When I Was Otherwise (37 page)

Many times, too, during the night Daisy did more than merely moan. She actually cried out. Then Marsha would start up from her doze and say, “There, there, Daisy,
I'm
here, don't be afraid. Is there anything you'd like? That lovely boiled egg I did you earlier, or a nice refreshing cup of tea, or a couple of aspirin with a glass of water?” But she was always relieved to find that Daisy didn't answer, because she really wasn't up to the effort of making tea or even of going to fetch that egg from the fridge and of having to spread some bread-and-butter soldiers.

However, she did rouse herself sufficiently to get the aspirin bottle from the bathroom cabinet (for it had suddenly occurred to her that she hadn't had a wee since before the neighbours came). But when she brought it back to Daisy's room and pulled out the cotton wool she was dismayed to find only four tablets remaining. She prided herself on being a good housekeeper. She would have to ask Dan to buy another bottle in the morning.

Then she thought that perhaps while he was about it he ought to get
two
bottles. At which point Daisy gave another moan and this seemed like total confirmation. Encouragement more than just agreement. Yes, why
not
two? Then they wouldn't have to worry again about aspirin for…well, oh not for ages. She smiled. By that reckoning, she told herself, if he were to buy a hundred bottles, instead of merely two, they would probably last forever. Ten thousand aspirin…didn't that sound peaceful? One thing which could be struck off her shopping list for all time. She didn't enjoy going shopping any more, except when she occasionally met people whom she liked, and anyway what was the use of that?

Besides. Even running into people whom she liked couldn't take her mind off her problems, not for very long. And the situation was rapidly growing worse. She kept expecting things to happen, all sorts of horrible, shadowy things. She breathed a sigh of relief each time she got home and could put the chain across the door. Safe. They can't reach me here, she thought. Or not so easily. The handbag-snatchers, the rapists, the disease-carriers, the maniacs, the murderers in their motorcars. Not only them; they were just the fringe of it; all the others as well. She was so
thankful
to be home, even though she would only have to screw her courage up all over again the following day and pray that once more she could run the gauntlet without mishap. They watched. They waited. She knew that they might pounce at any time. She wasn't quick enough to avoid them.

“
Them
,” Daisy had once said. “Who's
them
?” And Marsha had laughed, fully aware of her own absurdity. “No, don't tell me, dear. So terrible that no word can ever describe
them
!” In 1954 Daisy had taken her younger nephew to see
Them
! at the Regal in Harrow Road.

“No, not giant ants,” Marsha had answered, almost hanging her head in shame. “Just the wolves and the bears or their grown-up equivalents.”

“Yes, I know, dear. I think you must be loopy.”

“I shouldn't be surprised! But when I was a little girl I really half believed that if I trod on the cracks in the pavement the wolves and the bears would instantly make a rush for me. I used to imagine what it might feel like to be gobbled up by them.”

“Uncomfortable I have no doubt.”

“I used to dream about the Christians being leapt upon by lions. I had a vivid imagination.”

“Whatever happened to it?”

“What?”

“No, just my little joke, dear. They don't feed Christians to the lions any more; not even here in Hendon. Or so they try to tell me.”

“It was horrible in some ways being a child. I used to think I might be struck by lightning even when I was inside the house. It would see me through the windows, flash through the glass and get at me. I can remember thinking wouldn't it be nice if the windows were all boarded up—or at the very least extremely dirty, so that I could lurk in the gloom and the thunderbolts would find it difficult to spot me. Also, the prowlers.”

“Prowlers as well, dear? My word, you had a busy time.”

“Oh, yes. Even in a top-floor room I sometimes used to think that if I looked up too suddenly I should meet a pair of chilling eyes staring blankly through the window. So I hardly ever did. I would try to give the intruder plenty of warning. I would only raise my own eyes very, very slowly.”

Marsha shrugged, then laughed again.

“And yet I think I was a happy child.”

“Well, just so long, dear, as you're not planning to try to recapture all that lost happiness! I can fight spiders but I draw the line at wolves and bears and lions in arenas. And thunderbolts, too, and prowlers up on stilts.”

Yes, they'd had one of their happier and more companionable moments. And of course—all that irrational fear of hers—it
was
ridiculous.

But she didn't even like sending Dan out in case something might happen to
him
. So she wasn't thinking only of herself.

She fantasized, half sleeping, half wakeful, being jerked up automatically and stumbling to the bedside each time Daisy moaned. Well, to begin with, it was certainly every time. Gradually, however, she got used to it.

She fantasized.

Supposing that Dan drew all his money from the bank? It wasn't very much but it was a little over two thousand pounds. Supposing he bought enough aspirin and toothpaste and dentifrice and tissues and toilet rolls to last them for a lifetime? She imagined the dining room stacked to the ceiling with toilet rolls. Supposing he bought enough meat and fish and macédoine and milk and steamed pudding, and almost anything that you could get in tins, to last them for a lifetime? Supposing he bought enough jars of coffee and packets of tea and sugar and Ryvita and pasta and Patna rice to last them for a lifetime? And lots of containers, especially for the breakfast cereals and the crispbread? Why not? Why not? It all seemed so very feasible. Of course it would need immensely careful planning and it would obviously mean having to do without fresh fruit and vegetables but so what, you could still achieve a moderately balanced diet? Yes? And then of course it would also mean that Dan was shopping regularly for weeks and that she was stacking regularly for weeks. But Dan was still strong enough, wasn't he, and she was certainly tidy enough and it would even be rather satisfying,
very
satisfying, stocking and organizing a fortress: independent, immune, impregnable? And after those few frenzied, concentrated weeks, it would all be over, no more to worry about ever again, and how blissfully peaceful did
that
sound? Their own little island, their own little desert island, miles away from anywhere; their own little castle, surrounded by a moat.

She mustn't forget the salad cream. Daisy had said how much she liked the macédoine mixed up with salad cream. She mustn't forget the batteries for that silly old hearing aid of hers! Of paramount importance! Marsha wasn't so sure though (as someone who, herself, had long ago managed to kick the dreadful habit!) whether or not they should lay in a stock of cigarettes. Maybe a packet or two, just to break her in gently.

Oh, but it was all going to be so good!

And even during those few necessary weeks of shopping and stacking she could imagine that she'd be just too busy to worry about Dan and the dangers that might be besetting him outside. She'd have no time to stand there watching the clock, running to the front door to look out for him (usually with the garden broom in hand but, once, with the downstairs toilet brush!), wondering what in heaven's name was taking him so long, trying to convince herself that all her fears were totally irrational.

Even the thought of all that hard, hectic activity didn't make her feel bone-tired—no, on the contrary, it enlivened her. It would be creative; it would be exciting; it would be once-and-for-all…and not a bit like cleaning, for instance, which you knew would have to be done again tomorrow; tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. Oh, how she was coming to hate the cleaning! Oh, how she
had
come to hate the cleaning! But if they were going to have no visitors from now on—and that was all a part of it, wasn't it, having no visitors?—then it wouldn't really matter if things weren't always spotless. It wouldn't really matter if things weren't
ever
spotless!) She laughed. Oh, what fun! What fun!

Yes, she was so tired of it all! She was so
tired
of having to dust and polish and hoover. Tidy up. Sweep the stairs.

She was so
tired
of having to launder and iron and put away the clothes. Make the beds and air the blankets. Clean the bath, the basins and the lavatories. Plan the meals. Cook the meals.

Wash up. Scour the saucepans. Clean the cooker.

Empty and defrost the fridge.

She was so tired, even, of such little things as having to wipe the milk bottles and boil the dishcloths.

Of having to look after the garden, front and back, and scrape away the pigeon droppings off the side path.

Of having to wash the windows. Shine the brass. Scrub the doorstep.

(Oh, yes, and whatever you do, my girl, you've got to remember to put out the dustbins, before they start to smell. And then, of course, to disinfect the dustbins.)

The list was endless. It was endless. It was endless.

But in their new Shangri-La—now so much more than just a painted name on a piece of wood—why should they need to concern themselves with all those
little
things; little things that grew so large they could debase your whole existence? For what on earth was the point? Life was altogether too short.

(Although at Shangri-La, of course, didn't you get to be three hundred and still look like a beautiful young woman? Have all the energy of a beautiful young woman?)

So…? Was she at last, then, about to come into her own, the state for which she had been born? Why otherwise, when she was a girl, had she been known as such a bubbly young gadabout, such a pretty and fun-loving butterfly? Until, that was, her husband had managed to put an end to all that! Andrew, Mr Stuffiness Incarnate! Well, how glad she was that earlier this evening she had had the good sense
and
the willpower really to send him packing, that man! You didn't get taken in twice! Not by the same broad shoulders and the same fair hair. Oh, thank heavens she'd been allowed to realize this in time! Thank heavens the spell of the spiteful godmother was finally lifting. Now everything was going to be so wonderfully all right.

Because:

Apart from the toilet rolls and the food, they would buy lots and lots of magazines and nice romantic novels for their fine new citadel. Lots and lots of records. And when she wasn't reading she would dance.

She would sing.

She would drink champagne.

She would dream of princes who had come to wake her with a kiss.

She would—

Oh dear. Another shriek from Daisy.

But Daisy's discomfort would only be a very temporary thing. And, anyway, she
had
brought it on herself. Totally! And afterwards, when her poor broken body had mended, Daisy, hobbling merrily to and fro on crutches, would be as happy as she had ever been. They would all be as happy as they had ever been.
Happier
, because wiser.

(Dan might have to go as far as John Bell & Croydon, she supposed, to buy that pair of crutches.)

But it all seemed so completely feasible. Tomorrow she would talk to Dan. Tomorrow she would arrange everything. Dear Dan. She knew she could rely on him—his gentle, easygoing nature. He would fall in with whatever she suggested. Marsha knew best, Marsha would take care of them. She had already told him that.

And in fact it suddenly occurred to her. This whole affair was so exciting…why even wait until tomorrow? Why should they still abide by ordinary rules of day and night? They could make up their own rules as they went along.

Surely?

50

Dan wasn't asleep—which was fortunate since she certainly wouldn't have wished to arouse him, new guidelines or not. “I wondered if you'd like a cup of tea?” she offered. Her planning had revitalized her to such an extent she would have cooked him a full meal if he had wanted one.

“Who is it?” he asked, momentarily shielding his eyes from the glare. Then he started pushing back the bedclothes and was about to get up.

She noticed his flannel nightshirt had a tear beneath one arm.

“No, no, Dan, you stay where you are, darling. It isn't morning yet. I just felt like a chat. May I sit?”

She perched herself on the edge of the bed.

“You're dressed,” he said.

She gave an automatic glance down and answered in a tone of faint surprise. “So I am.”

“Then has the doctor been again?”

“Oh, no, my love. Do you like this dress? I think it rather suits me.”

“What did he say?”

“I told you, darling. Daisy is going to be fine. She'll be up and about in no time.”

“Really?”

“She's going to be fine,” Marsha repeated, with several energetic nods. “We've got to be very careful, though.”

He looked at her enquiringly.

“Yes. You see, some people might get the idea it was all our fault, the fact she fell downstairs. I mean, some evil-minded old busybody pushing his nose in where it wasn't wanted. They might say the accident was all
our
fault. Or rather they might say…”

“Yes?”

“That it was all
your
fault.”

“Mine?”

“Because you were the one on the telephone, weren't you? Don't you remember now? You said Daisy must have thought you were speaking to the doctor?”

“Was it the doctor who said that it was my fault?”

“Well, I'm afraid that, yes, darling, it was. But who cares?
I
know it wasn't your fault. Don't feel bad about it. The only point is—if the doctor does come back you mustn't let him in.” She told him this twice. “Do you understand me?”