I turn as I enter the coffee shop, to see if she is still there, waiting. She is, her head down again. She has not touched my carrier bags.
I check the sandwiches that are left in the coffee shop. Egg and cress, that’s all. The perennial leftovers. As I queue to buy an egg and cress sandwich and a hot chocolate, I wonder what I will do when I return. Hand her the food and drink and walk away, or stop and make conversation as she eats, and tell her I’ll buy her the same again tomorrow. If she likes. Maybe also give her a blanket or a coat. If she wants.
Whatever I do, I know I have to do this slowly and carefully. Step by step. I have to show I trust her. Get her to trust me. Then, and only then, do I invite her to stay, to “get herself back on her feet”, in the nookery of my cottage at 3 Bluebell Lane.
At the very least, she needs to come back with me and have a warm bath. A wallow. To dry herself on soft, clean towels. Sit by the fire, drying her hair. Put on clean fresh clothes. I have some nice things in wardrobes and drawers she can have.
“Here,” I say, my arms outstretched towards her on my return. “Hot chocolate. Sandwich.” I pause and add, warmly enough, “Thank you for looking after my shopping.”
She takes the food and drink, stuffing the sandwich into a pocket of her jacket. Shifts her position, the hot chocolate between her open legs. No word of thanks. No response to my thank you for looking after my shopping.
I stand there, not sure what to say.
“My name’s Philip.” I reach out my hand for a handshake. A long pause. I feel I have overstepped the mark. That she will see me as just another middle-aged man wanting rough-and-ready sex with a young girl.
“Rosie,” she replies, finally, reluctantly. She reaches out her hand and shakes mine. It is a limp handshake. It needs to be firmer, more assertive. I will teach her, show her, in time, how to do a proper handshake. It’s a useful thing to be able to do.
Another long pause as she sips her drink, head down.
I am not sure if that’s it, that she is now dismissing me,or whether she is willing to have a conversation. I have to try. To say the right words. Not scare her away. I have to take this chance. If not, that might be it. I may never see her again.
There are so many things I want to ask her. Why she is on the streets. Whether there was trouble at home. A cruel father. A stepfather who wanted to treat her as more than a daughter, maybe.
I wonder how she survives. If she is on benefits, a waiting list for housing. Or whether she has somehow slipped through the cracks in the system. If she is looking for work. What she wants to do, is qualified to do. If anything.
And I wonder about so many practicalities. What she does with the loose change that’s handed to her. Is it enough to get something to eat? Can she use it to get a bed for the night? Where does she sleep when she has nowhere to go? I want to know everything about her.
“I’ve a blanket you can have,” I say suddenly. “Blankets. You could come back to my place and get them if you like. It’s not far … my house … my cottage.”
She ignores me, sitting there finishing her drink.
Too much too soon.
I should know better by now. A crass suggestion.
“Or I could meet you somewhere later. Give them to you. The blankets. By the pier. It’s going to snow overnight. Heavily. Four to six inches.” I am gabbling. I know it. I sound desperate. And creepy. And I need to show her I am just a regular guy.
She gets up suddenly. Holding the empty cup. And she kind of shrugs. And I do not know what the gesture means. I don’t think it is dismissive. As she turns to go, I call after her.
“I’ll see you by the pier at eight. I’ll have the blankets for you.”
She does not reply. I watch her walking away, a strange, ambling kind of walk. Almost nonchalant. Defiant.
A police patrol car rolls on by. I turn and go back into Tesco.
I am cleaning and tidying the nookery to the side of the cottage.
The thought that the girl – Rosie – might be here tonight in this room almost overwhelms me.
I remain calm and in control by stopping at intervals to do my breathing exercises.
I have a system for making sure everything is clean and tidy and in place, and that it’s working properly. I start with the living-bedroom area, dusting and hoovering and using the nozzle to suck up any cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling. I then wipe down the light switches and the plug sockets with a cloth and polish. There always seem to be smeared fingerprints there, and one of the plug sockets had a dark blob of something on it, which I must have missed when I did my last clean. I admonish myself. I must be more thorough next time.
I will need to be careful when Rosie is here. Vigilant.
I do not want her to be seen by the Lump or Widow Woman or the Man in the Suit.
I don’t think they need to know my business. And I don’t want trouble. The Lump might make a nuisance of himself.
I move to the window and look out through the nets and into the lane and across to a row of tall conifers that stand strong in the wind. The lane is quiet this evening. I think everyone is indoors, battening down the hatches. Even the dog walkers, usually in procession to the fields and back at this time of night, are nowhere to be seen.
The net curtains are dusty and dirty. I go and dampen one of the cloths under the tap in the kitchenette and come back to wipe at the more stubborn marks. I then pull them this way and that, hoping no one from the lane could see through. I don’t want anyone out there to see Rosie in a state of undress.
The rest of the room is easy to do. I pull the bed down and look at the mattress. It has marks and stains on it. But I put a fresh bottom sheet on it and a top sheet and a blanket from the cupboard in my bedroom; it looks clean enough. I take down the curtains that hang from the shelf around the bed and put them in one of the big bins out the back. They are so dirty.
I check down the sides of the chair to make sure there is nothing there. I nudge the coffee table back into place, into the imprints of its feet in the carpet. I move the dried flower arrangement on it slightly to one side so that the pretty rose in the centre of it faces the bed. There is a little radio, an old-fashioned transistor, my late mother’s, next to it. I check it is still working. It is. There, that is done.
I wonder if it will be warm enough in here when Rosie undresses for bed.
It’s usually nicer here than in the cottage itself.
But I’m not sure how it will be with the cold and the snow that’s expected.
I give the kitchen area a brisk clean. Then the shower and toilet. I hurry through, mindful of the time and that I want to be back at the prom by eight. And I need to walk Fluffy before that – although, the weather as it is, he will probably cock his leg against the gate and turn to come back inside. His bowl of Chappie and biscuits waiting for him.
I am bubbling up with excitement. I cannot wait to see Rosie, the girl by the pier.
And I hope that I can persuade her, one way or the other, to come back here to my cottage.
To stay in the nookery. As others have done. This time though, I must get it right. And live happily forever.
I am back at the pier. With a rucksack across my shoulders.
Two blankets. One warm coat. A flask of hot tea.
It is just before eight o’clock. She is nowhere to be seen.
I am sitting on a bench close to where I first saw her. I have not been into the pier amusements. Nor searched around the beach huts or along the prom. I just sit and watch and wait. I said I would meet her by the pier with blankets at eight o’clock. I could not have been clearer.
It’s her choice. If she does not turn up, then I have to accept that. I must let her go. I do not want to. But I cannot hunt her down. She might go to the police. Report me. Say I said things to her. Did things. Showed myself to her. And what would happen? Where would that end? I know where it would take me. Back to where I’ve been before. No. I must walk away.
It’s a cold night. A st
iff breeze. But still dry. She will need to find somewhere to shelter from the coming snow. And be safe. Out of danger. I have been thinking about her bruised eye and cut lip, and I wonder how that happened. I think she must have been robbed of her belongings by a man. Fought back. Got a hiding for it. Young women on the street are vulnerable to middle-aged men.
I see her suddenly. Strolling along the prom towards me. Her funny, ambling walk. I was not sure if, deep down, I expected her to turn up. I hoped she would.
Now she is here in front of me. I am sitting. She is standing. She says nothing. Just waits there. For the handout.
I glance around. Up and down the prom. Behind me, the leisure centre, a small car park and the road along to the theatre.
I cannot be seen with her. With any girl, young woman really, on my own. I need to keep my distance, ideally. There are people moving about, cars parking and reversing out and away. Some activity down near the prom. No one is taking any notice of me though. That is good.
I turn slightly to the side. As if she is not with me. Just in case.
Take the rucksack. Put it next to me on the bench.
Gesture with a movement of my head that she should sit on the other side.
She sits down. I wait for her to ask for change or a cigarette or something more. But she does not. She waits patiently. Or so it seems to me.
“I got you some blankets, like I said.” I nudge the rucksack towards her. “And a coat. A warm coat. It’s waterproof. A flask of tea.”
She puts her hand on the rucksack. Goes to unzip it to take a look.
“You can have the rucksack … and everything in it,” I add. I could not bear to sit here whilst she takes out my daughter’s coat and looks it up and down. I can imagine her saying, I don’t like the colour or It’s too big or It’s got funny buttons and handing it back to me. This beggar who should be grateful for whatever I choose to give her.
She nods. Pulls the rucksack towards her. “Thank you,” she says, quietly and simply.
I expect her to get up, walk off, never to be seen again.
But she stays there, unmoving. As if she is ready to have a conversation. Maybe she’s grateful.
I do not know what to say. I am, all of a sudden, tongue-tied. But I have to start a conversation. If I sit in silence, she will think I have nothing to say. And she will leave. And I will not see her again. If she heads out of town.
“It must be really tough,” I say, slowly and carefully, in a measured voice. “Being homeless.”
She makes no indication she has heard me. Nor does she make a move to go.
“Do you … get enough money … in your paper cup … to get a bed for the night?”
She kind of half-shrugs. I pause. Say nothing. The silence extends. Until she speaks.
“No.” I think that’s all she’s going to say, but then she goes on. “There’s nowhere here. A hostel or nothing.” I wonder why she stays, then, but do not follow up on it.
“What about Ipswich?” I reply, making my voice sound kind, like a loving uncle. Favourite uncle Philip.
She shakes her head. “Ipswich is … bad.”
I know personally, for a fact, that this is true. I remember once being at the railway station there late one night. A teenage girl had missed the last train home. She had no money for somewhere to stay. I offered her a bed for the night. She walked with me some of the way to my car, parked up a hill and away into the dark back streets. Then she seemed to panic, changing her mind. She ran off. I called after her without success.
If Rosie were my daughter, I would put my arm around her now, pull her close, whisper gentle words to her. But I cannot do that. Not yet, anyway. It is something I will be able to do, one day, if I get this right.
So I simply nod. I do not press the point. About Ipswich being a bad place. It is full of wild-eyed, angry immigrants these days, brutish and thuggish enough in daylight. At night, with a young and pretty girl sheltering in a doorway … it does not bear thinking about.
I know enough to realise I should not ask her why she is homeless. Or where she sleeps at night. What she does to make ends meet. I am not an innocent. She may steal. She may sell drugs. She may have sex with strangers. None of this matters to me. She has to survive somehow.
And she moves, turning and twisting to put the rucksack on her back. She half glances, as if she is grateful but embarrassed, towards me. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. She gets up and turns towards the pier.
I had hoped for more. A real conversation. A chance to get to know her. To offer to buy her a meal on the pier. Sausages, beans and chips. Good, old-fashioned, English comfort food.
“Rosie,” I say, my voice cracking unexpectedly.
She stops. Turns back. Sort of looks sidelong at me. Her head at an angle. As if she is curious, inquisitive.
“I live at 3 Bluebell Lane. At the Grove. Through the car park. Past the football pitches. Across the fields. Number three. Bluebell Lane. Three. If you ever need any …”
I think she kind of nods and smiles, almost imperceptibly, as if to say I hear you. Maybe a thank you, too.
And she is gone.
I watch her.
My heart breaks.
It is gone midnight, and I cannot sleep. I am standing in the dark by the window in the nookery, looking out and along the lane.
It is now snowing steadily and settling on the ground.
Rosie will not come tonight, not in this. If, indeed, she ever would have done.
Rosie would not be the first girl on the streets to come here to stay in the nookery. There have been others. At first, I would go to Ipswich railway station, wrapped up warm with a hat, scarf and gloves on cold, wintery nights, arriving five minutes or so after the last train to London, Cambridge, wherever. Every so often there would be girls who missed that train and, with little or no money, would have to sleep on the station platform or close by.
To begin with, none of them took up my offer. One young pudding-faced girl, shivering in the cold, ummed and aahed for a moment or two, and I could not quite speak with excitement. As I stood expectantly, her quite angry-looking friend, a black girl, suddenly came out of the toilet. “He’s offering us a bed for the night,” the pudding-faced girl said neutrally. “Ha!” spat the friend, looking me up and down with contempt. Suddenly feeling shamed, I left hurriedly before things turned nasty or the police were called.
I remember the first girl who came back with me. After half a dozen or so visits, I had learned what to say and what not to say. British girls would never consider the offer, most laughing and swearing at me and calling me a creep. But a Dutch girl, backpacking across the UK and ending up in Ipswich, of all places, readily agreed and seemed grateful. I think she had been smoking dope; as she peered at the official-looking Samaritans card I’d put together from the internet, she suddenly seemed to be having second thoughts. I took her firmly by the arm and led her away to my car. To save her from herself.
Another girl, two or three months later, came back with me from the railway station, although I think she might have been sleeping on the streets anyway. She was clearly on drugs; I suspect that, if I had not taken her away, she would have come under attack by any one of the groups of men who were around and close by. After that, though, I had little success, with most of the girls being sex workers. And what with that and the CCTV and police patrols all the time and busybody do-gooders turning up, I felt it prudent to stop my visits.
There are headlights to my left, towards the top of the lane.
An Audi is coming down, edging slowly forwards through the falling snow.
I watch as it turns onto the next-door drive. The Man in the Suit is back. I fear him and what he might do.
After Ipswich railway station, I turned my attentions to Felixstowe and those who lived on the streets here. I took no notice of immigrants, who should not be here. And I rarely saw older women. I doubt they could survive for long. But I found girls who would come back with me to 3 B
luebell Lane.
It took a while, but I learned how to persuade without having to take them forcefully by the arm or rely on their drugged-up state to succumb. Wet, windy and cold weather is the starting point. They need shelter and warmth. In summer, with warmer nights, they are not as desperate. They need to be young, too. Fresh on the streets. Innocent. Ready to be helped. Trusting. I never went near the raddled, skinny things with pockmarked arms in their thirties.
I always felt that a middle-aged woman, a “mum”, would have had more success. These young girls wanted an arm round them, a shoulder to cry on. As a middle-aged man, damned as a pervert in this Me Too age, I had to work harder. I am, fortunately, a dab hand with technology, so it is fairly easy to produce a range of official-looking cards for the Samaritans and other charities. Some of the girls would look at my “official” ID, with its photo, stamps and laminated cover and matching lanyard, and believe every word I said.
There is no sign of my admirer tonight. Widow Woman. At the gate. Up the path. Peering through windows as I sleep. Perhaps the grandchildren are there, running her ragged.
It is too cold. And the snow is falling ever heavier. Something close to a blizzard now.
I have been thinking about Widow Woman. She should not be stalking me like this. She angers me. I will have to do something about it. Before she makes me explode. Hopefully, with her grandchildren there, she may leave me alone for a while.
When they came into my little extension, my nookery, the girls would be overjoyed. A gasp. A smile of delight. A clean bed with fresh sheets and puffed-up pillows. A sofa, a desk. Their own kitchenette, shower and toilet. More than they could have ever hoped for. A bit different from living behind the bins at the Co-op supermarket!
And those who came back over the years were all very grateful to me. To start with. They were so pleased. They showed their appreciation. They were so happy. And I was happy, too. And I thought, with each of them, that it might be the beginning of the road to happy ever after.
It was not to be. For one reason and another. They have all gone now. Some sooner than others. They were all a mistake. And I carried on living my life on my own. I had almost given up. Until I saw Rosie, the close image of my daughter. And here I am again, hoping, dreaming, that I might get one last chance to get it right.
The Girl Downstairs Page 6