EQMM, May 2007

by Dell Magazine Authors

  Now she was less than twenty feet from his side. He caught his foot in a nonexistent crack and stumbled forward, flowers cascading to the ground as the wrapping tore completely. Regaining his balance, he stooped forward as if to start picking them up. But then he placed his hands on his knees and let out an anguished sob. He heard her footsteps stop beside him and, knowing that it would clinch his act, the tears he'd been failing to summon suddenly appeared.

  A hand was placed on his shoulder and he looked up at her face as it wavered and shifted through the liquid filling his eyes.

  "There, there,” she murmured, pressing his head to her bosom.

  * * * *

  Within four days he had packed his few possessions, moved out of the hostel, and was sleeping in her spare room. She'd lapped up his story of a childhood spent in care homes, adult years wasted in a directionless drift, not anchored by family to any area. Then his long search for his real mother—a search that had finally ended in the town's cemetery, at a grave that had only been dug the year before.

  She brought her blubbering under control by clucking and fussing around him. Bustling around in the kitchen, carrying through dinner on a tray as he sat dejected on her sofa, his eyes furtively searching the room while she'd cooked his food.

  Every night she'd conclude her nursing routine by bringing him a mug of Ovaltine. Creamy, smooth, and comforting, it was a taste he quickly came to look forward to. “That's because I make it with milk, the proper way,” she'd say and smile, her look of pleasure increasing with his every sip.

  But the need to get to a pub and enjoy a cigarette in a comfortable seat rather than standing out on her bloody patio was steadily growing. So he began to recover from his feigned despondency, apparently revived by the succession of meals she so lovingly prepared. One day he announced that it was time he sorted himself out. Found a job and place of his own.

  Her eyes had widened in alarm at his mention of moving out. “Stay as long as you like. The house is too big for just me. I like you being here. Please.” The desperation in her voice surprised him. It was going to be so easy cleaning her out of everything.

  He pondered her words, thinking of the three bedrooms upstairs. The spare room he slept in, her pink nightmare, and the locked door with the nursery placard on it. He'd peeped through the keyhole at the first opportunity and was just able to make out babyish wallpaper and some cuddly toys on a chest of drawers. Three bedrooms and a decent garden. Worth what? Two hundred grand at least.

  "What happened to your family, Marjorie? What happened to your babies?” he whispered, curious that, apart from her creepy shrine, all traces of them had been removed from the house.

  The question obviously distressed her and she waved it away with an agitated flutter of her hands. “I really can't speak about it. Not yet. I'm sorry, it's still all too ... raw,” she said, fingers grasping at the crucifix around her neck.

  He nodded. “I understand, Marjorie, I understand. But I must repay your kindness somehow. Let me pay you some rent at least."

  She shook her head. “Really, I don't need it."

  He paused, always amazed at his ability to bring out the maternal instincts of women. “Think of it for me. For my self-respect if nothing else. There's a job I spotted when I first arrived here. A salesman for those industrial vacuums they use in pubs and restaurants. It's something I've done before. They'd take me on, I just need to brush up a bit...” His words died away and his eyes dropped to his scuffed old shoes.

  She sprang to her feet. “You need proper work clothes.” She crossed to the dresser in the corner, took out a file from the top drawer, and extracted several twenty-pound notes from inside. “Here, take this. Buy yourself a nice new suit."

  "No, Marjorie, I couldn't,” he protested, holding up his hands while making a mental note of the file's whereabouts.

  "Then take it as a loan,” she insisted.

  "Okay,” he agreed reluctantly. “And I'm paying you back every penny, understand?” he added, knowing she'd never ask for it back.

  * * * *

  He scoured the shops for a sale. After finding one and then mercilessly bargaining down the young assistant, he picked up a suit, three shirts, and a pair of shoes for a steal. The deal left him with over eighty pounds in change. He headed straight for the nearest pub with a copy of the Racing Post, where he picked his runners over a couple of pints and several cigarettes.

  When he set off back to Marjorie's at five o'clock that afternoon he was fifty quid and several more pints up. As he ambled happily along he wondered how to explain the state he was in. She opened the door to find him swaying on her doorstep, shopping bag hanging from one arm.

  "I rang them. I've got an interview tomorrow,” he sighed.

  "Well, that's good news, isn't it?” she said, confused by the look of sadness on his face.

  "But then I went back to my mother's grave. Oh, Marjorie, if I hadn't dithered for so long before tracing her, I might have spoken to her before she died. I'm afraid I've had a few drinks."

  "Come here,” she said, arms outstretched.

  He slipped inside and endured a crushing hug.

  "You mustn't punish yourself. Now take that jacket off and sit down.” She led him to the sofa in the immaculate front room. “I'm making tea. Is beef casserole all right?"

  "Great, thanks,” he replied with a weak smile.

  She sniffed at his jacket. “This reeks of cigarettes. You really shouldn't smoke."

  "I know. It's only when I'm stressed."

  She nodded. “Well, I'll give it a good airing on the washing line."

  "Thank you,” he said, reaching for the TV's remote control as soon as she was out of the room.

  * * * *

  He woke with a sore throat and cursed himself for smoking so heavily the day before. She'd washed and ironed his shirts the previous evening and he walked down the stairs straightening his tie.

  "Oh, Daniel. You look the perfect gentleman.” She moved across the kitchen, encroaching on his personal space. “Stand still, you've got a stray strand of hair."

  He fought the urge to slap her hand away, instead gratefully smiling as she smoothed it into place.

  "Perfect,” she said, standing back. “I've ordered you a cab. We don't want you going by bus and getting there late."

  He sat down and waited for her to cook him breakfast.

  * * * *

  "Just here's fine, mate.” He leaned over from the rear of the cab.

  "The betting office?” the driver replied, confused after hearing the pudgy woman wish the passenger good luck in his job interview.

  "Yeah, here will do."

  "That's four eighty then, please."

  He counted out the exact money, then climbed out, the cabbie not bothering to thank him as he drove off. A bout of coughing caught him by surprise as he walked towards the bookie's and he lit a cigarette to quell the itch in his throat.

  The morning was spent working out his bets. He rang Marjorie at midday. “I've got the job. Can you believe it?!"

  "Daniel, that's brilliant. I'll cook something special for tea."

  "They want me to start straightaway. I've got a sales patch right in the centre of town. Mainly pubs, so I'll probably end up smelling of cigarettes each day."

  "Never mind. Did they say what they'll pay you?"

  "It's commission only, but the vacuum is a great product. I'm sure I'll sell loads. I've got to demo it to prospective customers. They're dropping me off and have given me a special trolley to wheel it around on."

  "They're making you carry one around town?"

  "Yes. And I have to drop it back off at the factory at the end of each day."

  "That's ridiculous. You need a car."

  He smiled to himself. “I'll manage somehow. Now I've got to go. See you later."

  He hung up and then walked over to the Tap and Spile. “Hello there,” he said, taking the same stool at the bar, straightening a pristine shirt cuff.

&nbs
p; She looked up, a tea towel in her hand, eyes passing briefly over his suit. “Hello again. Thanks for the champagne the other night."

  "My pleasure,” he replied.

  "How's business going?"

  "Okay,” he said. “There's a few question marks over the rates the council wants to charge. I'm arguing it's a multi-let property, so not subject to the standard commercial tariffs they'd levy if...” He paused. “Sorry, that's probably more of an answer than you were expecting. How about you?"

  She looked round the deserted pub. “Lunches tend to be quiet. But I'm not giving up the bar meals. Every decent pub should offer them."

  He picked up a menu. “What do you recommend, then?"

  "I don't know,” she said, polishing another glass. “The chicken pie is good."

  "Homemade, too, I see."

  "Of course."

  "Is it breast or leg?” he asked provocatively.

  "You'll have to see,” she replied, one eyebrow arching upwards.

  "Fine with me. I love both,” he said, placing an elbow on the bar.

  He walked back to the bookie's a couple of hours later, stopping at a newsagent's to buy some Rennie for the burning ache at the back of his throat. Things were looking good. Marjorie was proving as easy as he knew she would be and it was going better than he dared hope with Jan. So good, in fact, he'd asked her out to dinner on Sunday night. He pictured her face, her cleavage, and realised she was really growing on him. If his plans for Marjorie worked out, he and Jan could look forward to some fun times together.

  * * * *

  The next morning he woke with a headache and a metallic taste in his mouth. He struggled out of bed, a bout of coughs wracking his chest. God, he felt awful. He counted back the number of drinks he'd got through in the pub. Not enough to warrant a hangover like this. He'd have to have a word with Jan about how often she cleaned the pipes in her pub.

  In the bathroom he stared in the mirror. His skin looked grey and a latticework of tiny veins marred the whites of his eyes.

  "'Morning,” he said dully, shuffling into the kitchen in a bath-robe and slippers.

  "Daniel, are you all right?” Marjorie said, lines of concern across her forehead.

  "Not so good, actually. I'm glad it's Saturday. I don't think I could have faced working today. Have you got any aspirin?"

  "Yes,” she said, immediately opening a cupboard and reaching up to the top shelf. He watched the flesh wobbling under her thick upper arms with disgust.

  "Here we are. Now you go and sit on the sofa. Can you manage some tea and toast? I'll bring everything through."

  She bustled in with a blanket shortly after, tucking it around him before carrying through a tray piled with toast, a pot of tea, a glass of milk, and two aspirin in a little pot.

  "Thanks, could you pass me the remote?"

  She appeared again a couple of hours later, hovering by the sofa and aggravating him with her presence. “I'm going to the cemetery today. I always take flowers for my babies on a Saturday. Do you feel up to coming? We could take some for your mother, too."

  Her and those bloody babies, he thought, dragging his eyes from the TV screen. Normally a lie would appear instantly on his lips, but his mind seemed to be working sluggishly. “Erm, no. No, thanks."

  "No to coming with me?"

  "Yes, I still feel terrible."

  "How about I take some flowers for your mother? You'll need to tell me exactly where her grave is."

  He raised his fingers to his temples and shut his eyes. “No, don't worry. I'd feel guilty if you took flowers for me. It's something I'd prefer to do myself."

  "Okay, then. Would you like more tea? Or an Ovaltine, perhaps?"

  He looked at the huge pot, still half full. “Yes, an Ovaltine sounds good. And a couple more aspirin, please."

  Once she'd gone he sat sipping his drink, swallowing down the aspirin with the last gulp. Then he kicked off the blanket, walked over to the front window, lifted the net curtain, and peered down the street. No sign of her. His temples were thudding and he realised his heart was racing uncomfortably fast as he turned to the top drawer of the dresser and took the file out.

  Everything was there. Details of several savings accounts, bank cards, cheque books, even the deeds to the house. He flicked through to the back of the file, grunting incredulously when he found the sheet of paper with all the passwords for her savings accounts neatly written out. Stupid, stupid bitch. He thought forward to his meal with Jan the following evening. If everything went smoothly, he'd start draining Marjorie's accounts dry the next day. Then he could invite Jan on a luxury cruise and be out of this horrible house within a week.

  He turned to the envelope at the front and counted the cash inside. Almost four hundred quid. Taking the phone and a copy of the yellow pages back to the sofa, he found the number for the bookie's he'd become a regular in. “Hi, George, it's Dan Norris here. Can I place a few phone bets?"

  * * * *

  The keys clicked in the front door after lunch and she walked into the front room, a rosy flush on her chubby cheeks. “How are you feeling?"

  "Rotten,” he said, shifting on the sofa. “This headache seems to be getting worse."

  "Poor baby,” she said, shrugging off her coat and pressing her fingertips to his brow. “Perhaps I should take your temperature. You could be coming down with the flu. It's that time of year."

  "You might be right. My joints are starting to ache, too."

  She brought the thermometer through from the kitchen, perched on the edge of the sofa, and popped it in his mouth. As they waited he was aware of her large buttocks pressing against his legs. After three minutes she took it out and tilted it towards the window. “It's a bit up."

  "Maybe I just need some fresh air,” he said, wanting to get away from her cloying company. But when he tried to stand, the blood surged in his head and red clouds filled the room.

  When he came to he was stretched back out on the sofa, the blanket now tucked up to his chin. She was sitting on the arm, looking down at him, her fat face filling his vision.

  "You fainted, you poor dear. It's lucky you hadn't got to your feet."

  Feeling weak as a child, he shut his eyes again. “My head's pounding. I need more aspirin."

  She instantly stood. “Of course. I think you're dehydrated, I'll get you a drink, too."

  When she returned a minute later he saw she was carrying a steaming mug and a small bottle. “I've made you some more Ovaltine. I'm afraid you've had all the aspirin. But I've got some Calpol."

  "Calpol? Isn't that for kids?"

  "Yes. It was for...” Tears brimmed in her eyes. “We'll give you an extra big dose."

  Too exhausted to protest, he watched as she poured out a tablespoon of the red liquid. Once he'd swallowed it, she placed the mug of Ovaltine in his hands. “Now drink up. We can't have you like this, can we?"

  He spent the rest of the evening lying on the sofa, listlessly watching the telly as his pulse rose and fell again and again. At eleven o'clock she came over and stood in front of the sofa. “I think it's beddy-bed time. Shall I help you up?"

  Irritated by her patronising choice of words, he waved her away. “I'm fine here. I'll head up later."

  "Head still bad?"

  He nodded once. “If there's no improvement by tomorrow I think we'd better call for a doctor."

  * * * *

  She found him there the next morning. He was lying on his back, a shallow pant coming from his mouth.

  "Oh dear, still feeling poorly?"

  His eyelids fluttered open and he looked at her from the corner of his eye. “I'm more than poorly. I need a doctor,” he croaked, gesturing weakly to the phone which lay just out of his reach. “Can you pass it to me? I can hardly move. And bring me the copy of the yellow pages, too,” he added, thinking he needed to call Jan to cancel their dinner date.

  "Let me get you a drink, your throat sounds awfully dry."

  "Okay. Yes, a drink wou
ld be good."

  She returned a minute later with a mug in her hands. Kneeling in front of the sofa, she reached an arm round his neck and lifted his head off the cushions.

  "What's this? More bloody Ovaltine? I just want water."

  "Now, now,” she clucked. “I've made it with milk, just how you like it. Take a sip, it's not too hot."

  With a reluctant sigh, he did as he was told. Once it was finished she laid his head back down.

  "Now can you please call me a doctor? I'm seriously ill here."

  She picked up the phone and placed it further out of his reach. “We don't need a doctor. I'm here to take care of you."

  A surge of self-pitying anger made the dull thump in his head more pronounced. “Listen, I need more than cups of bloody Ovaltine. I need medical help. Now call me a bloody doctor."

  She held a finger up. “Any more language like that and I'll wash your mouth out with soap. Now let's get you upstairs, you need to be in bed."

  He tried to shrug off her arm as it slid back round his neck. “Give me the phone,” he gasped, thinking of Jan, the only person in the world he could turn to for help. Not caring if it meant revealing the truth about himself to her.

  Ignoring his demand, she pulled him into a sitting position, then draped one of his arms round her shoulders.

  "Get your hands off me,” he protested feebly.

  "Okay,” she said brusquely. “One, two, three, up!” She hoisted him to his feet and his vision swirled and faded.

  "What are you doing?” he mumbled helplessly, unsure if they were actually moving until he felt the edges of the stairs banging against his shins. “I need the toilet."

  "There, there. Everything will be okay,” she grunted, getting him onto the landing.

  His vision cleared a little and he realised they'd stopped outside the door marked Nursery. She took a key from her pocket. His head lolled forward as she unlocked the door. The room had the letters of the alphabet running below the picture rail. The jungle-animal blind was drawn and a mobile of toy animals hung over an enormous cot in the corner.

  "What ... what is this?” he said, trying to focus.