Crazy Paving

by Louise Doughty

  When she had been twelve, there were some problems at school – a woman teacher had taken a dislike to her. Her mother had said, ‘What do you expect me to do about it? She’s the Deputy Head.’ Her grandmother Joanna had put on her best mac and polished her shoes and turned up at the school one afternoon. She had taken Helly into a deserted class room and listened carefully to her side of the story. Then together they had gone to see the teacher concerned. Joanna had made Helly wait outside the staff room while she went in.

  As they walked away from the school, Helly asked, ‘What did you say?’

  ‘I was very polite,’ Joanna had replied grimly.

  Later that afternoon, Joanna and Bob had sat either side of Helly in their kitchen. Bob rested his arm across the back of her chair and Joanna put both her hands on Helly’s knees. ‘If anybody ever bothers you,’ Joanna had said, ‘whether it’s a teacher or some other kids or some bloke, you tell us. We can’t wave a wand and do miracles, but you tell us. Okay?’

  Half-way down Horseferry Road, Helly paused to withdraw a tattered tissue from her jacket pocket and wipe her nose. She looked up at the sky, white with cloud. If they get chucked out of the cottage, she thought calmly, I’ll knife that evil bastard. So help me, I’ll kill him.

  Joan frowned as Helly approached her desk. ‘If this is your idea of timekeeping, my dear, I would hate to see what happened if you ever decided to be late.’

  ‘Ah lay off,’ said Helly, smiling. ‘How was your holiday? You’re not very brown.’

  ‘Yes well,’ Joan replied.

  ‘Where’s Annette?’

  ‘Talking to Raymond about a spec. I’m glad you’re here at last, I’ve been dying to know what’s been going on while I’ve been away.’

  ‘Not much,’ said Annette as she rounded the corner, a bundle of specifications flopping over one arm. ‘Except Raymond saving up specs for me to type like they’re going to go out of fashion . . .’ She dropped the pile onto Joan’s desk. ‘Hang on while I have a look-see who’s around.’

  The door to Richard’s office was open. It was empty.

  ‘He’s been very quiet,’ Helly was saying to Joan as Annette rejoined them. ‘Too quiet really, gives me the willies.’

  Joan looked a little disappointed. ‘I thought I’d be coming back to high drama. What do we do? Just keep our heads down and hope nothing happens, or go upstairs and spill the beans? Who to?’

  ‘Mr Church, I guess,’ said Annette, ‘I get the impression they’re quite chummy though.’

  ‘What’s he like?’ Joan asked.

  ‘He’s a fat git,’ said Annette.

  Helly smiled. ‘What Annette means,’ she said, mimicking her accent, ‘is that he is not the kind of gentleman who is likely to take the word of an office junior over the chief surveyor of his technical services department.’

  ‘I think it would be better coming from me,’ said Annette.

  Helly looked at her. There was a pause. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

  Annette nodded, ‘Yes, I am. But I think we should lie low for this week. It’s a short week anyway, not much can happen. I think it would be better done after Easter.’

  ‘Don’t you think it would be better done after Easter?’ said Mr Church.

  Richard frowned. It had been bad timing to come and see Church on a Monday morning. He had forgotten that Monday morning was not his best time.

  ‘Well, in addition,’ Richard said, examining his fingernails, ‘I’m afraid there’s the matter of the youngster. I can’t prove she is implicated in what he has been up to but it seems likely. Anyway, there are problems with her timekeeping and her general work performance. My secretary’s been keeping records.’ Richard sighed, as if this was all terribly difficult. ‘Of course, it will help with the budgetary problem in my section. There’s also an elderly secretary that I think we could move sideways and frankly I think the rest of my staff are due for a pay freeze. We haven’t had an overhaul for a while. How’s Jennifer?’

  Mr Church smiled broadly. ‘She did terribly well in her mock exams. Always nice to have an artist in the family.’

  Richard pressed his lips together in a regretful expression. ‘Must be wonderful to have a lovely daughter. Of course, my wife and I, well we’ve not been able to . . .’

  Mr Church shook his head sympathetically. His plump face wobbled slightly as it moved. ‘This surveyor, what’s his name?’

  ‘Bennett,’ said Richard. ‘William Bennett. Young family as well.’

  ‘Humph,’ said Church, and his bulk heaved an inch or two up from his chair. ‘Well he should have thought of that before he decided to try and pull the wool over our eyes. I don’t believe in being soft over this sort of thing.’

  Richard raised both hands and then clapped them down on his knees, as if to indicate that neither did he but, all the same, it was a terrible pity.

  After Mr Church there was the dreaded Marjorie, in Personnel. After Marjorie there was Simone in Accounts, who had been pulling the figures he had asked for, the ones that showed it might be necessary to reduce the number of staff in his unit, maybe move a couple of people sideways. The figures weren’t ready, she told him, but they would be by Wednesday. The accounts department was always trying to produce figures showing that the staff needed rationalising. He had the strong feeling that old Simone couldn’t believe her luck.

  The following day, Tuesday, Richard spent out of the office, visiting some of the contractors that he hadn’t seen for a while, tying up a few loose ends.

  On the Wednesday, he went down to Simone and picked up his figures. When he got back to his office, he phoned Arthur Robinson. He didn’t normally ring people from his office phone – you never knew when the switch-board might be listening in – but on this occasion he knew he could handle the topic of conversation obliquely. ‘Arthur, about that job . . .’ he began. Arthur was prevaricating. What a joke this whole business is, Richard thought. I should be able to hire people specially for this kind of thing, not have to rely on two-bit weirdos belonging to soft-headed contractors like Arthur Robinson. I’d do it myself if I thought it was worth the risk. Do my own dirty work. He thought it prudent to remind Arthur, obliquely of course, of the extent of his obligation. ‘I want it done by the end of this week, Arthur. There must be an opportunity. Or the weekend at the latest. Come up with an alternative if necessary. I mean it. It’s important for my schedule.’

  Next, he buzzed Raymond, who came striding round to his office in his usual brisk, officious manner, the loyal lieutenant. Raymond was slightly bow-legged – couldn’t stop a pig in a passage, as Richard’s mother would have said – consequently, when he was being brisk he bobbed almost imperceptibly from side to side, like a child’s toy which would wobble but not fall down. Richard had dwelt on the possibility of including Raymond in his arrangements with contractors but had come to the conclusion that it wasn’t worth the risk. Raymond was a greedy man, with ideas above his social station, but he had a Calvinist streak which probably would have baulked at a little honest give and take with building companies. Anyway, Richard didn’t like to trust anybody.

  ‘Raymond!’ he said, leaning back in his chair. ‘Look I know it’s short notice but I need you to do something for me. Thursday afternoon. The Croydon meeting. Don’t think I’ll be able to make it. It’s on your way, and it’ll only take half an hour and then you could go home afterwards, it being Easter. Would you mind?’

  Raymond looked pleased. He liked to deputise for Richard. He insisted on signing all outgoing mail when Richard was on holiday and informing Annette what Richard might want her to prioritise. Richard knew that the women in his section disliked Raymond intensely, which suited him very well.

  After he had gone, Richard began leafing through his surveyors’ work plans for that week. Most of them were already sorted out. He was going to leave William to the last minute. By four o’clock on Thursday afternoon, the whole floor would be deserted.

  He was really doing very
well indeed.

  ‘You’re doing terribly well.’ Gillian’s voice was coaxing, but stern.

  ‘Am I?’ Richard pleaded, his own voice a schoolboy squeak. ‘I do mean to be a good boy, I really do.’

  It was evening. Richard’s plans were made for the following day. He had come home with a Chinese take-away for them both, feeling tired but pleased. Afterwards, they had cleared up together, then had a drink while they watched television.

  The ten o’clock news had finished half an hour ago and they were now in their bedroom. They were on the bed lying towards the opposite end to the headboard. Gillian was wearing the uniform of a hospital matron. A watch was pinned to her chest and her hair was in a bun. Underneath the uniform, she wore stockings and suspenders. These were visible because the polyester skirt of her outfit had ridden up over her thighs. It had ridden up over her thighs because she was straddling Richard, her knees on either shoulder. On the floor beside the bed lay a thermometer and her sensible shoes.

  Richard was blindfolded. His arms were spread-eagled either side and his hands grasped the wooden bedposts at the bottom of the bed. ‘I want to get better . . .’ he squeaked, and thumped the heels of his feet against the pillow.

  ‘Stop wriggling!’ Gillian hissed viciously.

  ‘Sorry . . .’ Richard wheedled.

  Afterwards, Gillian pulled on her kimono over the polyester dress and went downstairs to fix drinks. She returned a few minutes later with two whiskies and dry ginger and a cut-glass bowl cradled in the crook of her arm. In the bowl was a small heap of crinkly, low fat crisps.

  Richard was sitting up on the bed, smoking. ‘Goody,’ he said. ‘What flavour?’

  She handed him the drinks and put down the bowl on the bedside table. ‘Cream cheese and chives. Your favourite.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  Richard stubbed out his cigarette and took a sip of whisky as he gave Gillian her glass. She passed over the crisps. He snuggled down and rested the bowl precariously on his taut, hairless chest. ‘Feed me?’ he suggested impishly. He was naked but for the unfastened blindfold which hung around his neck. He wasn’t cold because, before they had settled down to watch the news, Gillian had taken the precaution of turning up the radiator. Gillian thought of everything.

  She settled next to him, loosening her robe. Then she cradled his head underneath one arm and began to slip crisps, alternately, between her lips and his own.

  ‘I spoke to Mum today,’ she said, crunching. ‘She wanted to know if we would go over weekend after next and help her and Dad with the greenhouse.’

  ‘Of course we will,’ said Richard, crunching too. ‘Tell them not to even start it. We’ll do it for them on the Sunday. Then we’ll take them out to dinner at the carvery.’

  Gillian bent her head and kissed the top of his. ‘What a nice idea. They’d love that.’

  As Richard and Gillian were munching their crisps, Joanna and Bob Appleton were sitting up in bed in Rosewood Cottage, tossing a coin. They were tossing a coin to see whose turn it was to come last.

  ‘Heads,’ called Joanna.

  Bob lifted his hand up, peered at the coin and pulled a face. ‘Best of three?’ he suggested.

  Joanna shook her head. ‘You lost, sunshine.’ she said, as her arms went around him.

  Afterwards, they lay in bed and held each other in the semi-dark, listening to a low wind which was looping round the cottage. Once in a while, it rattled a window pane.

  ‘I love you,’ said Bob.

  Joanna smiled. ‘Me too.’

  They kissed. Bob pulled her closer into his arms and said, ‘Do you know what I found really sexy, doing, this time?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When I took my finger out of you and drew wet little circles on your backside. My damp Joanna.’

  Joanna laughed. ‘I think you’ll find the dampness was the K-Y jelly, not me. I am sixty-six.’ They kissed again. Joanna drew her head back and gazed at him. Then she lifted a finger and gently, smiling, drew it around the lines in his face. ‘How ridiculous we are,’ she said softly. ‘I don’t think we should ever forget it you know, any of us. How ridiculous we all are.’

  ‘Look on the bright side my love, we’ve had our bi-annual sex session, so no danger of anything untoward happening when we go round to Jill and Tom’s. They’re quite safe.’

  ‘The thought!’

  Then she frowned.

  ‘What?’ Bob asked.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’m a bit worried about leaving Mum on her own tomorrow night. She keeps raving. Somebody after her, she says. Seen his eyes, through the window.’

  ‘She’s always been raving. You just feel guilty after all those things we said about her,’ said Bob, stroking her head.

  ‘I suppose so.’

  Bob placed his hand under Joanna’s chin and tipped her face upwards. As his lips met hers, he slipped his forefinger gently into her mouth, and their two tongues and the finger met together, all three slippery as eels. As Bob was sliding his finger between Joanna’s softly parted lips, Arthur Robinson was tucking into the fourth of his fresh cream éclairs. Worry always sent Arthur straight round to the bakery. Éclairs were his favourite. Arif’s, opposite the yard, did them with a liquid chocolate topping in which there was just a hint of lemon juice. It was slightly inappropriate, and quite delicious. He was being careful not to gorge himself, though. He was on his fourth but he was rationing himself to one per hour. Darkness had fallen long ago but paperwork and worry about Richard kept him occupied in between each treat. He had rung his wife earlier, to explain that urgent business was holding him up. He might be very late.

  As Arthur Robinson’s fourth éclair made its way down his gullet, Annette’s chocolate cake was coming back up hers. She had bought the cake on her way home from work, from the little shop on Hither Green Lane. She had gone in for teabags, then she had seen the cake and found herself reaching for it with all the slow, solemn purpose of a Dalek. From that moment on, the rest of her Wednesday evening had been defined.

  She sank down into a sitting position beside the toilet. So, she thought, it wasn’t just going home last weekend that did it. It’s back. Each time it went away, she thought that she would not do it again. Each time it returned, she felt sure it would never stop. It was this that made it so unbearable. Full blown anorexia, one hundred per cent madness; at least if she had either of those she would know what she was. She had had this problem since early adolescence, but every time it reached the point where she thought she should do something about it, it stopped – as if there was a small ghost in her stomach. She did not even know what the ghost was called.

  She laid her bare arm on the cool enamel of the toilet seat. The rich smell of vomit rose up from the bowl. She sat there, the hot stink in her nostrils, and thought of William, last week, and their scene in the basement. They had not spoken to each other all week, so now she knew that he knew it was over. She was relieved, and miserable. She thought about his hands, the bitten nails, the slightly crooked left thumb. She thought of how he had felt inside her on the cold hard floor of the Capital Transport Authority’s store cupboard, next to the battered boxes full of paperclips.

  William did know that it was over with Annette, but he was pretending that he didn’t. He was also pretending that he wanted sex with his wife. They were in bed. His sojourn on the sofa had lasted only one night, but the silence with which Alison had allowed him back into their bed had indicated to him that he was on probation.

  They were both wearing pyjamas. His were brushed cotton, hers silky. She was wearing her reading glasses and was seemingly intent upon an orange book called Cours illustre de français. William had his hand rested on her thigh and was turned sideways, looking at her. He did not know why he was doing it. He had a vague idea that if he pretended he wanted sex, then whatever conclusion she had come to about his behaviour over the last few weeks would be somehow confused. He thought that, perhaps, he would get away with whatever she had guessed hi
m to be guilty of.

  ‘William . . .’ Alison said slowly, without taking her eyes off her book. ‘You are touching me safe in the knowledge that I will say no, and I think that is despicable.’ He removed his hand. ‘Touch me again,’ she said, turning a page, ‘and you can go downstairs to the sofa again and stay there.’

  Helly was on the sofa in her house in Stockwell. Wednesday night was the night her mother usually went out bonking the dentist, a source of great relief to all concerned. They hadn’t spoken to each other since the incident over the knickers. As soon as her mother had gone, Helly had turned off the telly and gone upstairs to her room. Hidden in a box beneath her bed was the book on German Expressionism which she had, at last, managed to pinch from the Tate.

  She took it downstairs because there was a standard lamp in the sitting room with a good strong bulb. She brought it over and balanced it on the arm of the sofa. On the coffee table beside her was a cup of tea and a packet of biscuits which she had also stolen, from a health food shop in Brixton. The book was the prize, though, the biscuits could wait. She sat with her feet up on the table and the book on her lap. She sighed, and smiled. Then, slowly, she lifted the cover and began to turn the thick, glossy pages. She passed her fingers lightly over the prints, relishing the silky feel of the paper, the fresh smell of a virgin book – light and beauty and knowledge. Sod her mother. Sod the dentist. Sod them all. Helly knew the definition of the word sex. It was here, resting in her lap, clean and glowing in her hands.

  Joan was already in bed. She usually got an early night during the week. As it was the first week back after their holiday, Alun was on shifts and already upstairs in bed when she got home from work. That Wednesday, she joined him around ten.

  For some reason, that night she couldn’t sleep. She turned over several times, trying to get comfortable. Alun stirred and murmured, ‘What . . . God . . .’ Thinking that she should try not to disturb him she rose, pulled on her dressing-gown with her big wool cardigan on top, then tiptoed downstairs.