A is for Angelica (3 page)

‘That’s it. Benny. I knew I’d forget.’

She unfolds her arms and takes another drag from her cigarette. She does it smoothly, all in one movement. The grip, the inhalation and the release. One hand puts it in, the other takes it out.
It looks even better close up.

‘Why do you want to know about Benny? Have you seen him yet?’

‘He helped me with some boxes.’

‘I see. When?’

‘Couple of days ago. He seems a nice boy.’ I nod, she smiles.

‘He was in the papers not long back.’

‘Oh really? What for?’

‘Stealing.’

‘Seriously?’ she says, like I’m lying.

‘Yes, but it’s all sorted now.’

‘Well good. He seemed all right to me.’

‘I’m sure he did. His mother is in the Women’s Institute.’

‘She seemed all right too.’

‘You’ve met?’

‘Of course.’

‘Right. I see. She’s only in her forties.’

‘So am I, Gordon.’

Angelica stubs what’s left of her cigarette out on the doorstep. She stands up, pushes the door open with her bare heel, and for the first time I notice that she’s taller than me.
Even without shoes. And now she’s stepping inside the house. Our second conversation is ending and I still haven’t thought of an opening line, my reason for speaking to her. My mind has
gone blank.

‘Is there anything else?’ There is nothing else. I have nothing to say to her. I shouldn’t be here anyway. I should be at home. I shake my head like a schoolchild. ‘Good.
Goodnight then,’ she says, and turns away from me.

As the door closes, I whisper, ‘Sleep tight,’ and hope she doesn’t hear me.

Then a voice comes from behind the door, ‘Don’t worry. I will.’

Note: Angelica’s toenails far left to far right – 1 to 10 – red; yellow; turquoise; orange; red; red; orange; turquoise; yellow; red. Note end.

Next morning I get up, feed Kipling and take him for his walk. We get to the end of the street and he cocks his leg against his tree. He seems to be recovering. Cressington
Vale has eight trees. Horse chestnuts. All of them growing through holes in the pavement, apart from one that grows out the road. It’s always been like that. Cars have to wait for traffic
coming the other way. Children swerve round it on their bikes. Hedgehogs get flattened. And Kipling urinates against it every day. It’s his tree. I wait for him to finish and then we carry on
walking, along Tickle Brook and up through the cemetery to the dog mess bin. Last night, I fell asleep writing in Angelica’s file. I woke at seven this morning, fully-clothed and soaked in
sweat. The spare room is a mess. There are papers everywhere. I’m going to tidy up when I get back, before Kipling treads on them or rips them to shreds. First job on the list. After that,
I’ll put him out in the back garden. Then I’m going to B&Q to find out how much chainsaws cost.

Don Donald

It’s Don Donald. I owe him a jar of pickled onions.

‘All right, Gordon? How are we?’

‘We’re fine, Don. How are you?’

‘I’m good. Very well, in fact.’

Don Donald has lived on Cressington Vale all his life. His wife ran off with another man in 1984. He’s been alone ever since. If I stand here long enough, he’ll start talking about
her. He’ll tell me about her long blonde hair and her large chest. When she told him that she loved him. When he took her to the seafront in Blackpool, got down on one knee, asked her to be
his wife. Then he’ll say, ‘Two weeks, Gordon. Two weeks and she’d gone.’

He tilts his head to one side. His face looks dirty, covered in folds and creases. He’s trying to look sympathetic.

‘So. How’s things?’

‘Things are fine, Don.’

‘Everything going all right?’

‘Going fine, Don. Things going all right with you?’

‘Oh, very well.’

‘That’s good then,’ I say, and think about when we were younger. When we stood on this street and talked about the weather, or the football, or the chances of us ever getting
the council to come and move the tree in the road. I think about when his wife first left. How I sat on a chair next to his bath while he lay in cold water for nine hours, talking and crying. I
barely said a word. He didn’t need me to.

‘You should open your curtains, Gordon. Let the light in.’

‘Where are my hedge trimmers?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

‘You borrowed them.’ Don looks at the floor. Then at the sky. Then back at me again.

‘Did I?’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘I’m sorry, Gordon. I don’t remember.’

‘I want them back.’

‘I’m not sure I have them anymore.’

‘I need them.’ He takes his hands out the pockets of his pyjama bottoms and scratches his head.

‘I can look for them.’

‘Yes please.’

‘All right then.’ He stands there, puts his hands back in his pockets. I keep looking at him. ‘You want me to find them now?’

‘I need them.’

He turns, shuffles back across the road and into his house. I hear the loose change in his pyjama pockets, his slippers scraping across the concrete. They sound like someone tearing paper.

Note: Cressington Vale = 14 paces wide. My garden = 10 paces. Don’s drive = 12 paces (approx). Total = 36 paces. 36 paces = 40 seconds (approx). Note end.

I’ve tidied the spare room and made space on the bookcase for Angelica’s file. Now I’m downstairs, behind the curtain, looking out for her. I’m also
looking out for Don. It’s almost one o’clock in the afternoon. He should have come back by now with my trimmers. It’s a beautiful winter’s day – freezing cold and
bathed in sunshine. I look up at Angelica’s bathroom window. Frosted glass. The sun reflecting. It leaves a neon circle in my field of vision, like a light bulb floating, which takes about a
minute and a half to disappear. I watch the empty street. I have a notepad on the windowsill and a pen in my hand, but there is nothing for me to write. I have a headache. I need to make lunch. I
squeeze the end of the pen to make the ballpoint disappear. I fold the notepad shut. As I turn away from the window, a door opens. Angelica? No, it’s Ina Macaukey. She’s bending over.
She’s picking up her milk. She’s in her nightdress. I squeeze my pen again, flick through my notepad and check my watch. I scribble down the time.

Half an hour later, I walk to the kitchen and switch the kettle on. I take my watch off, place it on the worktop and roll up my sleeves. I turn the tap and rinse my hands, glance through the
window. There’s a football in my garden. Annie Carnaffan put it there. She throws them over the fence and at my kitchen window. She lives next door. She must be nearly ninety. I believe she
does it on purpose, although I’ve never seen it happen, so I have no proof. I’m sure it’s her. That’s just the way she is, a nasty piece of work. I don’t have a file
on Annie Carnaffan. In fact, I don’t have a file on anyone who lives on my side of Cressington Vale, because I can’t see their windows. So I watch the opposite side of the street, where
the action is. I make lists pages long. On anything and everything. And see the pattern of things, the way it all works. Systems and stability. Rhythms and recoveries. I have all these things on
file. One file is thicker than the rest.

That file is for Georgina.

My wife.

Asleep upstairs.

Doctor Jonathan Morris

Doctor Morris is a suspected paedophile. I trust him completely.

He replaced Doctor Richmoor and this is his first practice. He’s only twenty-eight-years-old and was accused of manhandling a thirteen-year-old girl within a fortnight of starting at the
surgery. She said he’d pushed her against a wall and tried to lift her skirt up from behind. There were parents with placards for more than a week. It turned out she was pregnant and they
disappeared. Because it’s not like she hadn’t been manhandled before. Doctor Morris was cleared a few days later. She’d been making it up. But mud sticks.

I’m here to see him. The waiting room is full of uncomfortable people on uncomfortable sofas. They sit in silence. Their children ask questions like, ‘How much longer, Mum?’,
and ‘What’s wrong with you, anyway?’, but they never get an answer, just a dirty look or a slap on the leg. The sofas line the edge of the room like a skirting board.
There’s a coffee table covered with women’s magazines, three beer mats jammed under one of the legs. The only time anyone moves is when a name gets called. There’s usually a
pause. Then someone stands up. All heads turn and look at the person daring to be next in the queue, sneer until they reach the door-to-the-corridor-that-leads-to-the-doctor. Because they dared to
get called in before them.

I sit as close to the door as possible.

‘Steven Johnson, please.’

There’s the pause. A young woman holds her hand out to the boy sitting next to her. He’s got slug-like snot trails up his sleeves and a shaved head, which means he’s more than
likely had nits. He grabs her hand and she drags him across the room. His feet barely touch the ground. She opens the door, puts her palm on the back of his bald head and shoves him into the
corridor.

‘Hello Mrs Johnson. Hello Steven. Come in. Sit down.’

He’s left the intercom on.

‘How can I help?’

Turn the intercom off. Please turn the intercom off.

‘It’s him. He’s still pissing his pants. He’s making my life a misery.’

The waiting room moves. The young couple in the corner shuffle closer together. They hold hands and look at the floor. A man in his seventies picks up a copy of
Vogue
and starts flicking
through the pages. A woman starts coughing. Then someone else starts coughing. Now we’re all coughing. But it makes no difference, we can hear everything.

‘It’s not uncommon for a child of Steven’s age to have this problem. Have you spoken to him about it? Is there anything bothering him at school? It could be stress.’

‘He’s eight-years-old.’

‘That doesn’t matter. If he’s worried about something, he could still be suffering from stress. That could be why he’s wetting himself.’

There it is again. Only a politer version. The waiting room shakes. Smiles crack all over. These people are supposed to be ill.

‘Steven, is there anything you want to talk about? Are you having problems at school?’

‘No.’

‘Do you like school?’

‘No.’

‘Do you have any nice friends there?’

‘No.’

‘Are you a good boy for your mum?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mrs Johnson?’

‘He’s a little bastard.’

‘I think Steven is suffering from stress. I think that you should go into school and have a word with the teachers. In the meantime, there’s something we can do to help.’

‘He’ll take anything.’

‘We can provide him with special underwear.’

There’s a shuffling of papers, an opening of drawers, a sound like a telephone struggling to connect. Then there is silence.

‘Do you think he knows he left it on?’ says the woman next to me. But I don’t answer because Angelica is backing into the door and pushing it open with her high heel, shaking
her umbrella. She’s wearing a long black coat with fluffy cuffs. She has her hood up. Now she’s talking to the girl on reception. She’s taking her hood down. It’s definitely
Angelica.

‘Gordon Kingdom, please,’ says the voice over the intercom. She’s asking the girl something, but I can’t hear what she’s saying. I think they’re arguing. Or
Angelica’s arguing. The girl is smiling. The moment Angelica turns her back, the girl will spin round to the nurse flicking through files behind her. She’ll mouth the word
‘bitch’, or something worse.

‘Gordon Kingdom, please. Gordon Kingdom.’

I stand up, get ready for the sneers. But Mrs Johnson drags Steven back into the waiting room and everyone looks at him instead. She’s got him by the wrists. There’s a bulge around
his waistline. It looks like he’s wearing a rubber ring beneath his tiny trousers.

‘Is that thing turned off?’

‘What thing?’

‘The intercom.’

‘Of course it is. Come in, sit down.’

‘Let me get my coat off.’

‘So how are we?’

‘We’re fine.’

‘Good to hear. How can I help? Just the prescription?’

‘No. I’d like everything checked.’

‘Gordon, I checked everything last time. Everything looks fine. I want to know how you’re feeling in general. I want to know how you’re coping. Are you still writing things
down?’

‘All that stopped. That’s fine now. I feel fine.’

‘You’re not forgetful?’

‘I make a few notes.’

‘That’s good.’

‘But I’m sure I get headaches.’

‘We’ve been over this before. It’s the stress. It’s inevitable.’

‘I want everything checked.’

‘There’s no point, Gordon. It’s a waste of time. For both of us.’

‘I want everything checked.’

Doctor Morris has a notice board stuck to the wall behind his desk. I stare at it while he pokes and prods me. It’s covered in leaflets and information booklets. A
mixture of colours and slogans. Do this. Eat that. Say no. Don’t be caught without one. 0% interest free credit. Buy one, get one free. There are six anti-smoking posters. They make me want a
cigarette and I don’t even smoke. They’re for the drivers. The men in lorries, dozers, bowsers and dumpers. The 120s, the D8s and the Triple 7s. This is a town surrounded by coal and
men in their machines. Eleven hours a day. Always smoking. One after another. A constant flow of toxins sucked inside. Men barely talking out the sides of their mouths. Men who have no need to
talk. Always alone, in a cabin full of smoke and dust.

It was in the paper. One of the lorries, headfirst off the face of the cut. The driver hung over the steering wheel, his lifeless face pressed against the windscreen. The yellow hairs in his
moustache, splayed all over. Pictures of a 200 loading shovel picking up the broken lorry, like a metal parent. It was summer. The driver’s bare chest ripped open by the fall. His black lungs
coated with earth and glass, layer upon layer of dirt. His grey heart giving up. Submitting. A group of men dragging him from his cab, laying him on the floor, standing over him with their hands on
their hips. Their machines still humming where they left them. A mixture of half-grief and silence. From the sides of their mouths.