A is for Angelica (15 page)

Once I reach the other side, I start to walk along the hard shoulder. I put my fist to my mouth like a horn and whistle one of Don’s songs. But I can’t hear it. The sound is lost in
the noise from the road. I can smell petrol fumes and cinnamon. The cinnamon is on my fingers from baking this morning. The petrol fumes are everywhere. I look around at the road, the clouds and
the sky. Three glorious shades of grey. The police helicopter circling above me. Bright yellow metal, like a substitute sun. I pull my suit sleeve up and look at my watch. Don’s funeral
started thirty minutes ago. I keep whistling, march onwards to the garage for cigarettes. And a pornographic newspaper.

Note: The lorry game. 1 yellow. 2 blue. 3 green. 4 red (two Post Office). 6 plain metal black or grey. Note end.

‘Hello, how are you?’ says the assistant from behind the counter. He’s new. He must be in his late twenties, which means he shouldn’t be working in a
garage. I’ve only just walked in. There’s no need for him to speak to me yet.

‘I’m just browsing,’ I reply, even though it’s a lie. I know exactly what I’m here for. But now I’ve said it, so I pretend to look at crisp packets, like
I’m choosing between flavours. I pick up a carton of milk. Read the label. Put it back again.

‘Let me know if you need any help.’

‘Will do,’ I say, and turn my back on him. I walk around the shop to the gift section. That’s new as well. It contains pens with furry creatures shoved on the end. Road maps
two years out of date. A big bag of bird seed with a sparkling gold star attached to the front. It reads, ‘Half Prise’ instead of price. Most of the display is taken up by travel games.
They’re on sale at 99p each. They take up two thirds of allotted ‘gift’ space. I assume they fell off the back of a lorry. I pick up Travel Scrabble and find Travel Magic Set
underneath. I pick that up too and read the back of the box, which tells me it contains three dice, three plastic cups, a small sponge ‘wonderball’ and a red handkerchief. It also
reads, “Caution: Travel Magic not suitable for bumpy journeys and children under three years of age.”

‘You can buy them both for £1.50,’ says the assistant. ‘It’s a special offer.’

‘Do you have any cigarettes?’ I ask him as I go to the counter. I look down at the badge pinned to his chest. His name is Martin and his cheeks are covered in pockmarks. They make
him look ten years older than he probably is. ‘How old are you?’ I say.

‘Eighteen,’ he replies. He could pass for thirty.

‘How long have you worked here?’

‘Three days.’

‘How much would fifteen litres of diesel cost me?’

‘Are you getting petrol?’

‘No, I said diesel.’

‘It’s just you don’t have a car with you.’

‘No, I
don’t
have a car with me.’

‘Is it parked round the side? I didn’t see you pull in.’

‘I don’t have a car. I was testing you.’

‘What was the test?’

‘Fifteen litres of diesel.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How much would it cost me to buy fifteen litres of diesel?’

‘You don’t have a car.’

‘Forget it. I’d like to buy a packet of cigarettes.’

‘What sort would you like?’

‘What sort have you got?’

‘We’ve got all sorts. You can get these – they’re quite strong. Or these – they’re like a low fat version. What do you normally smoke?’

‘I don’t normally smoke.’

‘Then why do you want them?’

‘I’m buying them for a friend. I’ll take the strong ones.’

‘Is he sixteen?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Is your friend sixteen?’

‘She’s just turned forty-two.’

‘That’s fine. They told me I had to ask. We’ve had men coming in to buy fags for kids. I thought your friend might be underage.’

‘We share the same birthday.’

‘Are you going to buy the Travel Scrabble and the magic set?’

‘I might do.’

‘I kind of need to know.’

‘Yes then. I’ll buy them.’

‘Anything else?’

‘I’d like a newspaper please.’

‘Which newspaper?’

‘Do any have pornography inside?’

‘What about this one?’

‘What’s it like?’

‘Just tits and stuff.’

‘That’s fine.’

He turns around and starts pressing buttons on the till behind him. His uniform is too tight. His t-shirt rides up above his belt. I can see the hairs on the small of his back and a line of
bumps where his spine moulds the skin. He has a scar the length of his forearm, elbow to wrist. It looks like the seam on an old-fashioned rugby ball. He holds his hand out and tells me how much I
owe him. I place the exact change on the counter, coin by coin. He watches me do it, and then sighs when he has to pick them up. I collect my things and walk towards the door.

‘You need to learn your petrol prices,’ I tell him.

Outside it’s started raining. The clouds have burst and I can’t look up at the sky because the water’s coming down so hard. I wish I’d put my coat on.
Instead, I’m wearing my funeral suit. My white shirt has come untucked at the waist. It’s wet through. I can see my nipples. The police helicopter has disappeared in the rain, but I can
hear it whirling up above, hovering over the dual carriageway. It’s four o’clock and starting to get dark. The traffic feels much closer than it did before, so I leave the hard shoulder
and scramble halfway up the embankment. I can see a shower of red in the distance. Brake lights creeping towards me. A queue forming. It’s probably an accident. Someone driving too fast.
They’ve lost control and piled into a tree or another vehicle. I can see the helicopter again. Two beams in the sky dissecting each other, looking for trouble. Now they’ve stopped.
They’ve fixed themselves in position. They shine down on where the accident must have happened. To where the queue begins. But I can’t hear sirens. All I hear is the rain drumming
against my shoulder pads and car engines aching to a grumble. I try to walk quicker so I can get closer, faster. But I slip and fall on one knee. It leaves a patch of mud on my trousers.

Ten minutes later. The queue is now huge. It will soon be on the motorway and in tomorrow’s newspaper. I try and get to the top of the embankment where the ground is flat. I should see
more from up there. I have to climb on all fours. My fingers are filthy. Water fights its way through the grass to the road at the bottom. A steady stream. It takes me more than a minute, but I
reach the top and look down at the road. There are no emergency services, but they must be on their way. There’s a bottleneck of traffic on the road heading out. People slowing down to get a
better look. My leg seizes up with cramp. Pain shoots from my ankle to my calf to the tendons at the back of my knee. It makes me stop walking and shout out loud. Up ahead, the road is starting to
clear and I’ve still not seen a thing. Just the lights and the rain. I turn and look back towards the garage. I can’t see it anymore, but looking for it reminds me. Angelica’s
newspaper. It’s in my inside pocket, sodden and sticking to the fabric. She won’t want it like this. I stretch my leg until the cramp wears off. I stare at the heavy beams in the
sky.

I turn the corner into Cressington Vale. It’s still raining. Water pours down the street and gushes into drains. I walk past lights behind windows, their brightness
determined by the thickness of the curtains between them. I stand outside Angelica’s house. It looks empty. I walk to the front door, take out the cigarettes and the newspaper and go to put
them through the letterbox. But it won’t open. It’s been taped up with coloured gaffer tape. Black, green and yellow. She must have done it herself. I put the cigarettes back in my
pocket and carry the newspaper across the road. I open my front gate and look at Kipling’s grave. It’s full of nuts. I need to put some grass seed down. I look up at the bedroom window.
Georgina’s room is in darkness, but there’s a light on downstairs. I must have forgotten to switch it off. It’s a waste of electricity. I try to turn the key in the door, but it
has nowhere to go. The door is already unlocked. I twist the handle and step into the house. It feels cold. Someone’s turned the heating down. I can hear the kettle boiling. It must be Judy.
She’s come back to find Georgina. I take off my jacket, hang it on the banister and walk slowly to the kitchen. The door is slightly ajar. I can smell cinnamon. And Angelica. She’s sat
at the table, dressed in black from head to toe. Jacket and trousers.

‘You didn’t come to the funeral,’ she says. ‘Where have you been?’

‘I couldn’t face it. There’s been an accident. How did you get in?’

‘Are you all right?’ she says.

And I think about it. Am I all right?

Well, I’ve spent the afternoon walking up and down a dual carriageway. Last week, I lost my two best friends. My wife is upstairs incarcerated by her second stroke in eighteen months. And
Angelica is in my kitchen. She’s wearing sweet perfume and she’s been looking through my manual. I’m soaking wet.

So am I all right? I guess not.

‘Would you like a cigarette?’ I ask her. ‘Or a game of Travel Scrabble?’

Oracle

Angelica has opened the Travel Magic set and is pretending to be a magician. The three cups are upside down on the table. One of them has the wonderball underneath. She moves
them, mixes them up and looks at me at the same time. Every so often her hands stop and she asks me which cup I think the ball is under. ‘Which one this time?’ she says. And I get it
wrong because I’m not paying attention. I’m thinking about Georgina. I’m feeling guilty.

‘I can’t believe this only cost 99p,’ she says. ‘It’s a shame about the newspaper. Have you been collecting the coupons too?’

‘Yes,’ I say, because it means I don’t have to tell her I bought the newspaper for her. And she might not think I’m a pervert.

‘You know today’s was the last in the set?’

‘Was it?’

‘Yes, I cut mine out and sent them all off this morning. I’ll get my free jar of coffee in twenty-eight days. They have to verify the coupons.’

‘Does that mean I’m too late?’

‘You’re in luck actually. I normally buy three papers and I picked up the same one twice.’

‘That’s handy.’

‘You can have the spare, if you like.’

‘Thanks. Georgina drinks coffee,’ I say. It isn’t true. She’s never liked coffee. Or tea.

‘Great. I’ll fetch it for you later.’

The kettle rumbles on the worktop and switches itself off. Angelica gets up off her chair and walks to the cupboard by the fridge. Her bag is propped against the radiator behind her, where
Kipling used to lie. It’s black like her suit. Georgina’s manual is still on the table. Neither of us has mentioned it. But she must’ve had a look.

‘Where are your mugs?’ she says.

‘Second shelf up from the bottom.’

‘So they are. Shall I make us some tea?’

‘Yes, please.’

I sit down at the kitchen table and watch Angelica making tea. Water drips from my hair and onto my cheeks. It feels like I’m sweating. I wipe my face with a tea towel.

‘Milk and sugar?’

‘Just milk.’

She puts my drink in front of me. Her fingernails are black. She probably painted them for the funeral. One of them is shorter than the rest. I take my suit jacket off and hang it on the back of
my chair. The cigarette packet falls out the pocket. Angelica picks it up, puts it on the table and sits opposite.

‘I didn’t think you smoked,’ she says. I don’t know how to respond. I could tell her that I bought them for her, or I could lie. I don’t know which is worse.

‘I bought them for you.’

‘Oh, okay. That’s kind.’

‘They’re quite strong, apparently.’

Water drips down the back of my neck. I need to change my clothes. I need to check on Georgina. But I can’t. I can’t leave Angelica. She might follow me up the stairs. I wrap the tea
towel around my shoulders and watch her take a box of matches from her bag. She pulls a cigarette from the packet with her mouth, tightens her lips around the end, strikes a match and lights it
first time.

‘So, where’ve you been?’

‘For a walk.’

‘We waited for you. Morris said a few words in your place.’

‘Morris Webster?’

‘Yes.’

‘They hardly knew each other.’

‘They used to talk over the garden fence.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Morris told us. You should’ve been there.’

The rain is beating at the window. It sounds like someone throwing gravel at the glass. I hold my hands tight around my mug. What if Georgina smells the smoke? It could be ghosting up the
staircase, into her room and lungs. I lean forward in my chair, rest my arms on the table and use my heel to shut the kitchen door.

‘You look freezing,’ says Angelica.

‘I’ll get changed in a minute.’

I don’t know what to say to her. I try not to look in her direction. She’s looking at me and smoking. The manual is between us. And the wonderball. Three upturned cups. Georgina will
be awake. She’ll be worrying about me. I know she worries about me. I stare at the kitchen window, mud smeared across the glass, probably from a football. I need to clean it. I can hear
Angelica breathing, sucking in air. A cloud of smoke drifts across my eye line. A thin mist of swirls.

‘How’s Georgina?’ she says. The words cut through me. I feel my skin tighten. She’s read the manual. She’s seen the blender on the worktop. She’s listened to
my lies. The ambulance is on its way.

‘How did you get in?’

‘John used the key you gave him. We wanted to make sure you were okay.’

‘That was years ago. Did you go upstairs?’

‘John shouted but got no answer. His dinner was ready. He had to go. I said I’d wait on my own. I haven’t been here long. I hope you don’t mind.’

‘How do you know about Georgina?’

‘Don told me. A couple of weeks ago.’

‘What did he say?’

‘Nothing.’

‘He must’ve said something.’

‘I understand if you don’t want to talk about it.’

‘What did he tell you?’

‘That she had a stroke. He just said she’d had a stroke.’

Angelica looks away from me. She never looks away from me. She always keeps eye contact. I’ve got this written down. Sometimes she closes her eyes when she laughs and I can see the make-up
on her eyelids. But she never looks away. She never seems uncomfortable. Not like this.