The Last Girl (19 page)

For the past
five minutes though, I've been sitting here thinking I really should apologize
to her. All this time, theres been me thinking it was her fault her parents
weren't talking to her. Then what happens, it turns out they were the ones at
fault all along. There it is in black and white: 'Believe me when I say we
blame no-one but ourselves.' See what I mean? The poor girl is innocent. She cut
herself off because they were wrong. If you ask me, when it comes to families,
I reckon hers are on a par with Doreen and June. Yet she never said a word.

The girl is a
Saint. That's all I can say.

They're sorry
now though - if you were to believe this letter. But are they? It occurs to me
that you can read that letter any way you like, but you won't find one word of
apology. A lot of beating around the bush, but look for one mention of the S
word, and you'll look in vain. It's not there.

You know what
it's all about, of course. It's the old story. Round about Christmastime,
people develop a conscience, nothing too uncomfortable, just the odd twinge and
the tiny worry of what they would say if anybody asks. Only they don't want to
go putting themselves  out too much, and as for an apology - perish the
thought. So what do they do, they send a letter.

I bet they
wouldn't even have got round to that, if it hadn't have been for Mandy making
the first move. And we all know the reason for that. Ethel. Quite obviously,
and despite everything I've tried to do to help, the girl has never been able
to get used to it - all the  snooping and the prying. So in a moment of
weakness she writes. And the next thing we know is this. The last people in the
world she wants to see, jumping on the bandwagon.

Sounds
familiar? It's June and Bill all over again. Only in this case it's not even a
visit. Just a letter if you please.

There's a
word for that sort of thing. It's called Blackmail. It happened to me,
Christmastime seven years ago, and I've never once got over it. June and Bill,
invading me here in my own house, laughing in my face, so sure they could bring
me round. Five minutes of them, that's all it took. A whole Christmas ruined.
And thanks to them, untold hours of pain and suffering.

You know, I'd
do anything to spare Mandy that. I would, honestly.

The question
is - how far would I go?

I reckon the
answer to that is easy. The next question is a different one entirely, namely:
what would Mandy want me to do? Is this really the sort of thing she'd want to
see? To which I would reply: I know my Mandy.

I’m putting
the letter away. Not far - only behind the bread bin. You would even be able to
see it sticking out if you look. There's a margin of white that's unmistakable.
So there's no question of me hiding it, let alone getting rid of it. You see,
she's going to have to read it in the end. You can only protect someone so far.
There'll come a time when she'll have to decide for herself about some things.
Naturally I would do my best to help, maybe make the odd suggestion, but what
it comes down to is, there's only so much you can do. No-one should ever try to
come between a parent and its child.

In the
meantime however, let the old kid enjoy herself, have the Christmas she deserves.
And just for starters, I'm going to be making out a card for her now - all
robins and holly and snow. In a big white envelope and all. Then she can't say
that no-one is sending her anything for Christmas.

As for me,
I'm staying put. Up and down is how you could describe today. Happy one minute,
tragic the next. Believe me, it takes it out of you. Right now, I'm back on the
level, knowing I've done my best for her, for Mandy. But I don't think I could
stand an afternoon at the mill. Rest is what I need now, a few refreshing hours
in front of the TV with my feet up. I'm not going to lose by it. Today I looked
with the eyes of a man who thought he was going to have to eat everything in
sight, and it brought it all home to me - there's enough here to keep us going
till Easter.

Besides, I
took another blow this afternoon. Suddenly - round about two o'clock I suppose
- I realized that with all the brouhaha, I couldn't remember when I'd fed Joey
last. Not that I'm entirely to blame. I mean, I know he's covered up a lot of
the time, but surely it's not beyond the imagination of a bird to remind me
he's there now and then. And he's been noisy enough in the past. Anyway, I took
the cover off the cage, and there he was stiff as a peg beneath his perch. I
gave him a little prod just to be sure. But it was no good. He was dead as a
doornail. Mind you, he never was the same bird after Mandy stopped taking
notice of him. All the same, you'd have expected an animal to have more staying
power than that. Which leads me to wonder if there wasn't something wrong with
him in the first place. Now if you ask me, there may be an interesting
principle at stake here. If you pay good money for something - no matter what
it is - you have the right to expect it to be fit for the purpose you bought it
- which in this case was sitting on his perch and staying alive.

So what about
it? What about me taking him back to where I bought him and telling  them I got
a bad bargain? Maybe they'd do me a part exchange - on a parrot, say. Mandy
might like a parrot to talk to, and I don't suppose it would be that much more
trouble to keep than a canary. Anyway, there's no sense in just throwing him
away, not without giving him a go. So I've wrapped him up in a bit of the
Sunday Express
and
popped him in the bottom of my shopping bag, all ready for the morning.

Here comes the nasty bit. You'd have thought nothing more
could happen today after everything else, which only shows how wrong you can
be. All I can say is, the sooner Christmas comes and puts us all in a good
mood, the better. This evening it was Mandy who was out of sorts.

For a start,
she was late getting in. Way after nine it was. The news had been on and
everything. Can you believe it, after everything I told her, after all the
trouble it took finding those cuttings, just so as to put her in the picture.
Yet late she was. And what was her excuse? The same as ever: working all day,
books she'd needed in the library and so on and so on. Well that's as maybe,
and Larry's the last person to want to comment, but you could see it wasn't
doing her any good. You know what they say about all work and no play.

As it is, she
should watch herself. The fact is, she is definitely not looking her best,
attractively speaking. I have never known her little face to look so pinched,
and that's even with all the snacks that are still appearing and disappearing
in her larder. I reckon she should be taking more rest, relaxing more with
another certain party, or what looks she has will be lost for ever. She might
be young, but nothing can age like a woman. Not that it would alter an iota of
how I feel about her. I've always said I would love the old kid no matter what.

Mind you,
you'd wonder if I still felt the same way after tonight's little performance.

It started
off normally enough. I’d left her in the lounge while I went off to do the
donkey work, i.e. putting on the kettle and laying out a tray. Just for a treat
- as a taste of things to come - I shook a few Quality Street into a bowl. A
girl couldn't have asked for more. Only it was while I was busying myself with
all this that she was up to no good in the next room. When I returned, there
she was next to the cage, cover in hand, and a funny look on her face.

'Where is
he?'

'Where's
who?'

Now I know
that might seem a strange answer considering what she was pointing to, but to
be honest, I'd had so much to think about today, Joey was never going to be the
first thing to spring to mind. Besides, had I said a word to her about taking
the cover off anything while I was off doing something else?

But you could
tell she already had a bee in her bonnet from the way she snapped, 'The canary,
Larry. Where's Joey?'

And that's
when it hit me. 'Oh Mandy, love,' I said. 'Don't ask. I'm that upset about it.'

'Why, what's
happened?' By now you couldn't help but notice that that funny look of hers had
turned into something altogether sharper, and uglier. Still, I thought that
would change once I told her, and let her see how I felt.

'He died,
Mandy. Just like that. I found him lying there, poor little mite. Not a scrap
of breath left in him.'

'Larry...'

'I know,
love. The fact is, I don't know where to put myself. He was all I had, and now
he's gone. It isn't half going to be quiet up here without him...'

And that's
when it happened. She turned on me, no better than a wild thing, practically
spat at me. 'If he was all you had, then why didn't you look after him?'

Well, that
would have been bad enough in itself. But it wasn't the end of it. While I
stood there, too shocked to say a word, she was still carrying on. 'You killed
him, Larry. You never took the cover off, you never talked to him. You stopped
me going near him. I don't even think you could be bothered to feed him half
the time.'

'Well, Mandy
...'

But she didn't
let me get a word in. 'That poor bird. Cooped up in that cage. Some people
should never be allowed near a living thing.'

Some people.
By which she meant me, I presume. The man who had kept her as much fed and
watered as any old bird. Well, there was an answer to that, but I don't know if
it was the shock, or the hurt, or both, the words just wouldn't come. Then
suddenly I stopped floundering for something to say, and instead a quiet
dignity took over. If this was the girl I'd been trying all along to help, then
I'd been wasting my time. She didn't deserve it.

The next bit
was going to be easy, a real pleasure: I was going to walk out of that room
into the kitchen, get that letter out from behind the bread bin, come back and
give it to her. Shove it in her face. With my compliments. Good riddance to it
and her. We didn't need people like that around here.

Then she
burst into tears.

Now what did
she have to do that for? And as if tears weren't enough, she starts whimpering
like some kid trying to stave off a rocketing. 'Oh dear, Larry, I'm sorry. I
didn't mean to shout. It's just that I was fond of him too. Please believe me,
I really am sorry.'

Well, I'd be
lying if I said I'd ever heard an apology more heartfelt - even if she could at
least have tried to meet my eye while she was about it. Anyway, it was a start.
So I didn't make a move for the kitchen, not yet. I just waited and watched,
wanting to be sure she meant it. But I have to say that after a minute I began
to feel, I don't know, embarrassed. If you're going to cry, you don't just
stand there while the tears drip off the end of your nose, like you've got a
bad cold and can't be bothered with a handkerchief. Not  when you're a woman.
And it's not even as if she was sobbing. It's as I said, she was just standing
there, staring at the floor, arms hanging just any old how by her sides while
the tears rolled down her face.

Suffice to
say, it got to be enough to put me quite off my stride, until finally, more to
try and find some relief. from it all, I said, 'Something else upsetting you
then?'

The moment
the words were out though, I knew it was a mistake. What, that girl needed was
a good telling-off, not sympathy. But it was too late. She had already
looked-up, surprise all over her face. So you see, she wasn't expecting
sympathy either, and no wonder.

'Larry,' she
says. 'Larry.' And stretches out her hand. And that, I have to say, was the
worst thing of all. I wouldn't have minded if it had just been for a
straightforward handshake between friends But she'd started to cry again and
what with that and her hand still snaking around in my direction, It's like
having a blind person groping towards you trying to discover if there's anybody
there.

None of this
seems to bother her though.

'Larry, she
says, the tears still rolling down regardless. 'Larry. I don't know what’s
happening to me any more...I don’t understand... I thought there were people
who loved me, even now. But it's nearly Christmas, and where are they? Where
are they all?'

The obvious
answer to that was - why ask me? She hadn't exactly been open with her. old
pal, despite all the concern shown, so how was I supposed to know about
anything now? Bit late for that. Added to which, she could at least have tried
making sense instead of muttering on the  way she was doing, never quite
finishing what it was she wanted to say. I would have pointed this out to her,
but I didn't have the heart, not with the tears and all.

So instead I
said, 'I don't know, love. But I tell you what, why don't I go and get us both
a couple of glasses of something to cheer us up.' And I was going to add, 'And
a box of tissues while I'm at it, seeing as you don't seem to have a
handkerchief on you.' Only I should have moved a bit more quickly, because blow
me if that hand of hers didn't shoot out again and this time actually grab hold
of mine. 'Larry,' she says, but she didn't get an answer. All I could think of
was how I was going to get my own hand back again. The fact is, there's no
words to describe how unpleasant it feels to have a clammy paw clutching at
yours, and no idea of what it was she had in mind.

And then it
came to me. She was all set to tell me something. There was a look in her eye
and it set the alarm bells ringing. What's more I knew, as sure as I was
standing there, that whatever that something was, I didn't want to hear it.
Because depend upon it, once I did hear it, it would rebound on me. It's what
people do all the time. They go for the sympathy vote, and the next thing you
know, they've got you just where they want you, regardless of what you might
have in mind.

There was
only one way left to me. Prepare to take back my hand and say to her, firmly,
'All right Mandy, love, get a grip. I can see you're upset, but you've got to
remember it doesn't always do to go burdening other folk with every little
problem. Some things you have to learn to face up to by yourself.'

As it turned
out though, I was spared having to say a word. Suddenly from below comes the
voice we know and love so well.

'Amanda,
telephone for you.'

Saved by the
bell.

For a moment
the silly girl just stands there, mouth open. Thankfully, the grip on my hand
lessens. Even so I have to say, 'Don't you think you should go and answer that,
love?'

She nods,
pulls back her hand and starts rubbing at all the mess of tears and hair. A
good wash and a brush-up is what it needs, but there's no time. The next second
she's off and away downstairs, leaving yours truly to breathe one big sigh of
relief.

Of course you
know who was on the phone. And sure as anything you know what the news will be.
Mr Adultery himself will be here to ruin the last weekend before Christmas.

But at least
it will mean fewer tears and funny turns. And what's more, this time Larry
isn't going to be downhearted. First there's still a world of shopping to be
done before the big day, and second, much more important, there's this thought
to buoy me up:

A few minutes
ago that kid was half out of her mind with gloom about something. And who was
the first person she turned to for cheering up? Who else but Larry. Now you
tell me if that doesn't mean something.

Makes you
feel all warm inside.