The Girl Downstairs

by Iain Maitland

  She then points at my scrapbook, still open at the centre pages. It is full of little photos spread across the two pages. All sorts of well-known places around the world. I have always wanted to travel. Somehow I never have. Early on, there was never enough money. Later on, I had nobody to go with. I did not want to be the solo traveller whom happily married people shun: Look out, darling; it’s that boring little man again.

  “Have you been to all these places?” she asks, a note of interest in her voice. She stops sketching to look at each of the photos in turn.

  “No … I’d like to … some day.” It strikes me, quite suddenly, that I must seem like a sad man who has never done anything or been anywhere or achieved anything in his life. And that would be true. The thought suddenly flattens my mood.

  “They are on my bucket list,” I say.

  “Bucket list?” She laughs.

  I suddenly feel old and hopeless and out of touch. Knowing that expressions I use, once so commonplace, are not used by younger people any more. And our happy time teeters on the edge of turning sour.

  I turn the scrapbook around, trying to stop my mood plummeting even further.

  “How many do you know?” I ask.

  “Um …” She hesitates.

  “Point to the ones you recognise,” I say cheerfully enough.

  And she stays quiet.

  And I wonder how she can possibly not know some of them – the Taj Mahal and the Eiffel Tower, at the very least.

  There is a long pause. To avoid further embarrassment, I start naming each of them, telling her a little about each.

  She listens closely enough and expresses interest, and we are soon at ease with each other again.

  And I can no longer hear that helicopter. I wonder whether it was ever there in the first place.

  All in all, we had a nice afternoon with our scrapbooks, a pleasant and jolly tea, and exhausted by our fun, we spent the evening apart, Rosie drawing and listening to music in her room, me reading my book in the living room.

  Coming up to bedtime at 11 p.m., I am sitting on the sofa, finishing 10 Rillington Place. I am undressed other than my fleecy dressing gown and a pair of striped socks. Although it is still cold, I do not have a blanket around my shoulders tonight.

  The fire is blazing, so Fluffy has chosen to sit with me. He hogs the heat, as usual, but there is enough left over for me. I am happy. I am content. I am at peace.

  Rosie suddenly barges in, pushing the living room door open with her right foot.

  She is wearing a pair of my daughter’s pyjamas. Disney PJs.

  Rosie has wet hair. A hand towel in her left hand. A hairdryer and a hairbrush gripped tight in the right.

  She sits down cross-legged in front of the chair nearest the fire. Wraps the towel round her shoulders. Brushes her hair. Glances at me once or twice. I pretend not to notice. I am not sure why she is looking at me. She leans forward and plugs the hairdryer into the nearest socket. Moves a switch on the hairdryer up and down. Then the other. It does not work.

  She looks at the hairdryer. Shakes it. Switches it on and off at the plug socket. Fiddles with the switches again. As if that will make a difference. She has a look of disbelief on her face. I go to say it may just be the fuse, but realise I don’t have any spare ones. Would need to find a small screwdriver. Take a fuse from something else. All a nuisance to do. And leaving the kettle or the microwave or the vacuum cleaner without a fuse. And, anyway, it gives me another idea, a better one, now that we are getting along so well.

  “Do you have another one?” she asks, holding the hairdryer up towards me. “My hair’s dripping.”

  She puts the hairdryer down, pulls the towel across her shoulders up around her neck.

  “No,” I reply. “It’s the only one I have.” Then I pause, hesitating, before going on: “If you want to come over and sit here, I’ll do you a scrunch dry.” My most light-hearted voice. And a phrase my wife used with my daughter. I don’t know if it’s in common usage.

  Rosie looks at me. Hand on heart, I expect her to shrug and say no thanks at best – maybe even to recoil at worst. Repulsed by this old man sitting in front of her with his dressing gown and veiny legs.

  But she doesn’t. She stops for a moment until, turning her back to me, she moves on her bottom towards me, stopping an inch or two from my knees. I open my legs wider so that she can sit between them.

  She hands me the brush over her shoulder.

  I take it. I am nervous and, to be frank, aroused too. By her closeness. Her arms almost brushing my thighs. But I am a gentleman, and I know how to behave. I slowly run the brush through her hair, above her left ear, the centre of her head, and by her right ear. I try to be as no-nonsense as possible, as if this is a chore. I do it gently.

  Rosie adjusts herself slightly, sitting up straight and hugging her knees. She is a little further away from me, but moves her head back at an angle so that her hair is still as close to me. She is not repulsed.

  The fact is, I think she is starved of affection, a human touch. As am I.

  I edge forward a little, pulling my dressing gown back up over my thigh as it slides down. I cannot close my legs, as her shoulders are in the way. I hope she does not turn round.

  I put the hairbrush on the armrest and reach for the towel around her neck, taking it off and holding it in my hands.

  “To scrunch dry, you have to scrunch the hair ever so gently.” I scrunch the hair at the back of her neck as carefully as I can.

  “This is just to remove any excess water.” I dab the towel over her head two, three, four times.

  “Never rub. Rubbing can break hair … fine hair like yours.” I keep dabbing. Waiting for her to pull away at my touch. Or to lean back into me.

  “Rubbing can make your hair go all frizzy.” She leans back, ever so slightly, just a touch, but it is enough. She is relaxed with me.

  I dab a little more. My hand is shaking slightly. Lifting and patting her hair. Once, twice. Three times. That is enough. I need to be careful.

  And so I stop.

  I know that I am treading a fine line. Between kind and thoughtful and being too close.

  We both sit there for a minute, or maybe longer, and she then edges forward, away from me. Embarrassed, possibly. I am not sure. I close my legs, pull the dressing gown over my thighs, covering myself. She stands up, and there is a moment of silence, possibly awkwardness, between us.

  She then turns and takes the towel from me and moves towards the fire. She sits back down, looking into the flames, one hand resting on the sleeping Fluffy. She hums to herself as she pats her hair with the towel.

  I sit back and open my Ludovic Kennedy book.

  Rosie turns and looks at me.

  I smile at her. She smiles back.

  I see the blazing tanker.

  I feel the heat of its flames shooting skywards.

  I cannot move.

  Neither closer nor away.

  Can only watch.

  Car after car smashes into the inferno.

  Because I do not move.

  I see shapes in the cars.

  Melting in front of me.

  I hear the screams as they burn into silence.

  And there is nothing I can do.

  But stand here.

  Dying inside.

  10

  Monday, 25 November, 7.46 Am

  Our third morning and breakfast together. I am happy and content as we settle into our new life. Knowing where it might lead. Given time and patience. Forever together. Never to part.

  I still want to ask her why she was on the streets. Where she comes from. What happened to her. I think, after last night, that the time is coming when she will open up to me. I just have to be patient a little longer. I know not to press. What might happen if I do.

  As I finish my toast and marmalade, she pushes her cup and plate to one side and reaches for her pad and pencils. I continue to eat, taking a sip of my by-now cold tea in-between mouthfuls
of toast, as she starts sketching.

  I am thinking of what to say to her, something trivial, to have a conversation, to fill the silence. We have become at ease together over meals, sometimes with the radio on, sometimes with it off. We have not had the radio on this morning, and I rather wish we had. It eases us along through mundane comments and lengthy silences.

  “I like that jumper,” I say inconsequentially, nodding towards her top.

  She looks down at it, puts down her pencil and pulls at the jumper, tugging the material away from her body.

  “It’s warm,” she replies.

  I nod. “It’s always cold here … rackety old place, really … I need to get heating put all through properly. Maybe I’ll get it done once the snow has gone.” I doubt I have the money for it, but still, we’ll see. I may be able to get a loan.

  She thinks for a minute and adds, “I’m about the same size as your daughter. Her clothes fit me.” A pause as she seeks the right words. “Do I look like her?”

  “Yes, you do … a bit.” I smile. “I have some photos of her somewhere. I’ll dig them out later and show them to you.”

  She nods and says without hesitation or any trace of embarrassment, “I’ve seen her driving licence and passport photos.”

  But she does not add to that, perhaps realising she has said too much. That taking my daughter’s clothes without a by your leave may be acceptable, but rummaging through drawers, looking at private things, as she must have done, may not.

  I wonder where she has been looking whilst I have been out walking Fluffy. Everything I would not want her to see is packed away in the loft.

  I do not say anything.

  Things are going well between us. I do not want to damage our growing relationship.

  I carry on eating. She sketches some more.

  “Do you miss her? Your daughter?” Rosie says.

  I nod. Not sure how to answer.

  “Yes,” I say finally. I am not sure where this is going nor what more to say. I think of ways to lead her towards telling me about herself. The words Do you miss anyone? are in my mind. But I hesitate. A crass question.

  “You don’t have any photos up,” she says. A statement. But one that sounds more like a question: Why?

  The answer – the why? – is because there are no photos of us as a happy family. Nor any of us individually smiling happily at the camera. And those that I do have of my daughter, I do not want to see.

  “No.” I laugh, although the sound is not a happy one. “I always seemed to … have my eyes shut.” The words come out all wrong. I am slightly tongue-tied.

  Rosie tears carefully at the edge of her paper. Turns to show me what she has been drawing. A young girl with big sensual eyes, a coquettish smile, bare shoulders and cleavage.

  “You can put it somewhere so you can see it every day,” she says, handing it to me as she gets up to clear the breakfast things away. “It’s your Lucy.”

  I smile and take it. I thank her and tell her I will put it on the mantelpiece above the fireplace in the living room. I cannot help but think the sketch looks more like her than my daughter. And that bothers me. I am not sure why.

  We spend the morning apart. Rosie in the nookery with Fluffy, listening to music and drawing.

  I took some time fiddling with the back door of the kitchen, which keeps blowing open whenever there is a strong wind. It really needs a new fixing. I will get one when I am next in town.

  After a brief lunch of soup and warm, buttered toast, we agree to play games in the afternoon, through to teatime.

  We are in the dining room, Rosie and I. Wrapped up warm in blankets, as usual. Ice has formed in strips on the windows. They look like jagged bars. Locking us in. Fluffy has sneaked off somewhere, my bed upstairs, most likely, although he sometimes struggles to jump up on it unassisted these days.

  I have picked out an old Trivial Pursuit box from a cupboard. I suspect some of the questions will be outdated now. But I have a little quiz pamphlet of up-to-date questions and answers from a recent Sunday newspaper we can use instead.

  Either way, we will muddle through for a little bit of fun. To pass the time. To become closer.

  I have opened the box. Unfolded the board. Laid it on the table between us. Taken out the cards, which are all muddled up. I start sorting them into their proper piles. Rosie takes the coloured pie-shaped pieces out of the box and the dice, and she sits there playing with them in an offhand kind of way. She seems distant. I reach for the instructions and pass them to her. “Go on,” I say. “Have a read. Have you played before?”

  She shakes her head. “No.” I think she is not someone who has played many board games, but it is enjoyable, and I will let her win if I need to. I will um and ah over a decisive question towards the end, get it wrong, and watch her as she punches the air with joy. That’s how I imagine it will be.

  She holds the instructions leaflet in her hand without looking at it. I can tell straightaway something is wrong. She glances at me and then rests the instructions on the table. I think she is ever so slightly red-faced, but cannot tell for sure. She is putting on a brave face, that’s for certain.

  “You’re dyslexic,” I say gently before going on, “No matter; I can remember what to do, pretty much.” I am dismissive, in a nice way, rather than making an issue of it and embarrassing her. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Once we have settled in together, I can help her with her reading.

  Before she can reply, something catches Rosie’s eye. I follow her gaze out of the window. She leans back so she cannot be seen as I lean forward to see who it is. I am expecting to see Widow Woman at the gate again, making a nuisance of herself. If she has seen us, I will have to go out and send her on her way. Say Rosie is my niece, staying for the weekend. Until the snow clears. Now, if you’ll excuse me …

  But it is not, this time. The Man in the Suit’s car, a black four-by-four, expensive and full of swagger, has pulled up alongside my front gate. I can see him inside on his own. He is looking at the cottage, up and down, checking each of the four big windows in turn. Like he owns the place. The lane. The whole wide world. I hate this arrogant, thick-necked brute, hiding behind his smart suits and handmade shoes.

  “Who’s that?” Rosie asks, more curious than concerned.

  “Neighbour. That side.” I nod towards 5 Bluebell Lane. I’m tensing up, at the sight of him, but do not want her to sense the tension in me.

  “What’s he doing?” She looks puzzled. She finds it odd, not alarming or frightening.

  “I don’t know. He had a massive argument with his wife. In the back garden, before the snow fell. He left. I think she then went off with the children the next day. I heard a van loading stuff. He’s now come back. I guess he’s looking for her. He’s … nasty.”

  I don’t add anything to that. I hope that final comment is enough for her to keep well away from him. She does not seem to want to be seen anyway, slipping back out of view when Widow Woman turned up the other day. I had assumed she did not want to be spotted with me. Now, as she sits there leaning back and looking awkward, I wonder if there might be more to it than that.

  Rosie says, “If she loaded a van and left with her kids, she’d not be here, next door.” A simple statement, but an obvious one. She then adds, “He might think you know where she is. She might have talked to you before she left.”

  I watch him sitting in the car. Brooding. Studying one window followed by the next. Upstairs first, then across and down to the nookery.

  He knows I am here. My car, snow-covered but clearly visible, is still parked on the other side of the nookery.

  His gaze turns to the dining room window, and he seems to be looking straight at me. I sit there looking back. He scares me to death, but I will not show it.

  “What’s he doing now?” Rosie asks.

  “Sitting. Watching.”

  “Weirdo,” she says.

  I do not know if he has really seen me and is staring me down, spooking
me. If he has, he has succeeded. This man is so full of fury, his response to the misunderstanding last summer wholly out of proportion. Most men would have laughed it off. A jovial clear off! and no more. Secretly pleased that his wife could still draw admiring looks.

  His attempts to drive me off the lane when I am walking down it reveal his violent nature. Accelerating towards me until my nerve breaks and I jump out of the way. One day, when this snow has gone, I will not move, I will just walk normally as I am perfectly entitled to do. I will hold my nerve to the last minute, and he will have to brake hard. An emergency stop. If his brakes and tyres are less than perfect, his car will end up rolled over in a ditch. Serve him right if he breaks his fat neck.

  “Ignore him,” I say. “Let’s play.”

  She looks at me uncertainly.

  “Put the round thing, like a pie plate, in the middle and roll the dice. It’s like snakes and ladders. You move round the board and have to collect six little wedges. Whoever gets six wedges into their pie thing and completes the pie is the winner.”

  She still looks unsure.

  “Go on; choose a colour and roll the dice.”

  She takes the yellow pie and puts it in the middle where I pointed. I take the green one and put it next to hers. I glance out of the window and see the car is still there. I assume he continues to watch me. It takes all of my nerve not to stare back. I fear what he will do next. Come up the path and bang on my door, most likely.

  I do not know what I will do if he does that. I cannot ignore it. I do not want Rosie to think I am scared of him. I am, though, and I am not ashamed to admit it. He is full of suppressed violence. If he comes to the door, it’s because he has seen me here staring back. My own fault.

  “Open the door, you fucking coward,” he would shout. I would be diminished in Rosie’s eyes and more terrified than ever to answer it. I can imagine him pushing me to one side, bowling me over, and coming in to search. I wonder what he would say when he saw Rosie. What he would do. That frightens me most.