The ancient, clanging radiators were doing their best but it was a losing battle. Grace Hamilton shivered in her chair by the window. She used the sleeve of her jumper to wipe the glass and gazed out onto her little corner of the world.
The snowflakes fell slowly at first but soon the evening sky was thick with them. They floated and swirled, seemingly drawn under streetlights for warmth, and soon obscured the discarded fast-food boxes and beer cans on the pavement below.
A couple stopped at a street corner and kissed. The man walked the woman to the block of flats opposite. Grace leant forward to watch her go in. The man stayed a while, brushing snow from the top of some park railings.
A light went on in one of the flats, and after a moment or two the curtains parted slightly. The man waved, a little powdery snow falling from his glove, and then he was gone. Grace wondered if it would help the woman sleep, to feel the jingling glow in her veins, to know she was loved.
She got up and checked the door was locked. You couldn’t be too careful these days. Returning to her seat by the window, she saw that snow had covered the man’s footprints and the railings he had brushed with his glove were completely obscured in white again, as if he, like the memory of being loved, had never been there at all.
Memories - you could do without them, she thought. But some were not so easily forgotten....
She was walking home, tired after a day’s teaching, when she saw two men chasing a boy who was maybe 14 or 15. Then she recognised him - Jimmy Taylor from school. His eyes were full of fear, like those of a wild animal. Maybe through a teacher’s protective instinct, she stepped in the men’s path as Jimmy ran down a passageway. She was too terrified to say anything but held them up long enough for the boy to escape.
One of the men shook his fist at her. "You stupid cow! Looks like you’ll have to pay his dues instead."
His punch sent purple splinters of pain through her head, and the ground rose up to meet her slowly, as if in a dream. She had fallen on her bag. The part of her mind that was still functioning knew that was bad. It was the bag they wanted - she needed to roll over - but the dizziness took her. They kicked her hard, until they pulled the bag free. She lay in the streetlight blur, and then there was nothing.
She woke in hospital. The light hurt her eyes. She wanted to cry but couldn't, as if it was a trick someone had untaught her. She couldn't move her head. Part of it, near the back, felt soft, like sherry trifle.
After a couple of days she could take a few steps, holding onto the arm of one of the nurses. The distance from her bed to the day room felt like a mile but at last she could sit in one of the chairs facing the garden.
She watched the squirrels, on the ground for only a few seconds before scurrying back up to their drays, wary of predators. She couldn't help thinking they had the right idea.
The police never caught them. They took £15 and some loose change, her railcard and family photos. But they had taken more than her bag. They had taken that part of her mind that let the bubble settle in the spirit level, that remembered what you had come upstairs for, what three across was in the quick crossword.
It was their laughter she remembered most. It haunted the edge of her dreams. It meant she was just something to be kicked about on the pavement, easily forgotten, like a boring song skipped over on an iPod.
The thoughts spiralled in Grace’s mind like leaves kicked in the air. She took the brown paper bag they had given her at the hospital and breathed into it. The room slowly came back - the paper with the barely started crossword, the teacup in its saucer, the ticking of the clock ... warmth spread across her face and into her chest.
She folded the bag up and put it on the mantelpiece. It was time for bed - enough excitement for one night, she told herself.
The next morning she put her overcoat on, unlocked the door and set off down the steps. The cold air hit her face right away, like tiny claws, and drew tears from her eyes. She bent her body into the wind and made slow progress to the warmth of the corner shop. Picking up a red plastic crate, she set off to find her usual groceries.
She was making her way back, plastic-bag straps cutting into her fingers despite her woollen mittens, when she spotted the girl from the night before sitting on a bench. She seemed waif-like, like a leaf that had fallen and crumpled, and Grace could tell she was crying. Her shoulders trembled and she held her hands together as if in prayer.
Grace felt compelled to help, as if she was already connected with her.
"Sorry, I couldn’t help noticing, love. Are you okay?"
The girl looked up, her eyes were deep blue - one of them had a dark bruise around it.
"I’m alright, thanks."
"I don’t like to leave you like this. Look, I live over the way there, in those flats. A cup of tea and the world will seem a brighter place ... if you want to talk you can and, if you don’t, that’s fine too."
The girl nodded and stood up. Grace held her arm and led her to the flats. The lift was broken, so they climbed the steps. Grace noticed the younger woman wincing as she held onto the railing with one hand and Grace’s arm with the other. Clearly the damage wasn’t restricted to her face.
When they got to her flat, Grace told the girl to sit down and then set about making the tea. Her hands were shaking as she put the tea and some biscuits on a tray. It had been a long time since she’d had company.
She cupped her hands around a mug and steam climbed up through the cold air. "My name’s Grace by the way. Do you want to talk about it dear?"
"I’m Lisa …I can’t… In his own way, Vince does care about me you know…" She stopped herself and looked down. She’d already said too much but the woman was kind, and kindness was something she hadn’t experienced for so long. Besides, she felt she could trust her.
Grace leant forward. "Don’t worry, love. You just have your tea and let yourself recover - you’ve had a shock."
"I wouldn’t exactly call it that."
"He’s done it before?"
The girl nodded. "I should have finished with him months ago but I’m scared of what he’d do."
"And he seemed so kind last night…."
Lisa looked up. "You’ve been spying on me!"
"Oh, it’s not like that. I was simply looking out onto the street as I always do and couldn’t help notice the way he waited to make sure you were okay before leaving. Seemed like the perfect gentleman…."
Lisa shook her head. "He did that to make sure I went straight to my flat - it’s about control."
"Well maybe I can help."
"How?"
"If you give me his number I can text him and warn him off - he won’t know who I am."
"You don’t know him like I do - he’ll find you somehow."
"What’s he going to do - knock on every door of these flats? Anyway, it’s about time someone got their just desserts for knocking innocent people around." Grace’s face was red with emotion.
Lisa hesitated. "Maybe you’re right."
So Grace took the number and keyed in a message. "We clocked what you dun to Lisa. Do it again and you is dead."
Grace hoped the wording would suggest youths or vigilantes, not a middle-aged woman with a grudge. Her finger hovered over the keypad. Lisa nodded and closed her eyes. Grace pressed ‘Send’.
After a while, Grace’s phone rang and clicked through to the answer machine. "People who stick their noses where it doesn’t concern them are likely to get them punched. Comprende?’
The women sat in silence.
Vince’s sneering voice filled the room again. "She doesn’t know this, but I put GPS tracking on Lisa’s phone so I can keep tabs on her. I know exactly where you are. I was tracking you as you walked back from the bench near the shops."
Grace looked down to the street - he was pacing quickly towards the flats. She ran to the door and tried to make her fingers work faster as she fumbled with the lock.
They
heard the door at the foot of the flats slam and his shoes on the steps. He came slowly now, clearly enjoying himself, and Grace had a taste of what the poor woman must have suffered. Lisa was rocking in her chair, twisting a handkerchief in her hand. The footsteps were nearer but paused slightly. All was quiet except for the sound of traffic in the street below.
Suddenly, his fist pounded the door. "If you don’t open up, little pigs, I’ll blow your house down!"
Grace opened a window and cried "Help!"
Some lads were kicking a football around in the yard below. One of them seemed to look up with half an interest but then put his head down again.
There was a small hole in the door where Vince’s shoulder had made impact and they could see his face and upper body through the gap. He started kicking the door as well.
There was a sound of rushing feet and Grace could hear a boy’s voice.
"What’s the deal?"
"Get lost. This has nothing to do with you."
"It’s got everything to with me. Me and my mates run this manor. If anyone damages any of these flats they’re messing with our neighbourhood. So leave it!"
Grace peered through the hole in the door and could make out the boy. It was the same one she had seen a few moments earlier and then she recognised him - Jimmy Taylor. He was standing tall, trying to make himself look as big as possible.
Three other teenagers appeared alongside him, one gently tapping an iron bar onto a black leather glove on his left hand.
"See this lady’s a friend of ours and she did me a big favour a few weeks ago. Saved me from a beating. So I’m looking out for her. You best run away while you’ve still got legs."
Vince hesitated, weighing up his chances. He pulled back from the door but shouted through the hole he’d made in it. "I’ll be back. You’ve got to leave someday."
Jimmy stood in his path. "We can’t have that, can we boys? We’ll give these two our numbers and if anyone gets as much as a buzz from them … well, you’ll get a buzz from us."
The teenagers gave Grace their numbers, waiting patiently while she wrote them down. Vince stormed off, kicking the wall as he went.
"Any sign of that lowlife and you let us know, right?" And then they were gone.
Grace leant up to a kitchen cupboard. "I think this calls for something a bit stronger than tea, don’t you?" She pulled down a bottle of gin and filled two glasses.
Lisa took a gulp of gin and the warmth flowed through her like relief.
Grace looked down into the street below where Vince was walking quickly away with his head down. He never looked back and, Grace promised herself, neither would she.
*******
Maybe She Could Rewrite It
By
Andy Siddle
City Stories Page 4