Imperfect Strangers (15 page)

CHAPTER
21

With several episodes and not much sleep, i
t was a restless morning in bed. Still, I stole what sleep I could manage and left the house much too early to meet with Sally at one o’clock. With almost two hours to kill, I go into the library. In here, around the musty smell of old books, I instantly feel comfortable. Even here, in the section housing books about computers, I feel at ease. Already I’ve selected two books and have them tucked under my arm as I scan the shelves in search of more. None of the titles indicate that any of the remaining books will be of any use, and realising I haven’t the time to start trailing through contents pages, on the verge of giving up, I stand aside to let the librarian restock that particular section.

“Ah, just what I was looking for,” I say, taking the book as she proffers it to me in response to the statement.

“Photoshop for beginners?” she reads questioningly, before letting the weight of the volume transfer to my own hand. “What’s that about then?”

“It’s about altering images. Making pictures look how they were meant to be.”

“You certainly read an eclectic mix, Keith.”

I like the fact that the librarian knows my name. One rainy afternoon, sitting at a desk with an array of books before me, I pondered over why it is that I like the library so much, and
I came to the conclusion that it’s because I belong. Here I am known, have been since the age of eight when I chose to shelter in the company of books rather than at home. I could easily spend this entire Saturday here too, but, unexpectedly, the outside world is now opening up to me.

In one hour and twenty
-seven minutes I am to have my very first date. I am meeting a beautiful woman in a cafe. I will buy the drinks of course – that is only proper. Hopefully, she will have tea. I don’t want any bad smells bringing the acrid tightness and spoiling our afternoon, especially as little Keith seems to have heeded my request and kept quiet.

When Sally and I have chatted for a while
, I fancy I will ask her to accompany me to the cinema. It’s all planned. Set out in my head. Theoretically rehearsed. I prefer things that way. Planned is safer. Organised makes me less anxious. Provided it goes to plan, that is. After the cinema we may go for dinner. Somewhere quiet, I think, somewhere cosy and intimate.

The librarian has moved on without me realising, and for a moment I wonder if I had a small episode. No, I decide. Daydreaming, that’s all that was. I shuffle over to a table where I can peruse the selection of books and wait until two. Ten minutes earlier than that would be best
: one-fifty. I don’t want to risk being late.

Must stick to the timing. That’s important. Be punctual.

CHAPTER
22

Poppy, my
sister’s daughter, struts by my side, swinging her non-existent hips and checking out her reflection in shop windows. “Remind me to get toilet paper on the way home,” I tell her. “Only I’ve run out. Had to use newspaper this morning.”

“Oo-est!” Poppy rotates her shoulders and tips her head slightly, before raising a palm as if to stop traffic. A
manoeuvre I recognise from the Hollywood-teen-flicks she watches. “That is, like, so gross, Sally.”

Poppy now refuses to use the word, aunty, apparently, on account of it being,
like, so last century
. I chuckle at the thought, that if Poppy were not my own sister’s child, I would – actually I wouldn’t. I adore her and all her Jacqueline Wilson inspired insolence, which is swiftly moving towards mournful vampire adoration.

“Gross, is it? Just see that you remind me then, or you’ll be using newspaper too.”

“Will not, I– Oh wow, Sally look at that. It is, like, so me.”

I roll my eyes, purposefully theatrical, and backtrack to the spot where Poppy has been snared b
y a designer-label’s window dressing.

“Come on, Sal,” she says, already heading for the entrance. “I simply must try it on.”

While I cannot help but admire Poppy’s taste, we’re already late. My eyes are at that moment drawn to an exquisite pair of shoes, and, looking at the grubby flats I’m wearing, I’m tempted to go in and buy them. But no, we’re already late. Besides, I wore these flats for a purpose. Wore them, and every single other item, for a reason. The underwear too, bizarrely. They’re part of what I like to call my grunge-look. Both the clothes and Poppy’s company are intended to let Keith know, beyond-a-shadow-of-doubt, that this meeting, for a drink, in no-way-what-so-ever, constitutes anything, even near to bordering, even-in-the-slightest, any such thing, even close to a date. He is doing me a huge favour walking Sukie in the day, but he seems to enjoy walking her, and he seems to look much happier these days. We’re just two friends stroke acquaintances who are having a coffee together. That is all. These old knickers are really comfortable; I might take to wearing them all the time.

In two long strides of my flats, I catch up with Poppy before she turns into the doorway and arrest her shoulder.

“No you don’t lady, we’re already half an hour late.”

“But, Sal–”

“No buts. I agreed to take you shopping while your mum sorts some business out. But I also told you I was meeting a friend for a drink.” I resist saying while your mother goes to the solicitor’s with the intention of cleaning out your father’s bank account. I also resist the desire to complain about my sister swanning in as if I have nothing better to do, even though – apart from the wedding – I’ve not seen hide-nor-hair of her for over fourteen months, in which time Poppy changed from a sweet little girl who used to call me Aunty Sally into a precocious little sod who now calls me Sal, and that with a look bordering on contempt that I interpret as
how poor are you
? A look bred of the fact that she lives in London and I live in Sheffield; a city, I would add, if I were to mention it, that her mother grew up in before marrying her banker-husband and moving south.

“Sal, that’s like so unfair.”

The pronunciation of unfair, the second syllable of which rolls with a distinctive
fayer – unfayyyer
, makes me smirk
.
You’re UK, I want to tell Poppy, not LA. I don’t, however, because deep down I love the little tyke.

“So, who’s Keith, then?” Poppy questions, rolling her head across her shoulders. “Like your new guy, or what? And what happened to Steve?
He
was
the cool-est.”

“Stev
e is history because he’s a... a not very nice person. And Keith is just a friend. And we’re just meeting him for a coffee.” Because I feel sorry for him having to live with an old lady who shits behind the sofa, and to thank him for walking Sukie in the day when I’m at work. “After that we can do more shopping.
If
you behave. Now hurry up, because we’re forty minutes late as it is.”

“Is that him?” Poppy enquires as
we exit the Winter Gardens. Keith is standing outside the cafe looking straight ahead like some kind of motionless mime artist. “Oh. My. God,” she continues, not waiting for my reply, “That is him, isn’t it? What
is
he wearing? I mean, is that jumper knitted from wool or vomit? And what’s with those trousers, ankle wafters, or what? And why is he holding an old-ladies shopping bag? That is just so lame?”

I have to admit, albeit secretly, Keith does look a state. Somewhat like a tramp
that has walked naked into the Sally-Army place and come out with the worst that charity had to offer. The jumper resembles chip-shop-left-overs: mush-pea-green swirled through yesterday’s spilt and now-turned-brown ketchup. The beige trousers, baggy at the knee, ride so high that the tops of his ruckled socks are almost visible – unless they’re knee length of course, which wouldn’t surprise me. But the mustard coloured bag, leatherette, scuffed on the corners, zip across the top, is just too much. Were I not with Poppy, had I not wished to give the lesson that people should not be dismissed on appearance alone, I know I would turn on the spot and walk away. As it is, I am with Poppy, and much as my self-esteem is dragging me back, drawing me away from this encounter, I am determined not to flee. Besides, Keith chooses that very moment to break from his mime routine to check his watch and spots me. Does he have to wave like that, bordering on hysterical, his face open with the broadest of smiles.

“Like, O-M-G
! He is so-ooo lame.”

“Poppy, stop it. Now be nice. Or else.”

“Take a chill pill, Sal.”

“Poppy.” I growl, while struggling to construct a smile as the distance between us and Keith
shrinks.

             
*  *  *

I can’t believe this is actually happening. Sally is here and all the noise and bustling commotion that was beginning to make me feel so uncomfortable – traffic noise
; road works with noisy swearing workers; frantic shoppers – fades to insignificance. I’m so elated. To be here on the verge of my date with Sally, it’s like being encapsulated in a bubble of perfection.

“Hi Keith, this is my niece, Poppy.”

Her voice sounds so sweet. “Hi,” I say, my diaphragm all of a quiver.
Niece? Poppy?
I look into Sally’s eyes, and the words have little meaning.

“Whatta freak.”

“Poppy!”

St
anding by Sally’s side is a young person. She’s glaring at me with schoolyard contempt. Sally taps the girl’s shin with her toe and amid Poppy’s complaint I realise that she is with Sally. I recall Sally saying the word
niece
: female daughter of a sister or brother. All the plans I had in mind dissolve.

“My sister popped into town
on business, and landed me with Poppy. Sorry, but I had no choice really.”

“Landed with
?” says Poppy, rolling her eyes. “Charming!”

I can’t guess at her age, but to my ears she sounds like a miniature adult. It’s horrifying, this situation, this circumstance. I need to go. What to say
? Make an excuse. What excuse though?
I forgot to feed Mrs. Seaton
, maybe? Or,
I think she may have accidently got locked in the coal-bunker
.

“Poppy, will you–
I’m sorry we’re so late, Keith. Bet you thought I wasn’t coming. Still we’re here now. We can still have a drink, can’t we?”

I tilt my head to look down on Sally’s n
iece. Poppy. She looks up at me; her smile broad but not necessarily genuine reminds me of Heather. Poppy’s ocean-coloured eyes are like Sally’s, but they don’t have the little green island. They sparkle somewhat, which should indicate sincerity, but children are especially devious. A dusting of freckles kisses the bridge of her button-nose and spread to invisibility on slightly chubby cheeks. Some might think her cute, but to me she looks like a munchkin who wandered far from the yellow-brick-road while tormenting my Dorothy to go back to Oz. She’s wearing makeup and it looks too old for her features. I remember girls of this age, of this ilk, from my own childhood, and I’m certain they can’t have changed for the better in a few decades of time. Still, she
is
Sally’s niece, and Sally is bound to be fond of her. Therefore, in order to impress Sally I have to be nice to the niece.

“Hello, Pop-
Pop-Poppy.” I push the bag-handles into the crook of my left arm, and holding it there, lean forward and thrust my right hand in front of the young girl’s face. “P-Pleased to m-meet you.”

Poppy slaps my hand rather than shake it. “Pop-
Pop-Poppy! Like it,” she says with enthusiasm. “What’s with the old-lady bag?”

“Poppy! Sorry Keith, s
he’s a bit–”

“No, It
– it’s all right. It is an old-lady bag. Used to be my M-Mother’s. But it’s p-perfect for carrying b-b-books in, look.” I unzip the bag and show Poppy its contents: seven books in total, all large, all hard bound, just the way I like them, old-smelling and dusty looking.

“Oo-est, b-b
-books! What a–”

“Stop it!!
NOW
!!” Sally throws Poppy a scowl of warning and holds up a carrier bag with a flashy looking label printed on the surface that looks to contain an item of clothing. Poppy looks to be afraid of it, but an expression of relief comes to her face as Sally lowers the bag, and she looks up at me with a warm smile.

“Sorry. I mean, books,” Poppy se
ems to struggle in her search for appropriate words to describe what she means, and I realise I can help her. Sally beats me to it.

“Are an interesting pastime,” Sally offers.

“Yeh, past time,” Poppy agrees before leading the way into the cafe. “So past time, like history,” I hear her mutter into her shoulder.

I’ll give her my offering for the value of reading many books.
“If you read lots of books, you n-never struggle to find an ap-appropriate word.
Pastime
, for example, is not actually to do with the past, but is related to a hobby – a w-way to spend your time, or a way to pass time by.”

Poppy shows her appreciation by tipping her head to her shoulder and giving me the broadest of smiles I’ve ever seen.

When we are seated, and Poppy selects the most expensive milkshake on the menu, Sally rushes in an offer to buy the drinks. I rummage in my bag, trying my best to remove a note from the old-lady purse without Poppy seeing it. “No let me.”

“I insist,” Sally replies, laying a hand on my forearm. “Least I can do when we we’re so late.”

My insides swirl at her touch and cause an embarrassing swelling in my groin; knowing it will soon be an erection, I cover it with the old-lady bag. “Alright then.”

“Cappuccino?” Sally asks.

“Yes, please.”

Typical, I think, when the drinks arrive, that something as exotic sounding as Cappuccino would turn out to be nothing other than a fancy name for coffee, just as bitter tasting and with the
same acrid tightness that lingers in its burnt-toast smell. In an attempt to stomach it, I spoon sugar after sugar into the cup, take a sip, shudder, and place it onto the table. Two minutes later I repeat the procedure, but even with all that sweetness added it still tastes as bad.

“Just popping to the loo,” Sally announces, wiping foam from her top lip and raising her eyebrows at Poppy. She stands without another word and makes her way around the tables toward the rear of the room.

*  *  *

Poppy looks at me from over the top of the tall glass, its frothy coating hiding all but her piercing eyes as she slurps the last dregs. She leaves the glass where it is, places her elbows on the table and cups her chin in her hands. The pose reminds me of a picture I once saw in a book.
The scream
it was called, except at the moment I am the one who is screaming. I am screaming silently in my head, because I haven’t got a clue what to talk about to a young girl who makes me feel extremely nervous.

“You don’t like coffee do you?” Poppy asks, though it sounds more of a statement. “I know you don’t, because when I tried to like it once I kept putting sugar in and it still tasted just as nasty.”

How do I answer that question without looking like an idiot? What am I supposed to say? You’re correct, I don’t like coffee, but I ordered one anyway? Thankfully, I don’t have to say anything because the waitress appears as if coming to my rescue. She enquires if we have finished, to which I nod as she takes the empty glass from Poppy. The waitress hesitates as she lifts up my almost full cup, allowing it to hover just above the surface of the table.

“You can take it,” Poppy says, not looking at the waitress, but keeping her eyes fixed on me. “He doesn’t like coffee.”

The waitress takes it, and I think I’m going to have to tell her to leave Sally’s where it is, but she doesn’t even try to take it. When she’s gone Poppy says, “She just meant me, actually. They always come and ask that question if the kid’s finished, it’s because they think parents will buy the kid another if the glass has gone from the table. Mum told me, it’s like psycho-logi or something, like the parent will think people are looking and thinking that they haven’t bought the kid anything to drink, so they will like buy them another.”