Chasing Men (11 page)

The Sunday morning before Christmas, as she returned from the newsagent’s with a double edition of the
TV Times
, she was about to let herself in when there came an intermittent moaning from the steps above her head, out of her sight. Cautiously, the bulky newsprint clutched under her arm, she tiptoed up to investigate.

A young man was sitting on the stairs, his head held in his hands. From his chest issued soft growls. He sounded rather like Thomas in a bad mood. He wore no coat, gloves or scarf, but was in shirtsleeves and tieless. He was shivering violently.

‘Hello,’ said Hetty. ‘You okay?’

‘What? Where, in God’s name, am I?’ The young man had a superior accent.

‘Clapham. Is that where you want to be?’

‘Clapham? God!’ And he rolled over and put his head between his knees.

He did not look like any of Christian and Markus’s circle, Hetty decided. Markus was in Leeds supervising what he called ‘an intellectual pantomime’, while Christian was playing to packed houses and was in all probability fast asleep in his own bed.

‘Are you with the BJs – I mean, the girls in number four?’

The man groaned, as if such a proposal were utterly out of the question. ‘Who?’

‘Ah – Flo and the other girls.’

The haggard boy opened one eye and peered out between his fingers. ‘Flo? Florence, do you mean? Don’t abbreviate, it isn’t smart.’

Hetty nodded.

‘Black?’

‘Yes.’

‘Frightfully attractive, if you like that kind of thing.’

‘I – I guess so. She has plenty of admirers.’

‘Well, then, I could be in the right place. What time is it?’

‘Nearly eleven.’

‘Saturday or Sunday?’

‘Sunday morning. Eleven a.m.’

‘Christ!’ The boy sat up and scrabbled about wildly, clutching at his shoulders and open neck as if bewildered about the lack of jacket and tie. He twisted about and found his wallet in a back pocket, yelped in exaggerated relief, and jumped up.

‘Watch it!’ Hetty warned, for he was swaying.

‘Father’s expecting me at Simpson’s. Oh, God, he’ll kill me. The state I’m in …’ And with that, he took the steps an alarming two at a time and vanished out into the cold air.

Hetty knocked tentatively on number four. It was several minutes before Flo, sleepy in a pink silk wrap, opened it a crack.

‘Did you lose a young man?’ Hetty enquired. ‘Tall, skinny. Well spoken.’

‘Hooray Henry, you mean?’ Flo was having the same trouble focusing her eyes as the boy. ‘God, Hetty, he didn’t pee on your doorstep, did he? That’s his usual trick. Where is he?’

‘Gone to meet his father,’ Hetty told her, then realised that this message could be misunderstood to suggest the boy had died. ‘His real father. At Simpson’s.’

‘He insisted on coming home with us, but only after he’d filled his car with petrol. It must have taken ages. We gave up on him.’

‘
He drove in that condition
?’

‘Yeah, sort of. His daddy’s a judge. Henry thinks he can do whatever he likes. Master of the universe, him. Sorry, Hetty.’ And the door was closed.

The
Big Issue
seller had a mournful air. Hetty had purchased the magazine from him more than once and had been intrigued at the content and quality of its articles. A whole world existed with which she had had little contact: urban, decayed and self-pitying. The society she had previously kept had been exactly the opposite.

‘Terrible weather,’ she said, as she gave him the pound coin. What did one say to a homeless man? The weather must matter more to him than to most.

He pulled indifferently on the stub of a hand-rolled cigarette and tossed her a copy from a pile protected by a flapping plastic sheet. The greasy jacket was no cleaner than before, though its design had altered. Did he wear his clothes until they were too dirty even for him, then swap them in their entirety for a new set?

‘Can I buy you a cup of tea?’ Hetty said, on impulse. ‘There’s a café opposite.’

The man scratched his tousled head, eyes averted. He’s a marginal improvement on Hooray Henry, Hetty thought, but not much. What possessed me …?

‘Yeah, why not?’ The vendor tucked plastic over the pile. ‘You’re right, it is fucking freezing.’

The two crossed by the zebra to the workmen’s café. In a few minutes the man was wolfing down bread and butter and a vast slice of apple pie to go with the tea. Hetty sipped hers, fascinated and repelled. Behind the counter the owner, a small moustachioed Greek with a mournful expression, eyed them curiously.

‘Fuckin’ great, missus,’ the vendor said, and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. The intonation was Liverpool. The fingers and nails were blackened with grime and endless contact with nicotine. A damp odour wafted from him, but he had shaved within the last two days and the hair was not too matted. Despite the no-smoking notice, he took out a tin and began to roll a cigarette, shakily placing the orange fibres of tobacco one at a time in the flimsy paper.

‘You’re not supposed to,’ Hetty pointed.

‘Fuckin’ rubbish.’ He licked the gum, pulled a stray bit of tobacco out of one end and tucked the meagre cigarette behind one ear. He pronounced the expletive ‘focheen’ and seemed incapable of uttering a sentence without it. Hetty decided to treat its use as the equivalent of a stammer, and ignored it.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Me? Brian.’

‘Brian what?’

‘Brian fuckin’ nothin’. None of your business.’ But he grinned. ‘No offence.’

‘No offence taken. How long have you been selling the
Big Issue
?’

Brian considered, squinting up at the ceiling as if the answer was scribbled in its cracks. ‘Bout six months. Fuckin’ ages.’

‘D’you enjoy it?’

‘It’s a livin’. Of sorts. I get ’em fifty pence each. Anythin’ I make over that is mine. A fuckin’ fortune.’

‘Where do you live?’ An idea had begun to form in Hetty’s mind, to do with
Tell Me All
. Cleaned up, Brian might be moderately presentable. He was certainly less of a fraud than the superannuated strippers or the media professionals like Al.

‘Hey, what is this, missus?’ He had smeared tomato ketchup on two slices of bread and made a sandwich of it. Now he paused with the thick doorstep half-way to his mouth. ‘You some kind of fuckin’ social worker, or what?’

‘No. I work in television. Have you ever been on TV, Brian?’

‘No. Fuckin’ ’ell, who’d want me?’

‘It pays, you know. A bit more than you’d make selling magazines,’ Hetty ventured.

‘What would I have to do?’

‘Tell your story, explain how you need help, how you want to get back to normality.’

‘Oh, yeah. An’ then what?’

Hetty was stumped.
Tell Me All
had no follow-up system; indeed, the team studiously avoided contact with its guests – victims – after the broadcast. Only if a complaint was made
was any kind of investigation warranted. As long as it could be proven that every participant knew exactly what they were agreeing to (and had signed to that effect), and since all had stuck tenaciously to their tales of woe however unlikely, no complaint had been upheld, so far. The entire crew, however, was perpetually on the lookout for authentic oddities, Hetty included, though she had offered Brian tea without any ulterior motive.

‘The idea,’ Hetty said slowly, ‘is that you tell your story, as I say. About a million people tune in every day, and the best episodes are repeated. Someone might be watching who could advise you.’

‘Only if they can make me a millionaire, missus!’ The man cackled, then coughed and banged his chest. Muttering to himself he retrieved the cigarette from behind his ear and, with a belligerent oath towards the counter, lit up. The proprietor slid away.

‘Would you want to be a millionaire?’

A blob of ketchup had spilled on the table. He traced a circle with a grubby forefinger. ‘I was, once,’ he said, or at least, Hetty thought she’d heard it, but could not be sure. He looked up, his eyes dull. ‘’S not worth it, missus. But thanks, anyway.’

‘Merry Christmas,’ Hetty said, and rose, feeling obscurely humiliated.

‘Oh, yeah,’ Brian laughed, ‘merry fuckin’ Christmas.’

The notice near St Veronica’s advertised four special services including Midnight Mass, and three carol concerts. Trust Father Roger not to do things by halves, Hetty reflected. He had handed out flyers and pressed everyone: ‘Bring your family, whoever. On Christmas Eve we have mince pies and sherry. Do come!’

But by Christmas Eve she would be at the health farm with Sally so it was on the Monday beforehand when, muffled up against the cold, she caught the bus.

It felt almost a lark, going out to a strange church, alone, simply for the heck of it. In Dorset she had been a server and had done a stint on the parochial church council. There, church attendance for families like theirs was virtually
de rigueur
. It would have been more of a statement
not
to go. With a guilty start she recalled the two gay teachers who had attended on Sunday mornings, regular as clockwork, for years. She had never exchanged more than a cool nod with them. Why on earth had she bought Brian a meal? Maybe it was the time of year, some vestige of the Christianity she had once taken for granted. But religious feeling had had little to do with it. Freed of some of her former prejudices – wrenched from them, rather, in the case of her new friendship with Markus and Christian – she was beginning, tentatively, to challenge a few more.

What a mixed collection of motives, she teased herself as she alighted from the bus. You’re becoming quite devious. Once, you were a nice woman, if instantly forgettable. Is this a change for the better – or worse?

The church was brightly lit: ablaze with candles, and tinsel, and shiny green holly with fat red berries. A huge decorated tree dominated the entrance. Mistletoe like a pearly fountain hung from a rafter. Beneath, arms outstretched, was a beaming Father Roger. ‘Hetty! Darling lady! How wonderful. Oh, do come here.’ He pulled her sideways. ‘I won’t have the tree and mistletoe inside the body of the church – far too pagan – but that doesn’t mean I can’t take advantage. Mwah, mwah!’

Hetty dimpled. ‘Happy Christmas, Roger.’

He was already transferring his attention to the next arrivals and waved her inside. ‘Sit anywhere. And, mind, I want to hear you
sing
!’

Hetty paused in pleasure at the end of the nave. St Veronica’s was a Victorian stone edifice of no great architectural merit, but it had the grandeur and self-confidence of its builders. Every cranny was adorned with flowers and greenery; the air was heavy with the smell of lilies, and of the incense Father Roger was partial to using in some quantity. His congregation could forgive him: his exuberance and commitment filled the church and the offertory plates, despite the popish smoke.

‘Hello. Didn’t expect to see
you
here.’ It was Doris, dressed in an old coat, a headscarf over her curls. Gone were the lipstick and rouge; if the earrings were still a feature, they were hidden.

Hetty hesitated. Doris patted the pew. ‘Come and sit down. Starting in a mo.’

The whole gathering heaved to its feet as the procession, with Father Roger, several acolytes with silver-plated crosses held aloft, the churchwardens and the entire surpliced choir strode in.

Something was let loose in Hetty. She opened her mouth and sang with enormous relish, savouring the glorious verse and the exquisite melody. When the trebles began to soar with the descant, she followed them, note for note.

Hetty felt a surge of emotion.
Laid her baby
: the sweetest moments had been when the children were small. Little bodies, warm and pink after their bath, asleep on her shoulder. There had been no question about it: then, she had been in charge, her role supreme, in her arms the greatest achievement any woman can know – her own child.

She glanced sideways at Doris and was surprised to see silent tears trickling down the lined cheeks. As they sat for the readings, Hetty whispered, ‘You all right, Doris? Anything the matter?’

‘Nah.’ The voice was muffled. ‘Christmas. I’m a sentimental old eejit. Be a pal – take no notice.’

Hetty fished in her pocket and found a clean handkerchief. Without a word Doris took it and blew her nose.

Heads bowed for the Lord’s Prayer. ‘Give us this day our daily bread,’ Hetty prayed, with some fervour. Not far beneath her surface lay the ingrained middle-class fear of getting into a mess. Singledom, above everything else, meant insecurity.

‘Forgive us our trespasses …’ She hadn’t committed any. Not yet. Or had she? Brian, maybe, though intruding on his grim day wasn’t a trespass, was it? Was she being a
busy-body
? Might she trespass with Al?

‘For ever and ever, amen.’

Hetty stayed kneeling for a moment longer, sunk in rather muddled reflections.

‘You taking the bus back?’ Doris’s tone was noncommittal.

Hetty pulled on gloves and buttoned her coat. ‘I was, yes. You going home?’

Doris nodded. ‘Let’s go. There’s one on the hour, if we don’t dawdle.’

Once installed on the narrow seats of the bus, their coated arms and thighs touching, the slight frostiness of an hour ago was unsustainable.

‘Doris,’ Hetty started, ‘tell me not to be nosy, if you like, but what on earth are you doing in that shop?’

‘Obvious, innit? I work there. Pays well. And they need a mature woman: the youngsters don’t last five minutes. The customers keep propositioning them.’

‘Ugh!’ Hetty shuddered.

‘You should talk, you were a customer,’ Doris replied briskly. ‘Or would’ve been, if I’d stayed in the back another minute. The good girls go off in a huff, see, saying they didn’t realise what they’d let themselves in for. The rest accept an offer and vanish. We’re forever training replacements. It’s quite technical. Got to know your stuff.’