Little Fingers! (14 page)

I cannot live
in this world. I hover over the surface of life, occasionally
dipping my toe in, but refusing to go in deeper, even up to my
knees. I cannot imagine immersing myself in it. I would never get
out. I would slip into a relentless, unpitying, unsatisfying,
interminable life. I would become a zombie bumbling around the
everyday of shopping and gossiping and television. My God, what a
terrifying fate! I couldn't even be sure of being allowed to die,
or of when.

My mother was
always half out of this life, from as early as I can remember,
forever knocking back pills like peanuts, and being carted off to
hospital to be pumped out. “Isn't it nice to have your mummy back
again, dear?” Oh yes, and for how long exactly this time? “She is
rather weak, though. You will have to look after your mummy, won't
you?” Excuse me, flittery thing, I am five, my mother is a
grown-up, isn't someone meant to be looking after me, indeed us?
Louise here is this squirming, howling baby lying on the sofa. What
is anyone doing with her? I try to help. I have even attempted to
change her nappy. That was really messy. “Oh dear. Baby's nappy has
come loose. Poo everywhere.” No, it didn't come loose. I tried to
change her. Give me some credit you blind old bat. Oh well, by the
time mummy is dead, I will probably know how to do it.

Just imagine
that, at the age of five I was counting the days to when my mother
would die. How can a child know all about death at the age of five?
Well, I didn't know all about death exactly, but I did know it
existed, and that my mother was heading straight for it like a
kangarooing old banger, stop-start, stop-start, stall, re-start,
splutter. I did not think about what would happen to me, us if she
died. I only knew that she would not be there, and that left a hole
in my stomach. What I did not know or expect was that Louise would
be dead before her. I am glad that I did not even consider this,
although when she was a baby I would probably not even have cared.
Babies are not really human to a small child. They are an
articulated disposal bag waiting to be something.

My crazy
mother! It is small wonder that I never really entered this earth,
given that she was so desperate to leave it, and that we barely
passed on the stairs.

Sometimes when
I hear a low-pitched radio squeaking slightly a long way away, I
think that is what life is like - a distant voice played over the
airwaves almost out of earshot.

Alone in this
house, my telepathy is like that too. Thankfully, there appears to
be a geographic limitation to it. Really strong emotions, like when
Sam and Brian are together, sometimes march in and bang me over the
head, but usually it is a low-level wisp of sound.

Is this what
it is for God? Quiet babbling whispers across the universes? Is
that how He bears it? In that case, lucky for Him because when I am
with people, it is like a crowded pub on New Year's Eve, everyone
shouting and passing thoughts around over other people's heads for
friends to reach over and collect, with much incidental spillage of
emotions.

I sometimes
wonder whether my telepathy isn't a madness, whether a wire wasn't
left buzzing loose during the operation, short-circuiting my mind.
I discount the thought because what people say and what I hear them
thinking appear to be closely related, except when they intend them
not to be (which is 50:50) but that could all be a delusion too, a
déjà-vu, a false belief that I am making two elements connect when
there was only ever one.

Anyway, it is
a constant social tinnitus I suffer from, illusory or
real.

Hell, I am
bored of all this soul-searching. I am going to kick off my shoes,
hug Gargoyle close (“Hello, boy! Hello, boy! Hello, boy! Did you
miss me? Ah! The tongue! Gargoyle, that is disgusting. Do it
again.” - Frank returned him this morning), open a bottle of
fridge-cold chenin blanc, strip a bar of chocolate and vegetate in
front of a film. I need to drown out the noises from my own head,
generated by me.

Perhaps my
whole crusade is wrong. Perhaps I should go and kill a real
dictator after all, and not trawl these village green fiends. I am
beginning to feel sorry even for Mary Knightly. How much trouble
can she be?

* *
*

“
Father! What
a pleasant surprise!”

I am not
thinking of Mary Knightly, which is unusual when I visit this part
of the village. As I leave the jangling bell of the post office and
turn left towards the Hanburgh Arms, my first flash of thought is
invariably that I will be passing Mary Knightly's house from the
back, where she parks their car. Will I see her?

Today, I have
someone else on my mind, because my ex-Mary (and indeed Frank) live
in a mid-size Victorian house set back from the road, almost
opposite Mary Knightly's. It is a beautiful brown-bricked Victorian
house, copying the Georgian town house tradition, with windows like
sashed eyes and a front door like a dainty nose, and ivy like
Rabelaisian hair - the sort of house Prince Charles would like
about 25 million of the UK population to live in.

I miss Mary,
and I am wondering whether I should stay here in Hanburgh. I might
just return to London, or go abroad, almost certainly to France. I
fancy some reliable sun, promenade beaches, shell fish, and a house
filled with red wine and chocolates. It will have to be the
South-West, then.

I am wondering
what has happened to Inspector Frampton. I haven't seen him around,
and he hasn't called in to tighten the noose on his enquiries.
Funny, I thought you would have returned to me as a suspect by now.
I had that sense as I was released from the police station, as I
stopped helping the police with their enquiries, that I represented
unfinished business. The quick flick of your eyes told me
so.

“
Hello, Mary.
Hello, George.”

My head shoots
round. There like kangaroos assembled at the side of a dirt track,
are Mary Knightly and George with a tall perma-tanned,
silver-haired, distinguished man, somewhere into his seventies, I
would guess. So, this must be Dr. Berringer.

He is the
handsome man who ruins my theory of deceptive appearances. He would
stand out from any crowd, and he actually looks cruel, which is
quite a feat for an old man. He doesn't leer, and he bears no
outward scars, but he has steel-grey eyes and an imposing, arrogant
manner. I have no problem tagging him as a doctor, nor as someone
who would terrify a small child. He is not looking my way. He is
not really looking at anybody at all. His gaze is into the air, as
though man addressing God.

I want to hear
this conversation. Where to hide? I could stand the other side of
the wall, but that would be arrestingly obvious to any a passer-by,
and I have my social pride. Ducks! I'll feed the ducks at the mill
pond. It is easily in earshot of this little group, as if I needed
to hear them in that sense, and I have just bought some
bread.

I scuttle
round, pinned to their conversation.

“
Such a
glorious day,” Dr. Berringer opines.

“
Come inside
and have some tea, father.”

“
I think I
would rather stay out here, Mary. It is beautiful out
here.”

“
Do I hear
you are off to Spain again, Jeff?”

“
Yes, that's
right, George. Tuesday morning.”

“
And how long
are you away for this time?”

“
23
days.”

“
That will be
nice.”

“
It is always
nice to catch up with our friends out there, and to catch some
sunshine.”

“
We will miss
you, father. Is there anything you would like doing?”

“
I was hoping
that you might look after the plants while we are away.”

“
Only too
pleased,” George volunteers. “Do you want a lift to the
station?”

“
No, we are
driving down this time. We may spend a few days in London when we
get back.”

“
So, we won't
see you for a bit then.”

“
Well,
perhaps I will have a cup of tea after all.”

They move
inside and shut the door. They are still talking, but I doubt that
they will ever have anything interesting to say.

* *
*

I continue
onto the Hanburgh Arms. The place is empty, with the exception of
Brenda wiping some tables. I am always intrigued by the materials
people use for cleaning. Brenda is using an old shirt sleeve,
checked and ragged. The buttons are still attached, and clack
against the wood. Brenda picks up the ashtrays, turns them over,
and wipes their bottoms. The smell of disinfectant penetrates the
smoky atmosphere to double its repugnance.

“
Hi.”

“
Hi,
Brenda.”

“
What have
you been doing?”

“
Oh,
murdering people, that sort of thing.”

“
Not even as
a joke, Julia.”

“
Sorry.”

“
That's all
right.”

“
I forgot you
took a cake in the face for him.”

“
I have done
many things for Tom,” Brenda laughed, “including the cake. Poor
Tom. Who told you that story?”

“
Sam and her
friends.”

“
It was all
Sam's fault. She was trying to make Brian jealous, and she
succeeded. I don't think he forgave Tom until the other night, then
he came in here and broke down. He had the whole pub trying to calm
him, even Sam's husband Tony, which is ridiculous, when you come to
think of it.”

“
Do Brian and
Tony get on?”

“
Not in the
least. Tony knows full well what Brian is up to with Sam. He
doesn't do anything about it, but I don't suppose he is
particularly grateful. If I was him, I'd flatten him, like your
Frank did with Jeff Berringer last year. That was great.
……”

“
My
Frank?”

“
Well, Your
Mary's Frank, then.”

“
She is not
my Mary, not any more.”

“
Oh, I
wouldn't bet on that, Julia. Hang around a bit and see.”

“
So why did
Frank hit Dr. Berringer?”

“
Nobody is
quite sure, but he was absolutely livid. In fact, he was so angry
we could not really make out what he was shouting about. Anyway,
Jeff sidled into the pub in his usual way, hoping that someone
would stand him a pint, and Frank marched straight over to him,
started roaring threats about if he ever saw Jeff doing that again,
he would bloody kill him, then he thumped him really hard in the
mouth. There was blood everywhere, and Jeff lost a couple of teeth
for a short while. Funnily enough though, Jeff never did anything
about it. He never pressed charges. Everyone was absolutely
stunned. We had never seen Frank like that before, even though
people have always said that he has a nasty temper on him if he
gets really riled up. He was certainly that.”

“
And you
don't know why?”

“
It was
almost certainly because Jeff was up to his old tricks, and Frank
caught him at it. Jeff cannot keep his hands to himself when there
are young girls around.”

“
Young
girls?”

“
Yes, I mean
very young girls. Teenagers, and younger. He is always turning on
his distinguished GP charm and pawing them. Somebody usually tells
him to stop, but I don't think he can help himself. Frank must have
seen something rather serious. Anyway, George dragged him off Jeff
in the end. You wouldn't think that George would have the guts, or
the strength, but he is a surprisingly strong man, George, when he
wants to be. He is as protective of Jeff as Mary is. There's nowt
as queer as folk.”

“
Is that what
you meant when you said that Mary must have suffered a lot with her
father?”

“
Yes. Mary
was an attractive young girl once, and a really lovely one too,
from all accounts, before she was adopted by Jeff and Phyllis. Then
she turned really mean, and she hasn't turned back since, I can
tell you. She is Jeff outed, except that I don't think she has all
his particular demons.”

“
What about
George?”

“
George? Oh
no, he is a real softy, although terribly boring with it. He is a
born accountant. He plays everything safe to the point of
stupidity. He won't hear a word against Mary, or against Jeff. He
protects them in every way he can, and he scowls if anyone mentions
any gossip about them in front of him. He is rather on his own is
poor George. If he just relaxed a bit, I think he would have quite
a few friends around here, but as it is………..”

“
Is he still
working?”

“
No, he
retired a couple of years ago. He has a good pension, I think, so
that makes Mary happier than she has been for most of her life.
And, for the rest, I think he just does what Mary tells him to do,
without a hint of rebellion, at least in public. He must get
irritated sometimes.”

“
It sounds
like that old quote 'It was kind of God to have Mr. Knightly fall
in love with Mrs. Knightly, thus making two people unhappy rather
than four'.”