Fly in the Ointment (11 page)

And then the boy turned towards me. His whole demeanour changed.

‘So,' he said coldly. ‘Who are you after? Me – or Janie Gay?'

‘After?'

‘Oh, don't play games! I'm good on faces. I recognize you from poor old Mally's funeral. We had you sussed even back then. You have to be some sort of police nark.'

I don't know what came over me, I really don't. I'd wasted all those hours inventing stories about starting a local playgroup, wanting to know if Janie Gay would answer a survey on shopping patterns, or asking if she had seen my missing dog.

And what came out?

‘Nonsense!' I snapped. ‘I'm not a police officer. Nor some undercover agent or part of the drug squad. I was at Malachy's funeral because I'm a social worker and Malachy was on my files. Now I've moved areas, into child health, and so I'm here to
check that Laurence has reached his first-year developmental milestones.'

‘Milestones?'

‘You know. What he can do. And what he can't.'

Was the defensive look clearing? ‘Really? That's all you're here for?'

Oh, I was on a roll. ‘Didn't you get the appointment card? That tells you what it's all about.'

He looked a little shamefaced. ‘Sorry. Didn't see that.'

‘Well, never mind. It's perfectly simple. If Janie Gay's not here, I'll just go through things with you.' I started scrabbling in my bag for a pen. ‘So, just to get things straight, you're . . .?'

‘Me? My name's Guy.'

Who would have thought I had it in me?

‘And I'm Mrs Kuperschmidt.'

YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE
what you can learn in half an hour when you've a smiling and cooperative baby and a relieved young man. I must have left that house the most satisfied grandmother on earth. Laurence could walk. He could say ‘Dada' and ‘milk' and ‘more' and ‘no' and ‘munny' (for monkey; there was no sign of my cuddly owl). With lots of encouragement he could do a fairly neat job of clapping his hands together and waving goodbye. He could run cars up and down the plastic ramps of his garage.

And he was cosy as toast with his new Dada. When I was leaving (‘Well, that's all
splendid
, Guy. Nothing to worry about at all') he clung to his protector's legs and stared at me with those enormous eyes.

‘Will you be back?'

I hedged my bets. ‘Somebody will,' I said. ‘For the
next milestone check. It might not be me, of course.'

‘Shame,' he said, with only the statutory tinge of sarcasm I guessed a young man of his sort would feel obliged to show to anyone in authority. I walked out with that feeling of exhilaration you get from realizing you've done exactly the right thing at the exact right time. The child was fit and happy. The boy was a born father – better, I had to admit to myself, than Malachy would ever have been. During our unofficial interview I had found out that he was born in Dover, had a string of sisters younger than himself, a mother with three separate jobs, and he'd moved north to work in a stables. (In spite of the motorbike cluttering the side path, it was, it seemed, horses that were his passion.) Then he'd been sacked. I didn't learn the details, but sensed it might be something to do with petty theft. He had run into Janie Gay on a night out, and though he never said as much, I had the feeling he'd been on the scene before my Malachy. Now he was back again.

And I was grateful. Frankly, I could have turned and hugged him at the door. Now I could walk away, shrug off the pall of worry hanging over me, and get on with my life. I could –

But what, exactly? Water the plants in my arbour? Sit at my desk and stare out at herons and swallows? No. Something about the rush of relief that I'd been
feeling must have taken hold. Restlessness spread. Instead of going home, I drove to the canal and walked along the path – not to where Malachy drowned; I went the other way, through the park scarred with signs and past converted mills. Something was shifting inside me. I felt different. It was a growing sense of freedom, yes; but much, much stronger than the mere shelving of responsibility.

And then I realized. It was the end of my old life. My long, long convalescence from living with Stuart and raising Malachy was over.

Time to stop sleepwalking and start again.

The things I did. Ceramics. Salsa dancing. Italian classes. It was a massive change. I wasn't used to going out, or having fun, or even throwing myself into things with enthusiasm. Always before, there had been something eating away at my soul's edge that spoiled things like that. I probably inherited the feeling. When I looked back, I realized that my parents had never belonged to any clubs or societies – even avoided going to other people's homes. If there was any excuse to turn down an invitation, they wouldn't hesitate to use it. When it was hard to refuse, they put on brave faces but took no pleasure in the prospect. All of my mother's concern fell on to
what she should wear, what time they should arrive, how long it would be best to stay and whether or not they should take something with them. (If so, what?) She wouldn't talk about these deep anxieties, but I'd drift home from school and, going up the stairs, see her forlornly staring into her closets, and guess what was on her mind.

By the time the day came, the problem had loomed over her so long she was exhausted. She'd put on whichever skirt and top she had decided was the least unsuitable, and inspect herself in the mirror. There'd be no satisfaction in this appraisal. She might as well have been – and probably was – checking for stains and pulled threads. The faintest sigh would give me to understand she'd passed her own unsmiling test. Then she would turn to my father, and carp at him until he finally looked as close to what she called ‘right' as they could manage between them. Then off they'd go, as if to their own child's funeral. Brave. Hopeless. This must be
endured
.

When they came back the only mood was of relief. ‘That wasn't too bad, was it?' ‘No,' – and this added in a tone of guarded astonishment – ‘I quite enjoyed it. They were very nice.'

In my own marriage, things weren't all that different. Unlike my parents, Stuart wasn't ill at ease on social occasions; he simply couldn't be bothered to
get involved in them. Throughout the month I might make a string of suggestions. ‘Shall we invite some people round for a drink?' ‘Want to go out to eat tonight?' ‘Perhaps on Friday we could see a film?' He'd shrug. And, rather than face the fact that his sheer lack of response had cast a pall over the notion, I'd tell myself I hadn't been that keen in any case, and let the matter drop. The very few times I did complain that he'd ignored a suggestion, he turned defensive. ‘I never said I
wouldn't
.' Or, ‘All right, so I didn't bring it up again. But neither did you.'

It's not till things change that you realize how they were before. I didn't tell myself, ‘Lois, it's time to loosen up,' but that's what happened. Everything about my life became more cheerful. The people at work noticed the difference in me. Instead of keeping up their habit of discretion, one by one they cracked. ‘You're looking very merry, Lois. Had a nice weekend?'

And I would tell them. One day I came in cheerful because the Italian lesson of the evening before had done no more than cover trodden ground and I had realized just how far we'd come. The very next morning I heard myself bewailing the fact that for the second week in a row the salsa class lottery had landed me with the partner I'd privately dubbed ‘Clumsy Claud'. I wasn't just more chatty about
day-to-day matters. Now I began to let things drop about myself and my life. I wasn't fully honest. But I did gradually let it be known I had a marriage behind me, and a divorce, and mentioned Stuart's cousins in South Africa often enough for Dana and Audrey to assume that's where my husband had gone. I even told them that we'd had a son (they were quite shocked) and left them with the half-truth, ‘There was a horrible accident and he was drowned.' I'm sure they came to think that when I'd first joined them in the office I'd still been eaten up with grief and only now was coming to life again.

Yet it was not ‘again', but for the very first time. I look back now and I can count them off: the first professional auburn streaks through my hair; the first bright colours in my wardrobe; the first strappy sandals; the first garden lounger (though there was barely room for it to be unfolded in my small arbour); the first solo holiday (Gerona! With waiters patient enough to listen, and charming enough to commend me on my Italian). I even gathered my forces to ask Mr Hanley for my first rise. (‘Odd you should mention that, Lois. For some time now I have been meaning to call you in.') And, when I came out, it was mine.

I even had a fling. It was so odd to find myself in bed with a man again. He had the strangest way of
wrapping his legs round mine to pull me closer. He certainly gave me pleasure – far more than Stuart. He brought us little treats to eat in bed. He had a fund of very funny jokes, and he was easy company. One evening he came round in tears because he'd learned the family dog had been run over. ‘Can we watch telly, Lo? It's all I'm fit for tonight.'

We watched at least four solid hours of rubbish. ‘Christ, this is
crap
!' he kept on saying. But whereas Stuart would have managed to make me feel I was to blame for that, Dan said it happily in tones of growing admiration that one show after another could be so poor. The worse they were, the more the two of us began to enjoy them. Just after eleven he picked up his coat. ‘I'd better be off, Lo. Early start tomorrow. But thanks for a
lovely
evening. I feel a million times better.'

I heaped the coffee cups into the sink and went up to bed singing. So when Dan finally admitted how much he felt for me, it was a wrench to have to tell him that we couldn't carry on. I wasn't in the mood to let even a shadow of a guilty feeling back in my life. He was relieved. I begged for one of the photos of his three children mucking about on a beach. The youngest had a port-wine stain across her cheek. (‘They'll have a go at it, but not till she's older.') I told him I'd like to keep the photo as a talisman for
lonely moments. His children looked so happy, it would remind me of why I'd been so firm in seeing him off.

But after he'd gone, there were no lonely moments. Oh, I had loved his company. But I liked being alone. I don't remember ever feeling bored. The days sailed past. And every few weeks I'd take the time early on Saturday morning to drive to the Forth Hill estate. Sometimes I'd park a little way along the street. When the For Rent sign went up in front of the house across the fence from Janie Gay's, I even took to saving time by driving past slowly, as if I were simply one more house-hunter trying to decide whether to make an appointment to view. A single glimpse of a tall, easy-moving, floppy-haired shadow moving behind the window would be enough for me and I'd be off, back to my plants or my Italian grammar. I didn't even try to fool myself that I was there to look for Larry. No. I was there to check my living, breathing conscience was in place.

Guy. The very sight of him lifted my heart. His loping stride. The way he'd race along the pavement, pushing the stroller at breakneck speed, then stop it dead to send Larry into paroxysms of excitement. ‘Again! Again!' The way, on bright mornings, he wouldn't bother with the pushchair at all. ‘No wheels today, Larry boy.' He'd brush the raindrops off the
motorbike seat, plonk on the toddler for the statutory pretend ride (‘Brrrrm-brrrm! Brrrm-brrrrrm'), then lift him off and swing him up on his shoulders as easily as if the child weighed no more than air. He'd grip the chubby legs. Larry would plunge his fingers into the mop of marmalade hair that never seemed to grow longer, and off they'd go, ducking under next door's already leaning For Rent sign, along to the park, or to buy bread, or cigarettes for Janie Gay. I didn't stay to find out. I'd simply lower the map behind which I'd been hiding, a middle-aged woman in a parked car – who'd notice me? – and drive off home. If Larry had Guy to watch over him, all was well with the world.

And then, one February morning, my ministering angel was gone. His bike no longer leaned, dripping with chains, against the garden fence. The lights in the house came on, and when I drove past for the third time, the downstairs curtains had been drawn back at last. But though I sat there for a whole two hours, no one came out. I thought about knocking on the door with some excuse or another, but didn't dare. I went home, spent a sleepless night, and was back first thing in the morning, ready to wait all day if necessary but convinced that Janie Gay would come out some time, if only to buy cigarettes.

And I was right. I'd barely watched the house for
half an hour when a fierce rapping on the glass behind caused me to yelp with terror. I spun around. Sure enough, Janie Gay was leering at me triumphantly through the passenger-seat window. Either she'd been out all the time, or she had suddenly noticed me sitting so quietly in my car and left the house by her back door to sneak around behind me through next door's garden.

I'm not a fool. I let the window down less than a hand's breadth.

‘Think we're all fucking
blind
?' she spat at me. ‘Think I'm so fucking thick I don't even notice when someone like you parks on her arse for hours in front of my house? Think I'm too fucking poor to have a phone, or too stupid to use it?'

She was grasping the rim of the window with both hands, working up her temper. I thought the glass might break. She was already too fired up to worry I might tip the control button the other way to send the window up and trap her fingers.

I was in the worst panic. But into my mind came a trace memory of myself storming out in just the same way to accuse Tansy's boyfriend of spying. It gave me an idea. ‘Don't be so silly,' I snapped at Janie Gay. ‘I'm not even
looking
at your house, except in so far as it's next door to mine.'