Imperfect Strangers (10 page)

“That lamp
post looks like the one in Narnia.” Keith says, seemingly reading my mind.

“Yeah.”
I try to hide my surprise. “I think so, too. I used to love that story.”

“Me too. I often fantasised about being able to escape to another world through the back of the wardrobe.” He goes quiet and really still. For a moment I think he’s in some sort of a trance and I’m almost certain he mutters the word
bitch.

“I had a jigsaw with it on.” He suddenly blurts, making me start. I’m cer
tain I let out a little squeak.

“I might still have it somewhere.” He continues, as if there was no gap, no silence, and no shocked reaction from me. “In the loft maybe. You can have it if you like. I’ve done it loads of times already.”

“Oh, right. Yeah.” I must have got it wrong; he wouldn’t have called me a bitch under his breath, would he? “Yeah, a jigsaw, that’d be... great.” No need to seem ungrateful. I’ll just put it in a charity bag. What the eye doesn’t see and all that.

“Well, this is me,” I say, once more feeling awkward and regretting that I offered
him the lend of a flask.

CHAPTER
13

I can’t believ
e how well this has worked out. Sally’s crouching in front of me. She is actually touching me, holding onto my elbow and asking me if I’m okay. She turns and watches Steve walk away. For a moment something like regret crosses her expression, but I must have read it wrong, as usual, because she definitely looks angry, or disgusted, or a mix of the two.

“I’m b-better... than… my...
. flask.” I manage between gasps. Father’s fishing flask is destroyed, and I feel like crying, but Sally is here with me and she sympathises by saying it’s a shame because of how nice it looked, and I feel like laughing. She must really feel bad about it because she looks like she’s going to cry herself.

“Sorry.” I say, because the last thing I want is for Sally to cry because
Father’s fishing flask got broken. She smiles at me, obviously pleased that I’m sorry, and she’s so considerate and has noticed my nose is running, because she gives me a tissue.

“Not much of a weapon, was it?” Sally laughs after saying this. Initially I think she’s laughing at me,
but then it occurs that she’s making a joke about it to make me feel better. She says something else while I’m picking up the flask. I shake it, and the glass sloshes in the tea. “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” she says.

“What you said… About me being a friend?”

She takes a moment to think about it, which has to be a good thing. If someone rushes their answer to such a question, it means they’re just telling the person what they think that person wants to hear. I watch a leaf floating to the ground, and when I look up Sally is looking intently into my eyes. And then I remember, her eyes, how I deliberated over the colour. I was right: tropical ocean blue: a pale aqua flecked with ripples of ultramarine. Her right eye has an island of green close t
o the bottom of her left pupil.

“Er, I guess,” S
ally says, and she’s thought long and hard about it, so I know her answer is genuine. “So, you on your way to work?” she asks me. “You’re not going to be late are you?”

S
he is so considerate.

I look at my watch. “Maybe?” I say, knowing that by the time I’ve crossed the park I most certainly will be late. I make up a lie – which I feel bad about – that Arthur is often late, even though he never is. And he was always covering for me when mother was ill, and he never told the bosses on me or anything, so it’s an even worse lie for that, but I only do it so Sally won’t
feel bad about me being late.

A squirrel bounds across the entrance to the park and I want to think of something poetic to say about the way it moves. Sally says something about liking the squirrels and that makes me even more determined, but nothing comes to mind.

I offer to walk her home. Sally says she doesn’t want to make me late, but she doesn’t actually say no to my offer, so when she starts to walk to her house I start to follow, and she still doesn’t say no, so she must mean yes. I hope she asks me in for coffee. That doesn’t really mean coffee, I know that; it’s a kind of code that means would you like to come in, and the coffee offer is just a reason to say yes, because who would go in to a person’s house just to go in and then come out without having done anything. Sally still hasn’t said no to my walking her, so I speed up to walk by her side. Her hand is close to mine, hanging free, so I think maybe she wants me to hold it. I imagine how soft the skin of her palm will feel against mine, her fingers entwined with my fingers.
She reaches across and messes with her coat though, so I take the tissue from my pocket and pretend that I actually intended to blow my nose. Snot from the previous blow smears my cheek and I need to get it off somehow without her noticing.

Sally asks if I live round here and I tell her about catching the bus, and I think about how it bounces over the pot holes and how it feels like you’re on a rough sea and then a poetic way of describing the squirrels comes to me. “The way they go up and down when they run reminds me of waves.”

I don’t hear her reply, because I think she’s seen me wiping the snot from my cheek and rubbing it onto my trousers. She sounds a little annoyed, I think.             

“T
he squir-r-r. The squir-r-r...” I can’t get my words out because I’m too embarrassed about the snot.

“Squirrels?” She says, helping me out, and that’s great because most people just stand there and let me suffer as I try again and again, and it gets harder and harder, and I just want to move on and say the rest of the line. And when Sally helps me
, it’s like she’s given me a lift over a wall and from that point on it’s as easy as walking down hill.
All down hill from here –
doesn’t really fit with my expectations. I suppose it means it’s easier to fail than succeed. Or does it mean this is as good as things will ever get to be; I hope not.

“Yes. You said you like to w-watch them.”

She doesn’t look at all angry with me for wiping the snot from my cheek.

“It looks like waves, w-when they run.” I make a wave-like motion with my hand and she smiles at me like I’ve nothing at all to feel bad about, which makes me love her even more. But now I’ve run out
of things to say, so I wait for her to say something, wait for the movement of her mouth, the swell of her soft lips. We don’t speak for several yards and it seems an age. How do people do this? How do they talk and talk and talk? I
consider drawing on my reserve of Leanne Rimes facts, but I think it best to save them for our date, which may or, increasingly likely by the second, may not happen. Say something I tell myself over and over, willing a thought to come, anything.
I like the snow globe you keep on your desk. No! Idiot. Can’t say that.
I know, I’ll tell her it’s my birthday.

She seems to be sad that I did a jigsaw. Sadness,
one of the few expressions I can read. Even so, even though I know the expression, I still have trouble inferring its relevance to constructing a puzzle. There must be a book on it:
Expression: and how to read it
, something like that, a user’s guide
.
She seems to be waiting for something, keeps swivelling her head, looking into the park. This isn’t going to work, is it? I can’t even manage a ten-minute conversation. I’m on the verge of saying bye and setting off through the park.

“S’pose you’ll go out with friends at the weekend?” she asks.

What do I tell her? Do I lie to make me look like a popular person, make out that I am popular in the hope that that will impress her, or do I tell the truth and hope that Sally will go for a drink with me. Deciding that truth would be best I tell her: “No,”

“Oh
…!”

She’s so quiet that I look up expecting her to have gone, but she is still here, looking at me, her face rather more sad in appearance.

“I live just down there, where the houses back onto the park,” she tells me.

I know
, I almost say,
I’ve watched you
. I look toward the park gates. “Only I’m on my own see, since mum died,” I say, thinking, just one more look at her eyes before I go. They
sparkle, and I can’t help but smile back, even though it’s the last thing I feel like doing. I’m giving up on you Sally, I say to myself. I’m going to go now.

“Would you like to borrow a flask?” She asks. It sounds like,
come in for coffee
– a code, a reason to invite someone in.
Come in for a coffee
?
Yes. I don’t like coffee
though. Its stench reminds me of burnt toast, and the stench of burnt toast reminds me of—

Leave it, Keith.

I will accept. That’s the polite thing to do, but I will ask for a tea instead.

It’s a sacrifice, but with a heavy heart I put
Father’s fishing flask in the bin, and tip Sally a nod. I will retrieve it later, on my way to work. She looks pleased, genuinely pleased, that I’ve accepted her offer. I thought she wanted me to go; it turns out that she didn’t after all. Reading people, it’s something I definitely need to master. I really must get a book on it – if not at the library then from that second hand bookshop near the university. Lots of interesting books in there that the students off-load as soon as they've completed the relevant module, and there’s so many of each one that they sell for pence.

As we walk
, we have a pleasant conversation about Mrs Seaton, and how the pesky cat keeps me awake in the day. Sally thinks I should get rid of her, but I couldn’t. Then she suggests talking to her about it, which is really strange. I’m about to tell her that I don’t think trying to reason with a cat would do any good, but then I realise that she’s probably joking. As usual the joke has flown right over my head.

Sally’s house is getting close now and all we’ve talked about is
Mum’s old cat. I want to ask her to go for a drink, or maybe to the cinema, but I’m uncertain how to steer the conversation away from the present subject without ruining the moment. But then she tells me I ought to go out, and I want her to ask me. I will her to, while thinking,
yes go out with you. When?
She doesn’t though. Instead she says I shouldn’t just stop in and do jigsaws.

But I like doing jigsaws
, I want to say,
I like the way the picture builds out of complete disorder;
I like putting the pieces in their rightful place and saving the best section for last
. But Sally’s house is getting nearer, so I avoid complicating the discussion. Then Sally starts talking about Mrs Seaton again, and I’m not totally listening because I’m thinking about the best way to ask her out. She seems amused by something I’ve said, but I’m not certain what I’ve said. We we’re talking about Mrs Seaton being such an old cat that she has grey whiskers on her chin. I don’t see why it’s funny, but I smile anyway.

The space in front of Sally’s house looks lovely. From the first day I saw it, it reminded me of a Narnia jigsaw I have. I tell Sally it looks like Narnia and she says that she thinks so too. She smiles then, a most beautiful smile that sparkles in her eyes like a breeze rippling the surface of the war
m waters of their tropical hue.

“I used to love that story,” she tells me.

“Me too. I often fantasised about being able to escape to another world through the back of the wardrobe.”
And you’ll stay in there until you learn to stop telling lies. The ropes are tight. Binding. Burning.
Little Keith’s wrists throbbed in the wardrobe. He felt cobwebs float onto his cheeks. And in wet pyjamas smelling of bleach, he shivered as if the ice queen herself were reaching in to grab him. The liar, the bitch and the wardrobe
.

“I had a jigsaw with it on.” I tell her.

Sally squeaks with delight. Got it wrong again: seems she likes jigsaws after all.

“
I think I still have it. You can have it if you like. I’ve done it loads of times already.”

“Well, this is me,” she says, as if I don’t
already know this is her house. Many is the time I’ve wandered past gazing at the navy blue door and desperately wanted to walk up the short path and lift the silver knocker. And now here I am, standing behind Sally, close enough to smell her hair, waiting, as she inserts the key, opens the door and enters.

CHAPTER
14

The smell hits me the instant I open my front door. I’m so embarrassed – I want to tell Keith it’s not a good time – that I’m not thinking straight, and even though my brain registers the cause of the stink, it’s slow to tell my leg, and my foot slaps right into the mess that the door has smeared chocolate-spread-like across the doormat and onto the carpet. “Shit!” I exclaim, leaving my shoe behind, as I step from doorstep to living
room.

“What’s wrong?”
asks Keith, sounding quite alarmed.

“Shit is wrong. Sukie, you might well hide, you naughty dog.”

Keith reels back, scrunching his nose, when I pick up the shoe with excrement squidged out either side. He scowls at Sukie, and I’m not having that, so I jump to her defence. “Well at least she did it on the doormat and not the carpet” I make the utmost effort to ensure my voice remains calm so that Sukie doesn’t get frightened.

“Sorry about this,” I say, placing a hand on Keith’s shoulder for support, as I lean out the door and drop the shoe on the side of the step. “I’ll see to that later.”

“Sorry,” I repeat, lifting my hand from his shoulder, as I chuck the mat onto the path. My cheeks are burning for some reason. Maybe, because something tells me that Keith is the type of person who will read more into a touch like that than can possibly ever be meant, or maybe I’m just embarrassed that my dog has shat in the living room, and I’m looking to lay the blame elsewhere.

“Don’t worry,” says Keith, somewhat delayed, but in a reassuring
tone, as he stands on the doorstep and watches me disappear into the kitchen. He steps inside and quietly eases the door shut.

“Mrs Seaton does exactly
the same thing,” he calls out.

“What
? Not in the living room, surely?” I’m glad I’m in the kitchen out of view, because I have a sudden fit of the giggles, knowing that I must have misunderstood, but picturing the scene nonetheless. When I’ve got control, I return carrying a basket full of cloths, brushes and bottles of cleaning fluid – to clean the bottom of the door, not the mat: I’m chucking that. When I look at Keith, I think, oh-my-god, he’s serious.

“Mrs Seaton’s a little more subtle than Sukie.” He says this as if it’s something normal, sounding a little put out that I’m alarmed to be honest. “No danger of standing in it. She always does it behind the settee.”

“Behind the... Crikey, you
are
serious?” I’m not usually wrong when it comes to tone of voice, but I must be, because his voice seems to contain a hint of pride. “Is she senile?”

“I don’t..
. I mean, I don’t think–”

“She must be if she’s crapping
behind the settee. Anyway…” I pack away the cleaning implements. “That’s that done. S’pose it’ll have to do,” I say, sniffing a whiff of shit despite the masking aroma of alpine freshness.

Keith watches as I place bottle after bottle – disinfectant, oxy-lift,
deodoriser, antibacterial-finisher, wool-carpet-protector, white-PVC cleaner – back into the basket.

“That’s a lot of products,” he says. “Do they all do something different?”

“Of course. Where’s my manners, fretting about the carpet while you’re standing by the door. Come in Keith, sit down a minute.”

Keith is about to step
forward when the look on my face makes him halt.

“Would you mind taking your shoes off?” I ask, twisting my mouth
into a grimace of disapproval.

He looks down at his shoes
: brogues, like the geeky lads at school wore. The look on his face, you’d think I’d asked him to strip naked. And then I realise, my cleaning diligence had not failed me after all. The lingering hint of shit is not lingering, but drifting from Keith’s feet.

“Hang on,” I say, raising an outstretched hand
, as if holding him by the door like a cop would halt traffic. I return with a newspaper, which I separate into sheets and build from it a stepping path from the door to the couch.

Keith crosses the paper path with some trepidation and sits
down.

*  *  *

A fragrance of leather embraces me as I sink into Sally’s fantastic sofa. It brings to mind emotional warmth, like the soft-silky embrace of dark-chocolate, smoothly liquefying on the tongue. It feels like a massage on my senses: soothing, relaxing. I can’t believe I’m here, in Sally’s front room –
no not front room
– this is an actual living room; it’s a room worthy of being called such. It is a room worthy of such a title, because in here you would actually feel like you are living and not merely existing.

“Right, then. Okay. No problem,” Sally says, disappearing into the kitchen. Moments later, I hear the tap running. When it stops I hear her rummaging in a cupboard, the sound of pottery clanking and scraping. I hear the tap run again, water sloshed into the sink. I melt further into the couch and inhale the essence of everything that is Sally. The kettle begins to rumble.
This is it, she’s asked me in, now she’ll offer me coffee. I’ll say I’d prefer a tea. Or perhaps hot chocolate. I wonder if she has hot chocolate?

“Tea or coffee,” Sally calls, her voice raised above the kettle’s roar.

“Erm... whichever is easiest.”

Idiot.
Too late to say different now.

“I was thinking. And, well,
I don’t think Mrs Seaton
is
senile. Because it’s only at night, when I’m at work that she messes behind the settee, and even then, only if she’s locked in. In the day she does it in garden.”

Sall
y’s face appears round the doorframe, her mouth gaping only marginally wider than her eyes. “You
are
joking?”

“They all d-do that?”

“No they bloody don’t.”

They do
, I think. All cats do, but I’m not going to argue about it. Little Keith got used to keeping quiet, when things were tightened. Argue silently, and the cane stays in the cupboard.
Sally obviously knows very little about cats.

Sally’s brow forms a tight bunch. She looks on the verge of saying more when the kettle rumbles to a boil and clicks off. I hear the po
ur of water. Not long after, Sally walks back into the room her face lit with a pleasant smile.

“Here you are then, one flask of coffee. Not as fancy as yours I’m afraid; plain old stainless steel is as fancy as I get.”

No cup of tea then. No hot chocolate. No biscuits. No cosy chat. No cuddle. No asking her out for a drink. No sealing it with a kiss.

Toldyer. Yer no good. Nasty ugly Keith. Whojathinkyar
?

Shut up.

“Keith?”

The soft voice saying my name sounds distant. My wrists are burning. There’s my name again. The voice is female, and as if rising from a tub of water, the sound is suddenly clear in my ears. Sally. I’ve had an episode in
Sally’s presence. How long?

“You alright Keith?”

“Thanks. Yes. Just thinking. I’ll er... I’ll get going then, shall I? I mean, I wouldn’t want to… I’ll get off. Give you this back in the m-morning?”

“No. It’s okay, really. Keep it. Least I can do, after that business with Steve. I never use it anyway. You sure you
’re okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine.”

I walk to the end of the path and hear her say “Bye.” But I don’t turn. How long? I wonder, as light from around the edge of the doorway narrows to blackness. How long? I fret, as her key turns in the lock.

At the entrance to the park
, I pour the coffee into a pile of damp leaves. The rising smell, so much like burnt toast, sticks in the back of my throat like a fish-bone memory. The word-snakes start writhing, hissing, slithering, coiling and choking. I can hold them back. I know I can. I held them back on the doorstep to Sally’s house. I held them back when she leaned across me. It was hard, when the perfume on her wrist curled into my nostrils, but I managed it. When she bent down to put her shoe on the step, while waiting for her to stand upright, I dared myself to steal a kiss. I pictured grabbing her shoulders and planting my lips on the soft swell of hers and drawing her in like they do in films.

Whojathinkyar
?
she sniped, snaked into my mind, threatened to drag me under. But I didn’t let her.
Thankfully it brought me to my senses. What a mistake that would have been. Did I actually think she would melt into my arms? Life is not a film.

Her toes looked amazing: delicate, the nails painted in kingfisher-blue, metallic, manicured, shielded by a fine-meshed stocking only a shade darker than her skin. That image drove the word
-snake from my mind, but it caused a stirring in my groin. The image of her partially naked feet was so intimate, and only slightly marred by the rising stench of the dog’s excrement.

My hand twitched in my pocket and I had to form a fist to make certain it stayed put. I stayed
by the door while Sally went into the kitchen, pressing the door home with my shoulder, keeping the hand that so badly wanted to touch in my pocket. The insistent urge to grab Sally gradually dissolved. I then allowed my hand to relax, drew it from my pocket and wiped the cold sweat from my brow onto the back of my burning wrist.

Thank goodness
I think, feeling the big toe of my right foot poking through the hole. Thank goodness she didn’t make me take my shoes off. I will have to buy new socks. Arthur is not going to be happy, I realise as I look at my watch before looking into the darkness of the park and realising I can’t possibly go the long street-lit way to work.

“See you soon, Sally. Sleep tight.”