by Isla Dewar
Duncan laid a cup of tea on the table in front of her. He stepped back proud of himself and waiting for her verdict. She took a sip, made a face and said, ‘Horrible. Too strong. I like it weak.’
Duncan reeled back in shock. ‘Oh, sorry. I always make it strong.’ He lunged for the cup. ‘I’ll make you another.’
She flapped him away. ‘Don’t bother. I’ll drink it anyway. I’m in a lot of pain, a little more won’t hurt.’
He sat opposite her and apologised. ‘I just never think. I’m so used to making it for myself.’
‘Martin always thought of others. Martin made lovely tea. I miss him.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘You’re not like him at all. He was thoughtful. He was kind. He cared about people. He wouldn’t ever just have turned up on someone’s doorstep when he fancied a cup of tea or a meal.’
Duncan reddened. Looked into his cup.
‘And if he’d been around now he’d have worried about me and not a bloody cake.’
Duncan opened his mouth but no sound came out. He squirmed.
‘Look at me, I’m all bashed up. Bruised and broken. Ribs, stitches,’ she pointed to her forehead, ‘I was unconscious. I was in hospital. And it won’t go away. It keeps coming back to me, pictures – vivid pictures – in my head. I’m falling again. I’m hitting my head again. Lying on the ground again. But mostly it’s falling. The ground coming up to meet me and me scared and helpless. And all you can think about is my ruined cake.’
He put his hands to his face, shook his head. ‘Oh, you sound just like my wife. She used to say I was a clumsy oaf in delicate situations. I always said the wrong thing. I lacked empathy.’ He put his hands on his cheeks. ‘It’s my face. It doesn’t do what it’s meant to do. It smiles when it should look sad. And it goes grumpy when it should be smiling. I have no control over it. It doesn’t reflect what I’m thinking.’
‘You witter on about a cake because you have no control of your face and can’t say out loud what you are thinking?’
‘Exactly. I thought you might not like me to mention the fact that you were shuffling about. So I spoke about the cake instead. I thought you might be lamenting its loss. It was a stunner of a cake. Best cake I’ve ever seen.’
‘You’re doing it again. Speaking about the cake. PLEASE stop.’ She clutched her mouth. Felt her face going out of control. It crumpled. Tears. ‘It was a beautiful cake. I loved it. I was so proud of it. And it’s gone. Smashed to pieces. Like me.’ She put her head on the table and sobbed.
Duncan went to her. He stood, his hand hovering over her heaving back. ‘Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I don’t know what to do when people cry.’
But Sophie wept on.
Duncan sighed, finally placed a consoling hand on her back. ‘I think this is called transference. You are transferring your grief and shock about your recent trauma to your loss of cake. You’re not really weeping for your cake. You are grieving over your broken ribs and bashed head.’
Sophie sniffed, wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Please leave.’
32
The Lure of Clean Sheets
‘I wish I could fart like a dog,’ said Charlie.
Almost midnight, they were in Charlie’s car watching the gate of the private gardens in Drummond Place. It was his theory that Chrissie Lewis thought this to be her safe place. He suspected she knew it well. Had probably spent sunny afternoons here, reading and sipping a G&T. He decided she’d been happy out here. Happier than she had been in the flat she’d shared with her husband.
‘What an absurd thing to say. Dogs are foul farters. Is that why you wanted me to come along, so you could talk about farting?’ said Martha.
‘I wanted you here because you’re a woman. If a man approaches Chrissie she might be frightened. She might call out. She might have a heart attack. A woman’s better.’
‘I can see that. How long do we have to wait?’
‘Till the lights in the flats are out.’
‘Well, can we change the subject?’
‘No. Dogs are master farters. They do not move, look up or acknowledge what they’ve done in the slightest way. It’s a natural thing to do and they do it. They don’t squirm with embarrassment; they don’t blush and pardon themselves. They have no guilt. I envy that. That’s what I was really thinking. Wondering what it would be like to get by on instinct. To live in the moment. No guilt.’
‘Zen farting.’
‘Exactly. What were you thinking about?’
‘I was feeling guilty.’
‘What about?’
‘Drugs.’
‘Oh, right. When you said you hadn’t done them I didn’t believe you. You were a kid in a rock’n’roll band, away from home, away from your mum. Of course you smoked a joint or two.’
‘I remember staring at ordinary things and saying, “Wow.” As in, “Wow, a daisy.” Or “Wow, a chip.” And I giggled myself witless.’
‘Sounds like just the thing for a young rebel to do.’ He leaned forward and said, ‘I’m going to kiss you.’
Surprised, she put a forbidding hand on his approaching face and said, ‘Why?’
He put a finger on her lips. ‘Ted Lewis, coming along the street. I don’t want him to see us.’
‘He’ll see us kissing.’
‘He won’t see our faces. He won’t know who we are.’ He kissed her. He felt the softness of her lips against his, smelled her musky perfume, and was embarrassed at how much he liked it. ‘Sorry.’ He kissed her again.
Ted drew level with the car, stared in, leaned down to get a better view then walked on shaking his head and muttering.
Charlie freed himself from the kiss and watched him go. Removed from the safety of his living room, Ted Lewis seemed less confident – his shoulders sloped, his head was bowed. He shuffled.
‘He seems lost and old when he’s out in the world,’ said Martha. ‘Wonder where he’s been.’
‘Visiting friends? At his bridge club? Wandering the Grassmarket looking for his wife? He won’t find her.’
‘Why not?’
‘She was spotted. She’ll be keeping away from there.’ He got out of the car.
Martha followed. ‘Why did you kiss me?’
‘I told you, I didn’t want Ted Lewis to see us.’
‘Why not?’
They walked to the gate of the private gardens.
‘Questions, questions,’ said Charlie.
‘But why?’
‘I want to talk to Chrissie first. I want to find out why she left before I tell her husband we’ve found her. So I don’t want him to know we’re looking here in the gardens opposite his house.’ He slapped his hands on the gate of the gardens. It was high, too high to vault. ‘Don’t you think it’s odd that someone would wander the streets and sleep in doorways or here outside in the cold when they have a home?’ He bent down, cupped his hands together. ‘Put your foot in there. I’ll give you a shove over.’
‘She walked out on him. Maybe she thinks it isn’t her home any more.’ Martha put her foot in his hands and he heaved her up so she easily cleared the gate. She turned, did a small jump of triumph. ‘Now you.’
A tricky one. He slapped his hands on the top of the gate once more and felt shamed by his weaknesses. If he was lithe he could clear it in a single bound in the manner of Steve McQueen or Paul Newman. He was not like these screen gods. He was not a model of desirable maleness. Recently he’d noted a certain softening round his middle, a grey hair or two on his temples and a strange new longing to take a nap in the middle of the afternoon. He was not a virile leaper of gates. This bothered him because the woman he wanted to impress was standing on the other side of the gate waiting for him to join her. He could still feel the kiss on his lips, her scent lingering as did traces of the way her fingers touched the back of his neck.
He heaved himself up, aware that the effort was making his arms shake and his face turn a hearty shade of red. He got his l
eg onto the top spar, then his other leg and was now lying on top of the gate. He didn’t look at Martha, didn’t want to see her derision as he rolled off and tumbled to the ground.
‘How are we going to get out?’ asked Martha.
‘With difficulty.’
‘And how does Chrissie get in here?’
‘Maybe she’s athletic.’
‘Maybe she isn’t here.’
‘She has to be. It’s safe. A hostel wouldn’t be. Not if she thinks someone is looking for her. But this is right under her husband’s nose. She’s thinking she’s safe. Everybody needs to feel safe.’
He looked round, thinking about Evie and Martha’s secret place. He imagined them hiding, standing perfectly still, breathing quietly, feeling safe. That spot behind the lilac tree would have been softly grassy and scented in spring. He couldn’t see anything quite so alluring here. Yet, if he was right, this was where Chrissie Lewis hid.
In the end, though, he didn’t find Chrissie. She found him. He and Martha were searching areas of shrubbery away from the surrounding railings; he straightened up, stretched, turned and saw the old lady coming towards him. She wore a red cloche hat, a long blue tweed coat, had a silk scarf draped round her neck and carried two old and battered leather bags. Everything was worn now, but they’d been stylish and very expensive in their day.
She was small and frail but still had large brown eyes, high cheekbones and full lips. Her skin looked old. She put her bags down, crossed her arms. ‘Are you looking for me.’ A soft voice, but assured, well-rounded vowels.
‘Yes. Your husband asked us to find you. But he doesn’t know I’m here.’
‘But you’ll tell him.’
‘No. Not yet.’
She spread her arms. ‘Here I am.’
‘Here you are.’ He stepped towards her, took her bags. ‘I thought you might like a bath, a bed with clean sheets and some food perhaps.’ He looked at the sky. Held out his hand, palm upwards. ‘I think it’s going to rain.’
‘It is. I can smell it coming.’
Martha had been watching from the far side of the gardens. She held her breath and moved closer, one slow silent step at a time. She couldn’t believe this. There in front of her was an escapee human being. A woman who’d dropped out of a normal regular life to sleep on the streets. How odd. How wonderful. It was as if she was observing some rare shy wild animal that would bolt the moment her suspicions were aroused.
Chrissie sensed Martha’s stare, turned and saw her stealthy approach. ‘It’s all right. No need to sneak up on me. I’m hardly likely to flee. Where would I go?’ She turned back to Charlie. ‘Yes. A bath, a bed, clean sheets, a bit of privacy, food. Thank you. I don’t mind if I do.’
They walked in a silent line, Charlie then Chrissie with Martha coming along behind. At the gate, Charlie put down the bags, smiled to Chrissie. ‘The key?’
She handed it over. ‘I was hoping to have some fun watching the pair of you struggling to get out the way you struggled to get in. Very entertaining. How did you know I had a key?’
‘Seems logical. You don’t seem the vaulting type,’ said Charlie. He opened the gate and held it as the other two went through.
Chrissie settled in the back of the car. ‘So good to sit down. So good not to have to walk.’
Martha sat in the driver’s seat, started the engine and then turned and leaned over to Chrissie. ‘You took the key to the private garden when you left your husband?’
‘Good heavens, no. Why would I have done that? I took the key to the flat. Then when I got back to Edinburgh I went in and got the garden key when Ted was out.’
Charlie said, ‘Thought so.’
Martha said, ‘Cool.’
Charlie said, ‘I’m Charlie Gavin and this is Martha, by the way.’
‘I know,’ said Chrissie. ‘It’s a small world out on the streets. Us refugees from living rooms and nine-to-five routines have a busy grapevine.’
The warmth of the car, the movement, the low growl of the ageing engine had a soothing effect on Chrissie. Minutes into the journey to Charlie’s, she fell asleep.
‘We could have been anybody and she came with us. We could be serial killers. We could be going to murder her and cut up her body.’
‘I know. I think it’s the sheets that swing it. These people are bone tired, hungry, lonely and frightened. The offer of a bed with fresh, clean, crisp sheets is too much. They can break hearts, clean sheets.’
‘The lack of them?’
‘Finding them again. The comfort. Realising the small important things that have been missing. They remember what they’ve let go. Slipping between clean sheets is a returning-tothe-world moment.’
Behind them Chrissie shifted and snorted. ‘I’ll have scrambled eggs and toast, a deep, hot, scented bath and clean sheets. But I’m not returning to any lost world. Those I’ve let go can stay gone. And clean sheets remind you of simple needs. I’m getting back my dignity.’
33
The Stare
Charlie didn’t like this house. He hadn’t liked it the first time he came, and he liked it less now. The short path from the gate to the door was depressing. His heart sank as he passed the neat, clipped pristine lawn and the borders with their regimented rows of flowers placed an immaculate twelve inches apart. Nature disciplined and told to behave, stripped of its personality. A scattering of daisies on the grass would help, he thought. A dandelion, somewhere, perhaps. Something living and happy about it would be good.
Bernice answered the door and looked mildly surprised to see him. He hadn’t told her he was coming. He hadn’t dropped a client before and now he was here, he thought it would have been better to have sent a letter.
Inside, the house had an unpleasant stillness. There was a slight whiff of damp. The place felt as if nobody really lived here, nobody cooked, laughed, listened to the radio or did anything other than sit still and hope that nothing would happen. He wished Martha was with him. But she was taking her mother to the outpatients’ clinic. Bernice led him into the living room. ‘So, have you any news?’
‘I followed your man, Brendan. He led me up and down Princes Street Gardens. Then he cornered me in Rose Street and did this.’ Charlie put his hand to his face, traced the line of his pain. ‘Still hurts.’
‘But did you find out anything new?’
‘No.’ Wrong question, he thought. She should have asked if he was all right. A bit of compassion went a long way. He didn’t like this woman. She wasn’t interested in his welfare. In fact she seemed dismissive of it. She was sitting in the armchair across from the one he was using, hands folded on her lap, her face almost expressionless. Charlie thought the chair too big for her. This house didn’t fit her. It was too old and dark for her. It wasn’t her style. He couldn’t imagine her buying any of the furniture here. It was all bulky, dark brown pre-war. She looked the modern Swedish sort. Her clothes and hairstyle didn’t match her interior décor.
Hand still touching his pain, he said, ‘There’s nothing on your mantelpiece.’
Bernice said, ‘Pardon?’
‘I’d have thought a woman like you would have some ornaments or photographs or something on her mantelpiece.’
Bernice shook her head. ‘No. I’m not a mantelpiece person. I like it unadorned.’
‘You’ve no pictures. I’d have put you as a Renoir woman. Maybe a Monet. And I’m having problems with your wallpaper.’ It was dark maroon with fat gold stripes, torn here and there where it met the skirting board. Bernice was immaculate. Eleven o’clock on a Thursday morning her hair and make-up were perfect, clothes crisply ironed. There was a gleam about her. She looked polished. It took time and money to look this poised. It occurred to Charlie that such a woman would be unlikely to have grubby wallpaper.
‘Do you normally criticise your client’s décor? Is this part of the service?’
Charlie shook his head. He didn’t know what had got into him. He’d never spoken to anyone like this b
efore. There was something about this woman with her expensive clothes and dowdy home that irritated him. He didn’t trust her. He didn’t like her. She was staring at him, scrutinising his face. Watching his lips as he spoke.
‘If I’d wanted advice about my colour schemes and choice of art for the walls, I wouldn’t have gone to a missing persons bureau,’ she told him.
Charlie said he couldn’t argue with that. He blamed Martha for this embarrassment. He thought about her too often. All the time, if he was honest. Images of her, wondering what she was doing, made him forget to mind his manners. He’d remember the way she fondled the dog’s ears, or reached down to take Evie’s hand, or burst into the office holding aloft a paper bag containing two bacon rolls and his heart would skip a beat. And he’d say something inappropriate because he only wanted to talk to Martha. Nobody else mattered.
‘In fact,’ said Bernice, ‘the wallpaper was here when I moved in. I didn’t choose it.’
‘It doesn’t look like your taste.’
She gave it a critical look and said, ‘It isn’t. I keep meaning to get round to it.’
‘Yes,’ said Charlie. ‘Time passes. Plans slip away unfulfilled. Suddenly you’re ten years older and you’ve stopped noticing the wallpaper.’
‘How very profound. You’re quite the philosopher, Mr Gavin.’
‘Not really. I just know a thing or two about not getting round to things.’ He looked up at the ceiling. Someone was walking across the room above. Soft footfalls. ‘You’ve got guests. I should go.’
Bernice flapped her hand. ‘Guest. Singular. Nobody important.’
Charlie said he really had to go. ‘Things to do.’ He wanted out of here. He was squirming about his wallpaper remarks and would, he knew, squirm for some time to come. Months probably, if not years. He got up. Started towards the door. Bernice followed.
‘You will let me know of any developments.’
He said he would. Though he was pretty sure he wouldn’t.