2009 - We Are All Made of Glue (15 page)

Sherry

A
couple of days before Christmas, I set off for Canaan House to deliver my Christmas present—a little basket of scented soap and body lotion that I thought Mrs Shapiro would like. A nippy wind flicked my hair against my cheeks and made my batty-woman coat flap against my legs. There were no leaves left on the trees, but tattered shreds of plastic bags fluttered from the branches like pennants, and bits of wind-driven litter skittered along the street in front of me. As I turned the corner, I saw a massive four-by-four, black with darkened windows, tractor-sized tyres, and doubtless a global-warming-sized engine, parked at the bottom of the lane. It looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t place it. I quickened my step. Violetta was waiting for me in the porch, her fur fluffed out against the cold. I rang the bell.

There was a long silence, then footsteps, then Mrs Shapiro appeared at the door. She was wearing full make-up and a rather stylish striped jersey, with brown slacks, and a different pair of high-heeled shoes—these were snakeskin, with peep-toes and slingbacks, a couple of sizes too large. Her left wrist was still strapped, and in the other hand she was holding a cigarette.

“Georgine! My darlink!” She grabbed me in her arms, the cigarette waving dangerously close to my hair. “Come in! Come in! I heff a visitor!”

I followed her through the chilly hall—yes, there was a little deposit in the usual place—to the kitchen, where the fan heater was on at full blast and a kettle was steaming away on the gas stove. There was the usual smell of cat piss and decay, and, above it, a new smell, musky and potent, of perfumed aftershave. A man was sitting at the kitchen table. He was turned away from me, but even from his back I could see he was a big man, broad, with close-cut blond hair, and muscles that pushed against the seams of his clothes. He rose to his feet and turned to greet me as I came in. He rose and rose—he must have been over six feet tall, and heavily built, like a slightly-gone-to-seed rugby player—and then our eyes met. A flash of mutual recognition passed between us and in that moment we made an unspoken pact to forget that we had ever met before.

“Nicky,” said Mrs Shapiro, fluttering her derelict eyelashes at him, “this is my dear friend Georgine.” She turned to me. “This is my new friend Mr Nicky Wolfe.” She obviously didn’t recognise him at all.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

He gripped my hand—his palm was moist and meaty—and pumped it up and down.

“Hello, Mr Wolfe.”

I don’t automatically think of sex when I meet a man, but I did with him; I thought it would be quick, painful and humiliating. I would be Violetta to his Wonder Boy. There was that look in his eyes.

“Call me Nick, please.”

“Hello, Nick. You must be from the estate agents.”

“Got it in one. How did you guess?”

“Mrs…” I usually addressed her formally, but I had to impress on him that we were close. “…Naomi showed me your card. She said you’d made an offer for her house.”

“An offer I hope she won’t be able to refuse.” He leered at her.

“Georgine, darlink. Will you heffa drink?”

Mrs Shapiro’s cheeks were flushed beneath the two little circles of rouge.

“A cup of tea would be nice.”

The kettle was hissing away filling the kitchen with steam. Then I saw that on the table, amidst all the clutter, was a sherry bottle and two glasses, his full, hers empty.

“I heff only krautertee. From herbs.”

“That’s fine.”

“Why not heffa little aperitif?”

“It’s a bit early for me, Naomi.” I loaded my voice with reproach. “It’s not ten o’clock.”

“Is it so early?” She looked around with wide scandalised eyes, and giggled. “You are a very notty man, Mister Nick.”

He chuckled, a rapist’s chuckle. “Never too early for a bit offun.”

I turned the gas off and poured the boiling water from the kettle over a tattered tea bag in a cracked and stained porcelain cup. It tasted like not-very-clean pond water. Actually, I could have murdered a glass of sherry.

“Happy Christmas—I mean, festive season—Naomi.” I passed her my little package.

“Thenk you, darlink.” She held it up to her nose and breathed in, closing her eyes with pleasure. “But I must find something for you!”

Her eyes wandered around the kitchen, resting for a moment on a REDUCED packet of biscuits on the counter, a squashed box of Maltesers, a half-eaten packaged cake.

“Oh, no. Please. You’re too kind; I don’t need anything. What will you be doing for…for the festive season, Naomi? Will you be all right on your own?”

“Darlink, I will not be on my own. First Christmas we will celebrate, then Hanukkah. Turkey breast and latkes. Pick and mix non-stop festivity, isn’t it, Wonder Boy?”

But Wonder Boy was nowhere to be seen.

“I’d better be going. I’ll leave you two ladies to your fun.” Nick Wolfe stood up again, towering over both of us. “I’ve still got three valuations before I can knock off. An estate agent’s work is never done.”

“Please, Nicky, you hefm’t finish your drink.” Mrs Shapiro had gone all fluttery again.

He picked up the full glass and downed it in one go. I could see that with his body mass, it wouldn’t make the slightest impact.

“But you must take your bottle.” She pushed it towards him.

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Naomi. Please keep it as a small token of my regard.”

He sidestepped her with a rugby player’s deftness and moved through the door out into the hall. Would he step in the cat poo? No, he didn’t. Pity.

She saw him out to the front door. As I waited in the kitchen I became aware of a strange unsettling animal noise coming from the study. I went to investigate. There, in front of the fireplace, was Wonder Boy, his back arched, his muscular haunches pumping up and down, rasping and grunting on top of a small brown fluffy cat that lay motionless on the fender. Was it squashed dead, poor thing? I looked more closely…no, it wasn’t a cat, it was one of the
Lion King
slippers.

“He is quite an adorrable man, isn’t it?” Mrs Shapiro minced back into the kitchen with a radiant look on her face. “Next time I will invite him, you also must come. You must put on a bit of mekkup, darlink. And better clothes. I heff a nice coat I will give you. Why you always wearing this old brown shmata?”

“It’s kind of you to think of me, Mrs Shapiro, but…”

“No need to be shy, Georgine. When you see a good man, you must grebbit.”

“…are you sure you wouldn’t like a nice cup of herbal tea?”

“No, thenkyou, darlink. I heff enjoyed my aperitif.”

A sound like a satisfied grunt came from the direction of the study.

§

Next morning—it was Christmas Eve—I was woken up at seven o’clock by the phone ringing. I guessed straightaway who it was.

“Georgine? Is this you? Come quick. Something is heppen-ing to my votter.”

“Is it leaking? Is it a burst pipe?” I muttered groggily, wishing she could have waited an hour before ringing me.

“No, nothing. I turn on the tap and nothing happens.”

“Look,” I said, “I’m not an expert on plumbing. But I know a handyman. Would you like me to give him a ring?”

There was a pause.

“How much he is charging?”

“I don’t know. It depends what the problem is. He’s very nice. His name’s Mr Ali.”

There was another silence.

“Is he a Peki?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know. Look, do you want me to ring him or not?”

“Is okay. I will ring my good friend Mister Nick.”

She put the phone down. I rang Mark Diabello but only got an answering machine. A few minutes later Mrs Shapiro phoned back.

“Is not there. Only answering machine in the office. These people are too lazy, isn’t it? Sleeping all morning instead of working. What is the number of your Peki?”

When I went round to Totley Place at about ten o’clock I saw that Mr Ali’s bicycle was already propped up in the porch and he was sitting in the kitchen drinking a cup of that vile pond water. He stood up when I came into the room and greeted me warmly.

“Fixit broblem, Mrs George.”

“What was it?”

“Something peculiar,” said Mrs Shapiro. “Someone has turned off the votter tap outside. Mr Ali has found it underneath the back door. Such a clever-knodel!”

“Water was all off,” nodded Mr Ali, beaming. “Now back on.”

“But why?”

“How can I know this?” He shrugged mildly. “I am a handyman, not a pseecholog.”

“That
is
strange,” I said. My mind started to race. Who would do a thing like that?

Mr. Ali finished his tea and stood up to go.

“Any more broblem, you telephone to me, Mrs Naomi (he pronounced it Nah-oh-me).”

“But wait, I must pay you. How much it is?” Mrs Shapiro fumbled in a brown leatherette shopping bag that was under the table.

“Is okay. You no pay this time. I did nothing. Only turn tap.”

“But I must give you something for coming to my house.”

“You have given me cuppa tea.”

He slung his bag of tools over his shoulder and I rose to show him out to the door.

“Thank you for your help,” I said, following him out into the hall.

Suddenly he stopped by the quaint little phone table with its barley-twist legs. I thought at first he’d stepped in the cat poo, then I saw that his eyes were fixed on the framed photograph of the stone arch. He leaned forward for a closer look.

“It looks quite old, doesn’t it?” I said chattily, though I had no idea of its age.

“Church of Saint George,” he said. “In Lydda.”

“Lydda.” A place, not a person. “You’ve been there?”

“One time, I went back. Looking for my family.” He said it so quietly it was almost a whisper. “I was born nearby to that place.”

“In Greece?” I was surprised. He didn’t look Greek.

He shook his head. “Palestine.”

Before I could think what to say, he’d disappeared through the door. I heard the tink-tink of his bicycle bell as he pushed it down the path. Mrs Shapiro was beaming when I came back into the kitchen.

“Very good Peki,” she said.

I didn’t tell her he was a Palestinian.

My mind was still whirling. This story was turning out to be much more complicated than I’d thought. Nothing was what it appeared to be. Lydda was a place not a person; Mr. Ali was from Palestine not from Pakistan; and someone had turned Mrs Shapiro’s water off. Why? A practical joke? Or harassment? The more I thought about it, the more I was sure it must have been Mr Wolfe. He must have noticed the stopcock when he was snooping around. He knew how vulnerable she was. He had sat there, on that chair in the kitchen, plying her with sherry and flattering her. That was the carrot. And at night-time, when she was on her own, he had applied a bit of stick.

The phone rang at that moment. Mrs Shapiro shuffled out to the hall. I could see her through the open door, gesticulating as she talked.

“Nicky! You got my messedge at your office…thenk you for ringing…Is okay. Votter problem is solved, but you can come anyway. Georgine is here…Ach, so. Never mind. Any time you want to drink coffee mit me, you are very welcome. Yes, and happy Christmas to you, Nicky.” She fluttered her eyelids as she talked, as though he was there in the room. When she put the phone down, she turned to me.

“Very nice man. Would be a perfect husband for you, Georgine. Rich. Hendsome. What you say?”

I laughed. “Not quite my type.”

“Ach, you young girls! Nowadays, you heff too much choices. In my days, if you seen a good man, you had to grebbit.”

“Is that what you did, Mrs Shapiro? Like the sausages at Salisbury’s?” I teased.

Her face clouded over. She started fishing around in the ashtray for a cigarette butt, frowning as she tried to work out which was the longest one.

“You know, in the wartime so many men were getting killed. If you seen one you liked, you must grebbit quick.”

Bonding

Christmas with all the trimmings

I
went back to Kippax for Christmas, though I wasn’t in a particularly celebratory mood. It was my first Chrismas away from Ben and Stella, and there was a sore cavity in my heart as if from a couple of extracted teeth. I was worried about Mum and Dad, too, and the worst thing was, I could sense they were also worried about me. Dad was still quite poorly; the latest hernia operation had knocked him back, but he was determined not to let it show, and he prowled about the bungalow in his new Santa slippers pinning up the Christmas decorations. I caught him wincing once or twice when he thought no one was looking. The heating and the TV were both on full blast. Mum was wandering around the kitchen in a daze, wearing a pair of jokey reindeer antlers, wondering what she’d done with the bread sauce, and still insisting steadfastly that she had to do Christmas right, with all the trimmings.

When I lived at home, Mum and I always used to sneak off to the midnight service at St Mary’s on Christmas Eve. Mum liked to join in the carols. Her voice, piercing and slightly off key, used to make me cringe with embarrassment. But as I got older, I cultivated a blank what-d’you-think-you’re-looking-at stare for the people in the pews in front when they craned round to see who was making the racket. Dad stayed obdurately at home and played his old Woody Guthrie records. Keir, my younger brother, went out with his mates to the pub. But this year, even the lure of loud singing couldn’t persuade Mum to go out in the cold, and we all settled down on the sofa in front of the TV.

On Christmas day, instead of the traditional turkey, we had a traditional-style turkey breast roast, which came with a sachet of bread sauce—which Mum had lost. Dad made the gravy out of granules mixed with warm water. He put a pinny on specially for the occasion.

“I bet you never thought I’d turn into a new man, Jean,” he said to Mum.

“No, I din’t,” said Mum. “Which are the new bits?”

She was busy defrosting the chipolatas in the microwave. They were from Netto’s bargain range. They reminded me of the Bad Eel’s fingers, pink and plump. When I bit into one, pink juice oozed out.

Mum had set a place for Keir at the dinner table—he got the Loch Lomond placemat, which had always been my favourite. I was stuck with Edinburgh Castle again.