Angel

by Kate Mitchell

  ‘I've never met anyone like you before,’ she was still carefully considering me.

  Giving a quick choke of a laugh, I seriously began wondering what was going to happen next. Was she going to have Pesker show me the front door?

  ‘Someone who is honest,’ her face was serious.

  ‘But I'm sure that you found honesty in your husband?’ I tried to smile again, feeling the corners of my cheeks quivering.

  ‘Yes, he was a good man, and I really liked him,’ she looked to the side of me.

  ‘I expect you more than liked him.’

  ‘Yes, I loved him of course. But what about you? Have you ever been married?’ her eyes came back to me.

  ‘Me?’ her question took me by surprise. ‘Sometimes I like to forget about me. But there was a man who I was going to marry but unfortunately, he already had a wife. I was waiting for him at the church in my white wedding dress, but a note came to say that he and his wife had gone on holiday together, the Bahamas, I think. But it doesn't matter now, though I was very upset at the time.’

  Her vacant blue eyes were looking at me with something which appeared like a thought.

  ‘Isn’t it silly, I thought I had put that all in the past? We girls should stick together. I mean your husband goes ahead and dies on you without any considerations to your feelings. You must have been devastated.’

  ‘Yes, I was,’ she smiled.’ I was only having the baby for him. And although I love my Toy-Soldier, I don’t like children. They are always naughty and spoilt; they never do what you tell them to do.’

  ‘Madam,’ interrupted a red face slim woman opening the door. ‘Your son is crying, and I can't get him to stop. I think he needs his mother?’ she disappeared before Angel could answer her back.

  ‘Did you hear Mary knock? She should have knocked before walking in. It’s very naughty of her, very naughty indeed.’ Temper made her toss her head, doing some damage to the pile on top of her head.

  ‘Perhaps you should go and see your son quickly, and then you could come back and eat your dinner.’

  ‘I suppose so, but you must come with me. I can’t go on my own.’

  So quick, so smooth, the transition from one personality to another. The Angel I met in the beginning, had now returned. The interesting person I had glimpsed showed me a different side to her. A side which I should bear in mind as a rough guide for the future. Yet, which one did I prefer? But her child was screaming and if there is one thing I have learned about children; their needs always come first.

  Neither of us, I realized, relished the trek to the baby’s bedroom. Somehow, she had found my hand and was leading me to his room making certain I would not abscond; she had become John's little girl again.

  As we approached his room, the yelling of his inflated lungs was hovering through to our ears and into our minds. I could feel her hand starting to shake, and I saw to my amazement that the lusty pink blush was evaporating from her face, as surely as if a plug had been pulled out.

  For me, maternity had always loitered amongst the indecent lingerie of my mind. A threat that even with John’s assurances of sterility, a little fear still clung which resorted to my continuance of taking the pill. For all those mothering instincts which every female should have, had never made a claim on me. Childbirth meant legs up in the air, and everyone having the right to inspect and poke your body and decide how your pregnancy was going to be. It meant pain. It meant putting those rapidly dividing cells first. I see no beauty in a tiny rat that has been sitting in its mother’s womb for nine months, hairless and pink, no conversation, no appreciation, the little unsocial ingrate.

  And so, in one way I thought that it was my duty not to have children, not that I could with John, but even so, the belief was still there. If you don’t like children, don’t have them…of course, if one was unsafe in one’s marriage, a child with a rich man can become a bargaining asset. And this, I am disposed to believe is what Angel had intended, and if she did, isn’t that unscrupulous of her…but there again, where had my honesty got me? Honesty, it would appear does not work in an intimate relationship. John, I now realize had probably right from the beginning of our marriage decided that he would not be honest with me. Perhaps it was because of that one innocent white lie I had made. But now, I was also playing a game of deceit and a little dishonesty is not always a bad thing, especially when there is a crock of gold at the end of the rainbow.

  It was my suggestion to go into the room of Babel, she nodded having no other choice but to enter. Again, our eyes looked towards the doomed cot placed in the middle of the room, encircled with a fantasy of a promised happy childhood. In there, lay the devil. While the cacophony coming from the little bed redoubled in excitement by the sound of the opening door.

  ‘Oh, he smells. I can’t stay here, if I do, I’ll be sick. Mary should have cleaned him. She is getting very lazy and very selfish especially as I give her lots and lots of money to take care of it.’

  Now having seen her child even at a distance, Angel did not like what she had created, intentionally or unintentionally, even though he was her own flesh and blood. I have normal faculties where my nose is concerned, but there was no smell that I could detect coming from that child. I was about to protest the child’s innocence for an injustice is an injustice even if the victim is of the diminished stature, but she was not staying around for my verdict. On her steeple shoes, she tottered off faster than I would have given her credit for. But once the door had crashed shut behind her, the awful noise ceased and the infants tightly screwed up eyes opened, to cast its orbs about its world.

  I froze as I watched him taking surveillance of me, waiting for the return of that terrible sound, but a seizure of seriousness recorded itself on his face. He was mapping my countenance, stealing upon every detail that exacted my visage. It was strange, but I had the sensation that I had seen those eyes before, a pair of humorous eyes which would never argue with me, but was always pleasant but had, in the end, betrayed me. But this was madness, John had nothing to do with this baby, this fretful mess of ostracised society; John was sterile. This was provided by the evidence and proof of our exertive though dwindling relations, and during the last few years of our marriage, I had thought that he had been laid waste to impotence.

  But the fact is, all babies look the same, except it appears, to their dewy tinted eyed parents. I moved backward trying to tear myself away from his compelling stare. He was absorbing my face, feeding all the minutiae of my countenance into his hungry little mind. Famished, he may well be, but he was not going to feast on me, it was unnerving.

  Leaving him trapped in his cot and arriving at the door and out of the range of his eyes, I heard a little whimper of sorrow. It was a sound that made me frown because of its disturbing sadness. Not only his mother had abandoned him, but now I was doing so as well. How I knew that feeling of abandonment, it rang a strange bell in my chest. And yet, I had to get out, it was not my responsibility and if one was to analyze it, it's the noise that all tired and worn-out children share after they have let the world know they exist. Certainly, it was nothing for me to worry about. Hurriedly, I was out of the door and closing it behind me, but where was Angel? She had run away to leave me to find my own way back.

  ‘She didn’t hang around, did she?’ a voice came from behind me.

  ‘Oh God, you made me jump, where did you come from?’ I was angry at the woman who was standing beside me. ‘It’s Mary isn’t it?’

  ‘I don’t know why she should think I would be able to look after her baby. I’m the youngest of seven, they all babied me. I’ve had to borrow books from the library to find out how to look after a child. He’s a very strange child, whatever I do never pleases him. He fights me all the time, when I’m changing him, washing him or even trying to feed him. She won’t have anything to do with the poor little soul. I felt sorry for her at first, as she had just lost the man she intended to marry. Then I heard from the other staff about her carrying on
with all those other men, not that it bothers me, it’s the baby I feel sorry for. How can a woman not like her own baby? You like children don’t you otherwise you wouldn’t be looking after them?’

  ‘I don’t think it is as simple as that. Some women are not natural mothers.’

  ‘No, but you’d give it a bash, wouldn’t you? I mean you wouldn’t just leave the poor little soul just crying there all day, would you? What sort of life is it for the poor little soul? She goes gallivanting off pretending to be so upset about that Mr. Boreman, I’ve seen her getting all tarted up, but she doesn’t take her own car, oh no, she doesn’t want Mr. Pesker, her chauffeur to know where she is going, the dirty little hussy.’

  Mary and I were walking together along the hallway, and then suddenly she stopped.

  ‘My lord, Miss, I shouldn’t have been talking to you about her like that. I could get into trouble if you chose to report me. She doesn’t like it to be known that she doesn’t get on with her own son. Anyhow, I think it’s mutual; he hates her as much as she hates him. Whenever she comes into the room, he yells louder until she goes out. I believe that children instinctively know when they are not loved and wanted. You just watch and see, but you will probably have a long wait. She won’t be visiting him for another week or more. Anyhow, milady has got visitors or a certain visitor I should say. I’ll take you back down there, but I’m pretty sure you won’t be welcome for the rest of the day.’

  I followed Mary reluctantly now, assimilating the real reason why Angel had chosen to dress so fabulously. It was not for me, nor so much for her own amusement, it was for the guest that had appeared unexpectedly. I had no problem guessing the sex of the guest, I would place my bet on it being a he. Mary quickly opened the door for me before evaporating through the network of doors.

  Opening the door, I walked into the room where Angel was entertaining her visitor, not a very good-looking man at all but one who seemed to possess riches, judging by his tan and the cut of his suit. He was short and porky, but he was very wealthy which is the appeal that most men have for certain women. I was not introduced, I did not mind, it suited me, and it was obvious that Angel did not want to share him with anyone else.

  One thing that I am good at is reading situations. Looking at this man, I knew what his intentions were, he wanted to have this female in bed. The only thing that I was not sure about was how she was going to entertain him or what her bargaining potentials were. They didn't stay long before they went out.

  Now that Angel had gone out, I had my chance to have a look around, inspired by the idea that I could find out about John’s business. Perhaps, I would find some loophole that would profit me. It was nonsense to think that he had left me nothing, impossible to believe that he had lost all feelings for me despite what he had done to me. It did not make sense that he could entirely forget me, just like that for even in my most self-indulged moments, I was in spite of everything, aware of John as picturing in my life.

  A search, but where to begin? He must have a study or something, where he kept his papers or stored information on the computer. John had always been practical and methodical, (this I had to admit), everything always so tidy; his briefcase a work of art in meticulousness. His briefcase. Yes, his briefcase, he bought himself a new one, I remember now, just before my announcement to end our marriage. I had been surprised for he never spent out on anything new for himself or me. He considered everything as, either needed or, unnecessary, everything else was a waste of time, a vanity. And I had become one of those necessaries. Certainly, he would still keep his briefcase, John never threw anything away.

  Upstairs was where I began my exploration. I remembered afresh a door that had been left unopened by Angel’s pink and dimpled hand. At the time I had not thought much about it, being only too relieved that we were not going to examine another gloriously beautified room. But now remembering, this room had to be next to Angel’s room, so, working out the obvious, the other room must have been John’s.

  I aimed towards Angel’s room. John’s door was a width along. I advanced towards it with some meddlesome mixed feelings. Half I put down to the fact that I was wondering about another person’s house with the intentions of a thief, but the other half, the dominating half was wondering how I was feeling. What would I find and how would I feel about it? About the man I had been married to for all those years, a man I discovered I knew very little about. A man who had stolen himself from me, who had made another private sanctuary, which he had not expected me to be privy to, how would I feel? I don’t know.

  I was beginning to know less and less about the way I was feeling, with all the startling surprises, showering their crooked shafts in my direction. And now I was beginning to wonder who I was myself, separated from my natural forceful temper because it was essential that I hold my tongue; and linking my tongue to my brain had never been my forte. For I thought that I meant everything to John, I thought his dependence on me was what kept him breathing, I had no idea, no idea, that he was leading a double life…but then he wasn’t, was he, for he had already abandoned his life with me. It just goes to show that the people you think you know best are the people you know the least. So, there you are, facing another door in life.

  And here was that door. How long does a hand lay upon the door before you open it to the unknown? Habit, for all those doors we have in our lives, usually they are opened without any thought as to the consequences; opening doors becomes a familiarity. But I suppose if we did think about the possibilities all the time, the negative and positive, of opening each door then, we would still be stuck in the amoebic age. Sometimes, we may knock and speculate on the possibility of the other side, but if we have suspicion then comes fear and the idea that behind this door the person we are going to meet has never in his life liked or approved of us. That, he had forsaken me before our marriage had begun.

  Thus, my hand lay upon the door handle longer than it had a right to. It was taking that deep breath now, with eyes closed which opened the door for me, and here I was inside. Instinctively I closed the door behind me, a step into the unknown and yet my eyes I found, had opened of their own volition.

  Here was John, the John I had known, a shudder of surprise permeated my fraught limbs for I was expecting what? Something lavish? To be expensive, designed by the indelible felt-tip of good luck, which had always been John's fortune. It was as if he had been expecting me, knowing that I would never leave him alone, that I would come and hunt him down and so he would leave me a part of himself, the nightmare called predictability.

  Tatty and tactless, the room was an homage to brown. A room warm and worn; here sat no luxury except perhaps for the husky brown velvet curtains pinned to the heights with the merest of obligations. This, he was saying to me, is the reason why you left me; you could never accept the real person I was inside. This is me. Yes, I might be dull and boring, but you never thought that I could also be clever, and that is why I had to let you go.

  I had fallen back into the past.

  ‘Oh hello, in the forbidden room I see. Pretty Angel will not approve of that.’

  My flesh had left my body and run out of the door, leaving my skeleton to brace itself, facing me was an absurdly rounded body, staring at me with tiny blue eyes. I had found the lost, last hippy. He was dressed in the effeminate habit of flower power, although the once gorgeous shirt was now faded of its color of making love not war, and the tacky strings of beads had lost their potency to reproduce.

  ‘You know you shouldn’t be in here, whoever you are,’ said the long-haired, Brethren, Friar Tuck, balding man, crossing his arms as he leaned lazily against the wall. ‘You don’t say much do you, but it might be an idea to tell me your name and what you are doing here before I call the police.’

  I did not like him, it was my first instinct, the primeval reaction of survival. Whoever he was, he would never be a friend of mine, for it was not so much his appearance, it was the sound of his voice. Quite high and youthful for
a man I judged to be in his forty’s and unmarried. As was my custom, my eyes traveled towards his hand a wedding ring still said something in our society, and he wore none. But he was not one’s normal bachelor, he was too self-indulgent, too well pampered, too curious with eyes, bright blue eyes, like a woman interrogating, watching one as a member of the opposition. Obviously, a homosexual, the female variety, and he wore his identity as a badge of honor. He made himself a natural enemy. Women were always seen as the competition, this I estimated by the way he looked at me with the intelligence that mocks.

  Studying him, I thought it a pity that I could not do an interview, for, despite everything else, he looked interesting. I still had the reporter instinct in my heart, Imagine the stories he could tell, the last lost hippy, but it was not to be and so I gave him my name. The name I was using for this venture.

  ‘Mrs. Boreman offered me a position, a person to help her to care for her young child,’ spoke my voice, which was less mine and more his. It is strange how we tend to imitate those that worry or shock us with their appearances or arrivals. He had me cornered, he had caught my hand in the cash register so to speak, and now I was trying to curry favor with him by attuning my voice to his.

  ‘Well, well, well.’ Though lifting his head into a superior position, he never took his eyes off of me. ‘Fancy that. You don’t look like the type of person to care for anybody’s kids. Where did you work last, in a crematorium, or the butchers by the look of your face? Did you forget the knife was in your hand or, did somebody else want their pound of flesh?’

  Involuntarily I touched my face, the ridges of the scars were still recognizable to trace. So, what had color done except to postpone? Yet it was not my time or turn to become one of those children of the night and hide myself veiled away from acceptable faces. Anger gripped me; my flesh came running back. A bitch is a bitch in any sex, if he wanted to play dangerous games, I had my honor and my pride to match him.

  ‘I do not expect to be spoken to like that, if you are going to be rude, I shall leave. Think of what Angel would say to that?’