The Last Girl (3 page)

Sometimes
Ethel
lowers
her voice
-
 
usually
when speaking
about
Gilbert.
She
wants
you
to
think
the
one thing
keeping
him
alive
is
an
optimistic
front.
When her
voice
sinks
to
a
whisper -
as
now
-
it's
only
to
let you
know
how
bad
it
really
is.
As
if
that
same
whisper
wasn't
loud
enough
to
be
heard
from
halfway
across the
Albert
Hall.
Mind
you,
maybe
she
has
a
point because
it's
just
at
this
moment
that
Gilbert
can
be
heard coughing
up
what
sounds
like
his
heart
and
soul.
And
I'll
be
the
first
to
admit
it sounds
nasty.
Only watch
Ethel,
she
doesn't
tur
n
a
hair.
And
says;

'It's
the
new
girl, you see.
She's
got
him
 
that
excited.'

Has
she indeed.
As
a
matter
of
fact,
I
can
feel
my own
ears
pricking
up
a
bit.
But
it's
no
use
saying
anything,
not
if
it's
information
you
want.
You
show
the
teeniest
bit
of
interest,
and
she'll drag
it
ou
t
for ever.
Mind
you
she
can
talk
about
Gilbert
being
all
of
a fluster,
but
it's
herself
she
really
means.
I
could
have sworn
I
heard
a
touch
of
the
old
West
Country
there, what
she
brought
up
with
her
from
the
sticks
all
those years
ago.
And
look
at
her
-
she's
like
a
dollop
of
jelly underneath
that
apron.
In
fact
I'd
almost
bet
it
wouldn't
matter
what
I
said;
it's
going
to
come
out
anyway.
 
So
 
I
 
risk
 
it.

'Oh
yes,
Mrs
D.
And
why's
that
then?'

She
lets
go
of
the
banister,
pushes
herself up
against me.
You'd
think
it
was
nothing
less
than
a
state
secret
she
was
about
to
drop.
'Well
it's
her
parents,
Mr
Mann.
Hong
Kong.'

'Hong
Kong?'

'That's
where
they
live -
just
like
Hubby
years
ago, when
he
was
still
with
the
Merchant
Fleet.
He
swears it's
where
he
caught
his
chest.
Anyway,
it's
hearing that
that's
got
him all
in
a
tizz.
He
still
talks
about
it
as if
it
was
yesterday -
when
he's
got
the
strength,
poor soul.
Now
suddenly,
he's
going to
have
someone
else to
talk
to,
someone
who
knows
all
about
it.'

Well,
maybe.
Though
it
seems
to
me
that
a
girl
like
her
is
hardly
going
to
want
to
waste
time
with
an
old
codger
like
him.
Hong
Kong.
My
eye.
He
might have spent
a
year
or
two
there,
way
back
in
the
olden
days,
but
I
happen
to know
he
spent
a good
deal
more
time
as
a
filing
clerk
in
an
office
below
the
White
Cliffs
of Dover.
I
bet
he
doesn't
tell
her
about
that.

There
must
be
more
to
it
than
that,
then.
And
there
is.
Ethel
is
moving
closer
still.
I'll
be
dusting
the
rouge off
my
cardigan
after
this.
She's
coming
to
the
meat
of
the
matter.
Between
clenched
teeth,
the
words
reach
me,
the real
reason
for
the
excitement:

'Out
there
still,
of
course.
Father.
Doctor.  Brain surgeon.'

That's
it.
That's
what
excitement
has
done
to
Ethel.
Turned
her
into
a
talking
telegram.
But
the
message
is there,
loud
and
cl
ear,
and
it
explains
everything.
Such as
why
after
years
and
years
she's
reverted
to
having a person
on
the
middle
floo
r
who actually
speaks
the
language.
 
Who's one of us.

Except
that
she
isn't
one
of
us,
not
her,
this
Miss
Tyson.
The
fact
is, this
house
hasn't
seen
the
like,
not
in
seventy
years,
not
since
the
days
when
it
and
all the other
big
houses
belonged
to
just
one
family
apiece, with a
room
for
every
man
woman
and
child,
and
then
some
left
over
for
the
servants.
It might
even
have belonged
to
a
doctor.
Now
what
should
have
walked
back
through
the
door but
the
actual
daughter
of
one. To
Ethel's
way
of
thinking,
that's
the
next
best
thing
to having
the
doctor
here
himself.

Not
one
of
u
s
then,
not
in
the
normal
way.
But
I'll
say
this:
She's
the
same
colour,
and
that
goes
for
something,
surely?

Still,
it
doesn't
do
to
go
on
letting
Ethel
believe herself
to
be
the
fount
of
all
knowledge.
It's
high
time to
break it to
her
that
Larry
Mann
knows
a
thing
or
two
himself.

'That's as
maybe,
Mrs
D.
But
you
didn't
need
to
tell me all
of that in a whisper.
 
She's
not
going
to
hear,
no
matter
what
you
say.
She's
gone
out.
In
fact,
I
reckon she
must
have
been
hard
on
my
heels.'

Now
there's a
thought.
Like
she
was
coming
after
me.

As
for
Ethel,
that
stops
her.
It's
a
law of nature in this house
that
not
a
soul
goes
in
or
out
without
her
knowing
about
it
-
and the
reason
to
boot.
Only
somehow
or
other,
this
time,
little
Miss
Tyson
has caught
her
off
guard.
But
then,
you
try
getting
Ethel
to admit
she's
wrong.

'I'm
sure
not, Mr
Mann.
In
fact,
I
can
assure
you,
the young
lady
has
done
no suc
h
thing.
And
what's
more, I'll show
you
how I
know.
Just
take
a
look
at
that.'
So saying,
Ethel
plucks
a
duster
from
the
front
of
her pinny
and
shakes
it
in
my
face.
When
I've
done
coughing,
she
takes
up
the
argument
again.
'Half
an
hour
I must
have
spent
doing
the
hall
From
the
moment
you
stepped
out
of
the
front
door
to
the
second
you
came back.
And
you
can
take
it
from
me,
there's
not
a
soul been
in
or
out
in
all
that
time.'

What
could
I
say?
Knowing
Ethel,
every
word
would be
true.
Set
one
foot
outside
this
house
and
Ethel
will
be
there,
like
the
waves
rushing
in,
filling
up
the
space
you've
just
left
empty,
till
the
moment
you get back.
I
believe
she
was
in
the
hall
the
second
after
me, then.
That's
how
she
is.

Yet
talk
about
confused.
There's
Ethel
ready
to
swear
on the
Bible
that
Miss
Tyson
is
just
where
she
left
her,
but less
than
two
minutes
ago
I
was
knocking
hard
enough
to
wake
the
dead.
And
while
I
consider this,
there's
Ethel
herself,
getting
more
triumphant
by the
second,
chalking
up
the
points.
I
never
knew
a woman
more
small-minded.
The
only
option
left
to
me is
to
get
away
with
as
much
dignity
as
the
scene allowed.
But
I
should have
watched
where
I
was
going
...

'Silly
me,'
Ethel's
voice
floats
after
me.
'There
was
I thinking
you
were
on
your
way
out.
And
yet
here
you
are,
halfway
up
the
stairs
again.'

And
it's
true.
Because
entirely
thanks
to
Ethel,
I'd forgotten
what
I'd come
down
for
in
the
first
place. Now
there
was
nothing
for
it but
to
turn
full
circle
to head
back
towards
the
front
door,
while
Ethel
watches,
enjoying
every
second.

Once
I'd
bought
the
cigarettes
though,
I
felt
a
whole
lot better.
In
the
time
it
took
to
get
to
the
newsagents
and back
again
I'd
worked
it
all
out.
Quite
simply,
I
hadn't knocked
as
hard
as
I
should
have.
I
might
have
thought
I
had
- but
that
was
my
mistake.
This
is
the
sort
of house
where
you
do
everything
quietly.
Not
wanting everyone
to
know
your
own
business,
not
wanting
to cause
offence
-
it
all
becomes
second
nature
really. The result
is,
even
when
you
think
you're
making
a great
racket,
you're
not
doing
any
such
thing.
That
knock
of
mine -
you'd
laugh
if
you
thought
about
it -
 
it
probably
wasn't
any
more
than
a
tap.
As
for
her,
Miss Tyson,
she
was
probably
asleep.
I
mean, I could
tell she
was
tired
when
I
saw
her,
just
from
the
way
she was
standing.
Poor
girl
could
probably
do
wit
h
a
good
rest.
And
if
that
was
the
case,
the
most
important
thing now
was
not
to
wake
her
on
my
way
back
upstairs.
I didn't
hurry
though.
I
was
still
half
hoping
that
she'd
come
out of
her
bedroom
at
the
very
moment
I
was
passing,
covering
up
a
yawn
maybe,
mouth
all
dry after
her
kip.
What
better
time
could
there
be
in
that
case
to
ask
her
up
for
a
refreshing
cup
of
tea?

No
luck
though.
It
must
have
taken
me
a
good
two
minutes
to
get from
one
end of
the
landing
to
the
other, but
nothing
stirred.
The
poor
kid
must
have
been
dead to the
world.
What's
more,
I
didn't
hear
a
peep
out
of
her
all
afternoon,
and
believe
me
I
couldn't
have missed
her.

Then
at
last,
just at the
very
moment
I’d
put
kettle
on
to
boil,
there
was
the
sound
I'd
been
waiting
for all that
time
- namely
the
click
of
the
bedroom
door,
followed
by
the
faint
pitapat
of
feet
on
the
landing.
I
was
still holding
my
breath
when
I
heard
the
flush
of
the loo, more
footsteps,
and
at
long
last
the
noise
of
the
kitchen
door.
This
was
it,
you
see,
the
moment
of
truth,
when she
walked
in
and
saw
all
that
fruit
waiting
for
her,
not t
o
mention
my
little
note.

Funny
thing
though,
now
that
it
had
come
to
the crunch,
I
suddenly
started
to
feel
ever
so
nervous.
You could put
it
down
to
us
not
being
properly
introduced. I
mean,
what
hope
have
two
people
of
getting
acquainted
when
there's
Ethel
smirking
away
between
them?
Luckily
there's
a
mirror
above
the
sink,
kept there
for
shaving
purposes,
and
I
only
had
to
take
one quick
peek
to
see
there
was
nothing
to
worry
about there,
at
least
not
in
the
looks
department.
Larry
Mann was
the
soul
of
respectability
-
and
a
bit
more
besides. Being
the
modest sort,
I'd
be
the
last one
to
boast, but the
fact
is
I'm
not
half
bad
for
my
age:
nice
and
trim,
good
colour
in
my
cheeks.
And
smart
-
it's not
every man
who'd
take
the
trouble
to
wear
his
hairpiece
night and
day,
but
Larry
does.
Today
I've
got
it
combed forward
in
a
light
fringe,
not
too
formal
you
see.
And
then
there's
the
old
moustache
below,
not
the
same
colour
admittedly -
it
would
have
to
be
brown
for
that
-
but
there's
nothing
wrong
with
good
old
salt
and pepper.
There
are
plenty
of
military men
who've
got the
same.
Anyway,
the
upshot
is,
I
don't
have
to run around at
the
last
minute
to
make
myself
look decent.
Larry
Mann
is
that
already.
Which
meant
I
could
breathe
more
easily,
calm
down
and
remember to throw
another
bag
in
the
pot.