Angel Cake (14 page)

She spent Monday and Tuesday more dead than alive – or at least, that was how she described her condition to herself when she imagined telling Pearl off. The only thing that kept her going was the prospect of coming down on Pearl like a ton of bricks when she walked in the front door on Wednesday morning.

But on Wednesday morning, there was no sign of Pearl at the usual time and while at first Alicia might have been secretly just a little bit pleased beneath her annoyance, because it meant that she could tell Pearl off for being late on top of everything else, as the morning wore on even the slightest suggestion of pleasure vanished. Perhaps Pearl wasn’t going to come? This reinforced Alicia’s dark suspicions. Perhaps, assuming that Alicia must by now be on her death-bed, Pearl had been overcome by guilt and remorse and didn’t dare return to the scene of her crime. Alicia got quite agitated at the thought of Pearl’s wicked face appearing at the front door and she didn’t know if she would have the courage to let her in. She didn’t get a chance to put her courage to the test, though because Pearl never came. Alicia waited at the window for most of the morning and only gave up looking out when the children started coming down the street from the school because it was lunchtime.

At half-past two, her bell rang. She was in the kitchen clearing away the remains of her lunch. Her blood ran cold. Snatching up the tin-opener from the table, she went towards the front door. The shape on the other side was somewhat too slim for Pearl. Alison, could it be Alison come unannounced in the middle of the week, to see if she was all right? Forgetting the tin-opener, Alicia opened the door eagerly
and there stood her dreaded social worker, the muscley Miss Midgley.

‘A very merry Christmas to you, Mrs Queripel,’ Miss Midgley announced offensively. ‘I hope I find you well?’

‘What does it look like?’ snapped Alicia. ‘Do I
look
well?’

‘A picture of health,’ declared Miss Midgley briskly. ‘Though short on seasonal goodwill perhaps – ha-ha!’

Alicia didn’t know how Miss Midgley did it, but before she could do anything about it, Miss Midgley bosomed her way into the hall and, still booming cheerily strode purposefully into the front room.

Alicia followed her. You’ve got hair like a lavatory brush, she thought to herself. And I bet no one’s ever dreamt of dressing your sausage legs in black stockings!

She glared at Miss Midgley, who was looking busily around the room.

‘My, oh my!’ she commented tactlessly. ‘This place could do with a spot of tidying, couldn’t it? Hasn’t your home help been pulling her weight?’

Alicia fought between righteous indignation at Miss Midgley’s criticism, eagerness to speak up and condemn Pearl and a sudden sort of hysteria at the image of Pearl pulling her weight. She mouthed incompetently.

‘It looks as though it hasn’t seen a hoover in weeks,’ Miss Midgley persisted. ‘Who is your home help? Mrs Hassan? Mrs Desai?’

‘Mrs Cunningham,’ said Alicia. She tried to say that she never let Pearl anywhere near the front room, that it was her private domain and she wouldn’t let anyone lay a finger on anything in it. Miss Midgley didn’t give her a chance to get it out.

‘What day does she come?’ she asked, already not looking at Alicia any more but fumbling in her huge handbag for a notebook in which she started to scribble busily.

Alicia was glad not to have to look her in the eye. She had particularly disconcerting little eyes, quite unnaturally round and pinkish in the middle of bristly lashes, oddly like those of a scared piglet behind her severe spectacle frames. Alicia took a deep breath. ‘She
should
have come this morning,’
she said, ‘but she didn’t turn up. And it’s my belief I know why.’

Miss Midgley heard Alicia’s story with barely concealed impatience, tapping her biro tetchily on her notebook. She didn’t even let Alicia finish her conclusion, which was going to be that the only solution was to stop Pearl coming and send a white English help instead.

‘I’m sure she did nothing of the sort, Mrs Queripel,’ declared Miss Midgley. ‘Let’s be reasonable. Whoever would have left a window open, deliberately – if that’s what you’re saying – in this sort of weather?’

Alicia glared at her. You stupid fat cow, she thought. I could teach you a thing or two! One read about it all the time in the papers: ruthless crooks exploiting the helpless innocent elderly in their homes, tricking them into signing away their life savings, changing their wills.

‘Let’s hear no more about it,’ Miss Midgley went on. ‘I came to wish you a very merry Christmas and not to listen to such a load of nonsense.’

Alicia said nothing. There and then, she resolved to say nothing for the rest of Miss Midgley’s visit and reduce her to humble apology by her remorseless silence. But the pent-up force of all the words she was swallowing set her coughing and her coughing brought Miss Midgley to see sense.

‘My, you have got a bit of a cough, haven’t you?’ she conceded uneasily. ‘Has your GP been round?’

Alicia wheezed and shook her head.

Miss Midgley made another note. ‘The trouble is, we all have so much on our plates at Christmas. Still, it’s that dear Dr Chowdhury, isn’t it? I’ll see what I can do.’ She held her biro poised. ‘Is there anything else, while I’m about it?’

Having worked at her coughing a little, for maximum effect, Alicia now found she couldn’t stop. In the middle of a particularly throttling bout, it occurred to her that if you couldn’t get your breath for long enough, you died. She shook her head.

‘Nothing?’ Miss Midgley said. ‘Are you sure? Speak now or, as they say, forever hold your peace, because Lord knows when I shall next be able to fit you in.’

Whatever was throttling Alicia suddenly broke free and
shot out into her handkerchief. Clutching it to her lips and hoping that Miss Midgley had not noticed something so disgusting, she shook her head again fiercely.

‘OK,’ Miss Midgley said jauntily. ‘Then I must be on my way, I’m afraid.’ She stood up. ‘Anything planned for Christmas? Shall I put you down on my list?’

‘List?’ said Alicia.

‘Christmas lunch at Jarvis House, remember? I think you’ve joined them before, haven’t you?’

Alicia remembered a dismal year when, at her wits’ end, she had allowed herself to be driven in a minibus to an institution full of dribbling old dodderers without teeth or brains, and had sat all day, fuming with indignation, as a succession of amateur performers without skill or talent had galumphed their way through a series of dreadful ‘entertainments’.

‘No, thank you, very much,’ she said firmly. ‘I’ve got my Christmas all fixed up.’

‘I know mixing isn’t always easy,’ said Miss Midgley, ‘but it would take you out of yourself. And there’s no charge, of course.’

‘I’ve got my Christmas all fixed up,’ cried Alicia. ‘A quiet day on the Saturday, in memory of my dear departed, and a visitor on the Sunday.’ She didn’t let on of course who her visitor was. She didn’t like to be reminded that Alison had been supplied to her by Miss Midgley’s officialdom too. She hoped that Miss Midgley would have forgotten the moves she had made to arange for a visitor. Luckily, she seemed to have done. She eyed Alicia suspiciously. ‘Well, we wouldn’t want to force you, Mrs Queripel.’

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ Alicia answered tartly. ‘Don’t let me keep you.’

Poor Miss Midgley started as if she had been stung. She gathered her big bag and her papers and she dithered near the doorway. ‘Don’t hesitate to contact us if you’ve got any problems, or if you change your mind. You’ve got my extension, haven’t you? The Department’s working until mid-afternoon on Friday.’

Alicia gave a chilly nod.

Miss Midgley regained her composure sufficiently to tick
off the points on her notepad before putting it away. ‘I’ll chase up Mrs Cunningham. Probably just off sick. I’ll give Dr Chowdhury’s surgery a call. And I wish you once again a merry merry Christmas!’

Alicia stole a march on Christmas morning by taking an extra sleeping-pill so that by the time she woke up, the morning was already half-gone. She went gingerly downstairs with an ashtray and a picture, and examined the street from the front window for signs of Christmas Day. It was as empty and sad-looking as could be. She leaned right forward into the bay of the bay window and saw that at the corner of the street even Mr Patel, who had no right to, had locked up his shop behind grey vandal-proof shutters. Every lonely year, it was the same; Alicia expected some visible difference to show that it was Christmas Day, but it was just the same as every other day, only if anything, more so. She went into the scullery and turned the old calendar to December. She put her finger-nail heavily on the twenty-fifth, really to rub it in. She even wondered at one point, dimly, if she had not got the days muddled up. But on the radio they were having Christmas Day. She had some tea and some cornflakes. A cornflake worked its way into her dentures and niggled her until she popped them out. She thought back over forty-one years of married Christmases with Leonard: in Manchester, in Scarborough, in Newcastle, in the boarding-house, back in London in all their various different lodging places, and the final one or two here in this very house. Leonard always gave her a pot plant in bloom at Christmas. He managed to find one wherever they were: exotic hothouse specimens, tropical lovelies which took ill and died in her draughty dressing-room.

When the proper television came on, she went into the front room and watched it. They were all having Christmas Day too. She looked down her nose at a revival of an old musical and a family variety show. She must have dropped off eventually because after a while she noticed that the compère had aged terribly and lost the best part of his hair. She stirred herself and went over to the window again. Some people had already turned on their lights. So there were people in the other houses, they hadn’t all gone away for
Christmas. Why didn’t they make any noise then, give any sign of life? Why did they stay crouched inside behind their curtains as though today were a day of mourning?

It was half-past four. She seemed to have dozed through lunchtime, so she set about preparing herself an early tea. While she was eating it in front of the television, the announcer said, ‘Before the carol concert, you can see a fascinating film about some folks for whom Christmas is a day like any other – our furry friends, the foxes. We’ve got a lovely little wildlife documentary for you, made by Chris and Karen Barrett. It’s called
Foxy
’ and that reminded her of Alison. Why of course, Alison was coming tomorrow and she had intended to spend today looking forward to her visit, but she had forgotten all about it. She bolted the rest of her tea, which naturally gave her heartburn, and sat back to collect her thoughts. She was shocked that she should have forgotten something so important. She did hope it didn’t mean she was losing touch.

By her bedtime, she had everything worked out. She would wear her blue, with the tear-drop earrings, and she would put out the mince-pies on the devoted admirer’s silver-gilt cake-stand. The fox was already wrapped and waiting and she stilled her last qualms by reminding herself that she had nothing else which she could give to Alison, since she had sucked all the sweets herself when she had her cold.

Boxing Day, not Christmas Day, turned out to be the longest day of the year. Alicia had been looking forward to Alison’s visit for so long that by the time she arrived she had already decided that, like Pearl, Alison was not going to show up and all her lovely preparations – the present, the dress, the pies – would go to waste. The sight of Alison bowling down the street on her bicycle made her heart leap up and she greeted her far more warmly than she had meant to. Alison’s gift was much smaller than hers in size, but in a way she was pleased because it would show the fox up to even better advantage. She tactfully accepted Alison’s suggestion that she open her present first and she put on quite a creditable performance of pleasure, she thought, when she unwrapped the funny little brooch inside. Alison’s reaction to the fur was every bit as thunderstruck as Alicia had hoped;
in fact, for a minute she was worried that Alison was going to refuse it. Quickly, she bullied her and there was no mistaking Alison’s delight when she stood up and put it on. She even came across and kissed Alicia thank you, which was more than Alicia had bargained for.

They ate their tea, both wearing their presents. Alison helped Alicia pin the brooch to the bosom of her blue dress and Alicia, after warning Alison to be very careful with tea and crumbs, told her to keep the fox on too so that she could take a look at it on Alison’s shoulders.

‘So what did your Robert give you for Christmas?’ she asked her.

Alison went bright red.

‘Something naughty, was it?’ persisted Alicia. ‘Undies?’

Alison giggled. ‘Oh, he’d never do that. It’s sexist.’

‘Sexist?’ repeated Alicia. ‘I don’t get you.’

‘You know, treating me as a sex object, not a person in my own right.’

Alicia frowned. ‘Sounds like a load of his nonsense to me. I always had a weakness for pretty undies, if the truth were told.’

‘He gave me a book,’ said Alison, ‘and a sort of necklace.’

‘A necklace,’ said Alicia. ‘That’s nice.’ She bent forward. ‘Do you have it on?’

Alison hesitated, then fished beneath the fur and her jersey. It was a flimsy, already almost tarnished little thing, the sort of necklace they had had in the theatre wardrobe for maidservants and ladies-in-waiting, which was not good enough for the noble roles. Alicia didn’t know what to say. She thought: The cheap-skate!

‘It’s from India,’ Alison explained. ‘It’s a special kind of silverwork apparently, which dancing girls wear.’

‘Oh, is it?’ Alicia said coldly.

She was pleased that Alison didn’t wolf a second mince-pie because that meant there were two left, one for each remaining day of the holiday. But she did think that she left a bit sooner than she ought to have done, considering all the trouble Alicia had taken. She said she had to get back for some Boxing Day do, but Alicia suspected she was fibbing;
she looked distinctly ill-at-ease and shifty when Alicia pressed her for more details.