Imperfect Strangers (8 page)

“To think, I’ve often felt sorry for you.”

She was a big woman. Strong. Menacing. But as much as she was causing me pain while dragging me down the garden path, I knew it was nothing compared to the what-for that Mother would unleash on me.

CHAPTER
11

The episode lasted for almost a full hour and came on quite unexpectedly. For some reason my left ear throbs with a memory of h
eat. Maybe I was leaning on it.

G
etting here was a real rush, but I made it on time. I lean against the wall of the end-terrace and try to look casual, though I feel anything but with the newspaper delivery-boy glaring at me like I’m some kind of weirdo. If life
was
a jigsaw, if this picture of street and boy delivering papers was a set of pieces waiting to be fitted together, I’d rip the piece containing the boy into as many small parts as I could manage.

I wish I could throw my anger at him, properly, but I didn’t even protest when he banged into me
, as he rounded the corner some mere moments ago. When I was a child, had I done such a thing, I would have apologised at once: S
orry mister
, I’d have said, all servile and bashful. This boy delivering the papers though, he had not been the slightest bit bashful. Rather than deferential, he’d been intimidating. And you never know with kids these days, he could have a knife or anything. The collision was clearly his fault, and he simply swaggered on the spot, ear-plugs hissing in his ear, his cap pulled down, his eyes glaring from a gloom of menacing shadow. He probably wanted trouble, but moved on when I did not react. And now, some mere moments later, leaning into the weight of his bag, he glances back at me from every door.

I had hoped that things such as this would change; that older years would bring with them some respect. I’d hoped that being an adult would be easier than being a child. I now realise that age alone does not bring respect. There is no natural order to such things. You either command it or you don’t, it’s as simple as that. I can’t comma
nd it. I never have been able to, and I probably never will. Yes, if that boy were a jigsaw piece, I’d rip him asunder. I’d rip his impertinent head from his shoulders and fill the gory hole in his neck with bleach. Yes, I’d fill his throat with bleach while the lungs are still gasping for air.

Wattalukinat
?

Calm, now.

Checking my watch, I take a quick look around the corner and allow my eyes to travel along the tree-lined avenue, squinting against a low sun that shimmers through spice coloured leaves. Like the sunlight on the birthday card, it is full of promise, a glimmer of something that might be. The scene would be perfect were it not for an empty crisp packet that swirls in the breeze. Round and round it goes, rising then dipping to scratch the tarmac.

What’s for dinner
?

Crisps In’t Pantree.

Crisps in the pantry. Yes. And bleach. And rags. And the scrub brush. And a soaking rope.

Prying my attention from the hypnotic packet, I send my gaze along the house fronts opposite.
They are quite new these ones, and lined up like offspring of the older terrace housing on this side, the older houses that would have once commanded an enviable view of the park. When my eyes reach the end of the row they turn the corner and venture up the hill, beyond the T-junction, and on towards the park. Through the park gates I strain, trying to see further than my vision will allow. Sally is either later coming home than usual, or I have missed her. No, that can’t be right. I made up the lost time by rushing. I didn’t even pop into Del’s to buy a sandwich, and now my lunch box is empty. She’s either late or going elsewhere before going home. I look back down the avenue, searching for sign of her. She has to come my way. I have to bump into her today. Have to. It’s all planned.

Twent
y minutes have passed. The newspaper-boy is now returning on the opposite side of the road. I’ve ignored him before, on the other days I have stood here, waiting. They were just watching times, though, not like today. The boy elevates his swagger as he passes, crosses the junction, and heads down the avenue of newish terracing. I ignore him, pretend to have not noticed his return, and look up the path into the park.

No sign of her yet.

A wordsnake stirs somewhere in the depths of me.

Across the iron-gated entrance rushes a grey squirrel, its sleek body rising and falling like a wave. Two more skitter down a tree to join it
. Entertained with their comings and goings, I relax. Such things help to subdue the wordsnakes. This is short lived though, as Sally comes back into my mind. Sometimes just
being
can be too unbearable. I think about the weeks of indecision, the looking and longing and the despair of wondering if I will ever have the courage to ask her.

T
he word-snake begins to uncoil.

Whojathinkyar
?

Exactly! Who do I think I am?

Little Keith must have been a cute boy. Heather liked him, didn’t mean to get him in trouble, apologised when her mother wasn’t watching, so he must have been. But as he got older he must have turned ugly. At some point I grew out of him and turned ugly. Ugly and strange and alone.

Whojathinkyar
?

The longer I wait
, the more scenarios of how this could go terribly wrong enter into my thoughts. I feel that I ought to forget it. Sometimes Sally emerges from the park; sometimes she saunters along the avenue. To just bump into her unexpectedly, unprepared, in the wrong place, might be worse. Best to stick to the plan. Routine and precise planning are among the things that help me to cope. Take library books for instance – a set time in which to read it – three weeks – twenty one days: count the number of pages, divide by twenty one, then read the calculated number of pages a day. Easy.

Yes. Best stick to the plan and wait here.

I like it best when she comes through the park. I stand here and I watch. When she turns left at the junction I rush up the road to watch from the corner as she glides along the pavement to her house. I watch from there until she enters, wanting, but not daring to approach her, certainly not daring to talk to her. Today though, the day of my birthday, I’m determined to do it. I’ve planned it. It will look casual, as if I just happen to have crossed her route by chance. I still have nearly an hour to spare before work. There’s still time. It’s not quite falling apart just yet.

I dare to hope that she will ask me in for a coffee. Ask me into the house that I’ve watched her enter so many times in the past. That’s why it has to be here and not halfway across the park. That would be a chance encounter too, certainly, but one which will be a quick hello and goodbye at best. H
ere, close to her home, there is a chance of more.

I live just down there
, she’ll hopefully say,
Come in and have a coffee.
Naturally I will accept, even though I do not like coffee. I will say,
yes I would love to
. Can’t stand the taste of the stuff; the smell reminds me of burnt toast. To be polite I will say yes, but when I’m in the house I will request a cup of tea instead. I’ve not planned the encounter further than that, but I’m certain it will pan out. Yes, that’s it. Pan out – like swilling a dish of dirty silt-water and finding a nugget of gold.

The swaggering-boy has gone now. He’s disappeared around the curve of the avenue following the line of ornamental-cherries that look so amazing when in blos
som. Blowing a sigh I take a quick glance at the time. She’s much later than usual. Once more I look into the park watching the squirrels that take my mind away from wordsnakes.

*  *  *

Unexpectedly warm for mid-October, the sun is blazing onto my back, so I take off my jacket and fold it over my handbag. A perfect evening to have walked through the park, and watch the playful squirrels, but I went the long way home to call at the chemist for something to settle my stomach. A cold ripple swirls in the shade of the cherry trees, and my front feels the contrasting bite of a shadow-cooled breeze. It tingles my bare arms, puckers my skin into tight buds, like miniature flowers closing against the cold. I’m tempted to put my jacket on, but I’m almost home.

There’s a boy approaching me, grinning and then chuckling as if thinking back on something that amused him. A cap hides his eyes, but I guess he’s looking at me when his expression changes. No-doubt he will stare at my chest when he gets closer. The cold has played on my nipples and I can feel the hard rise of them poking at my bra. Perhaps I should be annoyed; Kerry would be.
What you staring at you little wanker
, she’d likely snipe
.
Or perhaps I should be embarrassed like Colleen. Or flirtatious like Philippa; pull my shoulders back and make them stand even prouder. I won’t react like any of them. I’m the type who simply accepts a situation. Boys will be boys. They can’t help it. I don’t like to blow my own trumpet, but I have been told I’m an attractive woman. That he will look is to be expected.

The boy passes by, swaggering now, his head swivelling.
When he’s behind me, his eyes will likely drift to my bottom – my best feature, Steve always said. The thought sends a little shock to the space between my ribs, and an unexpected wolf-whistle makes me start. I can’t help but smirk as I think of the tirade that Kerry would throw.

I’m tempted to turn round and say something like,
come back when you’re a little older
, but even as I think the words they sound old-fashioned, and more than a little naff. But then I hear the pounding of feet and realise that, maybe out of embarrassment, he’s running away. In almost the same instant I realise the footfalls are not departing but approaching, and I hear a shout that makes me cringe.

“OY! You
, you little perv.”

Recognising the voice
, I stop on the spot, pinch my lips and turn to see Steve fast approaching and waving an angry looking fist at the young lad.

“What?” The boy sounds a little confrontational, but his bravado quickly diminishes, as Steve, towering over him, grabs the strap of his delivery-bag, pulls him forward and scutches him around the head.

“What do you mean, what?” Steve pushes the lad away, striking his shoulder with the heel of his hand. Steve then reels him back with the strap and drags him in my direction, scutching the rear of his head again when he gets close. “Tell her you’re sorry.”

“Leave him Steve.” I grab the strap of the boy’s bag and try to pull it free of Steve’s grasp. “He’s just a kid.”

Steve lets go when he sees I’m not impressed. The lad sprints for a fair distance then slows to a swaggering backward gait.

“Didn’t you get the message outside the office?” I don’t wait for a reply and walk purposefully away. The rebounding ring of my heels chase
s an echo along house walls, making me sound even more purposeful than I intended. “Just stop following me, Steve.”

“Freak,” The boy shouts from a distance. “Wanker.” I turn to see him giving Steve rods with both hands. Steve whips around, his posture implying that he is about to give chase
. With a look of panic, the boy sprints further along the street.

Jogging to catch up with me, Steve huffs, as if amused. “Cheeky little git,” he says, leaning into me with a broad smile on his face.

“No, the kid’s right.” My voice is sharp with contempt, and for once I have no problem holding onto it. “You are a freak. Following me home like this. Like some kind of... some kind of stalker. What did you do, anyway, jump on the back of my bus.”

“No. I caught the
next one, and ran to catch up.”

Ran to catch up. T
hat’s just typical of him. They’re only ten minutes apart at this time of day, but he’s not even out of breath. He wouldn’t be. That, after all, is how fit he is. Such stamina gained from landscaping gardens and playing rugby at weekends. I’ll miss his stamina if nothing else.

“Freak.” I step up the pace, more a statement of independence than an attempt to get away.

“Sally, just... Sally, listen. Slow down. Sal. Stop a minute, will you?”

“Get it into your head, will you Steve, we’re through. Done. Finished. Terminated. Wound-up. Concluded. Need any more? We have reached the land’s end of our relationship and I’ve set sail in search of new shores. I’ve had it with guys like you. Tall, well
built, good-looking you might be, but you think you’re god’s gift. You’re too in love with yourself to have any left for me. What do they call it, arsenistic? Yeh, that’s you. You’re in love with yourself. You’re arsenistical!”

“I don’t..
. I – ”

“I’ve had it wit
h your type, Steve.”

*  *  *

When I see Sally approaching I feel like running towards her. But I don’t. I manage to stop myself and take a minute. Wordsnakes come more readily when I’m nervous and can very easily bring on an episode. I don’t want that, so I draw a deep breath and hope to keep them in the dark. “Okay. Calm, steady, breaths.”

This is it. Now. Now is the time. Now. Right here. This is the moment.

My vision is a tunnel with semi-opaque walls and focussed on Sally, everything outside of it a blur.

Now or never.

Be calm. Breathe steadily or you’ll stammer
.

Okay then
.

Sally looks to be setting a fast pace and, unexpectedly, looks somewhat angry. Someone’s told her what I’m up to. No, nobody knows. Maybe it’s not a good time. My heart feels as if wants to break through the space between my ribs. I’m not managing to breathe slowly, and with quick sporadic gasps am only half filling my lungs which makes me feel light-headed. Just watch her like I’ve done before, maybe that would be best. But I’ve determined that this is going to be the day. My day. Now or never. The day of my birthday. As the tunnel of my objective begins to collapse
, I become aware of the man two or three paces behind her. He’s the exact opposite of me. Large. Imposing. Good-looking. He must be her boyfriend. It makes sense that Sally would be with such a man. I feel as if I’ve woken from a glorious dream with such an immense sense of disappointment that even the shallow breaths threaten to fail me.