Live to Tell (29 page)

If anything, to me, she looked too slim but I didn’t tell her as she took a couple of biscuits from me. Her eyebrows shot up and she pulled a face at the veiled insult, but I knew she enjoyed the happy banter we had together.

“Now, my girl, just watch what you say or I won’t tell you why I’m here,” she replied, adding, “I wanted you to know, I’m downsizing!”

The rather blunt statement took me by surprise.

“The house I’ve got is too big for me so I’ve sold it and I’m buying an apartment conversion in Parliament Hill NW3.”

“Wow!” I sat down next to her and my jaw dropped as I pictured the large houses she referred to which were mostly converted into apartments. “In Hampstead? But that’s wonderful. You’ll be next to Hampstead Heath and a
lot
closer to here. And, you’ll be able to swim in the open air ponds.”

She looked at me as if I were mad. “Yes well apart from that rather dubious pleasure it also means that I’ve got a bit of capital at my disposal so I thought for your Christmas present I’d give you money; then you can buy a new sofa or something.” She looked down at one of the battered armrests and sniffed. “Is that alright?”

In reply, I gave her a hug, nearly spilling her coffee. “You’ve always been so good to me. I’ve drifted like this for too long. This really is the encouragement I need. I was only thinking the other day that the house is in a terrible state. It actually needs a total re-decoration. And to give me the push I need, I’ll force myself to wait for the new sofa until the work’s complete.”

“Well this might cover both, if you are careful.” She held out a cheque that she fished out of her handbag and my jaw dropped again.

“No, Aunt Jess. I can’t take that much, really.”

“Look I was going to talk to you about things, well when you were a bit older,” she said mysteriously. “But you might as well have some now on account so to speak.”

I didn’t fully understand but began to realise that she was probably talking about inheritance. Her generous gift meant that I would be able to change my living conditions much sooner than I thought possible and I hadn’t the will power to resist.

“Thank you, Jess,” I said and kissed her cheek. “This means so much to me.”

“On a completely different subject,” she said. “Now that you are living here are you, er, getting out a bit more? You know, dating?”

“If what you’re really trying to ask is how my sex life is progressing then No, I’m not. It isn’t. You see, being married I was so happy. And I can’t replicate that.” I carefully avoided speaking his name. “It’s not like I went through a divorce, is it? And anyway, the places I go to, I never meet anyone. There are just no attractive men about.”

She stared at me incredulously. “My girl, they’re everywhere. I’m constantly tripping over them. The streets are littered with them.”

“For you maybe. I don’t go to the sort of places where you can meet anyone.”

“Try your local laundrette. I even met someone in McDonalds once. Stood next to me in the queue!”

What could I say? I knew that in theory she was right. The key to changing my solitary situation was being receptive and I wasn’t. Simple as that. “More coffee,” was all that I felt able to reply.

Christmas came and went and luckily the pansies survived. When I wasn’t working, I vaguely searched for wallpaper and paint samples but it all took so long. Meanwhile, Aunt Jess’s cheque sat in the bank accruing interest. I didn’t tell my parents about it, not sure if they would approve of such largesse.

By April I was feeling a bit desperate thinking I’d never get that new furniture and I’d live in squalor forever. Then Barry arrived on the scene. Initially a flyer landed on my mat early one sunny Saturday morning. I’d always been told, never use a tradesman who has not been personally recommended, but no-one I knew seemed to have recent dealings with any decorators in my area. So what else could I do? I asked Mrs Jeffery and Mr (call me Derek) Bonneville, even the Dutch woman opposite, but without any success. So I telephoned Barry and he seemed the answer to my prayers.

For a start, although advertising regularly, he was very busy all over the district and offered several referees. I wanted the whole house painted and he recommended that in May his men should start at the top and work their way down. In celebration I ordered a new bed to be delivered when my bedroom was completed. For the first time that I could remember, since Danny’s death, I felt content. Maybe I’ve finally turned that corner, I thought hopefully.

“I’ve got a bit of a secret to tell you.” Barry lounged against one of my kitchen walls with his arms folded casually in front of him, in a proprietorial kind of way. Unusual for me, I was at home while he and his merry men were working at my house. While they worked, he hung out in the kitchen, drinking tea and chatting to me.

“I’ve got a lady friend, lives round the corner. I’d call her a girlfriend but she’s married like, so I have to be discreet. Only sometimes I pretend to be here when I’m not. Is it alright if I park the van outside sometimes, even when I’m not actually working here?”

Barry was one of those attractive men that Aunt Jess was always tripping over. I kept him mentally at arm’s length but we had become friends. Mrs Jeffery didn’t drive and said that I could use her parking space when I had visitors, so my car was usually outside her house, while the decorator’s van was parked in front of mine beside the pansy pot.

I raised my eyebrows, looked him up and down and clicked my tongue. Then I smiled. “What can I say? Just try not to get caught. I don’t want any blood on the doormat. It’s hard to remove.”

“You’re a real honey. Tell you what; I’ll give you a spare set of keys. Then if you ’ave to move the van suddenly, you can. Stick it on the main road and I’ll take my chances with the wardens. S’that okay?”

“I’m sure it will be alright, really. I’m sure I won’t ever have to do that. I know if anyone’s going to visit me and it’s usually on a Sunday when my parents come.” I pressed my hands, palms down, against the cupboard behind me and smiled.

He pursed his lips and suddenly looked serious, as if he were going to say something personal but thought better of it. “Thanks. It won’t be too often. Anyway, we’ll have finished the upstairs by the end of the week. Then on Monday we should be able to start down here.” He smoothed his paint spattered overalls in a self-satisfied, confident way.

I smiled at him again. His men seemed to work to the highest standard and my upstairs rooms now seemed brighter and considerably bigger than before they arrived. I felt so happy. They were thorough and fast, and who was I to ask if any of them were in the country illegally. I was just grateful it all seemed to be turning out so well.

He drained his mug and waved it at me. “Must get myself back to the grind, then. Thanks for the tea.”

“Could you ask the guys if anyone wants a cup of tea, or anything?”

He winked in reply and went out whistling.

I cradled my own drink and closed my eyes. As soon as they’ve finished, I thought, I’ll get some curtains made. I’ll go to that beautiful shop with the blue tiled front near Warwick Avenue tube station. I’m bound to find something lovely there. The shop was very stylish—though expensive—as you’d expect from its location. How wonderful for once not to be counting the pennies.

Since moving back to the area, I was disappointed to discover that there was virtually no-one left who I recognised from the old days. Shopkeepers, station staff, cafe owners I had known were all gone. Even Dermot had left the parish for pastures new replaced by an earnest young man called Father Noel, and I didn’t feel like discussing the consequences of mortal sin with him. I had not checked if any of my old neighbours remained in “our” building, but none of them seemed to be around anymore. I felt like a stranger although the shops themselves had not changed and were still familiar to me.

I was on my way home from work. It was a particularly bright and pleasant evening and wanting fresh celery and some apples, I left Maida Vale underground station and went into the fruit shop nearby. The shop was run by Mrs Amin who was small and plump and always laughing, assisted by her teenage son, Bobby. Bobby worked with his left ear almost permanently pressed against his mobile phone and he usually served me while conducting a staccato conversation with someone else. Overhead a frieze of blue and white bunting fluttered in the breeze from a ceiling fan permanently playing in the background.

The shop was often crowded, a testimony to the quality of the produce piled high in colourful pyramids, but I didn’t mind having to wait. It gave me the opportunity to look around at exotic objects I had not seen before. As well as fruit, the Amins sold nuts, different varieties of garlic, an array of herbs, and oddly shaped things that might have been vegetables. I wasn’t sure.

This evening the place was heaving with customers but Mrs Amin waved cheerily to me as I filled my wire basket and joined the queue of shoppers waiting to pay. Damn, I thought. I wish it wasn’t so crowded. I would love to ask Mrs Amin, what you do with those knobbly things but she’s miles too busy to chat with me. She really needs someone else in here to serve everyone.

People were trying to push past each other to reach the displays and I could hear a lot of mumbling and sighing.

“For goodness sake, can you stop poking me with that thing,” a strident female voice at the front of the queue barked.

The miscreant took a step backwards knocking into the man in front of me who in turn also stepped back. I felt a bit crushed and it was difficult to keep calm. To the rear of the shop two or three people seemed to be jostling each other over a large display of bananas. The man behind me swore quietly.

“Keep yer elbows to yerself, Sonny Jim,” he rasped at another customer.

For a second I froze. I knew that voice. I turned and smelt his rank breath, imbued with the stench of stale whisky. It was him!

Momentarily I stared at the thickset middle-aged man, whose shiny pockmarked face was a few inches away from mine.

“It’s you,” I said.

He looked alarmed. “I don’t know you.”

“But I know you. You beat up my Aidan. You broke his legs. You and your blood money killed my husband. You’re a murderer. Someone, call the police.”

“I never killed anybody. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re mad.”

I grabbed his arm and dropped my basket. “Someone call the police,” I shouted. “Please.”

Mrs Amin rushed around from her till and the man shook himself free.

“Stop,” I shouted as he started backing away. “Hold him. He attacked my friend. He killed my husband. Please help me.”

The man turned, knocking over a huge pile of oranges and ran from the shop. I tried to follow pushing past the crowd that seemed determined to get in my way. Mrs Amin followed trying to hold me back.

The man ran up the street weaving between the flurry of rush-hour pedestrians and parking meters and I ran after him shouting and waving my arms. People stared at me as if I were crazy. He zig-zagged across the road, dodging the heavy evening traffic as Mrs Amin caught up with me.

“Don’t follow,” she said. “He is an evil man. You must not get involved with him. I know. The police tell shopkeepers who are the trouble makers, who to avoid. Leave it to the police. They get paid to take these risks.”