The Last Girl (2 page)

This
is
what's
going
through
my
head
when
out
of the
blue
comes
the
most
surprising
thing of
all
.
A
voice
reaching
out
of
the
dark,
no
more
than
a
whisper,
yet clear
as
a
bell
'Lighten
our
Darkness,
oh
Lord.'

Surprised
is
hardly
the
word
for
it.
Especially
when it's
obvious
from
the
faces
of
the
two
opposite
that neither
of
them
have
heard
a
thing.
Trouble
is,
there's
no
time
to
think
about
it,
not
with
Miss
Tyson
smiling at
me,
and
Ethel
already
getting
restless.
A
moment
later,
they're
both
squeezing
past
me
on
the
way
to
the bedroom
and
there's
only
space
for
another
quick, dare
I
say,
shy
smile
from
Miss
T.
And
they're
gone. What
was
more,
in all
that
time,
I'd
never
heard
so much
as
a pip
from
her
apart
from
that
first little noise.
That's what
happens
when
you
have
a
woman like
Ethel
making
all
the
running.
Yet
if
I'd
only
had my
wits
about
me, I
could
have winked,
let
her
know there'd
be
plenty
of
time
for a
chat
later.
But
what
with
words
floating
in
from
nowhere
and
Ethel
doing
her
worst,
I
never
had
the
chance.

Funny
thing
is,
I'm
not
a
bit
downhearted.
Don't
ask me
why,
but
suddenly
I
feel
as if
there's
gong
to
be a change
in
this
house.
And
all
thanks
to
this
girl.
There's
something
about
her
that's
different -
not
just from
the
Indian
girls,
but
all
of
them,
by
which
I
mean Doreen,
June,
Ethel
and
anyone
else
you
care
to
mention
who
belongs
to
the
female
tendency.
She's
not like
the
others.

Now
Larry's
not a
man
to
get
carried
away,
but
you know what?
I'm
shaking.

I
thought
about
waiting
for
them
till
they
came
out
of the
bedroom,
then
worried
that
it
might
look
a
bit
odd, me
loitering
with
intent
as
it
were.
Besides,
as
I
told myself
on
the
way back
upstairs,
there's
going
to
be
all
the
time
in
the
world.
The
girl
is
here
to
stay.
She's only
got
to
look
at
the
place
to
know
it's
a
one-off.
You simply
can't
find
anywhere
in
London
nowadays
with a
whole
floor
to
yourself
 
for
twenty-odd  pounds
a week.
Of
course,
she'll
discover
the
drawbacks
later, when
she's
all
settled
in,
and
realizes
she
can
feed
the meter
to
bursting
to
keep
her
gas
fire
going
but nothing's
going
to
stop
the
draughts,
or
the
noises
in the
walls
(Ethel
will look
at
her
straight
in
the
eye
and swear
it's
just
the
pipes),
and
that
nothing
happens
in this
house
that
Ethel
doesn't
know
about
in
the
end. Those
are
just
the
small
things;
there
are
others,
but really
it
will
be
too
late.
By
the
time
she
finds
out
about those
she'll have
got used
to
paying
half
the
rent
of
everybody
else
and
won't have
the
heart
to
move.
The odd
thing
is,
the
Indian
girls
never
did
seem
to
mind, not
about
anything.
Not even
when
you
tried
to
draw them
out
-
maybe
by
suggesting that
they'd
fit
in
better
if
 
they
left off
filling
the
house
with
the
smell
of
curry and
made
do
with
a
boiled
egg
like
an
English
person
would.
They
would
just
smile
and
carry
on
-
or
curry on.
I
was
only
trying
to
be
friendly,
but
they
were
all
how
can
I put
it -
offish.
You'd
never
get
more
than
a
good
morning
out
of
them,
if
that.
Yet
I
could
have done
them
any
number
of
favours.
I
know
where
to
find
all
the
cheap
electrical goods
this
side
of
Fin
s
bury Park.
They'd
have
found
that
useful
when
it
came
to loading
up
to
go
back
to
the
Subcontinent.
They
only had
to
be
a
bit
more
friendly.

But
it's
not
going
to
be
like
that
with
this
one.

All
the
same,
there's
no
harm
in
getting
the
ball
rolling.
Know what
I'm
going
to
do?
I'm
going
off
to
Harry's
stall
right
this
minute.
I'm going
to
buy
her
a whole
load
of
fruit
-
apples,
oranges,
all
kinds,
and
give
them
to
her
straightaway,
with
my
compliments. A
little
moving-in
present.
That
would
be
worth
ten good
mornings
on
the
stairs
if
you
ask
me.

See,
the
more
I
think
about
it,
the
more
I
reckon
we're
going to
be
the
best
of
friends,
me
and
Miss
T. You
mark
my
words.

***

As
we
used
to
say
in
the
army,
however -
the
best-laid plans
and
all
that.
I'd
swear
I
wasn't
out
more
than
half
an
hour,
and
that's
even
with
Harry
never
content simply
to
pass
the
time
of day.
Then
it
was
straight
up those
stairs
to
the
middle
landing.
And I
didn't
mess around,
gave
her
lounge
door
a
good
hard
knock,
reckoning
that
even
if
she
was
in
the
bedroom
which
is next
door
she'd
hear
me.
No
answer.
So
back
I
went
to the
top
of the
hall
stairs,
to
her
kitchen.
Knocked
there. Still
no
answer.
Well
I
was
disappointed
of
course,
but hardly
surprised.
I
just
thought
she
must
have
gone
out to
buy
a
few
essentials
like
tea
and
sugar.
I
only
wished I'd
managed
to
see
her
before
so
as
to
tell
her
I
had more
than
enough
upstairs
to
tide
her
over.
As
it
was,
I
just nipped
inside
to
put
the
fruit
down on
her
kitchen table
along
with
a
note
on
the
back
of
an
envelope saying
'Welcome
to
Colditz!!!'
That
was
my
little
joke. I
tell
it
to
all
the
girls,
even
if
I
have
to
end
up explaining
it.
The
trouble
with
the
Indians
is
that
they haven't
seen
half
the
TV
that
we
have.

So
I
was
quite
happy
to
leave
it
at
that
for
the
time being,
until
out
on
the
landing
again,
it
occurred
to
me - what
if
she
smokes?
I'd
have
given
my
right arm
to have
known
there
and
then.
Remember
the
old
days? All
sorts
of
things
used
to
happen
once
you'd
offered
a
stranger
one
of
your
cigs.
Naturally,
I'm
talking
more about
the
films
than
real
life,
but
the
hope
was
always there
that
one
day
it
would
work
for you
-
that
you would
bowl
someone
over
with
the
way
you
handed
them
a
smoke.
Not
that
I
was
looking
to
bowl
anyone over
here
-
perish
the
thought.
But
something
to
break
the ice
would
be
nice,
set
the
scene
so
to
speak. Anyway,
the
upshot
is,
no
sooner
has
the
thought popped
into
my
head
but
I'm
turning
to
go
back
the
way
I
came,
meaning
to
hotfoot
it
to
the
newsagent
at the
end
of
the
road
to
get something
a
bit
more
suitable
than
my
Old
Holborn.

Only,
you
might
have
guessed,
who
should
be
waiting
for
me
at
the
bottom
but
Ethel.
Obviously been keeping
an
ear
out
from
the
moment
I
got
in.

'Off
 
out
again,
Mr
Mann?'

To
hear
her
with
that
little
tiny
voice
you'd
think butter
wouldn't
melt,
or
to
look
at
her
either
with
her-old
lady's
curls
and
hankies
stuffed
up
her
sleeves.
But don't
be
fooled.
For
one
thing,
she's
hardly
what
you
would
call
old,
not at
seventy-two -
my
age
exactly which
anyone
would
tell
you
is
nothing
nowadays. For
another,
it's
all
part
of
the
act,
and
what's
more
an act
that
should
be
the
envy
of
senior
citizens
the
world
over.
You should
see
what
that
little
tiny
voice
can
do
for
her
-
free
eggs
at
the
market,
the
last
seats
on
the buses.
Shopkeepers
rounding
off
the
price
of
every mortal
thing
to save
her
scrabbling
for
change.
She must
have
made
a
small
fortune
just from
that.
Some folk
don't
come
into
their
own
until
they're
old,
and Ethel
Duck
is
one
of
the
breed.
But
what
I'm
saying
is:
I know
the
sound
of
the
real
Ethel-
well
I
could
hardly
help
it,
not
after
the
times
I've
stood
outside
her kitchen
door
listening
to
her
barking
on
at
Gilbert
like a
regular
sergeant
major.
Poor
old
Gilbert
-
you
could almost
sympathize.
You
never
would
have
found
him
in
khaki doing
his
bit
for
his
country.
No,
he
stayed
at home,
nursing
a
weak
chest.
Yet
who's
the
one
who's
ended
up
under
orders?
 
The
Old
Skiver,
that's
who.

Best
to
answer
quickly,
for
the
sake
of
peace.

'You
know
how
it
is,
Mrs
D.
No
rest
for
the
wicked.' (So
how
come
Doreen
used
to
fall
asleep
the
second
her
 
head
hit the
pillow?)

And
that,
you
would
think,
would
be
the
end
of
it.
No
more
to
be
said.
But
not
today,
not
when
Ethel
is
still
hanging
on
to
the
banister,
 
making
no
sign
of moving,
which
can
mean
only
one
thing.
She
wants
something.
Which
in
turn
means
I
can
forget
about
the cigarettes
until
she's
told
me.
Always
did
have
first
call
on
me,
did
Ethel.
Doreen
was
forever
saying
it,
and
for once
she
was
right
about
something.
The
trouble
was Gilbert: he
never
did
know
how
to
change
a
fuse,
not even
in
the
days
when
he
could
still
have
made
it
up
a
ladder.
That
left
Ethel
with
two
choices -
either
she
got someone
in
and
paid
him,
or
she
turned
to
yours
truly who
would
do
it
for
free,
and
not
have
so
much
as
a penny
cut
off
the
rent
at
the
end
of
the
day.
Which naturally
begs
the
question
of
why
ever
do
I
do
it. I'll tell
you
why.
Because
every
time she
has
to
ask,
she's
having
to
admit
that the one
and
only
reason
this
house
is
still
standing
is
in
the
person
of
Larry
Mann. And
she
hates
it.
Wonderful,
isn't
it?

Except
that
today,
there
doesn't
seem
to
be
any
list
of orders.
Ethel
is
hanging
around
because,
as
sometimes
happens
- like
once in
a
blue
moon
-
she
just
wants
to talk.

'You
know
what,
Mr
Mann,
I
can't
help
but
worry.
If
Mr
Duck
doesn't
have
an
extra
specially
good
rest today,
I
wouldn't
like to
be
held
answerable
for
the consequences.’