The Last Girl (10 page)

And that, if
I say so myself, was what you could call a reasonable question. Because if she
answers that one, what can she do but go ahead with a little list of everything
that's been done for her since the very first day she arrived? As for ordinary
- well of course it's not ordinary. But imagine, trying to accuse a person of
kindness! You'd sound as if you really had gone mad or bad. Of course there
are plenty of folk who can throw any number of good deeds back in your face and
laugh while they're doing it - I was married to one - but not Mandy. Not my
Mandy.

And sure
enough, she stops right there, eyes wide like the proverbial deer. And while
she flounders, trying to think of something to say, I watch and wait, patient
as the day, for the answer to that one simple little question. Inside though,
deep down where no-one else could hear, my heart was beginning to sing. Already
I was making a mental journey to the cocktail cabinet, bringing out the sherry,
settling down to a long lovely evening up ahead. You see, already there was a
look in her eye that belonged to the old Mandy.

Then
suddenly, she turned and ran out of the door.

Just like
that.

For a second,
it was as if I'd been turned to stone. All I could do was stare at the spot
where she had been standing, too shocked even to think straight. It was the
unexpectedness of it: one moment she had been there, on the very edge of
turning back into her old self again, ready to thank me for her lovely present
after all, and the next, she was gone. End of conversation.

Only it
wasn't just a conversation that was ended. As the seconds passed I could see it
all more and more clearly. Every friendship has its ups and downs, and they
hardly mean a thing. You make up and it's all forgotten the next minute. But
this friendship hadn't even got started, not properly. The fact was, we didn't
know each other well enough to quarrel, not yet. A quarrel now would mean the
end, full stop. No more Mandy, no more rosy evenings.

Yet we were
meant to be friends, Mandy and me. We had too much in common not to be.   

And that is
when I really started to panic. And could you blame me? You can't plan for the
unexpected, for sudden explosions that send all your hopes and expectations sky
high. The only thing I knew for sure was, it was slipping away from me, all
that future, all that friendship, going to pot.

Unless I did
something to stop it.

And the truth
is, even while all this was going on, and everything was chaos and confusion, I
still managed to listen out, straining for the slightest sound that would tell
me in which room she had ended up. At the back of my mind, something was
telling me everything depended on that. If she was in her bedroom, then that
was it. I couldn't follow her in there. But if she was somewhere, anywhere
else, then I still had a chance.

A chair
scraped along the linoleum. She was in the kitchen. That was all I needed. I
snatched the clock radio from off the table and fairly threw myself downstairs.

Outside her
kitchen door, I stopped, took a deep breath, and knocked, very gently. When
there was no answer I knocked again. And when there was still no answer I
opened the door anyway.  She was standing beside the window facing me, as far
away from the door as she possibly could be, and - silly girl - she was crying.
I stayed where I was in the doorway but held the radio out towards her.

'I wasn't
sure if you'd heard me knock, love,' I said. Then, quietly, 'I don't know why
you had to get all upset there, I really don't. All I've ever wanted is for you
to be happy here. In which case, what's wrong with old Larry trying to give you
the odd present now and then? He's just trying to cheer you up. After all,
that's only what friends are for.' And I looked at her, and this time I really
let my feelings show - all the hurt, and the disappointment and the upset. I
didn't try to hide a thing.

The next few
seconds are almost more than I can bear, then suddenly it's all over. Mandy
sighs - such a big sigh you'd swear that all the air was going out of her. To
my way of thinking, it was as if she was breathing out those bad thoughts and
feelings that had forced her to act the way she did. Then she raised her hand,
just a little bit, before she let it fall, as if it was too heavy for her.

It was all
the answer I needed, though. I walked in, put the radio on the kitchen table,
and walked out again. All on tiptoe. Shut the door behind me. I think I'll
leave her for a while, just to get on with things. I do believe the poor girl
may be having one of her blips, so-called.  The bright side is, she's got the
radio now. And try telling me that won't cheer her up.

I'll tell you in one word what it's been like since then.
Lovely. And I mean it. Mandy and me, we've been getting on beautifully.

She comes up
just about every night now.  Got her own little routine and everything. First
she has her supper, after which she does some work on those books of hers, and
then, at last, it's up to see her old Larry - who will have been sitting
counting the minutes. In fact, if Larry had any say in the matter, she'd be
walking in the front door and straight up here. It's all waiting for her -
light, heat, a proper TV, everything. She could have her bit of supper with me,
and then do her homework in the corner under the light. Try suggesting that to
her, though, and she'll start to get bashful, coming up with all sorts of
excuses. Still a touch flighty is our Mandy.

I won't hear
a word against her though. It's just that it upsets me some nights when it's
arctic cold outside and I know she's down there, huddled up next to a gas fire
that's barely on, due to her economizing. Those are the times when she should
be up here with Larry, snug as a bug. And it would save her having to wear
those big ugly jumpers of hers.

But there you
are. That's girls for you, isn't it. It's bound to come out even in the best of
them now and then. Most nights, though, she's a perfect dream. She'll come here,
and before she does anything else she'll make for Joey's cage. It just so
happens that the very first time he sang was when she was there goggling at him
through the bars, and now she thinks she should take all the credit. So the
first few minutes are about the two of them chattering away to each other as if
they could understand every word. Like a big kid she is really. In the end, I
have to be firm and throw the cover over the cage otherwise they would be there
all night, leaving a certain other party unable to get a word in edgeways.

But it's when
she comes and sits down, next to me at the other end of the settee, that the
evening really begins. I wish someone could see us then, with the gas fire
flickering, and the TV on, high or low depending on what's showing. It would be
a picture, I reckon, the sort a man like Harry could only dream about. Then
we'll stop here and chat for ages, forget all about the time.

I say 'we',
but of course it's me really, doing all the talking. She doesn't say much as a rule.
You have to understand that that is her choice, though. She knows she'd only
have to open her mouth and Larry would be all ears. But that's not her way. You
see, my Mandy is that rare creature - a woman who wasn't simply put on this
earth to talk. I don't mean I'm the sort who always wants to hold the floor.
There are a fair old number of things I'd like to ask her myself - like what
she was doing in Edinburgh, what she gets up to when she's at home with her mum
and dad, who was that person on the phone - just the normal polite
run-of-the-mill type of questions. And I keep on meaning to ask them, honestly,
but it's the time - always against you. I'll look at the clock on the
mantelpiece, and blow me if another hour hasn't passed and already she's getting
up to go.

But you know
what? I reckon the real reason she doesn't say much isn't because of me or the
time. I reckon it's all to do with the type of girl she is. Never the sort to
keep bringing the conversation round to herself. And quite right too. I mean,
what would she have to talk about? She's got to be twenty-two, twenty three at
most. She's a blank page, one of Nature's innocents. And that's what makes her
so different.

What's harder
to put into words though, is the
way
that she listens. Women like Ethel and Doreen, they'll only stop quiet long
enough to give a man time to make a fool of himself. Their brand of silence is
the sort you learn to watch out for. And then you have Mandy, and the way she
has of never saying a word. How can I describe it? It's like an invitation,
drawing you out, making you say things wild horses wouldn't drag from you
normally. And the result? I've been telling that girl things I've never put
into words before.

For the first
time in twelve long years, Larry is giving his side of the story. It's his turn
now and he's hardly begun. And I don't mince my words, oh no. When it's a woman
like Doreen you're talking about, there's no sense in coming on all forgiving.
If the thought of her is alone enough to make your blood boil, then why hide
it? Mandy, bless her, she just listens. The only sound you'll hear from her is
that first one, that little squeak cum sigh that's like ointment on the ears.

Except that
one time. Our one and only misunderstanding.

I suppose I'm
talking about two nights ago. We were sitting up here, chatting away as usual,
but this time things are even more conducive because earlier on I'd actually
made a tape of me playing the organ, so - voila! as they say on the Continent -
I was able to talk and give us something to enjoy at the same time.

There was
only one tiny fly in the ointment. The old kid clearly wasn't herself. I'd have
said she was quiet, except 'quiet' would hardly be the right word, given that
she's always that. But it was there all right. Something to do with the way she
was sitting, maybe. Sort of fidgety, not at all restful. What's more it was
distracting, trying to go on chatting while someone acts like they can't keep
still long enough to hear what you've got to say. In the end, I just thought
she must be sickening for something - a cold most probably, which would hardly
be surprising when you think of all the times I've warned her about not coming
upstairs to the warm like she should. What she needed was something to take the
edge off it before it got started. And there it was, right on the tip of my
tongue -
care for a
whisky, Mandy love?
All I had to do was get to the end of what I was
saying first. Only I never had the chance, did I, because for once, the
unexpected happened. Mandy goes and interrupts.

Now, before
you say anything, I am well aware that interrupting someone in mid-flow is not
a criminal offence - at least, not in my book. But it wasn't the fact that she
interrupted that shook me; it was what she said. Listen to this:

'Larry?' she
says. 'Why do you have to keep calling her that?'

'Calling who,
what?' I replied. You see, I hadn't quite got her drift, not yet.

'Doreen,'
comes the answer, cool as a cucumber. 'You've already told me it's been twelve
years since she left. Yet all the time you're talking about her, it's always
"my wife" this and "my wife" that. I mean, you're probably
divorced or something by now, so why not just call her by her name? It might be
easier like that. You know, a way of ...letting go of some of that anger. You
might be happier then.'

I leave you
to imagine the effect. For a few seconds all I could do was stare at her.
That's how shocked I was. What did she think I'd been telling her about all
this time, I want to know. Someone stepping on my toes in the bus queue? I'm
talking about a way of life. Of slights and torments and someone queening it
over you for thirty-five years. Not to mention the ultimate betrayal. You don't
'let go' of something like that as if it was just a snapshot of somewhere you
didn't much like. And I was about to say so, in no uncertain terms. Only then
in a cold flash it hits me: Mandy and me, we haven't even been speaking the
same language.

I must have
got to my feet, then, all set to show her the door, and maybe a side of Larry
she'd never seen before. That would have given her something to think about.
Then I saw it, the look on her face. By which I mean a look that was nothing
but pure Mandy.  She didn't have to say a thing. Biting her lip she was, and no
doubt wishing it was her tongue. In short, the girl did understand and was
sorry, really sorry.

All right,
I'll own up, I was soft. I didn't throw her out. I sat down, gave it a few
seconds, then carried on just as if nothing had happened.  And that helped,
because if it's Doreen you're in the middle of discussing, anyone else is going
to shine by comparison, even Mandy. And what I want you to remember is this:
she's only a kid, and what's more important, a kid with a heart in the right
place - most of the time. The fact is, we all make mistakes, even the best of
us. What's needed is a bit of tolerance and understanding.  In other words -
forgive and forget.

And I'll say
this for her, she's been as good as gold ever since.

So no
complaints then. Just a few suggestions as to how she could be even better. The
first being that she could surely spend less time shut away in that college of
hers. She talks about having to go in for lectures, but that doesn't mean she
has to be there all day. In fact, there's nothing to stop her being home by
lunch time, back here, where she belongs. According to Madam, though, she needs
the rest of the time to prepare - in other words, to do her homework. But this
is what I'd like to know: what is the point of homework if you don't do it at
home? If you asked me, she'd get more done here, in her own environment, than
staying there with all the riff-raff that hang around the place to distract
her.

But what
really bothers me is the way she's still coming in at all hours.

I've tried to
tell her how I feel. She knows I sit here worrying when it's way after nine and
still she hasn't showed up. But I've yet to see it make a difference. It's the
little kid in her of course - too young to understand what there is to worry
about. I could talk till I was blue in the face about the dangers out there,
but you can see the way her mind works, whispering it will never happen to her.

I tell you
what, though, one of these days I'm going to have a good hunt through my
drawers. I'm sure I've still got some old cuttings from the time. Both times.
You never know, reading about it for herself, hearing about all the hoo-ha it
caused, what with Ethel going on about how no-one was safe in their beds - as
if it had actually happened inside this very house - it might just bring it
home to her.

Then again,
there's usually a bright side to everything. The fact is, if she was here more,
I wouldn't get half as much done. This is the bit about the last two weeks I've
kept till last, the bit I'm most proud of. I mean the work I do for her, for Mandy.

Not that the
girl has any idea. It's the sort of work they used to talk about all those
years ago in Sunday school, the left hand not knowing what the right was doing.
In other words, she doesn't know a thing about it. There's no other way it
could be, bearing in mind that my Mandy must be the only girl in the world you
can actually embarrass with kindness. So I do what I do, and spare her the
rest.

First job of
the day then: to keep a good ear out for the front door in the morning,
followed by the sound of Ethel on her rounds. After that it's my turn. I start
off in the kitchen. To my mind it's always the kitchen that's the problem. If
Ethel's been moving it all around, there's hardly any way of knowing how to put
it back. But that's only one of my jobs. The rest has nothing to do with Ethel.
It's a case of checking the plugs and making sure nothing's been left switched
on. The last thing she'd want is to cause a fire. We'd all be burned to a
crisp  and she would have to live with that for the rest of her life. Then
there's the pilot light above the sink to see to and after that a quick peek at
the contents of her fridge. If she's low on anything like milk, or marge, it's
a warning to me to get something extra for upstairs, just in case ...

After that it's
on into the lounge for more plug checks and what you could call the real
fine-tuning, the bits and pieces that Mandy herself would never think or know
about - because she doesn't have to. But one of these days she should ask
herself why it is she never needs to go looking for a biro or a hanky or that
bit of loose change like most of us have to. The reason of course is Larry,
down on his hands and knees often enough, fishing them out from between
cushions and under chairs where they would be lost for ever otherwise. Little
things in themselves, but it all adds up. She'd soon notice if I stopped.

And that just
leaves the bedroom.

I come to
that last. You'd hardly credit it now when you think of the shock of the first
time, but it's my favourite room. I've even got used to the junk she has
hanging up - well, nearly. And there's no nonsense now about being shy of going
in there. I walk in and out as natural as the day. Because I know exactly what
she'd say.
Thank you
Larry, thank you so much.

Not that
there's ever anything to do when I get there. Apart from the awful jumble on
her dressing table, you can't fault her. The bed is always made, shoes tidy,
drawers closed - in other words, ten out of ten. I come away saying to myself,
'Well done, Mandy girl. Keep up the good work.'

But I'll
never stop going in there. Because one of these mornings, she's going to be so
dozy or in such a hurry she'll forget to make that bed. Or else leave a
hairdrier switched on, or the electric blanket - if she had one - something,
anything that would be guaranteed to have Ethel down on her like a ton of
bricks. And that's when Larry will come into his own, putting it all right
before anyone knew it was wrong, saving the day. In the meantime, I'll stay
with it, keeping up the good work, and let that thought be its own reward.

The best
times though are when I accidentally on purpose meet up with Ethel, there on
the middle landing. I'll tell her I've come to check a plug or mend a fuse, and
there's not a word she can say. She can try to carry on with what she's doing,
pretending that she's the queen of all she surveys, but it's never going to
work. Not when Larry's there, a living reminder that these rooms belong to
someone else, bought and paid for.