Various Pets Alive and Dead (29 page)

‘Hi, Winston. Come and join us! We’re just discussing the development plans for the allotment.’

But Winston shakes his head. ‘Gotta get home to the wife, else I be in trouble. Just come to pick me some plums before the rain knocks them down.’ He digs into the bags and pulls out a large handful of ripe Victorias. ‘Here. Plenty more where these come from. Tree gone berserk! Help yourself.’ He hurries off.

She drops a few plums in her bag, and one into her mouth. The juice dribbles down her chin. The councillor takes a bite out of a ripe plum, and stows a couple more in his briefcase.

‘They get everywhere, don’t they?’

‘Plums?’

‘Our coloured brethren.’

The shock of his words hits her like a splash of cold water.

‘He’s very nice,’ she retorts, aware of the lameness of her answer.

Most of the GAGAs have long ceased to notice that Winston is their only black member. What shocked her most was the unguardedness of his speech, his casual assumption that she’d agree. She sees him flush as he realises his mistake.

‘Oh yes, indeed. Many of them are. Don’t get me wrong.’

‘He’s not one of them, he’s one of us.’

For the first time, his eyes rest on the deep V between the wobbling bulges of her breasts. She feels herself blush, wishing they were more hidden and less wobbly. She can’t understand what came over her that night as she lay beside her sleeping husband, what niggling little demon had urged her to go out dressed up like this.

Suddenly a large drop of water splats on her bare forearm. A thunderclap follows, and a gust of wind snatches the papers from her hand. As she grabs for the flying documents the heavens open, and huge soft raindrops drench them like a tepid shower. She races down the slippery paths towards her own allotment hut, fumbling in her bag for her bunch of keys. He follows, skids on a patch of mud, slips over and, as he hits the ground, his briefcase bursts open. He rights himself and flails around, catching at the contents which have spilled out over the claggy soil. She dashes to help him, scrabbling among wet gooseberry bushes to pick up the damp papers, pens, rulers, tissues, fruit pastilles, rubber bands, Winston’s plums, and a small foil-wrapped item which she realises as she hands it over is a condom.

‘Here.’ She can feel the heat spreading through her cheeks.

‘Thanks.’ Avoiding her eyes, he slips it into his pocket.

‘You’d better come in!’ She pushes the hut door open, flicking wet hair out of her eyes. Rivulets of water run into the V between her breasts. He follows, shaking himself like a dog, brushing against her in the narrow space, an intruder invading her little domain.

The allotment hut is small and fusty, but dry. The shelves are piled with packets of seed, balls of string, gardening gloves, secateurs, trowels and hand forks, sticks, plant labels, catalogues, plastic ties, tubs, jam jars and tins of fertiliser, slug pellets, rooting powder, liquid manure, weed killer and other substances no longer in their original containers. She’s forgotten what they are, but if she could remember she’s sure they’d come in handy. Stashed in the corner are the larger tools: fork, shears, loppers, spades, a rake. On the other side is a small cobwebby window and in front of it two canvas chairs and a folding table, where she and Oolie chat over cups of tea. She wishes she was here with Oolie, and not with him.

There is a carpet off-cut on the floor, but it is slightly damp. There is a primus stove, but it is out of gas. There is a tin of powdered milk, but the lid is lost and the powder has set like concrete. There are mugs, but slugs have crawled all over them. There was a packet of biscuits, but mice have eaten even the crumbs. There are, however, two tea bags.

‘We’re not very well equipped, as you can see.’ She laughs to cover her embarrassment.

He says nothing, studying her.

She wishes she’d worn a different top – a T-shirt with a slogan that would spark conversation and conceal her breasts, which are heaving, bodice-ripper-style, beneath the clinging silky fabric, from panic, exertion, excitement or a terrifying mixture of all three. She thinks about the anticipation with which she tried on the bra in the shop, and realises she’s made a terrible mistake. How the hell is she going to extricate herself?

‘Have a seat.’

She indicates a canvas chair, and lowers herself on to the other one, but he remains standing, blocking out the light from the window with his bulk. The rain is still hammering on the roof and peals of thunder seem to be getting closer. They could be here for quite some time.

‘So about this development. You think it might …?’ she witters, her voice scratching the silence.

‘Include a sheltered housing project? Yes.’ His eyes are fixed on her.

She shivers. ‘But you were talking about a horrible retail park. Here in this lovely place …’ She gestures vaguely towards the window, where a fat spider is legging along a silken thread towards its dinner, a trapped fly buzzing helplessly in a corner of the web.

The spider pounces. Ah! She jumps. Her sharp intake of breath echoes a ripping sound; the canvas beneath her starts to split and leaping to her feet she barges into him, because he is standing too close beside her in the confined space. He grabs her in his arms and pushes his face towards her; she feels his mouth on hers; she smells his musky aftershave and the feral under-scent of his warm skin. She takes a step back and her foot catches the spikes of the rake; the wooden handle whacks up against her head. Next minute, they’re rolling around on the slightly damp carpet piece.

The worst thing is, she realises she has only herself to blame.

She starts to struggle, knocking into the tumbled tubular furniture. ‘Don’t …’

He covers her mouth with his; his weight is crushing.

‘C’mon, Dorothy. You know it’s what you really want!’

‘No! I just wanted to talk about …’

His hand is inside her skirt and fumbling upwards. Should she scream? But no one’s there to hear. Try to keep him talking.

‘… the plans …’

She must keep her cool and get his mind back on to the development.

‘That disabled housing scheme?’ She turns her head to free her mouth from his, ‘I’d like to discuss –’

‘Let’s talk about that later.’

He takes her face between his hands and starts to kiss her again. Her head is jammed up against the wooden wall of the shed, and from the corner of her eye she can see the spider who, having finished his lunch, has slithered back up his web and seems to be watching them with interest.

‘… the retail park …’

‘This is just between you and me.’

‘No! Please! Tell me about the retail park!’

‘You know you’ve been waiting for this.’ One hand is up inside her silky top.

‘Will there be a Marks & Spencer …?’

‘C’mon, Dorothy.’

‘Or British Home Stores …?’

She tries to wrestle, but her movement seems to spur him on.

‘Did anyone tell you …?’

The other hand is in her knickers.

‘Or Sainsbury’s!’ she screams. ‘No! Stop!’

‘… what a great body you’ve got …?’

Now he’s fumbling with his zip.

‘… for someone of your age?’

‘Someone of my …?! Yaaagh!’

She kicks out and catches the blade of a spade wedged between the prongs of the fork, which is hitched through the pruning loppers. The stack of tools topples down on him. The blade of the pruner catches him on the cheek. Blood spouts and trickles down his jaw to the corner of his mouth, giving him a vampire grin. If only she could plunge a stake through his heart. Where did she put the secateurs?

A quick movement by the window catches her eye – the spider scuttling down his webby trap. And beyond the web, beyond the window, a face, familiar, fleetingly glimpsed – whose face? She freezes.

‘Oolie!’

‘What’s the matter?’ He sits up abruptly. ‘I thought you wanted …’ The blood dribbles down his chin on to his shirt.

She passes him a tissue from her bag. ‘I think you’d better go.’

He scrambles to his feet and straightens his clothes. Doro hitches up her top, hitches down her skirt, and opens the door of the hut. It’s still raining, but not so heavily now. There’s no sign of anyone at all outside.

‘Goodbye, Mrs Marchmont,’ he says.

His eyes are flinty. His voice is steely. A dribble of blood is still running down his face. He picks up his briefcase.

‘I’ll remember your enthusiasm for Marks & Spencer.’

He slithers away over the slimy ground.

Doro waits until he’s out of sight, then she slumps down on the remaining canvas chair and wishes there was some gas in the primus. She could murder a cup of tea. Surely, even if her intentions were a bit out of order this morning, surely she has the right to change her mind, once she realises he’s a man besotted with retail parks; a man bothered by the colour of people’s skin; a man who says she’s attractive
for someone of her age
?!

The fleeting image of Oolie’s sweet face at the window must have been a vision, sent to save her. The spider has vanished from his web, gone creepabout, but looking out through the dusty glass she sees someone else striding across the allotment, head bowed against the rain. Someone with round glasses and brown overalls and – oh bliss! – he’s carrying two cups of tea in his hands.

‘Oh, thank you, Mr Philpott! How did you know …?’

‘I saw you with that councillor. Everything all right?’

‘Yes. Fine. I mean –’ how much has he witnessed? she wonders ‘– not really because they want to use half the allotment for a retail park, and half for some social housing project.’

He sighs. ‘There’s something rotten in the state of Donny!’

‘Yes. Quite. I tried to stop him but …’

She hopes this will explain her dishevelled appearance, and any rolling on the floor he may have noticed. It just goes to show, you’re never as alone as you think on an allotment.

‘Oolie, you really mustn’t make a habit of this.’

Oolie-Anna sidles into Clara’s classroom and sits down opposite her at the teacher’s desk, fingering a box of coloured crayons.

‘I wanna talk to you.’

‘About films again?’ Clara sighs.

It’s just turned four o’clock, the kids have all gone, and in this quiet breathing space at the end of the day, she’s replaying her lessons in her mind, reflecting on what went well and what she could have done better.

‘Not filums.’ Oolie points towards the window. ‘Did it come back?’

It takes Clara a moment to realise that she’s talking about the hamster. It’s odd, but sometimes she thinks she does see signs of his presence – little black crumbs which could be hamster pooh in the book corner, shreds of paper, crumbs of crisps and sandwiches mysteriously cleaned up. She wonders whether Oolie has a confession to make.

‘Did you come to talk about the hamster?’

‘Not t’ampster.’ Oolie shakes her head again. ‘It’s about Mum.’

‘So what’s she done now?’

Clara feels a stab of impatience. Really, Doro and Oolie are both impossible in their own ways. Her dad must be a saint to put up with them.

‘She’s been shaggin’ that man.’

Clara catches her breath and tries to keep her voice calm. ‘What man?’

‘You know. ’
Im
.’

‘I don’t know. Anyway, how do you know who she’s been shagging?’

Oolie’s vocabulary has got racier since she’s been working at Edenthorpe’s, but it’s not clear how much she actually understands.

‘I seed ’em. Up at t’allotment. Dad said I ’ad to get Mum, and she worrent in’t garden, so I went up to t’allotment.’

‘Oolie, you’re making this up.’

‘No, I telled you, I
seed
’em.’

‘What did you see?’

‘I seed ’em shaggin’. On t’ flooer.’

‘When?’

‘
I
dunno.’ She pouts mardily, annoyed at being disbelieved. ‘It was rainin’ and they was at it. In t’ ’ut.’

‘Who was the man?’

‘You know – ’im wi’ grey hair.’

Clara does a mental check of all the grey-haired men she knows. There’s probably some perfectly simple explanation.

‘Are you sure it wasn’t Dad?’

‘Course I’m sure. I’m not daft, y’know.’

‘I know you’re not, Oolie.’ She recognises her sister’s sensitivities. ‘Was it Mr Philpott? You know, the man who helped us try and catch the hamster last time you were here?’

She knows Mr Philpott also has an allotment up there. But shagging her mum? Mind you, she wouldn’t put anything past Doro these days.

‘No, it worrent ’im. It wor t’ tall one.’

‘What tall one? Have you seen him before?’

‘I seed ’im at your school.’

Clara’s mind flashes back to the previous occasions when Oolie came to her school.

‘The head teacher – the one with the hamster?’

‘No, but I wun’t mind shaggin’ ’im. No. You know.
That day
. Wi’ all’t potty plants.’

She must mean Community Day in September. Oh, the chaos!

‘You mean the councillor?’

‘I dunno if he’s consular or what.’ She shrugs.

‘Oolie, try to remember.’

‘I
do
remember. I just don’t know ’is name.’

Clara finds her heart is beating too fast. She doesn’t quite believe her sister, but she doesn’t altogether disbelieve her, either.

‘What were they doing?’

‘I telled you, they was shaggin’. On t’ flooer. He were on top of ’er.’ Oolie slumps back in the chair grumpily, exhausted with the effort of so much verbalisation.

‘Okay, Oolie.’ Clara kneels beside the child-sized chair and puts her arm around her. ‘Thanks for telling me. You’ve done really well to remember all that.’

Oolie beams. ‘I runned all the way back. I got reyt wet.’

‘Come on. I’ll take you home.’

Just as Clara pulls into the drive at Hardwick Avenue, the front door opens, and a young man with fair hair bursts out into the porch. Behind him the door shuts with a slam. He stands there looking nonplussed, grasping a sheaf of papers and fumbling to open his briefcase, at the same time as he tries to wrestle himself into his jacket.

Oolie runs up and gives him a hug.