It Takes One to Know One

by Isla Dewar

  It took a moment or two for them to realise who they were looking at. ‘Where are they going?’ Martha wondered.

  ‘Dunno.’

  ‘We should follow them.’

  ‘I think they’ll know we’re behind them.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘Go home. Make a cup of tea. Eat a bun.’

  ‘But what if that pair are up to no good?’

  ‘Let them be up to no good. What are we going to do about it? Rush to stop them? Get punched? No. Accept we are cowards. Feel the fear.’

  ‘But . . .’ said Martha.

  ‘But nothing. You don’t know where they might be going. To the library or perhaps one of them has a doctor’s appointment or maybe they’re off to the supermarket to buy toilet rolls. Even the vilest of criminals must take time off for ordinary things.’

  ‘These two are not nice people. Who knows what nasty things they’re doing. It is our duty to find out and put a stop to it.’ Martha sounded righteous.

  Charlie gave her a cold look. ‘Get you. If you want to follow these two, do it. Me, I’m going home. I’ve had enough. This day, this place, this sunshine is making me sad.’ He sighed. ‘I grew up bored, scared and itchy.’

  ‘Bored I understand,’ said Martha. ‘What were you scared of?’

  ‘I don’t know. My Aunt Ella was scared, she must have thought the police were going to come for her because she abducted me. She passed the fear on. And itchy was because of the woolly jumpers she knitted. I wore them winter and summer. Kids here are the colour of honey and cycling about in soft cotton T-shirts. They’re happy, busy and comfortably clothed. It makes me want to cry. All the things I missed.’

  ‘So cry,’ Martha told him.

  ‘I can’t. I’ve told myself it’s OK. But no tears come.’

  She put her hand on his arm. ‘You should let go and cry. Nothing beats a good cry. It’s awfully good for you.’

  He stared at the hand that was placed so gently on his arm. It was a lovely hand, pale, long fingers, nails painted a subtle pearlite. The colour reminded him of a Shell petrol pump. That hand had touched cheeks, stroked hair. It pained him to think of all the things that hand had done. But not to him. So he threw his Mars bar out of the car window. Well, a chap had to do something.

  ‘Why the hell did you do that?’ Martha glared at him.

  ‘I was hoping for crisps. I like salty things.’

  ‘Well, you go and pick it up. That’s littering.’ The hand was removed from his arm. A long pale finger pointed in the direction of the discarded Mars bar. ‘Go on. You can’t leave it there.’

  Sheepishly Charlie got out of the car and retrieved the chocolate. It had a fine layer of grit on the bitten end. Back in the passenger seat, he wrapped it in his handkerchief and put it in his pocket. So, he’d had his first tiff with Martha. A tiff and he hadn’t yet kissed her for real or held that lovely hand in his. Still, something had happened. The scolding, the finger wagging had stirred something inside him. It was as if a small wind had started up and shifted the black cloud. He thought it might drift away and leave him alone.

  36

  Good at Living

  Sophie, thinking she ought to speed up her healing process by walking, risked going out. She hoped to bump into Charlie, who was fetching Evie from school. Martha had gone to the dentist. Finding the office locked, she’d gone to Charlie’s house and knocked on the door.

  Brenda answered. Sophie stared at her, taking in her ancient leathery face draped with a mane of dazzlingly shiny auburn hair, and said, ‘I’m looking for Charlie.’

  ‘Gone to the shops with the little one,’ Brenda told her. ‘Off to buy a card for Martha’s birthday.’

  ‘Oh, I usually do that. I leave it till the day before, though.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t want to do that. No pleasure in that. You want to have the card and the gift in plenty time so you can look at them and anticipate handing them over.’

  Sophie said she hadn’t thought of that, and felt a tad insensitive. This woman whose wildly coloured hair was at odds with her time-raddled face and saddened eyes went up in her estimation.

  ‘Are you Charlie’s lodger?’

  ‘Nah,’ said Brenda. ‘I’m one of the found.’

  It sounded religious. For a bewildered moment Sophie wondered if this woman and Charlie were part of a strange obscure sect. But no, that couldn’t possibly be. Not Charlie.

  ‘I was on the street. Missing. Well, missing from my family that I didn’t want to know any more. But I wasn’t missing from me. I knew where I was. Charlie found me. Didn’t tell my family. He brought me here when it was raining. And here I still am.’

  ‘Well, that’s lovely.’ Sophie stared at Brenda’s hair. It was so gloriously shiny. It was mesmerising.

  Brenda said, ‘No, it isn’t.’

  ‘Isn’t what?’

  ‘A wig. It’s real. I’m letting my hair be outrageous. I’m giving it the youth I never had. Are you Martha’s mother? You better come in.’ She stepped back, held the door open.

  Sophie was led into the communal kitchen. It was here the people Martha called Charlie’s leftovers prepared their meals, did their laundry and chatted about their harsh past lives.

  Charlie had his own small pristine private kitchen where he prepared gourmet meals and carefully brewed perfect coffee. This room, however, was bright, white walls covered with framed theatre posters, a large pine table, cream units and the usual washing machine, fridge and oven. A radio played pop songs. Brenda turned it off. ‘You’re shuffling well. Are you getting over being beaten up?’

  ‘Slowly. Healing takes ages. I have to sleep sitting up.’

  ‘I’ve done that often enough myself.’ For a small moment Brenda drifted into memories. ‘I won’t say happy days. They weren’t.’

  ‘Do you do anything? Work?’

  ‘Work? It’s hard to get a job when you’ve been off the face of the earth for years. People ask what experience you have and you say, “I can survive sleeping in doorways and know which restaurants don’t mind you picking food from their bins.” Such an answer is unlikely to impress. But I pay my way. I clean. I know about plumbing and some carpentry. Mostly I tell Charlie when things need fixing and make sure he gets someone in to do the job. A man like Charlie needs nagged. Coffee?’

  Sophie nodded. ‘Thank you. Are you the only one?’

  ‘Nah. There’re others. They come and go. And there’s Chrissie. She’s new. Charlie found her in the gardens near her house. She felt safe there. Safe’s important.’

  Sophie agreed. ‘Oh, I like safe. There’s nothing better than being snug and warm in bed when the wind is blasting and rain is crashing against the windowpane. That’s safe at its best. And I always enjoy it more if I hear someone outside walking about in the weather.’ She nodded, wistful for some fierce weather to make snuggling in bed a special treat, and caught Brenda’s scathing stare.

  Here was a woman who’d stood alone suffering whatever the elements threw at her. She did not appreciate being reminded of nights when cold had throbbed, aching in her joints, and the drumming icy rain had numbed her insensible. Brenda was unimpressed to hear someone coo that the delights of a cosy bed had been heightened by thinking about the misery of those who were out in the foul freezing weather. And suffering. ‘No doubt when you’re safe you can let go and really sleep knowing you won’t wake up with someone with foul breath and a knife looming over you. Or peeing on you. You lose your social skills on the street.’

  Sophie reddened and said, ‘I understand about finding a place of safety. There’s a secret spot in my garden, just behind the lilac tree. The grass is soft, in spring the air is scented and nobody can see you. You can gather your breath there. It’s where I went all the time after my husband died. I could cry there.’

  ‘Weep?’ said Brenda. ‘When you lose your keys you cry. When you lose the one you love most in the world, you weep.’

  ‘I’ll give you that,’ s
aid Sophie. ‘I wept behind the lilac tree.’ She sipped the coffee Brenda had put in front of her. Sniffed. Memories of time behind the lilac tree brought tears.

  ‘There you go,’ said Brenda. ‘It’s when you move on with your life the guilt sets in. Being happy, laughing, working, watching television without him. It’s too bloody hard.’ Brenda pointed upwards to the room above. ‘Chrissie’s mourning. She’s staring into space, sleeping and eating.’

  ‘Who is she mourning?’

  ‘Herself. The life she missed on account of being battered and bullied by her husband, leaving him for a con man and ending up broke and homeless.’ She leaned over, tapped Sophie’s arm. ‘You could do with Chrissie. When she’s not eating or sleeping or staring into space she bakes.’

  Sophie raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, yes? What does she bake?’

  ‘Excellent cakes, scones, biscuits, other things. She could help you now that you’re shuffling. She could beat mixtures and bend down to put things in the oven.’

  ‘I do specialist cakes.’

  ‘So? You could sit still and tell her what to do. Nothing better than sitting still and bossing folk about.’

  Sophie stared, considering this. After all she hadn’t met Chrissie, knew nothing about her.

  ‘Don’t sit there thinking. Say yes. It’s your chance to help a sad and lonely woman. What right have you to deny her?’

  ‘Well, none when you put it like that. Only I’ve no money to pay her.’

  ‘Money, money – it’s all you middle-class suburbanites think about. This isn’t about money, it’s about caring for another. Letting your compassion show. Animals show their feelings. Dogs wag their tails and leap about with joy when they see you. When emotions hit they howl, bark or whine. All sorts of animals just go with the flow. Not us people. We hide from our emotions. Sometimes I think us humans are not very good at living.’

  ‘OK,’ said Sophie, ‘she can come and help me bake.’

  Sophie walked slowly home. Trying not to shuffle was painful. Her mood was not lightened by the new worry that she was not very good at living. The more she thought about it the more she considered it to be true.

  She’d asked Brenda, ‘What do you mean us humans are not very good at living?’

  Brenda had leaned over the table. ‘I saw you people who had all you could want and it seemed to me none of you appreciated it. How do you think I felt standing on the pavement watching you go by? Me standing there with all I owned in a couple of plastic bags.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I wasn’t impressed.’

  Later, bustling along the High Street, she spotted Charlie and Evie ahead of her and yelled, ‘Hello there, you two.’ And waved.

  They turned. She could tell from their expressions that she was overdoing it. The wave was too flamboyant, the friendly greeting too loud, too enthusiastic. They were astonished and more than a little embarrassed. She couldn’t stop. She kept waving as she approached them and was still waving when she was near enough to touch them. She pointed across to the café. ‘Let’s have milkshakes. I love a milkshake.’ This was ridiculous. She didn’t love a milkshake. She really wanted a cup of tea.

  In the café, she examined the card and the silk scarf Evie had bought for Martha’s birthday and knew that Charlie had chosen the scarf. She saw now that Charlie, afraid to let Martha know his feelings for her, would give her an expensive scarf through her daughter. He would give her something like a box of chocolates and say it was from Murphy. He’d hide his feelings. And if Martha cared for him, she’d hide that, too. They weren’t good at living either. She looked at Evie, who was holding the scarf against her cheek. ‘Can’t wait to give this to Mum.’

  Well, maybe the girl had the hang of showing her feelings. It would fade in time, no doubt. And here was she, Sophie, smiling too much at the prospect of a chocolate milkshake she didn’t want. It was tiring. On the whole she decided melancholy was easier.

  Afterwards they picked up Murphy from the office and walked home, Evie charging in front with the dog. She waltzed back and forth across the pavement. Sophie shouted, ‘Careful. Keep away from the road.’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Charlie said.

  ‘She could get run over and die. I’ve had enough of death. It ought to be banned.’

  ‘The world would be a little crowded if it was,’ said Charlie. ‘We need to make room for new young people.’

  ‘People who are good at living.’

  ‘Ah, Sophie. You’ve been talking to Brenda. She is obsessed with people being good at living. Or, actually, she’s obsessed with people who aren’t good at it. She doesn’t understand them.’

  ‘Not being good at being alive comes naturally.’

  ‘Yes. I’m good at failing to be happy. In fact, Brenda gave me Murphy to cheer me up. She said I needed a friend.’

  ‘Well, a puppy would help there.’

  ‘He wasn’t a puppy. He was like Brenda. He’d been abused. He was underfed and flea-bitten. But he loved me. Brenda told me he was willing to give human beings and life another go.’

  ‘You’ve done a wonderful job with him. He’s lovely except for the indiscretions.’

  ‘Yes. I envy his lust for life. His lack of inhibitions.’

  Sophie said, ‘I think an inhibition or two is necessary. If only to ensure the enjoyment of life of innocent bystanders.’

  Charlie said, ‘I’m one of life’s innocent bystanders. I never join in.’

  Sophie agreed. ‘Me too. Fun? Enjoyment? What, pray, are these things?’

  Charlie blew out his cheeks, shook his head. ‘A thought,’ he said. ‘The women Brendan visits. Innocent bystanders. I need to talk to them.’

  37

  The Exploding Suit

  Martha was haunted by the moment her husband sprinted away from her. It played and replayed in her mind. The memory of him running would creep up on her if she was still, or doing some routine job that required no concentration, and make her shake her head and say no. In low moments she could visit it so she could dip even lower. Sometimes she needed as much pain as she could muster.

  It was like crystal, that memory. She was standing holding the railings of Queen Street Gardens watching Jamie run. She held Evie’s hand. The child was still peevish over the loss of her favourite chip. The floods of tears had taken their toll; her eyes were puffy and she was sniffing. Traffic rushed past. A blackbird hopped across the grass on the other side of the fence. Jamie ran and ran. He didn’t look back.

  She could see the colours of that day. The grass, a maroon bus trundling by, Evie’s blue woollen mittens, her red duffel coat, Jamie’s grey suit, her own black patent leather shoes. Whenever she thought about it, she cried. Back then it had been for herself, for Evie and later for the baby she’d lost. Now it was out of guilt. Jamie had fled the life she’d foisted on him. During her brief stint on the road she’d known cold, hunger, had worried about finding a place to sleep at night. She’d spent nights in the back of a van scared of noises – scrapings, rustlings – outside. She’d washed in public toilets.

  When the band broke up she’d needed security. Every night she’d slid into bed and thanked the manufacturer of her cotton sheets for their softness. For a while she’d bathed several times a day. Just being clean was a joy.

  ‘A small home is all you need,’ she’d once said to Jamie.

  He’d made a funny noise and walked out of the room. Now she knew he’d snorted and put some small distance between them. He’d probably wanted to smack her. Oh, how he’d disagreed with her. And now, three years on, she didn’t agree with herself either. Working for Charlie, living with her mother in that large tumbledown, frankly shabby flat, she was almost happy. She thought that was as good as it got.

  She needed to know if Jamie was almost happy, too. Mornings, after she’d dropped Evie at school, she’d take a half-hour detour drive on the way to work. She’d park across the square from Jamie’s flat and stare up at the windows. There were th
ree. Blue blankets covered two; the third was draped with a Persian rug. As there was never any sign of life in the rooms behind the drapes Martha assumed that Jamie and his new love were late risers. Or maybe they didn’t like the cruel blast of early sun and kept their living space dim. She imagined them moving quietly, drinking coffee, listening to music. She decided she wouldn’t spot any goings-on at this time of day and should switch to night spying.

  This was easier than morning snooping. On school nights Evie was in bed by eight o’clock and Sophie retired early because sitting up in bed reading was more comfortable than spending the evening on the sofa watching television. Just after nine Martha would drive up to Jamie’s flat and spend a fretful couple of hours staring up at his windows. The curtains would be pulled back. Sometimes she’d see people up there – shapes drifting past the window. She fancied that from time to time they were dancing. She was sure the woman up there was wearing a long floaty thing and was swaying gracefully in time to music. She twirled, waved her arms above her head. But she was a shadow. Martha couldn’t see her face.

  Once she saw Jamie leave the building just after ten. He returned twenty minutes later with a take-away meal. He stood outside, whistled and held it aloft to a group gathered upstairs. They waved and whistled back and told him to hurry up with the food, man. It made Martha feel left out and lonely. She listened to Pink Floyd on the radio. It suited her mood.

  From time to time Jamie would come to the window and gaze out at the night. Often he would sit on the windowsill, his back to her; he seemed to be talking at length, expounding, gesticulating. Martha hurt. He’d never done this with her.

  She became obsessed. She was addicted to going to stare up at the flat imagining the lives of the people who lived there. The Jamie she observed from her car was nothing like the Jamie she’d known three years ago. That Jamie had been distant, withdrawn, had spent hours alone in his shed listening to his albums. This Jamie seemed to be friendly, relaxed, chatty. Martha winced to remember how unhappy the old Jamie had been. She was sure his misery was down to her.