Trick or Treat (21 page)

‘Don't go having a turn, now,' she scolds herself. ‘You've things to do.'

It is as well that it is not May or June, but November with a hint of frost in the air. She can see her breath, a clean white cloud in front of her. She opens the window wide. At this time of year, the back of the house gets no sun at all. The corpse will keep till later, at least until she has dealt with her more pressing business this morning. Nell frowns as she folds away the woollen blankets. They will have to be laundered before they can be used again. And the precious blue candlewick will need a wash too, and then, when the bed is vacated once more, it can lie flat again upon the empty bed, smooth and perfectly flat.

She washes her hands, scrubs them with a brush dipped in Dettol. She scrubs till her fingertips are sore and withered. What's done is done and she won't start dithering now. She will think positive. She will be able to regain control. No one else will ever set foot inside the house again while she has a say in it, and she will get it clean. If she has to work night and day, she will make it safe. It's a long time, too long, since she's pulled out the oven or the refrigerator, to clean behind. A heavy job. Pity she didn't get Rodney to do that. In the bathroom mirror she sees her face, an awful sight, the bruise on her cheek an angry swelling. Once that has faded, she will make an appointment for a perm. Her curls are getting loose and wild.

She bares her teeth in an ivory smile, for today she has good to do, amends to make. The wriggling worm in her mind is good. It is a clean and golden worm, not a nasty thing, and she is satisfied because she has worked out what it is. It is the larval form of her conscience. Poor old Olive Owens. Poor old bag. Poor fat old geriatric hag. They are in the same boat now – bereft of child – but at least Nell still has her faculties, her faculties
and
her figure. Olive does have Arthur, of course, but still … Nell had a terrible night, last night, what with the dreams and all, but she has woken up fired with a new resolve. She has heart enough in her thin breast to feel pity for Olive now, not sorrow, quite – for Olive at least partly deserves her condition – but pity certainly. And if she makes peace with Olive then there is always Arthur. He is a man of a sort, at least, and could perhaps be a help. He might, for instance, move the bins; and there's the kitchen window smashed by Rodney in his tantrum. Perhaps he might see to getting that mended.

Would Olive mind? she wonders. Would Olive be foolishly jealous? For the shoe is on the other foot now. It is Nell who is the sprightliest. Yes, she'll have a perm as soon as she can. And perhaps she and Arthur can be a comfort to each other, once she makes her peace. For no one likes to be entirely alone.

Olive sits up in bed with a shawl around her shoulders. She sips the tea Arthur has brought her.

‘I'm stopping here today,' she mumbles.

‘Not feeling poorly, are you?' Arthur asks. He looks closely at her crumpled face.

‘Can't be arsed to move,' Olive says, and Arthur winces. Olive's language gets worse as she gets older. It is as if bad language is easier than any other, that it slips in effortlessly when her brain is only half engaged.

‘No need, Ollie,' he says. ‘Eat your breakfast … here's your teeth.' She puts them in, and Arthur is relieved to see her face regain some structure. His own dentures are giving him gyp and he juts them forward in order to run his tongue round his sore gums.

‘Pee,' Olive says plaintively. He helps her swing her heavy legs out of bed and onto the floor. Her feet and ankles are swollen and when she puts her weight on them they are pressed flat and yellow-white around the edges. Arthur follows her into the bathroom. While she sits on the toilet he runs a basin full of water for her to wash in. He looks at himself in the steamy square of mirror above the basin. His eyebrows are crags over his weak eyes. The rest of his face is shrunk to the shape of his skull, the skin brown and wrinkled as leather. He is not sorry to be old, and when he stirs the earth at the allotment with the toe of his boot he knows that he is not afraid to die. He runs his finger through the condensation on the mirror, leaving a trickling trail. It's just a waste that it didn't turn out better, his life, that he never did the things he said he'd do. After the war, somehow, they got stuck here, Arthur and Olive, despisers of private property, in the house that Olive had inherited from her parents. And he had worked. He had felt proud to be a worker and he had worked his best years in a steel mill and he and the mill had run down together, so that his retirement was a petering-out rather than an occasion. And it had all gone in a flash. And now he is old, and Olive is old.

‘All right?' he asks. ‘Are you done?' Olive nods and he helps her up. ‘We'll just get you freshened up,' he says, wringing out a flannel in the hot water. ‘How're your knees?' He looks at the wide flat scabs. ‘Healing fine. I'll clip your toenails later.'

‘Nails,' says Olive. ‘Come on then, Arthur, play. Nails.'

‘Hammer.'

‘Sickle.'

‘Hay.'

‘Loft.'

‘Roof.'

‘Bomb.'

‘Bomb?'

‘Our roof, in war.'

‘Sky … fell from.'

‘Sunshine.'

‘Summer.'

‘Wine … Remember that summer, Artie? With the motor bike and the side-car. We went to Devon that summer, and the verges were all lacy with that stuff …'

‘Cow-parsley.'

‘Oh the awful summery stench of it! And the poppies in the fields. Remember the cream? Strawberry jam and scones and clotted cream.'

Arthur wipes her face. ‘Let's get you back to bed,' he says. ‘You want to drink your tea before it gets cold.'

He straightens the sheets and pulls down her nightie and arranges her comfortably against her pillows. Mao jumps up and snuggles beside her, purring at full volume. ‘Yes, it were good in Devon,' he agrees.

‘It's all been good. We've been happy, haven't we, Artie? Haven't we?'

‘We have that, Ollie.' Arthur watches her chew her bread and marmalade.

‘And I was beautiful, wasn't I, Artie?'

‘You were, Ollie, and I were right lucky.'

‘And sexy. I could have had anyone, Artie, you know, anyone, not just
her
Jim.'

Arthur sighs and nods.

‘Not just him, no, I could have had anyone. Baden Powell, I could have had him, or Winston Churchill … never fancied him, but he wrote to me, you know, begging … Or Omar Sharif …'

‘And I was the lucky one,' says Arthur warily. He is afraid that Olive's temper will surface now, for that is the pattern. First the memories then the fury – but this morning, so far, she is calm. He will not push his luck yet, he will not say he's off to the allotment later on, not yet.

‘I'll get pots washed,' he says, when she's finished her breakfast, and he takes her cup and plate downstairs and all is quiet. He breathes a heavy sigh of relief.

Already there are boxes everywhere. In only a morning the house has been transformed from a home to just a building, a shell that they are leaving. The curtains and blinds have all been taken down so that the rooms look unusually bare and bright and scruffy in the frosty sunshine.

Wolfe's job is to take the books off the shelves in the front room and pack them into small cardboard boxes. It's no good packing them into big boxes, Petra explained, because big boxes full of books are impossible to lift. He's filled two and a half boxes and has got the sneezes from the dust that floats off the books as he pulls them out. His fingers itch too, and he pinches and squeezes the skin between them with his finger and thumb in an effort not to scratch. He wanders to the window to press his knuckles against the cold glass, and gazes out at the road, at the identical terrace of houses opposite. He does feel sad, just a bit sad, to be leaving this house. Not sad enough to cry, or even to mention it, but he has a dull feeling inside him as if something heavy is tied to his ribs, dragging him down. He thinks guiltily of Rodney. They will never have their trip to the Cutlers' Wheel now. He doesn't mind that for himself, but there are a few things he does mind leaving, that he will miss. One of them is his own room, with his own door to shut behind him at night. And another is Arthur – and Olive too. He likes Olive and there is something good he can do before he leaves; one thing he can do to make her happy. He goes upstairs to Petra's room. She is up in the attic sorting Bobby and Buffy out. All her clothes are sprawled on the bed. The floor is covered with coat-hangers and shoes and tights and socks and knickers. The wardrobe is empty – almost. He pulls up a chair and climbs up to reach the high shelf at the top. The hat is there, and he stretches up and reaches it down.

Wolfe knocks at the door and this time it is opened almost immediately, and by Arthur.

‘Morning,' Arthur says.

‘Hello,' Wolfe replies. He feels shy, standing there, holding behind his back a carrier bag with the cherry hat inside. Arthur looks at him expectantly.

‘Do you want somat in particular, lad?' Arthur asks.

‘I've got a present for Olive,' Wolfe says.

‘Grand,' Arthur says. ‘She'll be right pleased. She needs somat to buck her up this morning.' He lets Wolfe into the house. ‘You go up, and I'll follow in a bit. Front bedroom. Can't miss it.'

Wolfe goes up. It is dim and chilly on the stairs and the old brown wallpaper is covered with snarling flowers. There is a fusty smell like jumble sales and old cupboards. The bedroom door is open and he peers round. ‘Hello,' he says.

Olive frowns at him for a moment and then her face caves into a smile. ‘It's little lad!' she says delightedly. ‘Have you come to visit me? Here sit down on bed. Arthur! Arthur! Bring us sweet tin upstairs …'

Wolfe smiles and settles himself on the edge of the bed. ‘How are you?' he asks, in the way Petra would.

‘Little lad who brought Mao back to me … There he is, happy as Larry.' She indicates the sleeping cat, whose skin is quite pink in the warmth. ‘Oh it's a long time since we had a little lad in house …' she sighs. ‘We had a little lad once, but we don't talk … Arthur!' she calls again. ‘Sweets.'

Wolfe likes the way she says the same things over and over. ‘He'll be up in a minute,' he explains. ‘He told me to come upstairs first because I've brought you a present.'

‘Present? What present? Not Christmas is it?'

‘No, I just thought you'd like it …'

‘I love presents. Always loved presents, yes I'll like it I dare say …' Olive stretches out her hand and Wolfe gives her the bag. She grabs it and rustles inside, greedy and urgent as a child – and pulls out the hat. ‘Artie!' she screams, and Mao wakes and shoots off the bed like a bullet. Wolfe is quite startled himself, and jumps up. Arthur comes hurrying creakily upstairs with the sweet tin. ‘Look Artie! It's my hat! It's my cherry hat!'

‘Well I'll be blowed,' Arthur says, standing in the doorway.

‘Give him a sweet!' cries Olive cramming the hat onto her head, ‘Oh there there, it's all right now …'

‘Quieten down, Ollie,' smiles Arthur, ‘you're scaring lad, and look at Mao.' The cat is flattened against the wall in a fierce arch.

‘Where'd you get it?' Arthur asks.

‘Chocolate,' Olive says. ‘Give the lad some chocolate, Artie.' He opens the tin and Wolfe breaks himself off a square of fruit and nut. Olive fills her mouth too, and for a moment she is quiet.

‘My mum had it,' Wolfe explains, ‘but it wasn't really hers. I don't think it's yours either.' He looks at Olive.

‘Rubbish,' she mumbles through her mouthful.

‘Well it came from the other lady – Nell. She gave it to us for Bonfire Night.'

‘Buggering bitch!' Olive exclaims, chocolate dribble escaping from her mouth.

‘Language …' warns Arthur. ‘I don't understand how …'

‘Buggering thieving bitch,' Ollie says. ‘Sod her. Fetch me a mirror, lad.'

‘On dresser,' Arthur says.

On the dressing table, Wolfe finds a small hand-mirror with a pattern of pansies on the back. It is dusty so he wipes it on his sleeve before he hands it to Olive. She peers at her reflection for several moments, the cherry hat askew, a brown chocolate-ringed smile upon her face.

Arthur winks at Wolfe, or perhaps it is just a twitch, and Wolfe looks around the room at all the pictures on the walls, pictures of people waving banners and marching, lots of pictures of a pretty woman like a film star, a painting of a volcano.

‘We're moving,' Wolfe announces, suddenly. ‘Part of why I've come is to say goodbye.'

‘Moving?'

‘Going back home, to the Longhouse where we came from.'

‘Didn't realise it was fixed up. Your mum never said,' Arthur says.

‘We only decided yesterday …'

‘And when are you off?'

‘Tonight if we're ready. Tom's borrowing a van.'

‘That's quick isn't it?' says Olive.

‘It's because Mum's baby is coming soon. She wants to have it there. It's a commune and I was born there,' he finishes proudly.

‘That's what Artie wanted, to live in a, whatsit, in a community.'

‘Why didn't you then?' Wolfe asks.

Arthur shrugs.

‘He lost heart after lad,' Olive says.

Arthur looks at her so sadly that it brings a lump to Wolfe's throat. He does not know what to say, but he clears his throat and tries. ‘I'm sorry about the lad,' he says, ‘but maybe you could come and visit us at the Longhouse. People do visit.' Arthur tries to smile, but this only makes him look sadder.

‘Well, I'd better go,' Wolfe says. ‘I didn't tell Mum I was coming round, and I've got to pack the books.'

‘Have another sweet before you go,' Olive says. Wolfe is beginning to feel sick, but he takes a toffee and puts it in his pocket.