Dear God (13 page)

William crawled out of his bed and again cursed the fact that he didn’t have a dressing gown. He let Ed in and they went down the garden to open up the alleyway door. “It’s all yours,” he said and left them to start their work.

It took them most of the morning to clear the garden of litter and rubbish and all afternoon to remove the shed and its contents. But eventually they began to prepare the ground for the laying of the large plain slabs. Ginger’s plank was removed, leaving him plainly puzzled as to how to get in, and William had to go outside and call him in. One of Ed’s men, Frank, knocked at the back door and asked if William had the cat flap he was supposed to install or did William want him to get it? William didn’t have it and had no idea where one bought a cat flap so delegated this to Frank, who said he would bring one the next day.

Despite all the clamour and mayhem in the garden William remained relatively calm. He hadn’t realised about workmen and tea or coffee and Ed had to practically ask for it before it dawned on him what was expected. That it might have to be provided twice a day was an even greater shock and he watched carefully from the kitchen window in case they ran over the ten minutes he was mentally allocating them.

The installation of the cat flap caused more trouble than the paving of the garden. William and Frank between them spent over half an hour pushing Ginger through one way and then pushing him back the other but the cat was curiously unhelpful. He obviously wanted his own personal plank, as before, but they persevered and when he had eventually mastered it once, they decided to leave it at that and hope.

Two days later William paid Ed in his kitchen whilst looking out onto a perfectly plain, clean surface, with not a plant or bit of greenery in sight.

“Very nice,” he said, liking his minimalist area.

“You could put pots and tubs on it,” suggested Ed.

“What for?”

“Well, for a bit of colour. Wouldn’t look so…grey.”

“I like it grey,” said William. “That’s my idea of a garden. You can put other things on it beside tubs and pots.”

“Such as?”

But William wasn’t telling.

He spent a lot of time looking at his nice, new, clean and tidy garden area. It occurred to him that it might be pleasant to have a table and chair outside. A small table and just one chair. So that he could sit outside and regard his statue. He wondered where he could get one. He didn’t want to have to go back to the garden centre. He didn’t want a posh table. Just an ordinary everyday sort of small table, which you could put a pint of beer on and a plate of chips or something. Perhaps there would be a charity shop on the high street, if he were to get a No. 74 again, one that sold bits of furniture.

So that was three things he had to see to – a small table and chair, a dressing gown and a cheque book. My life seems to be a series of lists these days, he thought. Well, better to have something to do than nothing, I suppose.

There was a bang in the kitchen. It was Ginger using his new cat flap. It certainly made a noise, which William hadn’t been expecting, but it was quite useful really; he would always be aware that the cat was actually foraging in the kitchen for anything left about on the table.

All in all he was pleased. If he could get through this Review, which he remembered was Annual, he’d be safe for a year. They might tell him a few things about the days when. It would be up to him to decide if that upset him and set him off like he was before all this Top God stuff started, or if it settled his mind somehow.

He thought about his last message from the Top God. He’d planned ahead alright. He was going to cookery class in September. Not that he was too thrilled about that, he wanted to do sculpture in stone but they wouldn’t let him. He’d been angry but not too angry. Perhaps he had realised something of what they were saying. He’d kept calm. Well, not calm but he hadn’t given way to the explosive belligerent fury of previous altercations. It was a start, anyway. He still wasn’t clear about ‘Be Yourself’ and ‘See Clearly’.

The next few days passed peacefully enough. He showed his new paved garden to Maisie, when she brought a steak and kidney pudding round one day, and she was, as she put it, gobsmacked. “I don’t know what Phyllis will make of it,” she said, sounding rather anxious.

“Phyllis?” inquired William.

“Mrs. Brenner. She likes gardens.”

“Oh, yes. But she might like this. It’s… restful.”

“Restful? I dunno about that. It’s different.”

“Do you know where I could get a small table from? Just a little one. And a chair?”

“I don’t know. I’ll ask around. It would improve it, in my opinion.”

The day after this conversation, as he was turning into his street after a visit to the mini-market for beer and sausages, he saw the local hospital patients’ bus depositing Mrs. Brenner outside her house. Maisie was with her, carrying her bag and helping her inside. Things were back to normal, then. Would he see Ginger again? He hurried down his street and got to his own front door. When he opened it there was Ginger, eagerly awaiting the sausages, no doubt, unaware that his rightful owner had returned.

William prepared a slap-up meal for the cat and watched him disappear out of the cat flap a little sadly. The afternoon passed by and he ate a solitary meal before going off to the pub. He went a little late this evening but there was no sign of Ginger.

His evening in the pub was somewhat mournful and he drank to try to chase the blues away but they didn’t go away and he was swaying badly as he entered his house. At the end of the evening, Ginger was there, waiting for him in the hallway.

“Well, hello,” he said, as Ginger miaowed a greeting, “long time no see.” Ginger didn’t seem hungry for once and they went into the sitting room together. Later they went upstairs to the front bedroom. William got into bed and Ginger curled up on top of the duvet.

“That’s better,” said William, and fell asleep almost at once.

In the next few days, it seemed that Ginger had himself decided that he would split his time between William and Mrs. Brenner. William would always see him at some point but when the cat would appear he didn’t know. He just heard the cat flap bang and knew his small companion would present himself for a greeting and possibly some food. It seemed a satisfactory arrangement to all concerned.

William wondered if he should call on Mrs. Brenner. Did the social conventions require this? She might have taken one look at her battered garden and lost all faith in her neighbour. Maybe he was no longer a welcome visitor. He worried about this, but in the end he decided to stop being so silly, put on his best trousers, jacket and baseball cap and knocked on her door.

CHAPTER 16

“Well, if it isn’t William,” she said, opening the door wide. “Come on in, I’m just making a cup of tea.”

William entered what was in effect a different world. Her house was of course the carbon copy of his, but in reverse. It was also immaculate, tidy, clean and well-decorated with close-patterned wallpaper. There were shelves, photographs, cushions, furniture, plants in fancy holders. True, it was the home of an elderly lady but it was definitely a home. He thought of his own house, ramshackle, messy and rather grubby. What a contrast!

“I’ve been wanting to thank you for all you did for my Sandy. Now please sit down, I’ll go and get the tea things.”

He imagined her kitchen. Clean and sparkling, everything just in the right place. She probably had a separate drawer for tea towels and things and bowls and brushes for everything. She came back in to the room bearing a tray. Ginger came with her.

Ginger was delighted to see him and came over for a fuss. They talked about the cat and Maisie Watson, about the hospital, about their houses and the council, and it all passed off peacefully enough. She had provided some tempting small cakes and they drank tea and chatted as if they had known each other for years.

William said, “Have you noticed my garden’s been paved over?” He asked rather nervously, half expecting a ringing condemnation.

Mrs. Brenner simply said, “It takes all sorts. You do what pleases you. If you can’t manage a garden, then paving it is the best thing.” She didn’t say a word about his unfortunate mismanagement of the hedge and the mowing. He was most impressed.

She is a bit frail, he thought, less sprightly than she used to be.

“How are you now, Mrs. Brenner? That hospital sort you out?”

“Oh, Phyllis, please,” she said. “Well, not exactly. I know I said I tripped over the cat but I am a bit tottery now. They were on about getting some carers in and if it gets worse thinking about a Home. I don’t want that.” She sounded fierce.

“Quite right,” said William. “You tell ’em. Do you want any shopping done or anything?” he heard himself ask, much to his surprise.

“That might be very useful, thank you.” Mrs. Brenner also asked him about where he got the cat flap from as she thought it would be best for Sandy in her house, too. He said he would give her the phone number of Perfect Patios and also, and here he swelled with pride, his own number in case she needed any help any time. They parted on very good terms and William was very relieved.

When he got home, he reflected on the differences between the two houses. Was it just that Phyllis was a woman and knew about these things? Or had he let everything go so that he lived just on the edge of acceptable? It doesn’t have to be in this sort of mess, he thought, looking round his front room and kitchen. Still, it was his home. It was an expression of himself, he thought. He didn’t need lots of fiddly little shelves and plants and photos, but it should be cleaner and more comfortable. He could improve it all, given some time. And a bit of money.

The days passed by. He went to the bank on the No. 74 bus and this time he asked for a cheque book, which they said they would send him in the post. After that he found the dressing gown shop, where he bought another pair of pyjamas and a dressing gown. All of this was accomplished without a single argument with anybody and he was very pleased with himself. In a charity shop he managed to find a small round garden table and chair for £10 which would suit him very well. It was a bit battered but still sound and they offered to deliver them the next day for £5.

He thought a lot about the Top God. He must send him a ‘thank you’ email. But he had to get this review over with. He was actually very worried about the review. What would that Forbes man say? Had he made the wrong impression on Mr. Forbes? How come his future seemed to lie in the hands of these people? They could decide anything. They had such power. Over him and over Mrs. Brenner. It wasn’t right but he couldn’t fight it. He supposed they were doing their best, in their own way.

He also thought about his brief fling with a motor scooter. So far, nobody had mentioned it. He hadn’t had it very long, of course, and he really hadn’t known any of the neighbours at that time, but it worried him slightly. He decided that if challenged he would say it hadn’t suited him and he had got rid of it. Maybe he had had one ‘on trial’. Yes, that would suit. He’d had one on trial and he hadn’t liked it.

The day came for the delivery of the statue. William was full of anticipation and excitement. When the doorbell went he and Ginger, who had come in for some extra breakfast, hurried to the front door. But it was only the table and chair from the charity shop. They looked very homely on his paved back garden area.

“I shall have my breakfast out here, Ginger,” he informed the cat. But setting up his meal outside made him realise that he had to carry all the things out that he required. “Bloody nuisance how one thing leads to another,” he muttered. “Now I’ve got to buy a tray.”

Later, the statue, in a big van, arrived. William directed it to the alleyway at the back. Various neighbours watched with great curiosity and, as it was hauled out of the back of the van and on to a large trolley, with great amazement, as Night Vision made its appearance.

It stood, big and uncompromising, on the large, plain slabs. There was the upraised arm, the fist clutching bits of wire or flex, there was the twisted foot, there were the two merged figures, one holding a remote control. The colour of the stone seemed to change with the sunshine, sometimes there was a hint of blue, sometimes a pale yellow. William had the statue facing him so that he could see the bright blood-red bar that crossed the statue in the middle. He had it placed centrally in his garden. There was no way you could miss it. Not that he wanted to miss it. He thought it was wonderful. Nothing had pleased him so much for – well, years.

Neighbours looked down with disbelief from their upstairs windows. Some tall ones peered over the fence at the bottom of William’s garden. One man lifted up his little boy to have a good look. “What’s it look like?” he asked his little boy.

“Well, it’s a bit like two Daleks and one of ’ems got a bad foot,” he said. “It’s really good, Dad.”

Maisie Watson arrived bearing a cherry pie and an expression of consuming curiosity.

Confronted by the statue, which she was shown by a very proud William, she was speechless. “What is it called?” asked Maisie, that being the only thing she could think of to say.

“Night Vision,” said William.

“Why?”

“No idea,” he said, a bit reluctantly. “Artists have their own way of looking at things you know.”

“It’s a bit scary, I think. What’s the remote control thing for?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t start the whole thing up.”

William thought that was funny and he burst out laughing, which was something he hadn’t done for a very long time.

Later, Mrs. Brenner came in, bearing a large pot of geraniums for William’s desert of a garden. When she saw the statue, she had to sit down on William’s new chair and put the pot on the table as she stared open-mouthed at Night Vision.

“Well, William, you are a one!” was her considered verdict, after much thought. “Never thought you were so…” she struggled for an appropriate word, “artistic.”

Many of William’s neighbours found an excuse to call on him in the next few days to see the statue as news of Mr. Penfold’s extraordinary launch into the post-modern art world became generally known. The local newspaper sent a reporter to take photos; they tried to track down the sculptor without success, so made do with a photo of William beaming happily by the side of his new possession.