Crazy Paving (15 page)

‘What do you mean, you’ve lost it?’ Alun Hardy did not look up from his Weetabix. His wife was standing in the kitchen door.

‘Oh Alun, what do you think I mean?’ Joan turned away, back to the handbag which was sitting on the telephone table in the hall. ‘What do you think I mean?’ she muttered
again, into the bag, but quietly this time because she had begun to cry and she didn’t want Alun to notice. If he saw her crying he would start to realise it was serious.

She opened her purse again. It was useless going through the bag. She had gone to the building society in her lunch hour at work the previous day, Friday. Then she had folded up the sixty pounds
and put it in the back of her purse, the way she always did. Now it was gone: sixty pounds. The weekend was ruined. She opened her passbook again, just to check. Yes, she had taken out sixty. She
looked through the crevices of the bag, her make-up pouch. I knew it, she thought furiously, the day of the storm. I knew that bad things were going to start happening, that it was all going to
blow up in our faces. It started yesterday, when Helly and Annette had that row. That was just the beginning. Now this.

Oh pull yourself together Joan, she thought, taking a neatly folded tissue from the purse and wiping her cheeks. Silly to cry over money. Where on earth could it have gone? She had folded it up
and put it in her purse. Helly and Annette had watched her do it.

When she broke the news to him, Alun agreed that it was silly to cry over money. He thought it more sensible to shout. He thought it particularly sensible to shout, repeatedly, ‘In
heaven’s name, woman, how could you? How could you just
lose
sixty pounds! Nobody
loses
sixty pounds. How could you?’

Eventually, she put on her coat and told him she was going up the Walworth Road. If she got a move on she could get to the building society before it closed. She was going to withdraw another
sixty pounds and carry on with the rest of the weekend as normal. The missing sixty could be sorted out on Monday. She refused to spend the entire weekend discussing it.

This solution did not please Alun. The money was gone and sixty pounds was a lot to lose. It had been in Joan’s care and was now no longer in her possession. If she was capable of losing
the sixty pounds she got out on Friday what made her think she could hang on to the same amount the following day?

‘I have to go to the chemist, dear,’ she responded, gritting her teeth but keeping her tone meek. ‘And we need some frozen puff pastry for tomorrow, and I want to look at
swimsuits.’

Alun raised his eyes heavenwards. We’ve just lost sixty quid and the woman wants to buy a swimsuit, his look said.

Oh say it, Joan thought in response. If you don’t want me to buy a bleeding swimsuit then say so. But Alun would never say. Joan did all the cooking and cleaning and brought in a third of
the household budget. She sent Christmas cards to their friends and visited Alun’s father at the old people’s home. In addition, she had to interpret his extensive vocabulary of glares,
scowls and sighs and behave accordingly. Alun could shout, but only to express rage. The words he shouted never contained any information, they were just noise. He might as well shout their
telephone number or postcode.

She wrapped a tartan woollen scarf around her neck and fumbled in her pockets for her mittens. ‘I shan’t be long,’ she said in a conciliatory tone.

As she walked down Denmark Hill she thought, I’m going to pay for this. Boy am I going to pay.

Camberwell was in Saturday mode. Bert the flower-seller had set up his stall at the entrance to the alley next to KwikSave. He stood in his flat cap and overcoat between buckets of red tulips,
blue iris and white carnations, the usual small globule of snot hanging perilously from the end of his nose. She usually stopped for a chat with him but he had two customers waiting, so she waved
as she went past. She would get some daffodils on the way home, perhaps, at the risk of angering Alun even more. ‘The main thing is that they last,’ Bert always said as he wrapped them
in tough pink paper and handed them over. ‘That’s the main thing. As long as they last.’ They never did. Bert’s flowers were cheap old rubbish and dead before the end of the
weekend. On the other side of the road, outside the post office, a young man with a microphone was informing passing shoppers that God was great. If He is so great, Joan thought grumpily, then he
can find my sixty quid.

At Camberwell Green she caught the 68. It was crowded. A young woman next to her had two small children on her lap. A collapsible double buggy lay across the luggage hold. Next to it were four
carrier bags, bulging misshapenly with groceries. One of the children was making a thin moany noise, like a small mammal caught in a trap.

The bus ground slowly through the weekend traffic. Joan sat staring straight ahead. Half-way up the road, she suddenly became aware that there was some commotion at the front of the bus. They
were waiting at a stop and eight or ten passengers were climbing on board. A group of old ladies had paid for their tickets and were muttering to each other as they came down the aisle. ‘He
didn’t stop,’ one was saying excitedly to another, ‘he didn’t stop.’ Two settled in the seat behind Joan and craned their necks to look out of the window to the right.
Joan was sitting nearest the aisle. The woman with the children had got off and another old lady pushed past Joan to take the window seat. Then she sat looking out at the road, like her
companions.

The bus began to move. After a few yards it slowed down to edge past some sort of blockage in the road ahead. ‘Look, look,’ said the old lady sitting next to Joan, although Joan was
not sure who she was addressing. As the bus became stationary, Joan saw an ambulance parked on the other side of the road. Its back doors were open and she caught a glimpse of bedding and
equipment. Next to the doors were two paramedics in green uniforms. One of them was kneeling down next to a tiny, splayed figure which lay in the road.

The child was three, four perhaps, and dressed in blue jeans and a red anorak. Joan could not tell what gender it was because it was lying face upwards with its head covered by a large wad of
bandage dressing. One of the paramedics was kneeling beside it and holding the dressing in place. The dressing was soaked in blood.

‘It was a silver car,’ the old woman next to Joan said, her face still glued to the window, ‘a big silver car. It didn’t even stop.’

Standing in the road next to the child was a woman of about twenty. She was wearing pale jeans and high heels and had untidy blonde hair. The other paramedic had his arm around her shoulders.
She was bending slightly and reaching one arm out towards her son or daughter, as though she wanted to help but did not dare. Her other hand was over her mouth. The paramedic was holding her
tightly.

On the opposite pavement a group of people had gathered, standing staring, silent and still.

As the bus pulled away, the old lady leant backwards so that she could see the spectacle for as long as possible. When it was out of sight, she turned to her companions who were sitting behind
Joan and said, ‘Isn’t it awful? Awful, awful . . .’ They all shook their heads.

Joan thought of the huge solid power of a car. Then she thought of the soft flesh of a young child, the silky vulnerability of skin. What chance did the eggshell skull of a toddler stand against
implacable, speeding metal? She felt sick. Next to her, the old ladies gossiped and crooned.

She got off the bus at the building society and then went to Marks & Spencer where she wandered aimlessly around a small selection of swimwear. She had lost heart for the purchase but bought
a black and gold contraption with a ruched effect around the neckline. She wanted to go home, but there was still the puff pastry. She wanted Alun to be nice to her. She was prepared to give in, do
or say anything, if only he would be kind. Perhaps if they had not argued and she had not come out at that particular time, the accident would not have happened. If she had not seen it, it would
not have occurred.

By Sunday lunchtime, a sullen silence had descended.

Joan could cope with many forms of marital warfare but not silence. Alun could raise his voice. He could throw a mug of tea at her (he had done that once, but only once). He could walk out and
slam the door. To each of these she was prepared to weep then shrug, feeling herself to be no more than a part of that vast community of wives whose husbands shouted or slammed doors. Silence,
however, was Alun’s ultimate weapon; his nuclear capability. They had never discussed it (how could you discuss silence?) but he knew she hated it and she knew he knew. For the rest of the
weekend they occupied the same house, often the same room, and Alun serenely read the papers or ate or watched television, all with a wordless demeanour which was tantamount to placing her in a
straitjacket, blindfolded and gagged. Joan sat opposite him, trying not to think about the child whose death their row had caused, up to her ears in Alun’s corpse-like fury and her own dumb
guilt. The atmosphere was so thick she could hardly breathe. It was as thick as pea soup.

On Sunday evening, Alun went out to do his shift. When she heard the door shut behind him, she sank into her armchair in the corner of the sitting room and began to cry. She cried for the child
and for the young mother’s innocence, for the sixty pounds that had been lost or stolen – for everything that was gone and would never return. She cried for herself.

On Monday, she was questioned closely by Annette. Yes, she was sure the handbag had been at her feet the whole of the afternoon. No she had not, at any time, left it open on
her desk. Joan quelled her irritation. Annette just wanted to get the story straight, that was all.

‘We’ll have to tell Richard,’ she said eventually. ‘If you’re sure. We’ll have to make it official.’

Joan sighed. ‘Is that really necessary?’

There was a pause. Annette knew what Joan was asking. There was an obvious candidate for culprit. Once the theft was reported, the matter was out of their hands. ‘I think so,’ she
said. ‘If we don’t do something then things could get difficult. I don’t think we should try and handle it by ourselves. There’s everyone else who works in this building to
consider after all, it’s not just us.’

After Annette had gone in to Richard’s office, Joan sat at her desk with her head in her hands. Everything was horrible. Everything.

‘Cheer up Joan!’ said Helly as she swept past, twenty-five minutes late for work and not at all bothered.

Joan sat up quickly. Helly had gone straight past her, to the coffee machine. She had promised Annette she would not mention the theft to anybody else. She had to pull herself together. She sat
up and reached for the pile of correspondence sitting on her desk, waiting to be opened and stamped. It was as bad as being at home with Alun. She couldn’t say anything to anyone. Now she
would have to be pleasant to someone she liked whom she had just accused of theft – as good as – and who might be completely innocent. Nobody liked Helly much. She would probably be
sacked. Office juniors were ten a penny.

‘Office juniors are ten a penny, so he says,’ Annette shrugged. ‘It’s not a very nice way of putting it but it’s true.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Joan.

It was lunchtime before Annette had taken Joan on one side to tell her what Richard had said. It had been a busy morning and Helly had been around.

‘Listen, don’t feel bad, it’s not just this.’ Annette took a sip from her coffee. ‘Richard said there are other things. Even if this wasn’t her, there’s
things that have been building up for a while. I’m not supposed to say.’

‘He’s probably just saying that to make me feel better,’ said Joan.

Annette shook her head. ‘He had a word with me a couple of weeks ago. Personnel have told him something about her that he can’t tell us. Really. It’s not your fault.’

‘So what’s going to happen?’

Annette shrugged. ‘Nothing, immediately. He’s got to clear it quietly with Personnel. He’ll probably have a word with Marjorie. She can sort out the paperwork. Officially Helly
will resign, as far as all that is concerned – in a fortnight or so.’

‘I think it’s awful. We have to carry on talking to her even though we know she’s going to get the sack. It’s awful.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Annette repeated. ‘And Richard said he would much rather you got your money back quickly and quietly than have a whole great rigmarole. It’s
much better for her this way too; she’s lucky Richard’s handling it so discreetly. If it went upstairs they’d get the police in, and it would all be much more serious. She should
be glad.’

Joan looked down into her tea. It was very pale and milky and almost cold. ‘I still think it’s awful.’

Richard’s coffee was hot, black and very strong. Marjorie knew just how to make it. He was sitting on the edge of her desk, in the personnel department. It was the lunch
hour and the office was quiet.

He and Marjorie had known each other for some years now. She was a neighbour’s sister-in-law. Richard had helped her get her job at the CTA. She owed him one.

Marjorie was explaining to Richard how bored she was with life. As she did, she rubbed the side of her neck with her left hand, leaning back in her seat and looking up at Richard, sleepy-eyed.
Marjorie was thirty-eight years old and married to a man who bought her garden centre vouchers for her birthday. She had very fine brown hair that lay in a flat sheen across her head and flopped
down onto her shoulders. She was the only woman Richard knew who still wore false eyelashes – a walking museum piece.

‘Now Marge,’ Richard was saying to her. ‘I know you’re having me on. I don’t believe all this nothing to do at weekends. I know what you’re up to. Soon as
your old man’s asleep, you shin down the drainpipe in a leather mini-skirt and head for the nearest nightspot. I know you. I bet you drive them wild.’

Marjorie reached out her hand and cuffed Richard’s arm. ‘Oh Richard!’

Richard leant towards her across the desk. ‘You can’t fool me, you little hussy,’ he said softly.