A is for Angelica

by Iain Broome

  My father will stand up, turn and face the window. I will notice the shape of his shoulders, crooked and altered by age. And I will wait for him to speak. Some words of advice. Anything. But nothing will come. So I’ll do the talking instead. I’ll tell him it’s okay. I understand. When I get home, I’ll phone the hospital. They’ll know what to do. ‘It’s for the best,’ he’ll say. And then we’ll change the subject. Talk about something different. The weather. New Zealand. And then the deafening silence.

  ‘I’d better get going.’ I’ll walk back down the hall and into the living room. My father will follow and watch me kiss my mother on the cheek. She’ll barely know it’s happening. I’ll smile at her. Then I’ll walk to the front door and step outside. My father will clear his throat.

  ‘You need to put an end to it,’ he’ll say. ‘You need to call it off.’ I’ll stand my ground. Look him straight in the eye.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘Angela. That woman.’

  He will say it like he’s speaking to a teenager. It will upset me. His lack of compassion. His inability to empathise. I will want to grab him by the collar. This elderly man. I’ll want to shake him and shake him, unleash sentence after bottled-up sentence, line after carefully prepared line. Rehearsed over decades. But I won’t do it. I will never do it. I will turn and walk away.

  Note: This is what you should have said. I’m sorry that this has happened. It’s not your fault. I’m here for you. Note end.

  ‘Are you going in, then?’

  I am still in the taxi. The driver has lit a cigarette and wound down the window. He rests his elbow on the glass and flicks ash on the road with his fingers. He tips back his head and holds the cigarette tight between his lips. It sounds like a kiss on release.

  ‘No. We can go.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Well that was a waste of time.’

  We don’t speak again until the car arrives on Cressington Vale. I ask him to stop in the same place he picked me up. At the end of the street. Nowhere near the house. I pay him, say thank you and pull my coat around my ears. He reverses back onto the main road via the pavement and drives away. Exhaust smoke follows the car and hangs in the air. It rises slowly, like lifting fog. When I get home I check on Georgina. I’ve been gone for less than an hour. Nothing has changed. Everything remains.

  I walk downstairs to the kitchen and open the cupboard under the sink. I pick up my manual and place it on the table. A failed document. Useless information. My recipes are on the worktop. They’re held together with more than twenty staples, each lined up down the side, one by one with no gaps. I lick my thumb and flick through them. Fruit cake. Chocolate cake. Angel cake. Perfect. I take a teaspoon from the cutlery drawer and use it to mark the page. A narrow band of sunlight bisects the paper horizontally. Ingredients in one half. Instructions in the other. I follow the light to the sink, turn on the tap, rinse my hands, hold them to my chest and rub them together. I look up and out of the window. Benny is in the garden. He has a football under his arm. It has four squares on it, drawn on with marker pen. They look like a puzzle. Or a window. I stop rubbing my hands. Water runs from my fingertips to my wrists and forearms. It forms a stream that ends at my elbows and falls away to the floor. I stare at Benny. He stares back. His cover blown. He must have thought I was out. He didn’t see the taxi. The badges on his lapel are three different shapes and colours. One red triangle. One blue square. One yellow circle.

  ‘Get out of my garden.’ He can’t hear me, so I repeat the words. ‘Get out of my garden.’ The sun moves behind a cloud and the strip of light evaporates. Benny squints and arches his neck. He tries to read my lips. ‘Get out of my garden. Get out of my garden. Get out of my garden.’ The tap is running and the sound of the water hitting the metal floor of the sink rings constant. It’s the backdrop to my panicking. I lower my hands and walk towards the door. By the time I open it and step outside, Benny is halfway up and over the wall. His arms and legs flailing, desperate to get out of the garden. I watch him climb and disappear, listen to the rustle and snap of bushes and branches being stamped on. The sound of Benny running away. Like a teenage boy.

  Watershed

  It’s been two days since we exchanged notes. Angelica hasn’t been back. Late last night her husband arrived. I recognised him from the photograph I found in her bag. His car pulled up outside the house. Its lights dipped then disappeared. I’ve seen it here before. It’s the car I saw before Judy broke in. He stepped out and onto the road, pulled his sleeve back and looked at his watch, bent to check his haircut in the wing mirror. He looked like he did in the picture. Apart from the moustache. He looks younger without it. I watched him walk to the house, knock once on the door and enter without waiting. He reappeared at the living room window and pointed at the car. Its lights flashed twice. Less than twenty minutes later, the house was in darkness. I made a note and opened a new file. M is for Michael (Angelica’s husband).

  This morning it snowed again. A thin veil of white across the street. I stood at the spare room window. John Bonsall was wearing his rubber suit and shovelling the snow from his drive. He made a path from the door to the pavement. A perfect curve around the lawn. When he’d finished, he walked to the middle of the road and started clearing the rest of the street. He does it on purpose. Always being kind. Always being neighbourly. He shovelled a path along the pavement to Ina Macaukey’s house, then another to Angelica’s. He even cleared a trail from the pavement to their doors. The snow reappeared as quick as he removed it. It was a pointless task. Like pleating fog. But he kept on going anyway. All the way to Don’s house. He came back two hours later, did it all again.

  Angelica’s husband left this afternoon. I’d fallen asleep in the kitchen with my head on the table and my fingers round the handle of my mug. I woke to the sound of his car engine starting. I stood up slowly, poured my tea in the sink and walked to the window in the living room. I watched him drive forward, reverse, then drive forward again. Up and out of the street. A three-point turn in the falling snow. It left a car-shaped space on the road. A temporary tarmac island. I looked across at the house. Angelica’s curtains were closed. A single vase of flowers on the windowsill. Trapped between the fabric and the glass. Three red, two white and several yet to bloom.

  Note: Husband arrives – 23:47. Flowers appear – 23:54. Lights out – 00:03. Carnations, lilies and freesia. Not one rose. Note end.

  It’s now eight o’clock in the evening. I’m sitting with Georgina and eating a sandwich. She’s been awake for twenty minutes. I’ve been telling her about the snow outside. The way it’s been reflecting the sun. Brightening the street. Like it did during our first winter on Cressington Vale. When Don built that snowman and she helped him roll it. ‘Can you remember?’ I said. But she didn’t answer. She just listened to me talking. Watched me treading water. I took a bite from my sandwich and put the plate on the bedside table. Georgina hasn’t eaten all day. Every time I ask her if she wants something, she says she isn’t hungry. I reach into my pocket and take out a packet of strawberry-flavoured jelly cubes. They should melt in her mouth and slip down her throat. I break one in half and put it to her lips. ‘You need to eat,’ I say. But she refuses. She keeps her mouth shut. Tries spitting on my fingers. I stand up, pull my handkerchief out of my sleeve and wipe saliva from her chin.

  ‘Georgina.’ That’s all I can say. Nothing else. Just her name. I stand up and over her. She looks angry, frightened and barely alive. I watch her try to lift her head, but she doesn’t have the strength. ‘Here, let me help you.’ I put my hand on the back of her neck and raise her gently. I rearrange her pillows, but she reaches out and stops me. She holds me by the wrist. Her grip is weak. I can barely feel it. ‘What’s the matter?’ I say. ‘Too many?’ She let’s go. Holds my hand and strokes my palm. ‘Yes? No problem.’ I take a pillow from under her hea
d and place it on my lap. ‘Is that better?’ I ask. She doesn’t need to answer. It’s not better. It never will be. I can see it in her eyes. She looks up at me and slowly reaches over. She gathers all the strength she has to drag the pillow back onto the bed, wrap her arm around it, smother her face, stop herself from breathing. I should intervene immediately. Instead I watch her struggle. I think about closing my eyes. Pretending not to notice. Then I lean over, remove the pillow and hold her hand. I cry once she’s fallen asleep.

  X-rated

  This morning I made a decision. I’m going to threaten Angelica. She’s been here for seven weeks and I’ve been nothing but hospitable. I’ve made her cakes and bought her gifts. She’s drunk my tea and used my toilet. Now it’s time for her to do something for me. Something for us. I’m tired of waiting. She’s not going to change her mind about helping and she’s not going to phone for an ambulance. But I have no choice. She’s all I’ve got. It’s time for me to take action.

  It’s half past eleven on Saturday morning and I’m standing in my front garden pretending to dig. Any minute now Angelica is going to leave the house to go to the newsagents. When she does I’m going to call her over and confront her. I’ll confront her husband too if necessary. His car is blocking Don Donald’s drive. It sticks out like a sore thumb against the others on the street. It’s an eyesore. Water drips from the mudguards onto the road and yet it hasn’t rained all morning. He must’ve put it through a car wash. He’s trying to impress her. I want to introduce myself. Welcome him to Cressington Vale. He’ll know who I am. Angelica will have mentioned me by now. This is Gordon, she’ll say, the man I told you about. The one who bought me the pornography. The one whose dog committed suicide. The one who’s slowly killing his wife. I bet that’s what she’s said. None of it’s the truth.

  Here they are. They’re leaving the house. Him first and Angelica behind. She stops to lock the door. I watch from the garden and think about what I’m going to say. She’s wearing high heel shoes and a skirt that finishes above her knee. It’s far too young for her. She’s forty-two-years-old and dressed like a schoolgirl. Her husband walks to the end of the drive and stops suddenly. He puts his hands on his thighs, buttocks and chest then turns back towards the house. He says something to Angelica. She shrugs her shoulders, shakes her head and puts the key back into the door. He walks back up to her, bends to kiss her cheek. I notice how tall he is. Much taller than Angelica. He holds her hand, lets their fingers slip slowly apart and steps backwards into the house. I rest my spade against the garden fence. This is my chance. Angelica lights a cigarette, holds it to her lips and breathes deeply. She bends her neck from side to side, tips her head and allows the smoke to pour back through her nostrils. The grip, the inhalation and the release. Same as always. She looks up and across at me, realises I’m watching. I hold my hand in the air and wave, but she doesn’t wave back. Instead she turns to see where her husband is. But he’s still inside. She’s on her own. Her skirt seems shorter from the front.

  ‘Angelica,’ I shout. She looks up and down the empty street, searching for signs of life. Cressington Vale is empty. There’s no-one around. Just me and her. ‘I need to speak to you.’ She turns around to enter the house and run away like Benny. I shout again before she can open the door. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ My voice is clear and confident. I’ve been practising, repeating my lines in the mirror. I know exactly what I’m going to say. Angelica stands with her back to me. She’s thinking about it. Slowly she turns around, folds her arms and starts walking. Her skirt is green and black tartan with thin gold stripes at the hem. Double yellow lines. I try not to look at her legs. She crosses the road and stands beside me, the fence between us. Her fingernails painted red, blue, red, blue, red.

  ‘What do you want?’ she says.

  ‘Good morning.’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s about Georgina. I want to make things clear. As you know, she’s very ill at the moment. It’s her preference that she receives care from people that she knows and trusts. Unfortunately, her condition has not improved as we would have liked. So please, Angelica, help us.’

  ‘I’ve told you, Gordon.’

  ‘I’m begging you.’

  ‘Did you practice that speech?’

  ‘We can work as a team. We can use the manual. You know that I know what I’m doing. She’ll start improving in no time.’

  ‘See, I don’t think you do know what you’re doing. In fact I don’t think you have any idea at all. Your plan didn’t work. It’s wrong, cruel and probably illegal. She needs professional help.’

  ‘I can’t let that happen.’

  ‘Why? Why not?’

  ‘It’s too late. It’s not what she wants.’

  ‘It’s not up to her. It’s your decision.’

  Angelica’s husband is leaving the house. I can see him over her shoulder. The collar of her black fluffy-cuffed coat. Flecked with dandruff. He closes the door and walks to the end of the drive. He smiles across the street at me. I smile back and Angelica turns around. Someone else is coming. It’s Benny. He’s walking towards us on the opposite side of the road. He’s carrying a plastic bag and holding hands with a girl who looks younger than he does. Her hair is short and her cheeks are red. She’s wearing Benny’s jacket. He reaches the gate at the end of his garden and looks across at Angelica. He smiles and nods, lifts and shows us their fingers linked. He does the same to her husband.

  ‘I swear I’ll tell him everything.’ Angelica turns to face me. ‘And I know about the footballs. It was you and him. You were working together. You were laughing at me.’

  Benny opens his door and disappears into the house. Her husband is shaking his keys and walking towards us. He’s wearing jeans and a suit jacket with a t-shirt underneath. It looks ridiculous. I start to raise my arm, but Angelica reaches over the fence and grips my elbow. She squeezes tight and digs her fingernails into my skin. The pain is short, sharp and only lasts a second. But it takes me by surprise.

  ‘Hello,’ says her husband. ‘Kids, eh? Who was that?’

  ‘That was no-one. This is Gordon. Gordon, this is Michael.’ He offers me his hand to shake. His grip is stronger than mine. It hurts my knuckles. Angelica is smiling, but it’s not her real smile. I know what her real smile looks like. Teeth and fillings. Lines from her eyes at the corners. She shuffles her feet and stands by his side. She puts her arm around his waist.

  ‘Beautiful day, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘Sunshine and snow.’

  ‘Very nice,’ I reply.

  ‘Perfect for a drive.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘We don’t know yet, do we?’ He looks at Angelica, but she doesn’t respond. She’s too busy glaring at me and tapping her toe on the pavement. He puts his hand on her neck, squeezes her shoulders and lets his fingers run the length of her back. They come to rest on her hip. It’s highly inappropriate. I try not to watch.

  ‘Well, it should be nice. Just the two of you.’

  ‘Actually, we’re picking David up on the way.’

  ‘David?’

  ‘Angelica’s son. It’s his birthday tomorrow. We’re taking him out for lunch.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ I look at Angelica. Her expression doesn’t change. I look back at her husband. ‘I didn’t know she had children.’

  ‘Yes, he’s a grand lad.’

  ‘How old is he?’

  ‘He’ll be seventeen.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘They grow up quickly, don’t they?’

  I want to hate him. I want to tell him about his wife. That she’s spent the last three weeks watching another man paint pictures with his eyes closed. His name’s Benny, and he’s not really a man, he’s a boy. He’s the same age as her son. Not your son, her son. We watch him together. Last thing at night. First hours of morning. And that’s just the half of it. She kissed his lips and broke his heart. Goodness knows what else.

  ‘I haven’t got childre
n myself,’ I say. He lifts his eyebrows and offers me his sympathy. His condolences. Angelica stops glaring. She looks away and down the street. She rolls her eyes.

  ‘Come on,’ she says. ‘We need to get going.’

  ‘Absolutely. Nice to meet you, Gordon.’ He takes his arm from her hip and goes to shake my hand again. But I don’t respond. I pick up my spade and think about Angelica. The day she moved in. The trip to my parents. The nights with Benny. I watch her reach out, take Michael’s outstretched hand and pull him away. He looks embarrassed.

  ‘Nice to meet you too,’ I say. He ignores me. They turn in unison and walk towards the car. It’s lights flash twice. He opens the passenger door for Angelica. She bends down, ducks under his arm and makes herself comfortable. She drags the seatbelt across her chest and Michael climbs in next to her. They reverse up and into Don’s drive, check the street for traffic, pull out and away from me. I look up at sky, the patches of snow on the rooftops. Cressington Vale is silent, apart from the sound of a dull thud, somewhere in the distance. Some kind of banging. It could be the machinery. The lorries. The dual carriageway. But no, it’s Benny, standing on a chair in his bedroom, hammering hooks to the wall, at last replacing his curtains.

  Yesterday’s news

  Angelica is leaving Cressington Vale. It’s official. Fifteen minutes ago a white van pulled up outside her house. It had pink dice hanging from the rear view mirror. Snow on its roof and bonnet. A man got out and opened the doors at the back. He was wearing a shirt and tie under a pair of orange overalls. I watched him in Angelica’s garden, hammering the sign into the ground. I waited for him to finish. To knock on her door and show her what he’d done. But it didn’t happen. He just sauntered back to the van, fetched another sign. He dragged it along the pavement to Don Donald’s house, stood in his flowerbed, repeated the process. Then he got back inside the van, sat in the driver’s seat and removed his overalls. Drove away. I looked at the two signs. One said, ‘To Let’, the other said, ‘For Sale’.