The Last Girl
Authors: Penelope evans
They've
found a
new
girl
for
the
second
floor.
All I can
say
is
-
what
took
them
so
long?
I mean, two
weeks
since
the
last
one
left;
Ethel has
never
gone that
long
without
taking
rent
in
her
entire
life.
You've got
to
look
at
it
this
w
a
y - she
is
a
professional, a
land-lady
in
the
same
way
that
some
women
are
matrons
or prison
officers,
right
down
to
the
uniform,
which
in her case
is
the
statutory
flowered
pinny
the
sort
your granny
used
to
wear.
Your
money
goes
into
the
pocket in
the
bib,
along
with
all
the
peppermints
and
shopping
lists
,
so
that
you
tell
yourself
she's
bound
to
lose
it one
of
these
day
s
.
Which
only
shows
how
much
you know.
That
pocket
runs
straight
down
into
the
lining
and
the
money
you've
just
handed
over
has
as
much
chance
of
being
lost
as
the
pattern
coming
off
your plat
e
.
Anyway,
back
to
the
new
gir
l.
I
heard
them
moving about downstairs,
her
and
Ethel,
and reckoned
it was about
time
to
put
in
an
appearance
and,
more
to
the
point,
see
what
was
new.
Not
that I was
expecting anything
different.
Always
the
same
these
girls
are.
You'd
think
Ethel
had a
mould
turning
them
out.
But there,
you
live
in
hope.
It's twelve
steps to the middle landing, not counting the turn in between, but I haven't
come down more than two of them before Ethel, sharp as ever, pipes up with:
'Ah, here's the gentleman I've been telling you about.' Followed by: 'Come on
down, Mr Mann, so we can see who we're talking to.'
Two
things
to
notice
straightaway:
first,
'Mr
Mann' she
calls
me.
Not
Larry,
or
Lawrence
even,
but
Mr Mann.
Forty-three
years
we've
known
each
other
and we're
still
not
on
first-name
terms.
The same
goes for
Gilbert,
or
the
Living
Skeleton
as
we
used
to
call him,
eighty
if
he's
a
day,
and
nailed
to
his
chair
by
the
gas
fire
these
last
ten
years.
I
doubt
if
he
even
makes
it to
the
toilet
by
himself any
more.
Anyhow,
that's
as
maybe.
Ethel
and
Gilbert
they
are
to
me,
and
always
have
been,
even
if
it's
never
to
their
faces.
They
may own
this
house,
but
we
were
here
long
before
them, Doreen
and
me,
the
only
reason
they
could
afford
to buy
the
place
at
all.
Naturally
she
did
everything
she could
to
get
rid
of
us
-
especially
after
June
came
along
-
but
she
never
did succeed, and
here
we all
stayed. Now
there's just
me,
all
on
my
ownsome
up
here,
a sitting
tenant,
and
there's
not
a
thing
she
can
do
about it.
Second
thing
to
notice:
seeing
that
that's
the
case, Ethel
is
driven
to
getting
her
own
back
in
all
sorts
of other,
nasty
little
ways.
Like
now,
when
it's
plain
as
a
pikestaff
that
I was
coming
down
anyway,
she
deliberately
calls
up
for
me
to
do
it
all
the
same.
What
she
wants
is
to
make
it
look
that
she
only
has
to
say
the word,
and
I'll
jump
to
it
like
I was
born
to obey.
Small
things,
but
the
sort
another
man
might
allow
to
get
to
him.
Me,
I
don't
even
notice
them.
Meanwhile,
Ethel
is
repeating
word
for
word
what
she
told
the
last
girl
and
the
girl
before
that.
'Now,
you and
Mr
Mann
will
be
sharing
the
little-girls'
room
and
the
bathroom,
but
I
don't
think
you'll
find
that
a problem.
Mr
Mann
is
a
gentleman of
very
regular habits.
Is
that
not
right
Mr
Mann?'
'Right
as
rain,
Mrs
Duck.'
Mutt
and
Jeff
they
should
call
us
really.
What
she's saying is, in
a
house
where
the
habits
are
regular, there's
no
reason
why
the
paths
of
anyone
should
ever meet
-
except on
rent day
when
we
all
beat
the
same
path
to
Ethel's
kitchen
door.
So
there's
nothing
new
in what
Ethel
is
saying.
However,
something
is
afoot. Hard
to
say
what
exactly,
only
that
for
some
reason
the woman
is
looking
as
pleased
as
Punch
about
something,
and
take
it
from
one
who
knows,
that
is
quite
definitely
not
like
her.
Mind
you,
it could
always
be
a trick
of
the
light -
what
there
is
of
it.
We're
all
standing
here
in
the
gloom-
me,
Ethel
and
the,
so
far,
invisible new
girl,
with
only
a
forty-watt
bulb
to
throw
any
light on
the
subject.
Suddenly
Ethel
Duck
herself
drops
a
clue.
'Why don't
you
come
a
bit
closer,
Mr
Mann?
You
can't
expect
Miss
Tyson
to
see
anything
of
you
over
there.'
It's
there,
in
that
'Miss
Tyson'.
Two
words to
make me prick
up
my
ears
and
wonder
what
on
earth
has
got into
Ethel.
'Miss
Tyson'
is
what
she
said,
not
Miss
Gupta
or
Miss
Patel,
or
whatever.
It's been
five
years since
Ethel
discovered
that
Indian
girls
make
the
best
tenants,
being
quieter,
more
respectful,
and
generally
easier
to
boss
around.
So
it's
been
one
Indian
after
another
ever
since.
Don't
ask
me
how
she
finds them. The name
of Duck
must
be
famous
in
New
Delhi
or wherever
it
is
they
all
come
from.
Except
that
the supply
must
have
dried
up
suddenly
because
after the
last
one
left,
nothing.
Two
weeks
with
an
empty floor,
and
now
this
-
a
girl
with
a
name
you
can actually pronounce.
Naturally,
Ethel
knows
when
she's
sparked
my interest,
which
is
why
the
moment
she
tells
me
to
come a
little
closer,
she
manoeuvres
herself
right
into
the middle
of
the
landing
to
make
sure
that
without
a periscope
being
handy,
Miss
Tyson stays
as
invisible as
ever.
Still,
Ethel
remains
a
talking-point
just
in herself.
The
thing
you
can't
help
but
notice each
time she's
opened
her
mouth
is
that
she's
using
the
voice
normally
kept
in
reserve
for
the
doctor,
or
taxmen knocking
on
the
door
wanting
to
know
what
she
does with
all
that
rent
money.
'You'll
find
Mr
Mann
a
very
handy
gentleman to have
around.
He'll
do
anything
if
you
ask
him
nicely. Isn't
that
right,
Mr
Mann?'
I
can't
answer.
I'm
too
busy
marvelling.
There's enough
cut
glass
here
to
decant
a
sherry
keg.
Not
even
the
Queen
could
talk like
that
and
breathe
at
the
same time.
The
other
girls
have
always
found
him
wonderfully
obliging.
You
see,
dear,
he's
one
of
those
lucky
folk
who,
unlike many of us,
has
got
a
world
of
time
on his
hands.'
And
with
that
she
lets
out
a
sigh,
the
sort
that
goes
on to
speak
volumes
and
is supposed
to
remind
you
that
she
for one
hasn't
had
a
moment
to
herself
for
the
last ten
years,
what
with
Gilbert
needing
his
special
feeds, medication
round
the
clock,
not
to
mention
visits
to the toilet,
all to
keep
the
old
bugger
alive
against
the
odds.
Doubtless
Miss
Tyson
will
have
got
to
know
of
this
within
two
minutes
of
walking
through
the
door.
Yet even
Ethel
couldn't
have
expected
what happened
next. The answer she gets
comes,
not from me,
but
from
the
other
side
of
her,
where
it's
still
dark, and
there's
only
Ethel's
word
that
there's
anyone
there at
all.
From
out
of
the
gloom,
there
comes
a
noise
to take
us
both
by
storm.
In
actual
fact,
it's absolutely
tiny -
more
a
suggestion
than
real,
less
than
a
squeak,
but more
than
a
sigh.
Yet
the
effect
is
deafening.
Because
it was
the
sound
of
someone
being
sympathetic.
Here,
in this
house.
And even
Ethel is silenced by it. Ten whole seconds must
have
passed
before
finally
she
picks
up
again
and says,
doubtless
to
give
herself
more
time,
'Well
really, Mr
Mann.
Are
you
going
to
stand
there
all
day
and
never
say
a
word
to
anyone?
Miss
Tyson
is
going
to wonder
what
sort
of
unfriendly
house
she's
come
to.'
And,
at long last,
she
steps
aside.
A
girl
is
standing
there,
small,
barely
high
enough
to reach
my
shoulder,
and
I'm
hardly
what
you
could describe
a
s
over-tall.
Victorian
shoulders,
by
which
I suppose you
could mean
drooping,
underneath
her
mac, and above,
dark
hair,
lots
of
it,
dead
straight
falling
right across her
face.
The
temptation
is to
call
it
untidy
-
I mean
you
would
i
n
anyone
else -
but
for
the
moment
it makes you
think
of
a
curtain
you
want
to
lift
aside, politely,
so
as
to
discover
what's
going
on
behind.
And,
more
importantly,
find
out
just
what
sort
of person
it
was
who
made
that
surprising,
s
ympathetic noise
half
a
minute
a
go.
Only
you
can't go
pulling
the hair
of
perfect
strangers,
so
for
a
few
seconds
all I
can do
is
stare,
until
suddenly,
as
if
to
oblige
me specially, she
lifts
up
a
hand
and
pushes
it
aside.
And
that's when I see her
face.
And for a
moment, I'm
almost
disappointed
. I
mean, it's
a
very
pleasant face.
It's
just
not what
you
could ever
term
pretty.
Although I will
say
that it
only
wants
a
few
rollers
and
maybe
a
touch
of
colour
and
she
wouldn't
look
any
worse than
some
of
the
other
women
you
see
on
the
street. And
her
eyes
are
nice big
and
brown,
looking
straight
at you
with
a
really lovely
expression
i
n
them.
The
sort
you'd
expect in someone
who
could
make
that
sort
of
noise.
It's
just that
she's
so
pale;
you
can't
help
but
notice
it;
even
in this
light,
and way
too thin,
like she
wants
feeding
up. All
i
n
al
l
then,
absolutely
nothing
special
looks-wise.
Only
who's
interested
in
looks?
People
used
to
tell
me
Doreen
was attractive,
and
see
where
that
got
me. And
what's
wrong with
Pale
i
f
it
comes
to
that?
Pale can
suit
some
people;
Pale even
stands
out
better
on dark
landings
when
normal
colour
simply
leaches
into th
e
background
There's
nothing
wrong
with
Pale.