Acknowledgments (3 page)

I'm faithful to my favourites, of course I am.
Coronation Street, East Enders, Brookside
and
Emmerdale.
I don't mind the Australian soaps, either. But lately I've had just as much pleasure from the real-life shows. You know, the inside story on life within a hotel, a shopping centre, a driving school. Seeing people who
actually exist
going about their everyday lives. Fly-on-the-wall programmes, they call them, or even docu-soaps. Utterly fascinating, I simply can't tear my eyes away from the screen.

Yet now, it may be – it just may be – that I've stumbled across something that tops the lot.

10 July

They were at it again last night. Talk about hammer and tongs.

He started it. I feel sorry for him, married to her ladyship, but I must admit that he has a dreadful temper. Perhaps it's the forces background – though what happened to military discipline, I ask myself? He's a big man, powerful and the way his voice carries, you'd imagine he was still on the parade ground. At least Philip was gentle. A bit of a bore, maybe, but a gentle bore. Never any violence from him.

Anyway. He'd not been home five minutes when he began to shout at her. I didn't catch the start of it – I'd been on the phone to mum, chatting about the new
Coronation Street
video – but it was all to do with money. Her ladyship's a spender. I see her sometimes, sailing off to the Trafford Centre, plastic cards at the ready. Watching from my front window, I sometimes think that she wears a new outfit every time I see her. Usually with a skirt that barely covers her bottom.

He was ranting about a bill they hadn't paid. She said it was only the gas; they wouldn't be cut off, not with two small children to look after. (Though looking after the poor mites doesn't exactly seem to be top of her list of priorities at the moment.) Then she complained that he wasn't earning much from his job. He works at the leisure centre on the other side of the M60. After she said that, things turned nasty. He said something about the money they owe and then he called her a greedy bitch. She said something about him that was so disgusting I won't even write it down. I was appalled. I wasn't even trying to listen, but the walls in these flats are as thin as tissue paper. When the people next door carry on like that, you simply have no choice but to hear what they are saying. It's terrible, really, that I have to put up with it in my own home. So much for environmental health. What do we pay our council tax for, I wonder?

He went berserk. There's no other word for it. I could hear a thud: he'd obviously socked her one. I could picture the scene just as vividly as if it were on my television screen. Of course, hitting people is wrong, but to my mind she'd asked for it. When she'd got her breath back, she screamed at him, hurled abuse. He slammed the door and went out. Peeping from behind the curtains at the back, I saw him heading for the shed in his garden. He was in there for a few minutes, then he unlocked the gate that gives on to the alleyway behind the flats and disappeared. Probably off to the pub, to drink the evening away. He seems to treat the Pig and Whistle as his second home these days. It's a mistake. If he knew what I knew, he'd be sticking close to home. Keeping an eye on things.

Afterwards, I watched
East Enders
and later on, even better, there was the new docu-soap. It's called
Library
and it's all about the characters who work in this big municipal library up in the North East. They're a lively bunch, much more fun than the crowd I work with. There's a big fat jolly woman who was panicking about an author event she'd organised, and my guess is there's something going on between the girl in the reference section and the publishers' sales rep, the one with the cheeky smile. Tomorrow night, a second series of
Loss Adjusters
begins: the one with the chap who says that his job is to persuade a client who's lost a leg that he's better off hopping. He's a scream. Until I started watching, I'd no idea how interesting that line of work could be. It just shows: you learn so much from television.

11 July

The library closed at lunchtime today, so I was home by a quarter past one. Although it's not a long walk from where I work to the flats, I rushed along as fast as my legs could carry me. The delivery man had promised to call on her this afternoon.

It reminds me of an episode in
Brookside.
A floosy was misbehaving with some chap and her husband came home early one day when they weren't expecting him and he caught them at it. It was a good story, that one. Real human drama. And it proves a point I've often made, especially to Philip when he'd moan that I was always glued to the box. Soaps are just like everyday life. That's why I love them.

His van wasn't anywhere to be seen when I got home. I must admit that I felt disappointed. Cheated, almost, as if he'd personally stood me up. I could hear her next door, pacing up and down. I could tell she was on edge. I made myself a sandwich and a cup of Ovaltine and wondered if he was about to give her the heave-ho. I wouldn't have put it past him. He's not a bad-looking chap if you like that sort of thing, but my guess is that he'll run at the first sign of trouble. She doesn't see that, of course. She thinks he's going to take her away from the flat and her husband. But she has two young kiddies at infant and junior school and it's a pound to a penny that lover-boy won't give up his freedom.

At two o'clock, he finally arrived. I heard the van pulling up outside and ran into the living room to have a peek through the window. He looked flustered, not the same as the first time he called here.

I remember that day so well. He was delivering a parcel and he rang my doorbell rather than hers by mistake. I got a good look at him as I pointed out where she lived. He's young, no more than twenty one, at a guess. Five years younger than her – easily.

The flats are in a small two-storey block. One side of this road is lined with them. She and I both live on the ground floor, which is why we have the little gardens at the rear. Our front doors are inches apart. From a distance, though, you might think the place was a pair of semis rather than four flats. When Philip and I split up and I was looking for somewhere of my own, I thought this was the ideal solution. Modern, compact, no need to waste too much time on vacuum cleaning. No stairs to bother with, for a start. What I didn't realise was how shoddily constructed the whole building is.

She chatted him up on the step. My window was open and I could hear every word. Brazen is putting it mildly. She said the parcel was something she was expecting from a mail order catalogue. (She buys a lot of things from catalogues, that's where so much of the money goes.) He asked her to sign for it and while she was writing he told her that he'd had a tough day. He said he'd just started working for this big company with a depot on the outskirts of Warrington and he kept losing his way on the motorway network. Maybe he was just making conversation, more than likely he was looking down the front of that football shirt she likes to wear. A Manchester United replica, it's supposed to be. I gather those things cost a fortune these days. Waste of money, if you ask me.

Anyway, inside a couple of minutes she was telling him that she'd been saving up to buy a new silk nightie. She actually
said
that to a perfect stranger.

Well, one thing led to another. I couldn't believe my ears. Talk about a couple of fast workers. In the end, I couldn't listen to any more. There's only so much that a decent person can take. But I must admit that when he called again a couple of days later, I opened my back bedroom window. Hers was open, too. It's amazing how indiscreet some people are. They have no shame.

It was different this afternoon. I heard him mumble something about running behind schedule and that he couldn't stay long. I wasn't listening to every word – of course, I'm
interested.
But it's none of my business. I'm not a nosey parker. I like to keep myself to myself.

She told him that her old man had hit her. Lover boy sounded nervous. He said she shouldn't put up with it, asked why she didn't call the police or a lawyer, force him to move out. It wasn't what she was hoping to hear, I could tell that right away. She'd wanted him to say that she could move in with him – I can read her like a book. Perhaps she's starting to get worried. She's not a complete fool – it must have dawned on her that he likes the bachelor life. He doesn't want to be caught. I heard her saying something about commitment. He didn't answer. Any idiot could put two and two together, I said to myself.

He went so quiet that I told myself he was having second thoughts. It served her right and yet the funny thing is, I felt so disappointed. Let down, almost. It was as if I didn't want to be deprived of the opportunity to look forward to what might happen next. Almost as if the powers-that-be had decreed that
Coronation Street
had run its course.

She snapped at him. I didn't catch exactly what she said, but the meaning was plain enough. She was telling him to make his mind up. Big mistake. I could have told her myself – men aren't to be relied on. It's a fact. Human nature, call it what you like. It gave him his excuse and within a couple of minutes, he was on his way. Revving up the van as if he never expected to return.

It reminded me of Philip, after he'd told me to choose between him and the telly. I didn't say anything for a while, but I think he came to his own conclusions. His face was as red as a beetroot as he rushed out of the living room. Well, it wasn't my fault. He did ask.

12 July

This afternoon, her ladyship and I had words. It began as something and nothing, really, she was upset because I'd shoved her wheelie-bin out of the way when I was late setting off for work in the morning. It was blocking my path and when the bin men didn't empty it, she hit the roof. She made some very hurtful remarks. Extremely personal. Needless to say, her language was choice. I think they used to talk about fishwives swearing. Believe me, her ladyship would make the average fishwife sound like Barbara Cartland.

I could have retaliated, told her that she was as common as muck, that I knew precisely what dirty tricks she got up to with her delivery man. But I held my tongue.

All the same, I couldn't stop thinking about it, brooding over what she said until this evening. Then I was able to take my mind off things. Two soaps,
Children's Hospital
and a new series about vets. Bliss. Thank Heaven for the wonders of technology, and in particular the video recorder. And yet – I realise now that even the best soaps aren't quite as good as the real thing.

13 July

Lover boy came round this afternoon while her husband was at Old Trafford, watching the match. It was kiss and make up time. He's like a moth to the flame, he simply can't resist her. He doesn't seem to see that it can never work. They aren't meant for each other. I could have told him. It's an old, old story. I've seen it played out in a hundred half-hour episodes.

He cut it fine, too. He stayed much longer than usual. In the end, they must have panicked. I saw him running down the path to his van, tucking his shirt flap into his trousers. Just as well he made his getaway when he did. Not five minutes later her husband was parking his old banger outside the front door. He slammed the car door shut as he got out. You didn't have to be Sherlock Holmes to work out that United had lost.

I hate football, loathe it, but I couldn't help feeling sorry for him, even when he started shouting at her whilst I was trying to watch
Casualty.
She's treating him like dirt.

14 July

Sunday. The worst day of the week so far as the box is concerned. Is it any wonder that I finished up in the bedroom, listening to what was going on next door?

The truth is, I'm hooked. We're barely acquainted, yet I know the most intimate details of their lives. It's sad, but it's fascinating.

I keep asking myself: what's going to happen next? Of course, it'll all end in tears. It always does. But
how?
That's the question.

She was in a bad temper, maybe withdrawal symptoms because she'd not been able to see her fancy man. At one point, she even cracked a joke about Viagra. I won't repeat it, it's not the sort of thing I'd like to see put down in black and white. I must admit, I thought that she'd gone too far. But he didn't seem to react. Just took himself off to the other bedroom and locked the door. Her ladyship wasn't bothered. She's looking forward to tomorrow, I'll be bound.

And to tell the truth, so am I.

15 July

I called in sick today. I know it was wrong, but I did have a bit of a headache and besides, I wanted to follow the latest instalment of the goings-on next door. Honestly, it's riveting. Last night I even missed a programme about the people who work in a department store, I was so wrapped up with what had been going on next door.

Her husband was out early. She was still in bed when he left, the lazy cow. I don't think they even uttered one single word to each other. She was up and doing by the time the van arrived, though. Oh yes. She flung the door open even as he had his finger on the bell. I was in the front room at the time and I managed to catch a glimpse of her. She was wearing a housecoat. From what I heard after they went inside, she hadn't bothered to put on anything underneath it. A slut, you see. She deserves what's coming to her.

After they'd been in bed five minutes, I'd heard enough. More than enough. I looked up the phone number of the leisure centre. Before I knew what was happening, he was on the other end of the line.

“You'd better get home and get home fast,” I said.

“What is this?” He sounded angry, bewildered. Who wouldn't be, in his shoes?