The Last Girl (13 page)

'A wise heart knows how to
forgive ...'

'What we need
is someone strong enough for the task. So there you are, Mr Mann. Would you, Mr
Mann? Be so kind?'

She's waiting
for an answer. Which can only mean that it can't be put off any longer. It's
time to grasp the nettle. Grab the bull by the horns and give it to her
straight.

I look her in
the eye, and say: 'Oh come on, Mrs D. You can't want to throw her out just like
that. I mean, where would she go?'

A dead
silence. Ethel stares at me as if all of a sudden I've broken into purest
Turkish, then looks at Gilbert, who looks at her. Then with a dreadful effort
(unlike the last time) leans forward in his chair, and rotates a single bony
finger against his temple. And for the first time it strikes me that there's
been no mention of Mandy, or fancy men, or anything you could recognize for
that matter. The only clue is Ethel and the fact that she's forgotten to lower
her hand from where it's been pointing all this while, namely, towards the
picture hanging above the gas fire. It's a three foot by three foot expanse of
mountain scenery, complete with skyblue lake and sunset. In the present
situation all it does is add to the general confusion.

'Ah,' I say.
'You're probably talking about the picture.'

Ethel narrows
her eyes. Obviously thinks I'm trying to have a joke at her expense. All the
same, she answers me, slowly, as she would for a dying idiot at his last gasp
of understanding. 'Yes, the picture, Mr Mann. It wants cleaning. We have to get
it off the wall. Mr Duck can't do it. So we're asking you.'

What comes
next is a final desperate attempt to enter into the spirit of the thing.
'Cleaning,' I say. 'Well I don't know about that. It looks the same as it ever
did.' I should know, seeing it was me who had to lug it home for her from
Woolworths all those years ago.

'Well that's
just where you're wrong, Mr Mann. We were talking about it when Francis was
here. I said the colours weren't what they were, and he said all it needed was
a touch of white spirit. Five minutes and it would be as good as new...'

The rest of
what she said just seemed to trail off into nonsense. And it didn't matter how
hard I listened, it only got worse.

'... He said
in a few years' time, a picture like this would be a collector's item, so it
was only sensible to take care of it. Apart from which, it gave a whole new
vista to the room. Told us he could practically feel the alpine breezes in his
hair. Lovely way he had of speaking. I don't suppose Amanda's had the chance to
introduce you yet?'

She was
asking me a question, and a serious one at that, namely who'd been first in the
introduction stakes. But it was no good trying to answer her. The words
wouldn't have come. All I could do was stare blindly from one to the other,
until I finally came up with a question of my own.

'Mrs Duck.
You've got to put me straight. Are we talking about the same person here?
You've actually met, I mean, had words with this man, this so-called friend?'

Ethel
bristles ever so slightly, a sign of worse to come. 'Well of course. Amanda
brought him straight down this morning, just like she said she would. And
really, since we're on the subject, I can't see any call for rude names. And
certainly not when it's a man of his sort...'

This was too
much. 'But Mrs D. That man stayed here last night, here in this house. Are you
telling me you didn't know that?'

I was
shouting by now, a thing unheard-of in Ethel's domain. The effect on her is
frightening to behold. She has a way of literally expanding before your eyes,
like a great she-cat lifting her fur, turning itself from a fireside tabby to a
wild thing red in tooth and claw.

'Mr Mann.'
The sound of her voice is the hiss in the undergrowth, the noise that tells you
not to take one step further. 'Mr Mann, I hope you're not trying to suggest
that anything
immoral
has been going on in this house.'

If I tell you
the very room had shrunk around us it would be no lie. Even Gilbert was
disappearing into his chair. Yet I held my ground. Waited for what was coming
next.

'This is a
respectable household Mr Mann, and I'll thank you to remember that. There's
never been anything of that nature gone on under this roof, not ever. Do you
understand me. Only once have I ever had to worry about such a thing. Only
once, a long time ago. But of course, you would know all about that,
wouldn't you
?'

And suddenly
everything went quiet. Ethel, who you might have expected only now to be
getting into her stride, had stepped back and folded her arms. A moment before
she had had an entire book to throw at me, now, instead, she was satisfied just
to leave it there. All she needed to do was sit and wait for what she had said
to sink in. Gilbert too. The pair of them were looking at me with the self-same
expression on their faces. Smug, that's· the only, way to describe it. The look
of people who know  something you don't. Then all at once it clicks. Something
that happened here once, something that I should have known all about...

Out of the
blue then comes the old cold feeling, the one that used to come and go, but
mostly stayed. Doreen - did she, did she ever, here, with him? The one in
Waltham Abbey: Maybe even not just with him either. What about Gilbert? He'd
have had a lot more strength then. And I'd seen where Gilbert's interests lay.
Suddenly what I needed was to sit down.

The good Lord
only knows where all this might have led if Ethel hadn't butted in, ruining her
own triumph so to speak.  Surprisingly, it was to return to the original
subject, as if none of the past few seconds had happened. What's more there's
not even any malice left in the voice, or none so you'd notice. 'What I'm
saying, Mr Mann, is, you're not to go thinking the worst. It does you no credit
at all. But then again, if Amanda hasn't told you, then you're hardly to know.
That young man of hers couldn't be more respectable if he was the cousin of the
Queen herself. Doctor, he is. Surgeon. Like her father.'

Oh, this was
the worst trick of all. Of course he was a doctor. What else could have had
this effect on Ethel? He must have walked through the door with his
testimonials round his neck. Ethel would have been there, laying down the red
carpet.

And as for
me, it's back to the old days, of feeling like the only decent person left on
earth, the single righteous man, the only one who cares about the difference
between right and wrong. And whose fault is it? His fault, that's whose. He
turns up, and in one short night tips the whole house and everybody in it on
its head.

There was no
sense in staying, no sense in talking even. I got the picture down for them and
went back upstairs. But there was no peace that day. How could there be? With a
man like that in the house. But really, you could almost forget about him; it
always came down to Mandy. The best you could say for her was that she was
taken in, like Ethel and Gilbert. But the worst...? It's not that hard to put
into words. That she'd gone the way of all women, and Larry was right all
along.

But there's
one more thing before you think the worst, before you raise your voice to call
her rotten like the rest of them, before you go telling Ethel you don't mind
whose suitcases you help drag down into the hall and out the front door.

Which is why
I'm lying here in my bed, doing what I should have kept myself  awake to do
last night. Listening.

Remember what
I said about June's bed? The one you only have to touch to have creaking and
groaning like a train grinding to a halt? Some nights I've lain up here
counting the times Mandy turns over. If she turns over tonight, if anyone turns
over tonight, I'll hear it. It's as simple as that.

They came in
about an hour and a half ago, just as I was climbing between the sheets. They
made a lot less noise than when they went out, but I could hear them all right,
strolling back and forth on the landing like it was the middle of the day,
before, almost the last thing of all, one long whispered conversation outside
the lounge. But it's quiet now. A couple of doors closed for the last time,
getting on for an hour ago, and after that, nothing. Not even a squeak. The
only sound is of the lorries rumbling away  in the distance, ironing out the
litter that drifts across the Holloway Road, heading north.

Half-past two
- that's what it says on my clock (digital, like the one I bought for her, only
the numbers on mine are green and instead of standing still, turn somersaults
all the night long). And it only goes to show. It doesn't matter what others
would have you believe, you really should always think the best of people.

Waking up this morning, it's as if nothing has changed. The
same din as yesterday, with the conversation at full volume, and doors banging
loud enough to wake the dead. Yet instead of jumping out of bed and fretting, I
just lay there and let them get on with it. Hardly surprising seeing as it must
have been well after four when I finally did drop off. Shocking, but there you
are: some things are worth staying awake for.

So that was
one reason for feeling better this morning, but there was another to go with
it. Today was Sunday, and Prince Charming had to go home to his wife. And his
children. That's what I decided last night, with all those hours to think about
it. There are bound to be children, after all. We're talking about a man of
over forty, and just in terms of statistics, there are bound to be kids.
Pretending otherwise isn't going to make things any easier for Mandy.

Two children
then. Boys. Ten and Twelve. Poor kids.

I've decided
Mandy doesn't know about any of them, not the wife or the children. You've only
got to think about it calmly for a minute. There's no way a girl of her calibre
would be going about with a man she knew was married - even if she is
completely different when he's around. The tragic thing is, it won't always be
like that. One day she's going to have to find out, and that will be the day we
see a sadder and wiser Mandy.

In the
meantime though, lying there in bed, with all the clatter going  on, it seemed
that the best way of getting through the rest of the day was by seeing as
little of the two as possible. Him especially. No point in letting them get
under my feet.

Then again,
it was just as well that things went wrong. Otherwise I would have missed the
one bright spot of the weekend.

Hearing the
front door slam, I naturally thought they'd gone out, and that was my chance to
creep downstairs so as to get a breath of fresh air and the newspaper. I was
only halfway down the hall however when suddenly the front door bursts open,
and it's him, breezing in with what looks like a ton of newspapers under his
arm. Apparently some folk can't make do with just the one copy of the Sunday
Express. They have to go and buy the whole shop.

The thing is,
then he tries to carry on breezing, right on past me without so much as a good
morning. Now call me old-fashioned, but that is not the sort of behaviour you
expect in your own house. What you would term insult added to injury. Then
outside, in the street, I had a thought. What if Mandy had been telling him
about the two of us and what we get up to when we're by ourselves? It would be
all Larry this and Larry that till he was sick of hearing it. Which means you
could see now why he would do all he could to put me down, in other words,
ignore me the way he just did. The man was eaten up with jealousy.

So there you
are. If I hadn't met him, how else would I have known that- or been able to picture
his face as Mandy chatters nineteen to the dozen about none other than her old
Larry?

Which brings
me to the best part of all- namely this evening. Half an hour ago I heard Mandy
come in, and this time she was by herself. I don't think she can have raised so
much as a particle of dust on that landing, she was so quiet. And that's how I
knew his-nibs had gone home, leaving the real Mandy behind him.

Already
there's a different atmosphere in the house. Well nearly. It's not what you'd
call perfect silence, not with all the racket coming up from a certain room
that just happens to be situated below mine. It's Mandy of course. The silly
girl is down there sobbing her heart out. Apparently it hasn't occurred to some
folk that there are people trying to get some sleep in this house, people who
might even be tempted to pop downstairs and point out that a little
consideration in this area might not go amiss, but Larry's not like that. The
way I see it, girls will be girls, and there's no call to gripe just because
they like to act daft every now and then.

I don't know how long I can keep this up though,
making excuses for her. Listen to this - it's been three days now - that's
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and has there been any sign of Madam? Has there
ever. Yet she's been home - I've heard her, creeping around like she always
does. Quite active really, so she can't even give the excuse that she's ill.

You know
what's happening of course. It's him up there, His Lordship. He's got to keep
her away from her old Larry or she'd start enjoying herself again and forget
all about
him
.
You can just imagine him, trying to think of all kinds of ways to keep us
apart. The worst you could say for her is that she's just doing what she's
told.

But it's not
good enough. Simple decency should be reminding her of who her real friends
are. And they could be lying up here dead for all she knows.

Added to
which, I can't stand waste. I've still got half the stuff I bought when I
thought - thanks to her fibs - we were expecting another girl. I can't keep it
all for very much longer. As it is, she's missed her chance of a Viennese
whirl. I polished those off last night. And was I sorry? Not a bit of it.

Put simply,
the worm's finally beginning to turn. A man can only take so much. Then it's
time to start thinking about dealing out a drop of the same medicine. If she
wants to turn the cold shoulder on old Larry, then he can do likewise, and
every bit as well as she can. Granted, reserve isn't in my nature, and it's not
how you'd want to behave to a friend in the normal way, but there, sometimes it
takes a friend to point out the error of your ways.

Starting from
tomorrow, Mandy's going to see another side of Larry, one I daresay she never
dreamed existed. No more smiles, no more asking her how her day has been, no
more offers of sherry. She'll hardly know what's hit her. I'll be polite, but
distant. And dignified. I'll keep it up for days if I have to, until finally,
when she can't stand it any more, she'll turn on me and beg to know what it's
all about. And that's when I'll tell her. The whole story. There'll be no
mincing of words, just the plain truth - pure and simple.

I reckon
we'll need a few handkerchiefs around here then - a box of them probably.
Rainbow colours. Because there's no getting away from it. Sometimes the truth
hurts.

Now do you want to hear what actually happened?

In the first
place, I had the best night's  sleep I'd known in days. Then I spent the entire
morning working out how I was going to say this to her, and then how I was
going to say that, until by lunch time she was standing right there beside. me,
tears starting out of her eyes, her little voice breaking as the words come
out:
'Larry please
oh please oh please Forgive me I have done such Wrong'
and so on. It was
after lunch though, that we came to the nub of the matter - about what to think
of a young person carrying on with a man who was twice her age, and Didn't She
Know He Was Married? I was in the butcher's by then, treating myself to a bit
of steak and it's there, as I'm tucking the meat into the side of my carrier, I
had second thoughts, told myself that maybe I'd do better to strike out that
last question.

The problem
was this: I could picture her apologizing for everything else, for all the
noise and commotion, all the fibs and general lack of consideration, even for
not bothering to come and say hello to her old pal, but try as hard as I might,
I couldn't imagine what she'd say to that last thing, about his being married.
Doreen now - she would have been easy. She'd have just laughed, which shows the
sort of woman she was, a perfect example of the breed. But Mandy? The shock
might well kill her.

Better to
stick to the essentials then, carry on with giving her a bit of the old harsh
medicine - and when it was all over, switch right back to the Larry she knows
and loves and not one ounce of hard feeling between us.

So there you
have it - nicely worked out to a tee.

Switch to
this evening then. What happens is, I'm standing in my kitchen, by the stove.
The steak is sizzling away beautifully in the pan, the chips have turned the
right colour and all I'm waiting for now is the peas. Then from downstairs
comes this little knock on the wall.

It's a
miracle I even heard it actually, I was that busy. Besides which, I simply
hadn't been expecting her, not after the record of the last few days - which
was partly why I was treating myself to a slap-up meal in the first place, a
sort of consolation. The result is, hearing her now, not knowing she was
coming, gave me a real shock, which goes a long way to explain what happened
next. Without even stopping to think what I was doing, or why, I simply grabbed
every blessed thing off the stove and threw it into the oven, out of sight. I
was still turning off the knobs when she appeared in the kitchen door, with
that sweet old Mandy-smile I hadn't seen in days.

And me - what
did I do? Nod and carry on as if she wasn't there? Offer a curt good evening
and then start to let her have it - all the stuff I'd been rehearsing from the
moment I woke up (barring the bit about married men), or in short order, simply
tell her to get lost? Did I do any of these things?

'Hello
stranger,' is what I said. 'Fancy a cup of tea?'

Two reasons:
the first being that all it took was the sight of her, out of the blue like
that, to make me forget everything I'd wanted to say; and second - she was
standing there holding up a great big white cake, all icing and cherries round
the top as if she'd copied it from a picture in a kiddies' comic. And no prizes
for guessing who it was for.

It's not
often that Larry's at a loss, but I'll own up. I was completely knocked out.
'Aye aye Mandy love,' was all I could manage, followed by, 'and what have we
got here then?'

For an answer
she just looks at me, only it's in such a way I would never be able to put into
words. Suffice to say it was between her and me only, and it was a look that
said more than a hundred folk all speaking at once could ever say. It was a
look that said, 'I'm sorry.'

After that,
her actual words, when they eventually came, seemed unimportant. 'It's a cake,
Larry,' she says in that soft little voice. 'I made it for you.' I suppose I
nodded, but to tell the truth I was barely listening. It was more the tone of
what she said that captured the attention - contrite and sad. She should have
left it there, really, with that impression fresh in my mind, instead of
adding, 'I just thought, seeing everything you've done for me since I came
here, that it was time I paid you back.'

'With a
cake,' I said. 'How very nice of you, love.' At the same time, though, already
beginning to run through my mind was a whole list of other things offered in
the other direction. Like fruit, cigarettes, cold platters, a clock radio. Now
we have one cake...

But there you
are, as I always say, it is the thought that counts, and what was more, there
must have been a fair bit of work gone into that cake. If she hadn't cheated
and used a packet mix. For the moment, I didn't say anything derogatory.
Besides, I reckoned I knew what was coming, and sure enough, as if to prove me
right, she hurries over to me and plonks the cake down on the side - exactly
where I would have been doling out the steak and chips if she hadn't turned up
at just that minute - and says, 'Well, I'd better go, Larry.' And starts
heading back for the stairs. But I was ready for her. One little hand on her
arm was all it took to stop her.

'Now just you
hold your horses,' I said. 'You're surely not leaving already. What about this
cake? I can't go and eat it all by myself.'

'But Larry,'
says she. 'I can't stay. You were all set to have your supper.' With that she
waves a hand in the air where the smell of sizzling meat and chips is so thick
you'd need a knife to cut it.

And that's
when there washes over me the queerest feeling I can ever remember. If I had to
put a name to it, I'd call it Joy. Pure Joy. 'Mandy love,' I said slowly,
savouring every word. 'Look around you. Can you see any sign of supper here?'

She looks at
me, and then all around, looks everywhere, and what do you know, there's
nothing there. Just bare kitchen, and not so much as a frozen pea.

And that
feeling of mine? I'll tell you where it came from. It came from knowing as I
never had before that there wasn't a soul in the world who knew my Mandy like I
did, not even Mandy herself. It wasn't shock that had made me shove my supper
out of sight, it was me, thinking ahead for us both. The naughty girl had hung
on until supper time, waited till she could practically taste my supper in the
air, and then come up. That way she'd thought she could dump the cake and run.
But there was me, reading her mind, and not even realizing I was doing it,
getting rid of the evidence, and with it, her excuse.

The joy comes
from feeling so close to her, feeling I've climbed inside her very skin.

So what can
she do but lead on when I give her a little push towards the lounge, with me
behind, knives and tea plates at the ready?

The cake was
all right - a bit sweet for my taste, and what's more, I told her so - not in
the spirit of criticism, but so she would know for the future. She tried to
explain it away by saying she had had to measure it all out in tablespoons
because there were no scales downstairs, to which I replied she could come and
use mine any day of the week, I'd be glad of the company.

In any case,
I left a good half of it on the side of my plate, said I was sorry, but I
hadn't had much appetite these last few days. That was an obvious cue for her
to ask me why, but she  didn't, she went straight on talking about all the work
she had piled up to do for college, and I took that as a clear sign of a guilty
conscience.