handle on her old umbrella to pull the ladder down from the loft. I climbed up and into darkness, ran my hand along the wall and found the light switch, made my fingers black with dust. I stepped carefully to the back of the room, ducked under beams, moved Georgina’s mother’s Christmas decorations, found some empty boxes. They were flat, si
ngle pieces of cardboard. I had to fold them into shape and tape them up at the bottom. I lined them up on the landing, filled them with files and wrote on the sides with marker pen. I labelled them from A to Z. Then I picked them up again, one by one, and put them back in the loft. It took me another hour.
On my way back down I found a box of jewellery and a file I didn’t recognise. They were under the tent with the hole in the roof. The box contained necklaces, my mother’s old watch and Georgina’s wedding ring, which she had to stop wearing when her fingers swelled up. The file had ‘Homework’ written on the spine. It was in Georgina’s handwriting. The sheets inside weren’t attached to the folder. They were held together with an elastic band and had dates in the margins. They were written three years ago. I licked my thumb and flicked through the pages. She’d been learning another language. English in blue pen. Russian in red. Numbers, colours and greetings. And she’d never thought to tell me. It must have been a surprise.
Pretending
It’s now fifteen minutes past eleven. Angelica is yet to arrive. I’m standing by the window looking out at the street and into her living room. She hasn’t closed her curtains properly. I can see the back of an armchair and a section of fireplace. There are pictures in frames on the mantelshelf, but I can’t tell who or what they are. The light in the room keeps changing. It flickers, makes shapes on the wall. She must be watching television. I stand up, put my hands on my hips and stretch my back. It hurts from all the lifting and the walking in the rain. It’s over six hours since Angelica left. It’s getting late. I’m beginning to think she’s not coming. I should feel relieved, but I don’t. I want her to come back. I want us to play Travel Scrabble. I want to get to know her better. Just in case I need her.
It’s five past midnight. The rain has stopped. Cressington Vale is covered in puddles and John Bonsall’s lawn has flooded. Petals float across the surface of the water and out into the street. Angelica is sitting on her doorstep. She has a glass of milk in her hand. She’s still wearing her funeral clothes, which means she lied when she said she wanted a bath. I can see her fingernails when she puts the glass to her mouth. Black ovals on pale white skin. She said she’d come back. How could she forget? I think about knocking on the window and waving. Then she’ll have to come over. It would be rude not to. I make a fist with my hand, step slowly from behind the curtain, stop and go back to where I was. I can’t let her see me. No-one can see me. I look at the sky. Dark and starless. Hidden by layers of cloud. Then at Angelica once more. She stands up and runs her palms down the sides of her suit trousers. She turns around and goes into the house, leaves the door wide open. I watch her walk away down the hall. She disappears for more than a minute and returns wearing her long, black, fluffy-cuffed coat and her hair tied back. She has a newspaper under her arm. I knew she wouldn’t forget.