Crazy Paving (2 page)

In the middle of the tunnel, just after Vauxhall, the train stopped. There was often a pause at this point, to remind commuters that they were travelling hundreds of feet underground, beneath
tons of water. The passengers edged around uneasily. Helly stared gloomily ahead, then sighed. She had some mints in her bag but it was impossible to get at them in this scrum. They waited.

Eventually, the train began to move. At Pimlico, it seemed impossible that any more passengers would try to get on, but they did. The young man stepped back onto Helly’s foot again and
this time she snapped, ‘D’you
mind
?’, pushing at him with her elbow.

He glanced at her, registered that she was not worth arguing with and turned back to his friends. ‘Bleedin’ hell,’ one of them was saying, ‘this is so packed I’m
scared I’m going to get someone pregnant.’

Annette’s detour via the Ladies at Charing Cross made her late. She trotted up the steps of John Blow House and past the security guard, who was sitting glumly behind
Reception reading the
Daily Mail
and chewing the ends of his fingers. She stabbed the lift button with one finger and then, while she waited, continued to stab.

Joan had already arrived. She was watering the plants that had colonised the window sill, peering over an uncontrollable ivy and chuckling to herself.

‘Morning Joan,’

‘Morning. How are you?’

‘Fine. Slight delay on Hungerford Bridge.’

‘You won’t believe what happened to me.’ Joan turned from the plants. ‘Really. Good grief, I haven’t quite calmed down.’ She put down the plastic watering
jug, withdrew a tissue from her blouse sleeve and wiped her eyes. ‘It gets better every day, doesn’t it?’

Annette was hanging up her coat. ‘Let me guess. The bus driver fainted at the wheel and one of the passengers took over.’

‘Not quite. They made everyone get off at Vauxhall. Two inspectors got on at the Oval. When they came down from the top deck, they stopped the bus and said we all had to get off because
there was a suspicious handbag upstairs. They had completely straight faces as well. Oh dear . . .’ She blew her nose.

Helly strolled in at nine thirty-two. ‘Alright?’ she asked Annette and Joan rhetorically as she swaggered past their desks.

Annette sighed. She pulled a small notepad out of her desk drawer and flicked through a list of numbers. At the bottom of the list she added the date, then a dash, then the figure 32. Annette
was keeping an eye on Helly. She still had two months of her probationary period to go.

‘Helly!’ Annette called, as her small plump figure disappeared round the corner. Helly turned on one foot, a sulky expression on her soft round features. A lot of the surveyors
fancied Helly, although Annette could not comprehend why. She spent most of her time eating biscuits and the rest scowling. She was just five feet tall and had a figure like a jelly baby. Her light
brown hair was straight on the left hand side and tucked behind her ear. On the right, it fell in unnaturally stiffened curls around her face. She swore. She had good skin for a seventeen-year-old
but even that could not, in Annette’s view, compensate for the fundamental unpleasantness that lay beneath it. Younger men in the office seemed prepared to overlook this because she wore
short skirts and developed dimples on the rare occasions that she smiled. Annette despised the boys. Helly was not employed to dimple. Helly was employed to work. She was murder: the Office Junior
from Hell.

‘What?’
What
was Helly’s favourite word.

Annette looked down and flicked through the contents of her in-tray while she spoke, to demonstrate that however discourteous Helly might be she was just as capable of being discourteous
back.

‘Can you go through the stationery cupboard for me please and do a list? I’m going over to Wimperton’s later on.’

Helly turned to go without response, which meant,
What? Bloody hell, alright then
.

Joan was looking at her diary and frowning. ‘It is February, isn’t it?’ She asked Annette.

‘ ’Fraid so,’ Annette replied.

‘Oh, I’m looking at the wrong month,’ Joan said. ‘Silly me – I did tell you April, didn’t I?’

‘Yes. Where are you going?’

‘Spain.’

‘Will it be hot enough by then?’ Annette was making a list of the jobs to do that day which she would stick onto the front of her computer. It was divided into three groups: Urgent,
Non-Urgent and If Possible.

‘Well, Alun said so,’ Joan replied, ‘I’m really looking forward to it. It’s the first time we’ve been abroad for six years. I’ll have to buy a
swimsuit.’

Helly appeared round the corner. She was holding a box of paperclips. ‘Here, look at this,’ she said, grinning and chewing a biscuit at the same time. ‘Do you know what
paperclips are called in Europe?’ She rattled the box.

‘What?’ asked Joan.

‘Trombones.’

‘Oh stop it,’ Joan replied.

‘No straight up. That’s what it says here. Large-lipped paperclips.
Long ourles trombones
.’ She twisted her mouth as she spoke. ‘If we join Europe we’ll
have to clip memos together with trombones.’

‘And people in brass bands will have to play paperclips,’ muttered Annette.

Helly removed a large paperclip from the box and put it on her lower lip. Then she went back to the stationery cupboard.

Annette glanced up at the clock: nine fifty-six. Richard was even later than usual. She turned on her computer and reached for the mouse. As the hard disk span up, she ran her eye down her list
of tasks for that day, sighing.

Richard sat in the passenger seat while his wife drove. They were silent. Their three golden retrievers sat in the back. Two of them were lying down and one was resting his
head over the back of Gillian’s seat with his snout on her right shoulder. Gillian had tied a patterned silk headscarf tight under her chin and pulled it forward so that it obscured most of
her face. Glancing sideways, Richard could see only the small angle of her nose. He glanced sideways several times, trying to guess her demeanour from her posture and the movements of her hands on
the wheel. It was always hard to tell with Gillian.

As they rounded the bend past The Jolly Huntsman, they passed David Harton on his bicycle. David Harton was their neighbour and had taken to cycling only recently. He was wearing a yellow
waterproof cape over his suit and had wrapped his briefcase in clear plastic and placed it in a white wire basket clipped to the front of the handlebars. Bicycle clips restrained his trouser legs.
It had stopped snowing but the air was still damp. Harton wobbled as he pedalled slowly through the deep brown slush, his knees sticking out at thirty-degrees angles. He glanced over his shoulder
and waved at them as their car swished past. They both waved back.

‘David is taking this fitness campaign seriously then,’ commented Gillian.

Richard felt relieved. ‘Juanita has put him on a diet,’ he said. ‘Avocados and brown rice. It’s a new thing.’

They came to the village high street.

‘Did he get planning permission for the heli-pad?’ Gillian asked.

‘I think there’s a problem. He may not be able to put it on the roof after all. They’re thinking about the paddock.’

‘Oh
no
. Really?’

‘That’s what he said.’ Richard felt pleased with himself. If Gillian became annoyed about their neighbours’ plans for a helicopter pad in the paddock then she would
forget about last night’s little problem. Gillian was a woman who could only be annoyed about one thing at a time.

Gillian sighed heavily. Richard took a risk. ‘What about dinner?’

Her response disappointed him. She barked. The dog on her shoulder jumped.

‘Dinner?’ she added, dismissively. They drove in silence for the rest of the journey.

As they pulled into the station car park, Richard checked his watch. He had seven minutes to spare; time to try and make things right before he got his train. He hated going to work with things
all wrong. It ruined his entire day.

She switched off the engine and he turned to her. Then he reached out and took her hand. She was wearing string-backed driving gloves. His were black leather. ‘Gillian,’ he said,
looking down at her hand, ‘I am sorry about last night. I am sure we can get it fixed . . .’

‘We? You mean
I
, Richard. You are sure
I
can get it fixed.’

‘I could ring Benson’s from work.’

‘No,’ Gillian replied quickly. ‘Leave it to me. Last time we had Benson & Sons in their apprentice ruined the carpet.’

‘I did get him sacked.’

‘That’s hardly the point, is it?’

He began to rub one of her fingers between two of his. ‘No, Gillian.’

She sighed. ‘I will call out the plumbers and the engineers. I will sort everything out – and there will be dinner.’

He knew he was forgiven. He leant towards her.

She waited until his face was close to hers and then put her free gloved hand over his mouth. ‘But you have to promise me,’ she said evenly, ‘that you will never try and fix
the boiler again.’ She took her hand away.

‘Promise,’ he said.

He leant forward again and their lips brushed briefly. The retriever on Gillian’s right shoulder watched them, unmoved.

Richard drew back slightly, paused, then risked placing a hand on her knee. She looked at him.

‘I’ve been very bad . . .’ he suggested hopefully.

She kept her gaze level. Then she said softly, ‘Yes, Richard, you have. And tonight you will be punished.’

His carriage was half full. All of its occupants were men and most were reading bits of paper. The only problem with first class travel was that it obliged you to pretend to
work. Richard always carried a calculator in his pocket. Once seated, he would withdraw it and press its buttons at random. Occasionally, when he knew himself to be observed by the man sitting
opposite, he would pause and frown at it, shaking his head slightly.

Today, he tapped in the numbers 01134 and turned the calculator upside-down. It said hEllO.

At Victoria, he remained seated for a few minutes to allow the scrambling mob on the platform to clear. Then he strolled towards the concourse. Half-way there he stopped, put down his briefcase
and lit a cigarette. He blew smoke into the air in a manner which a casual observer would have considered confident, derisive. There are days, thought Richard, when it occurs to you that in
comparison with many people you have made a success of your life and have much to be proud of.

He headed for the bank of telephones in the corner of the station, the ones tucked out of sight. There were some in the middle of the concourse, but he couldn’t risk being spotted by any
of his staff who might be running late. In the alcove, he took out his phonecard and a small book bound in plum coloured leather which he kept tucked in the inside pocket of his jacket. He had one
or two calls to make before he got to the office.

The first person to greet him as he stepped out of the lift was his new surveyor, William Bennett.

‘Richard,’ William observed. Then stopped.

‘Yes?’ said Richard as he walked down the open-plan department, William in pursuit.

‘Sutton Street,’ said William. ‘Compulsory purchase order on Rosewood Cottage. Need to talk. Might be a problem.’

Richard grunted. By now they had reached his office. He slung his briefcase on his desk, opened it and began unloading sheafs of paper.

‘Had to take the Sports Ground specs home over the weekend,’ he muttered. ‘No overtime in this job you know.’

William looked a little frustrated. ‘I really do think we need to sort this out,’ he said. ‘I thought it would be straightforward after the Royal Assent. To be honest, Richard,
I’m not sure. I need some back-up.’

William Bennett was twenty-seven. He had worked for Richard Leather for six weeks but had already surmised that the only way to get him to do anything was to appear helpless.

Richard was looking pleased. He came round to William’s side of the desk and slapped a fatherly hand on his shoulder. ‘Don’t worry. We’ve got the project meeting on
Friday. It will all get sorted out then.’

Annette stepped into the office swiftly and silently and placed a cup of freshly poured black coffee on Richard’s desk. Silently, she left.

Richard was guiding William towards the door. ‘The thing to do is to move fast, before the other side have time to get organised. They haven’t employed a solicitor or anything, have
they?’

‘The old couple? No, I don’t think so.’

‘When are you going round?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, I tell you what.’ Richard dropped his voice. ‘Pop round, next week maybe, after the meeting, do a few measurements and have a sniff about, okay?’

By now they had reached the door. William looked at Richard, confused. Richard smiled, winked, and closed the door in his face.

When Richard turned from the door, his smile had disappeared.

It happened at eleven sixteen a.m. Annette knew because as soon as she heard the blast, she checked her watch. It was a deep, unmistakable boom, short but sonorous, as if a
roll of thunder had been compressed into a box and then burst free. The window next to her rattled. For a minute there was silence, then the sirens began. Opposite her Joan looked up, her gaze
questioning. Annette nodded, then reached for the phone.

It rang twice before her mother answered. ‘Yes?’

‘Mum, it’s me. I thought I’d better ring. A bomb’s gone off. I’m fine.’

‘A bomb?’

‘Yes. There’s been an explosion. It rattled the windows of our office.’

‘Are you at work? Are you okay? How near was it?’

‘I don’t know. Whitehall, maybe. It’s hard to tell. It seemed quite distant.’

‘I’ll put the radio on. Did you get my note about the jumper?’

‘Mum I can’t talk now, I’m at work. I just wanted to let you know, so you wouldn’t hear it on the news and worry . . .’

Raymond came round the corner. He was the senior surveyor and Richard’s deputy. He wore a bow-tie. He wrote his draft memos in green ink and complained to Annette that young surveyors
these days didn’t understand the past participle. ‘Was that what I thought it was?’ he asked.