Imperfect Strangers (4 page)

Keith, the night security guard, suddenly rushes out, and even though my little group is ten metres away, he holds the door open and stands there, waiting, desperately failing to prevent the leaves from blowing past him.

Philippa shields her mouth and partially turns to Kerry. “Talking about empty vessels, she could always use Keith.”

I knew it. Put himself right in the firing line and dragged me out of the trench with him.
Bang bang, Sally, you’re dead
.

Kerry turns to look at me, her face
such a picture of disgust that anyone would think I’ve actually done it with him, with Keith, of all people.

“He’s way too limp,”
Kerry states. “Better you stick to the bottle, love. It might be cold but at least it’s hard.”

“It’s contents taste better too,” Philippa shrieks.

“Oh, you are hilarious,” I mock, prodding Philippa in the back while throwing Kerry a grimace of disapproval. A sad sap he may be, but no one deserves the mick taken right in front of their face. “You should be on stage, Pip.”

Keith must have heard Kerry’s comment, for his cheeks flush crimson
, and he casts his eyes to the floor. “M - mornin’ ladies,” he says in a voice so quiet and unassuming it could very easily have been the rustle of leaves tumbling past him. “S-S-S-Sally.”

Fan-bloody-tastic. More ammunition for Kerry and Philippa to fire at me. Just like playing kiss catch at school; I get captured by the smelly kid.
Sallyan Dennis sittin in a tree, K, I, S, S, I, N, G.
Five feet beyond Keith, en-route to the lifts, Philippa and Kerry explode with laughter. Philippa has to hold her stomach she’s laughing so much.

“Stop,” she gasps. “Stop, please, it hurts. Stop, please
; you’re making me pee.”

Kerry’s in full flow now, mocking Keith’s stutter, and flicking her tongue like a snake. “S-S-S-Sally.”

Even Colleen giggles, though, to her credit, she looks rather guilty for having done so, and then looks embarrassed as people in the foyer stare at us.

Turning back to the door, I give Keith a straight
-lipped smile before mouthing, ‘so sorry’. He gazes at me intently, not the kind of look most guys give – eyes roving, trying to imagine you with no clothes on – but it’s just as penetrating and makes me feel uncomfortable. A hesitant smile trembles across his face, then he beams, and the look I found so disturbing has completely gone. Weird. Maybe it was just my imagination. I should have just ignored him, pretended I don’t care that my friends can be so cruel.

I turn back before entering the lift, expecting him to be gazing after me. He isn’t, and that’s good, but I can’t help feeling sorry for him. For just a moment back there, I was the horrid little brat in the playground again: shouting for everyone to just shut up, and telling smelly-Denni – much louder, and much nastier than necessary –
to bloody well let go and don’t bloody dare try to kiss me, ever.

The sorrow in me climbs to a higher level as the expectant rainfall times itself perfectly and falls on Keith, the solitary being still out there.

Had this scene been in a film, Steve would have said something along the lines of:
As if
.
Look at how the rain held off until the sad sap left the building. Are we expected to believe this is real life
?

Sad Sap. Are they Steve’s words or mine? I think they’re mine. Christ, deep down, I’m as bad as Kerry. I watch as Keith descends the steps, already drenched, his clothes as heavy looking as my insides feel
. I determine to be a better person in future.

Next time I see Keith I’m going to ask him how he is, or something equally as pleasant.

CHAPTER
4

The rise and fall of the leaves blowing against the doors remind me of Sally’s star globe. I’ve taken a break from the book, letting its weight rest on the reception desk, as I look over the top and watch golden leaves whirling in the cold breeze amid people arriving for their morning’s work. To learn anything from a book, to absorb the information and remember it, I always make sure to read twice over at the very least. Occasionally, I make notes. I’ve made notes on this book, and am now skimming through it a third time, pausing over things like dates, place names and song titles, testing myself and firmly fixing them into my memory. Arthur is in the back room making his first cup of tea. My lonely shift has finished, and I could leave for home if I wished. I’m not ready to depart just yet though. The angel’s missing from this leaf-blown globe, and so I return to the book:
Dream Come True: The Leann Rimes Story
. The first part of the title could be no more perfect; I can only hope it is another sign.

Mother’s voice has been vicious for as long as I can remember, but never more so than over the past few days, victoriously filling me with doubt. Sally’s smile will make it al
l right though and confirm that I didn’t imagine this in the first place. If she doesn’t smile at me then I’ll know. It will be hard, but I’ll move on, return to my prior acceptance of never ending solitariness. So I’m sitting here, behind the desk, waiting, my eye catching on the word reception mirrored in the polished surface. Eight-thirty-nine. She’ll be here soon. Arthur returns, approaching the desk with a steaming mug of tea. He probably wants me to give up the seat, but he can wait.

“Not in any rush to get off then, Keith?”

“No.” I look up and catch Arthur looking over my shoulder, before returning my focus to the glass doors, to the wind-blown leaves and the steps leading down to the street.

Someone has
borrowed this library book before me and folded down various page corners. I find such vandalism intolerable. The books should be checked on each return and examined for damage. Some people even write in them! They should be fined, and then banned from borrowing any more books. People cause damage and get away with it. Anything can be used as a marker, so why spoil the book? I place a library slip into the crease where the pages meet, before closing it and placing it on the desk.

“Good book?” Arthur leans in and scans the title. “Singer isn’t she? Wife likes her, I think.”

Arthur’s okay, but he’s a bit nosy, always asking how I am, or what I’ve been up to over the weekend. I slide the book from the desk and slip it into my bag.

“You like her then?”

“My favourite singer.” The past few days have made this statement a truth. I don’t see his reaction as my eyes are firmly fixed on the glass doors and the leaf-strewn vista beyond. “Did you know,” I continue, seeing it as an opportunity to practice, “she was only thirteen when her debut single,
blue
, was released?
And
by the age of twenty-four she had sold over thirty-seven million albums? She was born on August 28th, 1982, in Jackson Mississippi.”

“An
d my specialised subject is... Memorised the whole book, have yer?” Arthur chuckles. He picks up his tea when I give no answer. It must be too hot, because he puts the mug to his mouth and pauses for a moment before placing it back on the counter without taking a sip. “You should come to my local, join our quiz team. What was it you were reading about last week? Lighthouses, wasn’t it? Yes. Saw the book poking out of yer bag.”

I pretend to not hear and continue to gaze beyond the glass. Half my mind is elsewhere: rehearsing the text in the book.
August 28th, 1982
.
August 28th, 1982
.
Jackson Mississippi
. If she smiles, I’ll talk to her about Leann Rimes. And then I’ll ask her.

“Not that I were snoopin’ or nowt,” Arthur says, as if he knows I’m only pretending to not listen. “I just saw it like, when yer were fillin’ in yer time sheet.” Once again Arthur picks up his mug. It will still be too hot. “Any reason?” Arthur slurps at the tea, sucking more air than liquid. “Any reason, that yer hanging back, like? Only, you’d normally get off home straight away.”

I don’t look at him. “Meeting someone.”

“Oh, right.
Right
... Anyone special?”

“What?”

“The person you’re meeting?”

“What about her?”
             

“A she then?”

“Yes.”

“Is it anyone special?”

“Yes, very. Erm...” What should I tell him? “Girlfriend.”

“Girlfriend, eh
?
Right
... Good for you. Tea’s too hot.” Arthur places his mug on the reception counter before picking up a rich tea biscuit and biting off the edge so he can dunk it. “What’s she like then? Bugger!”

I pull my eyes away from the door and smirk at Arthur trying to scoop the escaped half of biscuit from his tea, pointlessly burning his fingers as it irretrievably sinks. “Beautiful.” Back to the door, the wind-blown leaves and the steps leading down to the street. “Really nice. Polished girl-next-door type, you know
? Pretty, but not in an obvious way, not in a harsh way. Not like a model or anything. But, you know, real pretty. Good bone structure. Silky hair. Nice knees.” I would say upturned teardrops, but it would be wasted on Arthur.

“Bloody hell.” Arthur sets his mug aside.

There’s a trail of biscuit scum around its edge. I would have to chuck it down the sink, and make a fresh cup.

“You’re chatty this morning
… Nice knees, eh?” After a moment’s hesitation he says, “listen. My granddaughter’s having an engagement party, Saturday 29th. Week next Thursday. Why don’t you come? Bring your... What’s her name?”

I’m not going to tell him. I’ve said too much already. Besides
, I need to focus now. The timing has to be just right, like it’s just coincidental or something. So I watch intently, focussing on the door, and the twirling leaves, and the steps leading down to the street.

“I’m certain Becky won’t mind if I invite a friend. She’s good to me like that. Edith’ll be there. The wife. You can meet her. She’d like to put a face to the name.
What about it then? Keith?”

She’s here
.

“Go
t to go.” I jump from the seat, grabbing my bag as I round the desk. I bound across the tiled floor, crash through the doors and stand there, holding them open. I went too quickly. Bother. Now I look like an idiot standing here, waiting. Not natural at all. Not the impression of chance occurrence that I wanted to give.

“Keith,” Arthur shouts, “Shut the bloody door
; you’re lettin’ all the leaves in.”

I’ve more to worry about than leaves. Arthur can clear ’em up
. I pretend I can’t hear him. What else has he got to do anyway? Daytime security is a doddle. No wonder he’s fat, sitting behind the desk all day, drowning biscuits in his too-hot-tea, simply noting who comes into the building and who goes out, no patrolling floors, no checking empty rooms, no punching cards to prove he’s doing his duty.

Sally l
ooks as beautiful as ever, but she’s not alone. I’d best talk to the others, too. She’ll appreciate that. Most of the books I’ve read indicate that women like it if a man makes the effort to get along with her friends. If you can get the friends on side, so much the better, goes the advice.

“M - Mornin’ ladies.” I felt the heat in my cheeks while waiting for them to approach. I can’t tell what they’re saying, but I guess it’s about me, and it w
on’t be anything complimentary. I don’t like the one with the black hair. She makes me feel nervous. She’s glaring at me, and I know I’m going to stammer, but I have to talk to Sally. Can’t ignore her now. “S-S-S-Sally.”

She’s going to think me an idiot. I c
an’t even look at her. I have to though, before she gets in the lift. The one with sculptured hair and the one dressed like a tart are laughing, at me most likely. Sally mouths some silent words to me.
So so me
, I think, but that doesn’t make sense, and I’m confused. I look at her, willing her to say it again, willing her to come over and talk to me properly. I try hard to determine the true colour of her eyes, but she’s too far away.

So so m
e?
That can’t be right.

Do you like me?
That must be it. And realising what she’s asked me, I smile back, content to determine her eye colour the next time we meet.

CHAPTER
5

The deluge that began on the office steps has slackened to something less than drizzle: a heavy mist, floating down with seeming indifference, as if in no rush to wet the ground. I’m not so much walking on a cloud as through one. Walking on cloud nine. I never liked that saying. Nine is such a horrid triangular number. A drowned rat in the mist, I trudge through streets of terraced housing, my hair plastered down, feeling as if my head has shrunk into my body. I have a gloomy sense of alienation, surrounded as I am by damp greyness, and a feeling that everything about me is being slowly smothered by everything else.

“Should’ve left the note instead,” I complain, muttering into my chest, pleased that Sally smiled, but angry that I didn’t have the courage to walk back into the entrance and talk to her.

The street up ahead is deserted but for wheely-bins that, in these modern times, seem to have seniority, rightfully guarding their claim to the middle of the pavement. As a second-class commuter then, I have two choices: either scrape against walls encrusted with years of grime, or step into the gutter. Bins that once sat in back-yards awaiting collection by strong-backed bin-men now stand out here blocking my way, placed there in readiness for swift-moving refuse-collectors. This world, this modern world, is against me. I dislike the world in which I live. I hate people. Not Sally, of course. The others. Just the others. In particular I hate the one whose hair is sculpted to look like a dead raven, its wing tips framing her ears like male sideburns. Hard-faced bitch! It was her fault that I got nervous; it was her fault, because she looked down on me like I was a piece of crap blocking her path.

I’m giving the bin before me a similar look. Over the lip o
f the bin, trapped by the lid, hangs a straining plastic-bag, and spilling from it a mess of god-knows-what (something spew-like), stew by the looks of it. No, not stew I reconsider, not with that mustardy colour. I step closer to the kerb-edge to avoid it, and as the stench invades my nostrils I realise it is baby poo. The sour curd of it catches in the back of my throat. The kerb-edge is worn smooth and greasy. My ankle twists painfully, as my foot slips off the edge and splashes into the flooded gutter. Spilling over the top of my shoe, the cold water comes as a shock. Feeling that I might actually fall, I instinctively push down on the bin lid. The white plastic splits, and loosely folded parcels flop into the puddle, opening and emptying their contents as they plop.

Fuckin’ typical!

Gutter-mind.

I ignore her. Nothing she says can make me feel worse than I already do. It was absurd to think that Sally would even contemplate being with someone so unfortunate as me. Left to
use her own mind, maybe there would have been a slim chance, but not with society looking on. People interfering. Not with a sculptured hard faced bitch to turn her against me.

Good boys don’t use foul language
.

Fuck off,
Mother
, you and your everlasting-voice. She would have washed my mouth out for far less than that. The taste memory of green soap froths in the back of my throat. I remember the carved-symbolic-shape of its fat-nappied baby rubbing against the surface of my tongue. The stench of nappy-crap floating from the parcels, and the memory of the taste on my tongue makes me gag. Imagined it may be, but with it comes the threat of overwhelming recollection.

* * *

I snap back to reality with a shudder.

M
y left foot is in water, numb to the point that I can no longer feel it. With a bone-shaking tremble I realise how achingly cold I am. How long did the episode last? Mere seconds? Minutes? Down the street, moving away from me, there walks a postman who occasionally glances back.

S
pattery rain has washed away the mist. I’m soaked right through and dithering.

With an uncomfortable squelch in my step, mustard coloured slime coating the trouser end of my left leg, I continue the further twenty yards to my house.
My house
. Mine. No longer hers. Mine. That has to count for something, owning my own house. The bricks are dirty though, much dirtier than neighbouring houses, with crumbling edges merging into blackened mortar. Grinning through the gap of the frayed net-curtain sits a pottery-bulldog – a seaside bingo prize that’s older than my memory. Red electrical tape circles and holds the break in its neck, and its gaze draws me to the tufts of moss growing in the crumbling putty. At the other end of the ledge a desiccated spider-plant sends out a tendril of viviparous babies in search of water. It’s my house now, but it feels like it still belongs to her. I grimace at the bulldog while worming a wet hand into my soaked trouser-pocket. Eventually, with much the same difficulty, I withdraw my hand and the pocket follows; a white flag of surrender giving up the cartoon-style key, its chrome finish pockmarked with rust.

The key’s teeth
, and likely the lock’s interior, are worn through years of use and I have to manipulate it – twisting and probing until, eventually, the lock clicks into submission. Even this simple act of unlocking the door becomes more and more of a struggle. I shake from my head the negative thought and force the door free of its swollen jamb with a strike of my shoulder. Turning the light on and off, on and off, and finally on, I then step into the front room. The light shade has a coating of dust that absorbs the light, preventing it from lifting the comatose-like greyness of the space.

“Mrs Seaton,” I call out, trying to take the serrated edge of bitterness from my voice. “Mrs Seaton, I’m home.”

I switch the light off and think of cleaning the shade, or removing it altogether. Perhaps I could fit a brighter bulb. It would be a waste of time. Even a hundred watts, two hundred come to that, could not lift this room. Nothing could push aside this gloom. The problem is not a lack of light, but life. The carpet, once strikingly patterned in vibrant reds and oranges, looks dull and listless. Woven string-backing shows through a pear shaped patch: fat in the middle of the room, narrowing as it nears the fireplace. Against the wall furthest from the window, sits the dark-wood sideboard. Once richly polished to the lustre of freshly fallen conkers, it now stands almost black: imposing, like an oversized coffin, gothic in appearance, its surface sticky with years of grime.

You let it get like this Keith. Yerascruff.

Ignoring mother’s voice, I look at the room as if through someone else’s eyes, as if seeing it for the first time, as if wondering what Sally would make of it. She would see my house as a dark and fetid hole. It smells of decay, nauseatingly so, a mix of damp and grease and mould. I kick off the wet shoes, and wonder why, after all these years, does it suddenly bother me. It’s not just the house, I realise, as I bend and peel away the once-black socks. My feet are dirty, damp with gunk between the toes, my nails over-long, yellowed and rough-edged. Sally wouldn’t like that. I make a mental note to trim them when I next take a bath.

Is there any point?
I can’t help but wonder.

“Mrs Seaton,” I call, louder now, while hanging my coat on the peg by the door. Beads of rain seep from the
seam at the bottom as well as from the cuffs and hang laboriously before dripping to the carpet.

“You in, Mrs Seaton? I’m home.” I hear the anxiety in my voice. On a day like today, even the company of Mrs Seaton is better than none.

The mail on the doorstep is damp. The topmost envelope – a brightly coloured offer of affordable holidays abroad – has been torn into concertina-strips by the letterbox and its over-zealous spring. Holding the clammy wad in my hand, idly flattening the concertina with my thumb, I step into the centre of the room. I can feel the carpet’s skeleton on the soles of my feet, and the cold, tacky, oilcloth beneath.

Through the gloom of the
kitchen a black shadow appears, and I place the post on the mantel. She hovers a moment, as if weighing up the atmosphere. Deciding all is well, she mews and trots towards me.

“There you are.” I try to sound happy, as
Mrs Seaton winds through my legs, purring, her tail coiling up my calf. Her black fur is damp on the surface, but soft and warm underneath, not sculptured, not severe like the black hair of that hard-faced bitch at the office.

That’s a nasty word, Keith.

Sorry mother
, my younger self automatically answers.

I sneer at little Keith’s supplication, but his was a different time, different circumstances. Difficult and scary. I bring saliva to my mouth
and swill away the mind-taste of soap with a swallow. The cat’s purring increases in volume as she rubs her warm head into my frigid shin.

“You’re always pleased to see me, aren’t you, Mrs Seaton? Yes, yes you are.”

She looks up at me looking down at her. We hold each other’s gaze a moment, before Mrs Seaton cries, long and loud.

“I suppose you want your breakfast?” She mews a reply. “I should get out of these wet clothes first.” Catch my death.

Would that be so bad?

I make no move for the stairs
, even though the clothes feel uncomfortable and cold on my back. They suit my mood. Besides, as a child I got used to having wet clothes dry on my skin. I am no longer a child though. I can decide for myself, and I will change. I will put on dry clothes, and if it means another load of washing this week then so be it.
She’s
not here to complain about the extra work.

Having changed, s
tanding back in the living room, taking pleasure from the simple delight of dry clothes, I sniff, screw my nose, and glance at the empty litter tray. There’s a sour-tang of something over-ripe in the air. This place is a mess. Maybe the smell is coming from the dirty plates and take-away food cartons that have built up on the coffee table, but I don’t think so. The mountain of silver trays – crusted in hopeless-brown, with pools of vibrant grease in the crinkled corners – do smell, but the aroma of them is still quite pleasant. It is definitely a litter-tray stink and I eventually trace it behind the settee. I’ll clear it up later, when I’ve tackled the mess on the coffee table. Time you sorted your act out, Keith.

Mrs Seaton mews from the kitchen doorway. “Yes in a minute. Soon as I’ve checked the post. You do know what day it is?”

As I look at the pile of mail the mantel-clock ticks loudly. I breathe slowly, calmly, in readiness to quell the disappointment. Prepare for the worst; it’s the best coping mechanism I can think of. Today of all days it is a delaying tactic, a momentary pause before sorting the post. I shuffle through the damp letters with anticipation and can’t help but grin as I skim all but one of them onto the table.

This is the one I’d hoped to find. The envelope is not brown, nor is it printed in eye-catching colour. It is white and rigid. The address is hand-written in blue ink, proper ink, from a fountain pen. The scrollwork is neat, fancy even, perfect, but for the ink spread by damp into the fibre of the envelope. Somebody out there knows what day it is, somebody at the far side of the world, but still someone that knows and has taken the trouble to mark the occasion.

Mrs Seaton curves through my legs. “It’s come,” I tell her, and decide to celebrate by having the fire on. “On the exact day too. Not a day early. Not a day late.” Collected dust smoulders as the single bar comes to life. Momentarily, the tang of excrement in the air increases. When the bar radiates from grey to a dull-red, as if drawn by a magnet, Mrs Seaton settles into a tight coil before the tiled hearth. The dull-red brightens from scarlet to a flaming orange, which looks out of place in such a gloomy room.

This has not always been a gloomy place, but to my memory it has never been a happy place either
. As I look at the fire my eye catches the missing corner of a grey-tile to the side of Mrs Seaton’s head, and for a moment I see a ghostly image of my younger self, sitting there.

She threw the scrub-brush at you didn’t she?

Yes, but I dodged to the side, and it broke the tile.

You got some what-for for that.

At the time, mother wore a floral dress.

Her hair, a muddy brown streaked with grey, was drawn into a loose bun. Standing behind her, in baggy-kneed pyjamas, a bowl of steaming porridge in my hands, I
trembled while waiting for her to position coals around kindling. Deliberate, regimented placing of the coals, kindling flames licking her fingers, as I struggled to silence the chattering of my teeth lest she take it for impatience. When the flames took hold, I sat and ate the porridge that had thickened through cooling, tough and chewy bits dried on the spoon.

Waste any if you dare
.

While I ate
, she had her breakfast in the kitchen – burnt toast; always burnt toast.

It
s acrid fume catches the back of my throat. I watch her tie the apron around her waist. She ties it tight, so tight that it cuts into her flesh. Then she tightens the bun and polishes the sideboard. Her face tightens, and she scrubs and forces beeswax into the grain. There’s a mark on the top; I saw it while waiting for the fire to be ready. It wasn’t me. She’s rubbing it as if trying to get through to the underside, fingers gripping, knuckles as hard as bone-coloured marbles. I look into the fire. I don’t want to see her tightly pinched face. I don’t want to be looking when she turns and blames me. The coals
glow red, hot and red like dirty knees rubbed raw with Vim. And the bed sheets will stay clean and spick and span and smooth. And you will not play football in the street. And you will not scuff your shoes. And scrub-brushes leave heavier welts than willow canes
.
And then there comes pain, her piercing nails in the flesh of my shoulder. And then... and then –