First Aid (3 page)

He came to say goodbye at around nine o'clock. He said he wasn't sure when he'd be back – maybe some time in the afternoon if he was lucky. He'd been helping someone repair a boat for the last week. All through the hot spell he'd worked out of doors. He kissed her, then Annie. She enjoyed both kisses – the first on her mouth, the second a surrogate on her daughter's cheek. She hadn't known that he wouldn't kiss her again. She looked out of the window and watched his van pull away.

Two of Rob's friends came round for him, calling up from the street. Rob borrowed some money from her and went out, crashing down the stairs. Annie fell quiet and the only sounds then were the small ones of the chink of plates being put away and Jo's own footsteps crossing the room. Ella switched the radio on in her bedroom but the noise was faint coming through the wall. Jo hung the damp drying-up cloths over the sill. She was happy without noting her happiness, or notching it up. Ella came into the kitchen and then Jo could hear the words of the song because the doors were wide open – but the peacefulness remained. Ella made herself a cup of coffee and sat down. The silence between them, in the absence of small talk, was domestic, not hostile, unaffected by the music which swam through the rooms and out into the street. Jo recognised herself in Ella, the same unsmoothed edges in looks and temperament. She didn't ask questions about the previous evening. Did you have a good time? Where did you go? Why were you late? She and Felpo were already in bed when she heard Ella bang the front door to the flat and come in. She hadn't checked the time. The questions she might have asked were inconsequential enough but would have veered off into spot-lit interrogation even as she spoke. She wouldn't have meant them to sound like that but intention had nothing to do with it. Jo knew when to back off and she had learned when not even to begin. That left a space with nothing much in it for the present.

Ella drank her coffee, sitting with one foot tucked under her. She stared absently at some mid-point on the table. Jo sensed she was contented to be there with her – Felpo and Rob out of the way. The minutes passed. Ella only looked up when Annie squealed and tried to hide under her chair. She watched as Jo grabbed Annie and lifted her over the sink to wash her hands, the warm water splashing over them both, the soap slipping out of reach. She must have been in a good mood, because when she passed the kitchen again later, she called out to say goodbye.

Jo was the last to leave. She went to the shop for the morning, as usual, taking Annie with her. She was only out of the house for three hours.

When Felpo came home in the afternoon Jo was on the telephone to Trevor Lucas, her employer. He had made an appointment to visit a client, Mrs Ena Tiemann, about a house clearance and had scribbled the address down on the back of a second-hand paperback. The stuff for sale had seemed promising but he couldn't find the book.

Jo heard Felpo's feet on the stairs and the click of the key in the lock. He came in and walked to the far side of the room. She was saying ‘Did you put a glass down on it? Look again when you've woken up properly. Perhaps you sold the book.' That was Trevor, she said when she put the phone down. Felpo said, ‘Of course.' She took it as an easy acknowledgement. She didn't speak like that to anyone else.

She looked across at him, standing a few feet away from her. She was happy to see him – back maybe for the rest of the day. Annie was playing in Ella's room and had fallen quiet; sometimes after lunch she fell asleep. The older two would stay out in the sun. She went towards him. He said something, but he wasn't facing her and she wasn't paying attention – she was thinking about the afternoon ahead, what they might do in it.

He said he was leaving. She heard him that time. But you've only just come back, she said. He said it would be better if he went quickly and would she get out of his way. She might have smiled. She always smiled when she saw him. I mean it, he said. He wasn't standing still any longer, he was roaming about the room. She said, all right then and moved a couple of paces to one side. She didn't know where to move to. He said, right out. Out of the house. Come back once I've gone. She wondered whether to laugh because it was his voice, yet it wasn't his voice and she didn't know what he meant. She might have started to laugh. He picked up the empty wine bottle from the side and slammed it down on the work top so that it shattered – pieces of green glass everywhere. She took a step towards him, thinking of helping, of getting a dustpan. Don't come near me, he said. He dodged round the table. She was between him and the door. She said – as if it were part of the game – I won't let you go, not like this, and she stretched her arms out, barring the way. He put out his hand. At first she thought he was giving her something. She didn't know what he was doing.

It was characteristic of him to offer her absurd choices and even at the moment when she saw what was hidden between his thumb and his index finger she recognised his way of doing things and wanted it back. They would be sitting in the van deciding where to go for a day out. He'd say they could drive to St Tropez or Sandwich. Jo was free to say the impossible one and it hung buoyantly in the air as if they really had chosen it.

She should have let him go, but she couldn't move. She stood with her back to the doorway, her arms out rigid. He came closer. She said nothing – and he flicked his hand down her cheek. The pain was sharp, but it might have been hot – she didn't know which. Annie screamed and screamed from the hallway and that broke it. He ran past, out of the flat. Jo hung over the sink, retching. Annie carried on screaming. Then Ella was there, holding her head, pulling strands of hair off her face, tying them back. Rob was there, running the tap, dabbing her cheek with cotton wool, letting water trickle down her neck, opening a bottle of antiseptic, stinging her with it. They were sitting her down, pressing her head between her knees. They were propping her up, patting her face with a dry cloth, sticking tiny patches of sticking plaster down it, each one like the peck of a bird.

Everything was bright. The heat of the city, dull as concrete, enveloped the train. The woman in the corner opposite had stood up and was struggling with the window, preparing to lean out and open the door. The train was moving, inching along, jolting over the points.

‘We won't get out here, Mum,' Rob said. ‘We'll go on to the end of the line. Charing Cross.'

‘Whatever for?' she said.

‘There isn't time to get everything down from the rack. We can't get off just like that. Without planning it,' he said.

‘Well, we can try,' she said. ‘Come on.'

‘You should have woken up before if you wanted to do that,' he said.

Annie was still sitting on the floor slumped against her mother's shins. Jo lifted her on to her feet. The little girl's legs wobbled and splayed then firmed up. She grabbed hold of Jo's skirt and opened her eyes.

‘Look, Annie's awake now. Please try, Rob,' Jo said.

She reached up and pulled down the buggy – almost overbalancing with the child hanging on to her. Rob ignored her. The platform, the intermittent station furniture, the station buildings, the signs saying London Bridge, passed slowly by the windows. Then Rob leapt up on to the seat and seized hold of the pieces of luggage, throwing them one after another to the floor.

‘Stop that,' she said.

The train was stationary. The woman had finally succeeded in opening the door. She got out. Rob jumped down and grasped as many bags as he could in each hand.

‘Get off the train, Mum. Quick. QUICK.' He was shrieking at her.

The crowd on the platform were wedged together. Behind her Rob was shouting and shoving the luggage against her legs. She tucked Annie under one arm and tried to step off the train. A man lunged towards her, forcing her back into the compartment. Rob's cross breath was on her upper back – his voice in her ear. She struggled forward again, pushing against hot bodies, unyielding shoulders – and reached solid ground. She clung on to Annie. A guard shouted. Doors slammed. A slow rush of air passed behind her.

Then they were on their own. A nuclear family. That's what it felt like. Everyone else dead. The platform was empty.

‘
HAVE YOU TIME
for a small top-up?' Ena Tiemann said.

‘Ample time,' Trevor said.

He always said that. They didn't like to be rushed.

‘Help yourself, dear,' Ena Tiemann said. ‘And while you're up, just pull the curtain across, will you, the light's in my eyes. There. That's enough. We don't want to shut out all the summer sun.'

Trevor sat down again and put his newly filled glass of vermouth on the small polished table in front of him. The room was now sharply divided between brightness and shadow. The line ran down the middle, with his chair on one side and the old lady's on the other. His glass sparkled.

‘You've done well, Mrs Tiemann,' he said, leaning towards her. ‘To get it all in boxes.'

The old lady looked surprised. She bent forward a little and the pillow that was behind her head slipped out of place. Trevor got up and propped it back up.

‘It must have taken a good few hours,' he said.

She thought for a moment, then she said, ‘That wasn't me. That was Mother. She wraps everything up in newspaper.'

Trevor nodded. He was used to old people with mothers alive. He felt at home with the notion that, if you waited long enough, the dead returned as if they had never gone. As an idea, it was less alarming than the one that promised you'd meet them in an after-life.

‘Did you see her?' Ena Tiemann asked.

Trevor shook his head.

The old lady was looking beyond him now, though not at the wall behind – at a far-away place.

‘So, do you know what's there, Mrs Tiemann?' he said. He separated the words slightly.

Minutes passed. They both waited. And Trevor could see that although she didn't know, she didn't want to think about not knowing. It troubled her.

‘Worry not,' he said. ‘I'll take them away and see what we've got and come back and give you a price.'

She was quiet again and even shut her eyes for a little while. When she came to she fiddled with the sleeve of her blouse until she found the gap where she kept her handkerchief. She pulled it out and dabbed the corners of her mouth.

‘Tomorrow, did you say you'd be here again, Trevor?' she asked after the pause.

‘Maybe. If there are a lot of small things in there – jewellery and bits – it might take me longer to sort through. I'll definitely be back by the end of the week.'

‘You checked the cupboard, didn't you? Nothing left inside?'

‘Empty.'

‘I could do with the space.'

Trevor nodded.

‘I've lived here all my life. In this house. Four, The Summit. Not many people can say that nowadays,' she said.

‘No, it's getting to be rare.'

He got up from the armchair.

‘I hope you can lift those boxes. Get someone to give you a hand,' she said.

‘I'll manage. The car's parked just outside.'

‘One of them's heavy.'

‘Is it?'

‘Got scales in the bottom. Good scales. Government stamped. Dad bought them for Mother. Carried them home all the way up the hill.'

‘Worth buying the best,' Trevor said. ‘The best lasts a lifetime.'

‘Pans there were. Brass. One for the weights and another for the ingredients. Had to put flour in before you added anything sticky – syrup was always sticky. They jiggled up and down.
She
knew how to use them. I never got the hang of it. Hadn't the patience for baking. Rubbed in, creamed. All that.'

‘I'm with you there,' he said.

‘Put the cloth on for tea. Polish the cruet. She boiled the clothes pegs once a month. Said it made them keep longer. There weren't many that did that.' She shook her head. ‘I couldn't be doing with any of those old-fangled ways. As soon as she'd gone, I wrapped everything in the newspaper and put it away in the cupboard. What did I want with it?'

‘That's the idea,' he said.

‘It's all good as new. Let someone else enjoy it,' she said.

She looked up at him. ‘Who did I say did the wrapping?' she said.

‘You said you did it yourself.'

‘Before that.'

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Did I tell you it was Mother?' she said.

‘Maybe. A few moments ago you might have said that.'

‘Must be going stupid. I'll tell you something else, Trevor. I swallowed some buttons. They came with a new blouse in a nice little plastic packet. I didn't know what they were. Thought they were my pills. Swallowed them with a glass of water.'

‘Easily done. It's the memory. I'm always forgetting things, losing things. I lost your address but then it turned up.'

He bent down and lifted one of the boxes. ‘I'll be back for the others in a tick.'

‘You'll take them home with you, will you, Trevor?'

‘To the shop. But I need to load the car first. I'll wash up the glasses before I go.'

‘If someone takes a fancy to something let them have it. Tell them I said so.'

‘I'll do that, Mrs Tiemann. Thank you. You're a good woman.'

Every now and then he went on one of these hunting sprees. They usually involved visiting ageing people, mostly women, whom he'd heard were about to go into one of the local nursing homes. He had friendly arrangements with the female owners of Borrowdale, which he thought of as Borrowed Time, and another, which genuinely seemed to be called Fallowfields. They tipped him off about prospective new clients and he would call on them at their old familiar addresses. He commiserated with them about having to cull their treasured possessions and offered to take the surplus off their hands. This was a good idea in theory, but in practice, the old ladies crammed as much as they were allowed, without infringing fire regulations, in the new small space. Their relatives, cleaners and hairdressers took the better pieces, and he was left with things from the apex of the corner cupboard.