Crazy Paving Page 12

  Camberwell was in Saturday mode. Bert the flower-seller had set up his stall at the entrance to the alley next to KwikSave. He stood in his flat cap and overcoat between buckets of red tulips, blue iris and white carnations, the usual small globule of snot hanging perilously from the end of his nose. She usually stopped for a chat with him but he had two customers waiting, so she waved as she went past. She would get some daffodils on the way home, perhaps, at the risk of angering Alun even more. ‘The main thing is that they last,’ Bert always said as he wrapped them in tough pink paper and handed them over. ‘That’s the main thing. As long as they last.’ They never did. Bert’s flowers were cheap old rubbish and dead before the end of the weekend. On the other side of the road, outside the post office, a young man with a microphone was informing passing shoppers that God was great. If He is so great, Joan thought grumpily, then he can find my sixty quid.

  At Camberwell Green she caught the 68. It was crowded. A young woman next to her had two small children on her lap. A collapsible double buggy lay across the luggage hold. Next to it were four carrier bags, bulging misshapenly with groceries. One of the children was making a thin moany noise, like a small mammal caught in a trap.

  The bus ground slowly through the weekend traffic. Joan sat staring straight ahead. Half-way up the road, she suddenly became aware that there was some commotion at the front of the bus. They were waiting at a stop and eight or ten passengers were climbing on board. A group of old ladies had paid for their tickets and were muttering to each other as they came down the aisle. ‘He didn’t stop,’ one was saying excitedly to another, ‘he didn’t stop.’ Two settled in the seat behind Joan and craned their necks to look out of the window to the right. Joan was sitting nearest the aisle. The woman with the children had got off and another old lady pushed past Joan to take the window seat. Then she sat looking out at the road, like her companions.

  The bus began to move. After a few yards it slowed down to edge past some sort of blockage in the road ahead. ‘Look, look,’ said the old lady sitting next to Joan, although Joan was not sure who she was addressing. As the bus became stationary, Joan saw an ambulance parked on the other side of the road. Its back doors were open and she caught a glimpse of bedding and equipment. Next to the doors were two paramedics in green uniforms. One of them was kneeling down next to a tiny, splayed figure which lay in the road.

  The child was three, four perhaps, and dressed in blue jeans and a red anorak. Joan could not tell what gender it was because it was lying face upwards with its head covered by a large wad of bandage dressing. One of the paramedics was kneeling beside it and holding the dressing in place. The dressing was soaked in blood.

  ‘It was a silver car,’ the old woman next to Joan said, her face still glued to the window, ‘a big silver car. It didn’t even stop.’

  Standing in the road next to the child was a woman of about twenty. She was wearing pale jeans and high heels and had untidy blonde hair. The other paramedic had his arm around her shoulders. She was bending slightly and reaching one arm out towards her son or daughter, as though she wanted to help but did not dare. Her other hand was over her mouth. The paramedic was holding her tightly.

  On the opposite pavement a group of people had gathered, standing staring, silent and still.

  As the bus pulled away, the old lady leant backwards so that she could see the spectacle for as long as possible. When it was out of sight, she turned to her companions who were sitting behind Joan and said, ‘Isn’t it awful? Awful, awful . . .’ They all shook their heads.

  Joan thought of the huge solid power of a car. Then she thought of the soft flesh of a young child, the silky vulnerability of skin. What chance did the eggshell skull of a toddler stand against implacable, speeding metal? She felt sick. Next to her, the old ladies gossiped and crooned.

  She got off the bus at the building society and then went to Marks & Spencer where she wandered aimlessly around a small selection of swimwear. She had lost heart for the purchase but bought a black and gold contraption with a ruched effect around the neckline. She wanted to go home, but there was still the puff pastry. She wanted Alun to be nice to her. She was prepared to give in, do or say anything, if only he would be kind. Perhaps if they had not argued and she had not come out at that particular time, the accident would not have happened. If she had not seen it, it would not have occurred.

  By Sunday lunchtime, a sullen silence had descended.

  Joan could cope with many forms of marital warfare but not silence. Alun could raise his voice. He could throw a mug of tea at her (he had done that once, but only once). He could walk out and slam the door. To each of these she was prepared to weep then shrug, feeling herself to be no more than a part of that vast community of wives whose husbands shouted or slammed doors. Silence, however, was Alun’s ultimate weapon; his nuclear capability. They had never discussed it (how could you discuss silence?) but he knew she hated it and she knew he knew. For the rest of the weekend they occupied the same house, often the same room, and Alun serenely read the papers or ate or watched television, all with a wordless demeanour which was tantamount to placing her in a straitjacket, blindfolded and gagged. Joan sat opposite him, trying not to think about the child whose death their row had caused, up to her ears in Alun’s corpse-like fury and her own dumb guilt. The atmosphere was so thick she could hardly breathe. It was as thick as pea soup.

  On Sunday evening, Alun went out to do his shift. When she heard the door shut behind him, she sank into her armchair in the corner of the sitting room and began to cry. She cried for the child and for the young mother’s innocence, for the sixty pounds that had been lost or stolen – for everything that was gone and would never return. She cried for herself.

  On Monday, she was questioned closely by Annette. Yes, she was sure the handbag had been at her feet the whole of the afternoon. No she had not, at any time, left it open on her desk. Joan quelled her irritation. Annette just wanted to get the story straight, that was all.

  ‘We’ll have to tell Richard,’ she said eventually. ‘If you’re sure. We’ll have to make it official.’

  Joan sighed. ‘Is that really necessary?’

  There was a pause. Annette knew what Joan was asking. There was an obvious candidate for culprit. Once the theft was reported, the matter was out of their hands. ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘If we don’t do something then things could get difficult. I don’t think we should try and handle it by ourselves. There’s everyone else who works in this building to consider after all, it’s not just us.’

  After Annette had gone in to Richard’s office, Joan sat at her desk with her head in her hands. Everything was horrible. Everything.

  ‘Cheer up Joan!’ said Helly as she swept past, twenty-five minutes late for work and not at all bothered.

  Joan sat up quickly. Helly had gone straight past her, to the coffee machine. She had promised Annette she would not mention the theft to anybody else. She had to pull herself together. She sat up and reached for the pile of correspondence sitting on her desk, waiting to be opened and stamped. It was as bad as being at home with Alun. She couldn’t say anything to anyone. Now she would have to be pleasant to someone she liked whom she had just accused of theft – as good as – and who might be completely innocent. Nobody liked Helly much. She would probably be sacked. Office juniors were ten a penny.

  ‘Office juniors are ten a penny, so he says,’ Annette shrugged. ‘It’s not a very nice way of putting it but it’s true.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Joan.

  It was lunchtime before Annette had taken Joan on one side to tell her what Richard had said. It had been a busy morning and Helly had been around.

  ‘Listen, don’t feel bad, it’s not just this.’ Annette took a sip from her coffee. ‘Richard said there are other things. Even if this wasn’t her, there’s things that have been building up for a while. I’m not supposed to say.’

  ‘He’s probably just saying that to make me feel better,’ said
Joan.

  Annette shook her head. ‘He had a word with me a couple of weeks ago. Personnel have told him something about her that he can’t tell us. Really. It’s not your fault.’

  ‘So what’s going to happen?’

  Annette shrugged. ‘Nothing, immediately. He’s got to clear it quietly with Personnel. He’ll probably have a word with Marjorie. She can sort out the paperwork. Officially Helly will resign, as far as all that is concerned – in a fortnight or so.’

  ‘I think it’s awful. We have to carry on talking to her even though we know she’s going to get the sack. It’s awful.’

  ‘It’s not your fault,’ Annette repeated. ‘And Richard said he would much rather you got your money back quickly and quietly than have a whole great rigmarole. It’s much better for her this way too; she’s lucky Richard’s handling it so discreetly. If it went upstairs they’d get the police in, and it would all be much more serious. She should be glad.’

  Joan looked down into her tea. It was very pale and milky and almost cold. ‘I still think it’s awful.’

  Richard’s coffee was hot, black and very strong. Marjorie knew just how to make it. He was sitting on the edge of her desk, in the personnel department. It was the lunch hour and the office was quiet.

  He and Marjorie had known each other for some years now. She was a neighbour’s sister-in-law. Richard had helped her get her job at the CTA. She owed him one.

  Marjorie was explaining to Richard how bored she was with life. As she did, she rubbed the side of her neck with her left hand, leaning back in her seat and looking up at Richard, sleepy-eyed. Marjorie was thirty-eight years old and married to a man who bought her garden centre vouchers for her birthday. She had very fine brown hair that lay in a flat sheen across her head and flopped down onto her shoulders. She was the only woman Richard knew who still wore false eyelashes – a walking museum piece.

  ‘Now Marge,’ Richard was saying to her. ‘I know you’re having me on. I don’t believe all this nothing to do at weekends. I know what you’re up to. Soon as your old man’s asleep, you shin down the drainpipe in a leather mini-skirt and head for the nearest nightspot. I know you. I bet you drive them wild.’

  Marjorie reached out her hand and cuffed Richard’s arm. ‘Oh Richard!’

  Richard leant towards her across the desk. ‘You can’t fool me, you little hussy,’ he said softly.

  Marjorie glanced from side to side. ‘Really . . .’ she murmured, fiddling with a tiny gold lizard which hung on a fine gold chain around her neck. ‘Honestly . . .’

  Richard sat back and took a sip from his coffee, surreptitiously glancing at the clock above Marjorie’s head. Another ten minutes of chatting her up, that should lay the groundwork. Some women would do anything if you flirted with them. Silly bitch.

  It took slightly longer than ten minutes, nearer twenty in fact. Marjorie was subtle but voracious. When other members of staff started drifting back from lunch, Richard said goodbye and headed for the lift. Before pressing the button, he paused. He could go down to Finance on the ground floor and have a chat with Dave, or he could go back upstairs. He pressed the up button.

  The lift was just about to pass. Almost straightaway, there was a whoosh and clunk as it came to a halt and the doors jolted back. It was empty except for a small figure in one corner.

  Richard stepped inside. The doors slid shut behind him.

  The lift was very narrow. It carried a maximum of four people and even that was something of a squeeze. Its walls were lined from top to bottom with dark mirrors which made skin look greyish. There was a large round bulb set in the ceiling which cast pale light down in an indistinct beam.

  As Richard stepped in Helly stood up straight, looking up at him. He met her gaze, blankly.

  Helly looked to one side. The mirrored walls reflected a dozen other Richards standing in the lift, inches away. They were all looking at something small tucked away in the corner.

  The lift moved slowly and smoothly upwards. Richard did not speak or move. He stayed facing her, staring calmly, his back to the door. Helly bit at her lower lip and kept her face turned to one side, refusing to look up at him.

  The lift reached the second floor and jolted to a halt. The doors slid open.

  Richard turned and left.

  When Helly came back from lunch, Joan could not meet her gaze. She could not escape the feeling that she had something to feel guilty about, however much she reasoned with herself. Helly seemed unusually quiet. Perhaps she is feeling guilty too, Joan thought. The thought made her feel a little better.

  It was mid-way through the afternoon when Helly came round the corner and gestured at Joan’s filing tray. ‘Are we going to give it a go then?’ Monday afternoon was filing time, the sorting out of the previous week’s chaos before that week’s had a chance to build up. At the end of each day the surveyors would drop copies of their correspondence into the red plastic tray on Joan’s desk. By Monday afternoons, the pile had usually started to slither.

  Joan and Helly had developed a routine. The huge grey multi-filing unit was behind Joan’s desk. Helly would sit cross-legged or kneel in front of it, while Joan would spread the filing over her desk and hand pieces to her one by one. The sites were filed according to the alphabetical order of the tube station to which they were nearest. Rosewood Cottage, for instance, was filed not under R for Rosewood or S for Sutton Street or even C for Cottage. It was filed under N, for New Cross.

  The office was quiet. Annette had gone to spend the afternoon at the Perfect Secretary exhibition at Earl’s Court. The boys were out on site. Richard had been in his office all afternoon with the door closed.

  They filed in near silence for almost an hour. Then Joan handed over a memo Raymond had sent to all the security supervisors concerning general site access. Contractors who wished to use the CTA’s toilet facilities must always sign in before doing so. Helly shook her head.

  ‘What the hell do we do with this?’

  Joan shrugged. ‘Oh stick it under Miscellaneous, love.’

  Helly turned to the cabinet and kneeled up to ‘M’. Then she stopped. ‘Which Miscellaneous?’

  Joan frowned. ‘How many have we got?’

  Helly pushed her fingers between the files. ‘Miscellaneous Arches, Miscellaneous Offices, Miscellaneous Residential and Miscellaneous Sports Grounds.’

  ‘Isn’t there a Miscellaneous Miscellaneous?’

  Helly shook her head.

  ‘Oh well,’ Joan said, ‘we’d better open one up.’

  Helly began to laugh. Then she began to cry.

  Joan was silent. Helly sat back on her heels. Tears rolled down her cheeks in rivulets, as if a year’s worth of crying had suddenly spilled over. Her shoulders shuddered. Every now and then, she gave a small gulp.

  When Joan deemed the moment right, she reached into her skirt pocket and handed over a lilac coloured tissue, neatly folded. Helly took it, nodding her thanks, and blew her nose.

  Raymond’s memo had fluttered to the floor. Joan picked it up. ‘A bit soggy for its own file,’ she said. She turned it over. Then she crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into a nearby bin. ‘There. That’s filed that eh?’

  Helly smiled damply. ‘Sorry Joan,’ she said, small-voiced.

  ‘That’s alright, love. I’ve always hated filing too.’

  Helly smiled again. She drew the tissue underneath her eyes and then looked at it. Mascara and eye-liner had appeared in dark smears. ‘Oh God,’ she said. ‘Is my face red?’

  ‘Beetroot,’ Joan replied.

  Helly lowered her hands to her lap and bowed her head. She twisted the tissue round her fingers.

  Then, Joan said very gently, ‘Look love, is there anything you’d like to tell me about?’

  Helly looked up. Joan smiled. ‘I’m not daft you know, though most people round here treat me as if I am. If you don’t want to tell me that’s fine. But I don’t mind.’ She must know what I’m talking about Joan thought, unless ther
e’s something else as well. ‘Are you in any bother?’

  ‘Joan . . .’ Helly said.

  ‘Never underestimate the old ones,’ Joan said, getting to her feet. ‘Now you stay there while I make a cup of tea.’

  When Joan got back, Helly was sitting on her chair. She had wiped her face and was peering at herself in the dark screen of Joan’s computer. Joan sat down in the spare chair next to her desk and put down the tea.

  ‘What have you got in the M&S bag?’ Helly asked. Next to Joan’s desk was a bulging green plastic bag.

  Joan looked at Helly, then said, ‘Swimsuit. I worked the lunch hour so I’m off early and I’m going to take it up to Marble Arch. I got it Saturday at the little branch on the Walworth Road. They didn’t have my proper size and it’s not really the type I’m after.’

  Helly took her tea. ‘What type are you after?’

  ‘One I can get these knockers of mine into. Now what about you?’

  Helly put her tea down. ‘I think I’ll go to the loo and have a fag.’ She paused, then said briskly, ‘Thanks Joan.’ She turned and went to her desk for her cigarettes and lighter.

  Joan stayed sitting where she was and looked at Helly’s steaming cup of tea. She shook her head.

  Night was falling over Rosewood Cottage. Under the framed print of Kandinsky’s Cossacks, Helly’s great-grandmother Mrs Hawthorne slept, and dribbled. Joanna Appleton sat beside her.

  When Joanna was sure her mother was asleep, she rose softly and crept out of the room. It had taken over an hour. The old lady kept drifting off then waking again, muttering madly through her gums, something about a man watching the house, out there in the dark, waiting for the chance to get in. She had seen him from the window, she claimed. Joanna was sceptical. Her mother hadn’t looked out of the window for years.

  When she had closed the door to her mother’s room, Joanna tiptoed carefully to the room next door which she shared with Bob. Without putting on the light, she went over to the window. She parted the curtain and peered out. It was almost dark. A solitary street-light cast a pale pool. Beside it, the rubbish skip glowed yellow. The railway arches opposite the cottage were dark open bottomless mouths.