Authors: Wendy Perriam
‘I’d better ease this valve, love. Mind you, it hasn’t been used for donkey’s years, so I’m not surprised it’s stiff.’
She watched admiringly as he rocked back on his heels, wishing he could ease her joints and muscles with the same expertise he used on valves. His movements were so lithe, in comparison with hers. Her own body was protesting, as she lowered it, with difficulty, onto the dressing-table stool; sharp pains stabbing through her back
and hip. Terrible what time could do, to bodies, corpses,
battle-cruisers
. Parts of the once-famous
Hood
must lie barnacled and rusting now beneath the heedless waves. And its courageous crew would have been devoured by fish, long since; reduced to gleaming bones….
She shivered, suddenly, pulling her old cardigan tight across her chest. She could no longer fasten the buttons – her fingers were too stiff. But she still needed all her woollies, despite it being late in May. It was chilly in the flat – colder still outside – one of the most inclement Mays on record, with bad-tempered winds, squally showers and a grudging sun, too sullen to show its face.
The plumber whistled softly as he worked; the sound
harmonizing
strangely with the hissing of the radiator. In a few minutes, he’d be gone; off to another job, another street; she just another entry on his work-sheet. Then, time would slow to its former
snail-like
pace; each sluggish minute dragging like an hour. She’d begun going to bed much earlier, in an attempt to shorten the days, but it was impossible to sleep with the two tearaways thumping overhead.
‘All done!’ Springing to his feet, again with enviable agility, he seized the old tin pail. ‘I’ll just empty this down the toilet, if you could show me where it is.’
Her flat was so small, the bathroom was only a step or two away. As she pointed it out, she peered at the dirty water in the pail. Her tears must look like that: brackish, grey and scummy. Sometimes, these days, she cried for no particular reason, whereas in her youth she’d been resolutely brave. Frank disliked excessive emotion, so she’d felt duty-bound to temper her grief and match his own restrained and silent heroism. Besides, bravery was obligatory in wartime, when so many other people had lost beloved husbands, brothers, sons. Indeed, the hundreds of men who’d perished with Frank must all have had grieving relatives. She often thought of those sailors – a struggling mass of helpless, hapless men; choked by smoke, scorched by fire, going down, down, down to the dark, uncaring depths. At the time that it had happened, she’d been part of a large family, with parents and four elder sisters and several uncles and aunts, so she’d felt far less isolated. But, now, nobody
was left. Her mother, father, siblings, friends, were all clamped by heavy gravestones; invaded by insolent weeds.
‘OK, that’s it!’ Having returned the empty pail to her, he strode back into the bedroom. ‘I’ll just clear up here, then I’ll be out your way.’
She studied his movements as he replaced his wrench and spanner in his toolbox and stuffed the rags on top; determined to get her fill of him, especially his luxuriant hair. Its sheer
bounteousness
seemed to symbolize his youth and strength, as if it were a life-force in itself.
‘No – maybe I’ll just wash me hands….’
‘Of course.’ She had already thought to put out a fresh towel and open a new bar of soap. If only he’d stay longer, it would give her pleasure to wait on him. But he had refused the cup of tea she’d suggested when he first arrived, so if she offered him a snack now, he was bound to say no again. Besides, she hadn’t much in the larder to suit a man-sized appetite.
Already he was emerging from the bathroom, so it was clear he had no wish to hang about. He hadn’t even used her pretty,
rose-sprigged
towel, but was wiping his still-wet hands on the fronts of his old jeans.
‘Do you need an invoice, love?’ he asked. ‘Or, if you can pay in cash, I’ll make it only forty quid and throw in the valve for free.’
She stared up at his face: the kindly eyes, the generous mouth.
£
40 seemed quite a substantial sum; double her monthly
heating-bill
and more even than her council tax. ‘I, er, wanted to ask you a favour,’ she faltered, easing herself up from the stool. ‘It may sound a dreadful cheek, but—’
‘If you’re hoping to beat me down on price, there’s not a chance in hell! If you were a business, I’d charge you double that, so forty quid’s dirt-cheap.’
No need to raise your voice, she thought, as she went to fetch her well-worn, shabby purse. She counted out four 10-pound notes and a five, wondering if she ought to add a tip. Were you expected to tip plumbers, or only taxi-drivers, hairdressers and waiters, none of whom featured in her life? She extracted another fiver, just in case. After all, she was still hoping for the favour.
‘Thanks a ton,’ he breezed, picking up his toolbox, having
pocketed
the cash. ‘’Bye, love. Take care.’
‘No, wait! Don’t go!’ she called, aware that he was almost at the door. Twelve ‘loves’ in total now – a number with significance. Twelve hours in a day; twelve months in a year; twelve disciples; twelve gates of the Heavenly City. And Frank’s birthday was the twelfth day of the twelfth month.
‘There’s … there’s something I need to ask you – a very personal thing. But I’m frightened you’ll object, or …’ The words petered to a halt. Never, in her life, had she been so shamefully brazen. Yet this chance would never come again, she knew.
‘Get on with it, then,’ he urged, releasing his grip on the
door-knob
and turning back to face her.
Wasn’t that an invitation? ‘Get on with it’ surely meant
agreement
. Without another word, she moved close to him and stretched her arms up towards his head.
‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing?’ he snapped, dodging back out of reach.
‘Sssh!’ she cautioned, adopting a stern tone herself. This was a sacred moment and no way must it be spoiled. Again, she stood close and, this time, cupped her hands around his neck.
‘Hang on!’ He jerked away. ‘Are you trying to strangle me or something?’
‘Keep still!’ she ordered, knowing
she
must be in charge, for once. Closing her eyes, she took up the same position; arms clasped around his neck. It felt so wonderfully right, as if they were two halves of just one person; only complete when standing heart to heart. Then, slowly, softly, she began stroking from the top of his sunshine-coloured hair, down to the bristles on his neck. And, all at once, Frank was kissing her – not a black-bordered, goodbye kiss, before his ship departed, but a devoted husband’s kiss.
Already she could hear the organ, thundering out the triumphant wedding-march. She and her adoring spouse were standing side by side in the flower-filled city church, and the heady scent of lilacs was wafting through the open door, and an exultant but temperate sun was streaming through the windows to halo them in light. And
cherry-blossom-confetti was blowing in pink, foamy drifts, and her dress was a froth of tulle, and her heart a wild hosanna of delight. And, as his lips met hers, they repeated, heart to heart, the vow they’d just pronounced in front of family and friends: to love each other – for ever.
And, yes, that vow had endured for sixty-nine years, to the day.
J
odie turned the corner into yet another street of shops – all still doing business, at well past seven o’clock. At home, there weren’t any shops, except bog-standard Patterson’s, which closed dead on half-past five, and had festooned its smeary window with a few strings of mingy tinsel, not these swanky decorations. Weird, how, each year, Christmas lasted longer. They’d been selling crackers in Patterson’s way back in September. By the time she was fifty, it would probably last all year – the Christmas trees and Christmas cards left over from December recycled on 1 January, and the whole pointless process starting up again. Not that she wanted to live to fifty and have wrinkled skin and glasses and false teeth, or dodder around on a Zimmer-frame, boring everyone to death about ‘the old days’.
If she was rich when she was fifty, though, it wouldn’t be so bad. Stopping to look in another shop window, she imagined having such stacks of cash she could have anything she chose, and began picking out fancy things to buy. She’d read about a pampered bitch in
Cosmo
, who owned ninety-seven pairs of shoes; some costing a cool three grand a pair. Her own battered trainers had set her back
£
8.99, although admittedly the soles were wearing thin. If you owned ninety-seven pairs of shoes, how did you decide which ones to wear? Did you follow some strict system over ninety-seven days, or single out your favourites and ignore the boring rest? It had been like that at home – the younger kids hogging all the attention, while she was simply surplus to requirements.
The only shoes she wanted at present were a pair of fur-lined
boots. Her toes were so numb she had lost all feeling in them, and her feet were murder, because she’d been on them for so long. But, if she didn’t keep moving, she’d freeze solid, like an icicle. The weather was the spiteful kind that kept sussing out the gap between her jeans and top, and pouncing on the bare bit at the back of her neck.
She turned up the collar of her denim jacket and mooched on across the lights. This town was unknown territory and, for all she knew, she could be walking round in circles. What had struck her when she first arrived was the volume of the noise: angry drivers hooting; buses rumbling and whining; the deafening din of
road-works
; cop cars racing past, with shrieking sirens.
God, the cops! If she planned on sleeping rough tonight, she’d better hide herself away in some secret little alley, or even doss down in a churchyard, if she didn’t mind the ghosts. She did
actually
believe in ghosts, because she’d seen her dead grandma, once, coming out of the village church. She never mentioned it to anyone – they’d only call her mad – although the maddest people, in point of fact, were the ones who closed their minds to things they couldn’t understand.
Begging was also risky, as far as the cops were concerned. They were bound to move her on, or start asking dodgy questions. Yet she needed food as much as sleep – no,
more
. She’d already tried the litter-bins; found a few mince-pies, mostly reduced to crumbs, and half a mouldy loaf, but that was ages ago and her stomach was growling again. Hunger and fear kept fighting in her head, but, this time, hunger won. At least people should be generous in this season of loving-and-giving – ha ha.
She chose her pitch with care, right outside the flashiest of the shops. Should she remove her jacket and use it as a cushion, or leave it on, for warmth? She left it on. The pavement was reasonably clean; the street-cleaners out in force, even at this hour. Of course, Christmas meant mess and litter as much as peace and good will.
‘Spare some change,’ she muttered; angry yet embarrassed by the nasty looks she received. Worse to be ignored, though. The two snotty females just swanning into the shop didn’t even see her – too
busy gossiping. Both of them were weighed down with
shopping-bags
– not tat from Boots or Superdrug, but glossy, stiffened carriers, with ritzy logos and proper handles, and probably stuffed with yet more killer shoes.
‘Spare some change.’
The blokes were just as bad; glared at her, like she was some grotty form of pond-life that crawled along the bottom in the mud.
Her hand was numb from holding it stretched out. It needed a bit of exercise, such as closing round some nice fat dosh. But these people were so tight, it would hurt them to part even with 5p.
Suddenly, an old woman stopped and bent right down, peering into her face. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself, young lady, begging for money, like a down-and-out. You ought to be at home, doing your homework or helping your poor mother.’
Her ‘poor’ mother probably hadn’t even noticed that she’d scarpered. With so many other kids in her hair, one less would be a blessing. As for homework, what a laugh!
Once the woman had moved on, without sparing her a penny, she began to feel so empty, she was tempted simply to nick some food from one of the big supermarkets. Except they all had store-
detectives
and she didn’t fancy landing up in a cell. What she really needed was a dog. People couldn’t bear animals to starve, whereas humans could die in droves, for all they cared. She’d seen a beggar just outside the station, with the perfect sort of dog: a curly, cuddly one, with a pathetic look in its big, brown, soulful eyes. It gazed at every passer-by with such a mix of pain and longing, they couldn’t help but shell out. Let its owner rot in hell, they probably thought, but save the poor precious mutt.
She had never had a dog, or any sort of pet, come to that. Her mother said she couldn’t cope with any more mouths to feed. Years ago, she’d tried to argue for a goldfish, pointing out that fish-food wouldn’t exactly break the bank. But her mum had changed the subject and begun banging on about the broken washing-machine and the time it took to get anything repaired.
Shivering in her flimsy jacket, she imagined a big, furry dog – for warmth – then tried to think of a name. Maybe Granby, after the
Marquis of Granby pub – the last place she’d seen her father, before he vanished into the Great Unknown. He had taken her there for a beer – or three. She’d been far too young to drink then, but no one seemed that fussed and, anyway, her dad was very matey with the barman.
‘Good boy, Granby,’ she murmured, already feeling better, knowing she’d have company tonight. And cash was showering in – tenners by the ton-weight. Granby was a pro; knew the trick of combining charm and desperation, so that no one could resist. She’d be a millionairess soon; could buy her own place and tell her mother to get stuffed.
Then, miracle of miracles, a doddery old fellow shuffled to a halt and pressed a real note into her hand – a fiver, not a tenner, but riches nonetheless. She could buy a whole (unmouldy) loaf and several cans of drink and loads of other stuff. She flashed the guy a smile. It hurt to smile. The wind was so raw it set her teeth on edge.
In fact, she ought to make a move. Why risk trouble with the law, when the fiver would see her through the night, and most of tomorrow, too? Besides, the shops would be closing soon, so she shouldn’t leave it too late. Her legs were so cramped, it was hard to get up from the pavement, and her bum was almost freezing off. Who cared? She’d look better if she lost a bit of bum.
She stopped, baffled, by the bread counter, counting all the different types of loaf. Not just white or brown, as in Patterson’s, but organic, stone-ground, seeded, crustless, high-fibre, Danish, calorie-reduced and dozens more. It was price that mattered most, though, and the cheapest by a long chalk was a large white loaf from the ‘Basics’ range, at a mere 47p. Next, she found her way to the drinks section, again dizzied by the choice: Sprite, Tango, Fanta,
Red Bull, Dr Pepper, ginger beer and lots she’d never heard of, like dandelion-and-burdock. Best to focus simply on the Cokes, or else she’d go boss-eyed. There was a bottle of ‘Basics’ cola at only 17p for two litres, which was almost unbelievable, since proper branded Coke cost
£
1.59. She dithered for a while – didn’t fancy lugging a great, heavy bottle – but most of the cans seemed to come in
six-packs
and cost twenty times as much, so she eventually plonked the ‘Basics’ in her basket.
She was doing fine, so far, except she needed something hot, so she headed for the cooked-food counter. Sausage rolls were the best – cheaper than the chicken legs and more filling than the onion bhajis. Once the guy had handed over the package, she couldn’t resist unwrapping it and taking a huge bite. The warm, greasy pastry was bliss, flaking on her tongue, and followed by the spicy tang of sausage-meat. She tossed a piece to Granby; heard his grateful bark.
Right – that would have to do. She must keep some money in reserve, for emergencies or maybe fares. She hadn’t worked out what to do yet, or where the hell to go. She’d intended drawing up a plan, but cold and fear and hunger had stopped her thinking about anything except how long she could keep going without losing heart entirely. Now she came to think of it, cold and fear and hunger were also ‘basics’, in a way. In fact, her whole existence at the moment could be described as pretty basic. She’d left everything behind, at home, except her mobile, and her bag, and the clothes she happened to be wearing when she’d marched out after the bust-up. And even the battery in her phone had died, so she was cut off from her friends. Normally, she and Kat and Jessica spoke twenty times a day. Without those conversations, she was beginning to feel horribly alone, like that movie she and Kat had seen, where the whole earth had been destroyed, and one lone survivor went
stumbling
around the charred remains, eating rotting corpses, just to keep alive.
For God’s
sake
, she thought, glancing up at the shelves and shelves of food, she wasn’t quite reduced yet to eating human flesh. She’d manage – ’course she would. Stray dogs got nothing and they
usually survived. Perhaps she’d turn Granby into a stray; a fearless little mongrel wandering the streets, and homeless – same as her.
As she waited at the check-out, she stared in shock at other people’s trolleys. Were they catering for whole tribes? No one in the village ever bought such loads of stuff – some of it way out. What the hell was quinoa flour, or Sharon fruit, or gravadlax?
‘Granby, d’you fancy some gravadlax dog-biscuits? Or
quinoa-flavoured
Pedigree Chum? Sorry – can’t afford them.’
Bored with inspecting people’s shopping, she inspected the blokes, instead – older blokes, of course. Her dad might turn up anywhere, so she had to keep a constant look-out. Dads were always on her mind – dads like Natalie’s, who bought his kids anything they wanted and told them they were brilliant; dads like Kat’s, who laughed a lot, instead of throwing things; dads who didn’t drink; dads who stayed around. At least she’d
had
a dad – off and on – for nearly eleven years, although more off than on when she’d been a tiny sprog. He hated babies, so her mum said. How weird was that – hating babies and having seven? Perhaps he wasn’t her real father. How would you ever know?
‘Hello, there! Can I help?’
Jodie jumped. She hadn’t even realized she’d reached the head of the queue and that the check-out guy was waiting – polite, maybe, but frowning. He frowned still more when she dropped the change he gave her and had to root around on the floor to pick up every coin. The old bag behind her began tutting and complaining; saying she didn’t have all day to waste. Too bad. Even the 2ps were precious, so she couldn’t simply walk away. She had only
£
3.60 left, so how was she going to eat next week – or next month, come to that? Maybe she could find some sort of job, except they were bound to want references and stuff. But, first, she had to get some food inside her, so, even before she left the shop, she wolfed the rest of the sausage roll and washed it down with cola.
The cold slapped her face as she stepped out of Sainsbury’s and trudged, head down, along the street, now looking for somewhere to sleep, or at least some sort of bolt-hole. The crowds were
thinning
out, although every time she passed a pub or café, she envied
those inside: people with families and friends, who were warm and safe and snug and had jobs and plans and futures.
‘
Heel
, Granby!’ she instructed, stopping at the kerb and waiting for the lights to change. If you could train a dog, why not a dad? ‘Stay!’ she ordered her dad – a bit late in the day, of course. She often wondered if her mother had tried to make him stay. They’d never talked about it. Her mum clammed up if she so much as mentioned him.
Soon, she had left the shops behind, but the main street was still quite busy, so she turned off into a side-road and began walking up the hill. The further she went from the town-centre, the safer she would be. It wasn’t just the cops she feared, but weirdoes, gangs with knives. She broke into a run, just to warm herself up. She should have bought some woolly gloves in Sainsbury’s, but they would have cost as much as half-a-dozen ‘Basic’ loaves, and it was a question of priorities. The whole of life was a question of
priorities
. Was school more important than work, or love than independence? She had never been in love – although, judging by her mother’s example, love never lasted long, so probably best, on balance, to live without a bloke.
By the time she’d jogged another mile, she was out of breath and knackered. Running with a bag of shopping and a bottle banging against your side wasn’t exactly a breeze. She panted to a halt, just yards from a boarded-up pub. Its sign, the Hope and Anchor, was hanging loose and swinging in the wind. Hope and Anchor – how ironic was that? – just what she
didn’t
have. It might be a place to hide, though. Warily, she glanced around, but there was nobody in sight. The whole street seemed derelict: a few run-down shops, all permanently closed, by the looks of it. Maybe the area was due for demolition, which suited her just fine, since it meant no one much would come here.
She sneaked round the side of the building. The rear wasn’t boarded up, but the two back doors were locked and barred; their paint blistering and peeling. In the grudging light, she could make out a stretch of wasteland – the pub garden, once, maybe, but now
overgrown
and tangled. It would be far too manky to sleep on, not to
mention perishing cold. She peered up at the sky. The clouds looked bruised and ragged; the moon was just a sliver, so thin and sharp it could cut. Continuing round the other side, she stumbled upon a
lean-to
: a small wooden structure, with a corrugated roof. It didn’t have a door, but at least she’d be protected from the wind there.