Rebuilding Coventry (5 page)

My head
lolls forward; am I asleep? I don’t know, hard to tell, my brain is tired. My
eyes drop shut… . The sun is shining. I am warm. An old man with
mutton-chop whiskers and kindly eyes is holding out his hands. ‘Come, my dear,’
he says. He pulls me to my feet. ‘I’m Mr Periwinkle,’ he says. ‘Breakfast is
ready.’ He crosses the square and indicates that I am to follow him. We stop
outside a tall house. ‘I live here with my invalid daughter, Emily,’ the old
man explains. The front door is opened by Les Dawson wearing a pantomime cook’s
costume. Les smirks as I squeeze by him in the narrow hall. Mr Periwinkle shows
me into a room at the back of the house. Sunshine floods in, bleaching the
colours of the furniture and decorations. Mr Periwinkle says, ‘Emily, we have a
guest for breakfast.’

I hadn’t
noticed the wheelchair in the corner or its occupant. Emily wheels herself
towards me. Her little face is pale under her lace cap and brown ringlets. She
lisps, ‘I saw you sleeping in the doorway last night. Were you dweadfully cold?’

I
answer, ‘Upon my life I was most fearfully cold, Miss Periwinkle.’

‘I told
Papa as soon as I was dwessed, didn’t I, Pa? I said, “It is our Cwistian duty
to help that poor unfortunate. You must get weady at once and invite her to
share our bweakfast.” Didn’t I, Papa?’

Mr
Periwinkle kisses the tips of his daughter’s white fingers. ‘My little gal has
not long to live,’ he confesses in an undertone. ‘But ain’t she just the most
perfect angel you ever saw?’

Les Dawson
brings in every breakfast food I’d ever heard of. I gorge myself on porridge
and boiled eggs and toast and kidneys and kedgeree and bacon and sausages. I
eat six slices of toast and drink five cups of scalding coffee. Emily nibbles
on an arrowroot biscuit and sips on a thimble-sized cup of warm milk. Mr
Periwinkle’s eyes twinkle at the end of the table as he watches me eat. Then he
gets up and pokes the fire and invites me to sit by the hearth and tell my
story. When I am seated opposite him I say, ‘There are two things you should
know about me immediately. The first is that I am beautiful.’

‘Indeed
you are, ma’am.’

‘The
second is that yesterday I killed a man called Gerald Fox.’

‘Are
you informing me that you are a murderer?’ says Mr Periwinkle, whose eyes have
stopped twinkling. ‘In that case, Dawson, throw her out!’

As I am
falling down the steps Les Dawson’s face looms over me. He is saying something
about his mother-in-law… .

It was getting light. A
dustbin lorry was making its way around the square. Birds were flapping about
in group panic; time to start walking. The dustbin lorry ground up. Two men
walked briskly to the pile of black rubbish bags next to me. They both wore
gloves and orange overalls. One was wearing horn-rimmed spectacles, the other a
Russian fur hat. Spectacles shouted, ‘You’ll have to move, so’s we can get to
them bags, lady.’

Russian
Hat bellowed, ‘We’ve left you till last. Normally we
start
at the Foot
Hospital. S’unusual for us to finish ‘ere, ain’t it, Spog?’

Spog
adjusted his glasses and said, ‘Un’eardov. But we could see you needed your
sleep.’

I said,
‘I’ve got cramp in both legs, I can’t move yet.

‘I ain’t
surprised,’ Spog shouted over the grinding mechanism of the lorry. ‘Stuck in a bleedin’
doorway all night. ‘S a wonder you ain’t been interfered wiv’ an’ all. Some
blokes ain’t fussy, you know. They’ll go with anyfing, even dossers.’

‘Can
you help me up?’ I asked.

‘No we
can’t,’ said Russian Hat. ‘We ain’t allowed to touch the public; ‘specially
women, case they go complainin’ to somebody.’

The
driver got out of the cab, a fat man with an Elvis Presley haircut and a string
tie. He walked over to us with a showbiz swagger, as though he were appearing
twice nightly at Caesar’s Palace. His voice was flat and hard. ‘Get out the
way,’ he ordered. I was frightened of him. So were Spog and his mate. I tipped
onto my side and pulled myself onto the pavement. My dead legs trailed behind
me. Fat Man picked the rubbish bags up with one hand and slung them into the
back of the lorry. He nodded the other two men back to work, then came back to
where I was lying, rubbing my legs and feet back to life. He spoke from lips
that looked like two pink slugs.

‘If I
was Prime Minister, I’d pass a law that gave the Council the right to throw
you, an’ your sort, into the back of my lorry.
You’re rubbish.
I’d have
the dossers, the winos, the dope ‘eads, the whores, the glue sniffers, the pakis,
the chinks, the darkies, the whole bleedin’ lot of you pulled to bits. Bones
broke, heads off, mixed up by the mincer at the back of my motor. An’ you know
what? I’d work for nothin’, ‘cos I’d be doin’ it for my country. You’re
rubbish! Fuck off out of it!’

I got
up and hobbled away from him into a street leading from the square. As I
regained the feeling in my feet and legs, I walked faster, until finally I was
running along the empty pavement. Passing somewhere called Charlotte Street,
where the restaurant and café windows were being cleaned by young men in denims,
I could smell coffee, real coffee, the sort that people make in little machines
after grinding beans. I have never tasted real coffee. When rare visitors came
to our house I didn’t say, like actors do in television plays, ‘It’s only
instant, I’m afraid.’ In our house it was never anything but Maxwell House.

I
enjoyed running, so I carried on, flying into a big street called Tottenham
Court Road, past shops full of Japanese electrical goods. A golden sun rose on
my right. My reflection flashed from shop windows as I ran, effortlessly and
with increasing speed, dodging and weaving through people on the pavements. I
now had something to do in London; I was an early-morning runner. Carry on,
faster, faster, pony-tail bobbing, arms carving through the air, legs striding.
Stop. I have arrived at the end of Tottenham Court Road. I have been here
before. The street is called Euston Road. A shimmering angled building stands
opposite. I passed it last night. A magical mirrored building, reflecting life
and movement. I have come a full circle. St Pancras … Fitzroy Square …
Tottenham Court Road. I have a territory.

The
pavement is suddenly crowded. I wonder if there has been an accident but the
crowd exists only for a moment and then disperses. People are coming out of an
Underground station. They have the numb, hurrying look of people going to work.
Chinese men with brief-cases, Arabs in flowing robes. An African woman, with
tribal markings on her face and a squash of chiffon on her head, is holding her
daughter’s hand. The girl is wearing a miniature school uniform. I am
captivated by the sight of so many different nationalities. Although I stand
and watch the Underground travellers emerge for at least five minutes, I am
disappointed not to see a single bowler hat. However, a policeman’s helmet is
visible through the crowd so, scared, I move on, running back in the direction
I’ve come from.

A few
cafés are open now. I’m so hungry that I can smell them before I see them. It
would be very ill-mannered to stop and stare through the windows and watch
people eating and drinking, so I pass by at speed. The traffic fills four lanes
and moves in irritated fits and starts. It must be the famous London rush-hour.
A Japanese television in a shop window is showing
TV AM.
The correct
time is superimposed on Roy Hattersley’s feet: 7.35 a.m. John and Mary will be
getting up for school and college. No, they won’t be going anywhere this
morning. Today is the first full day of their new status. They are the children
of a murderer. Opposite them live a widow and her four children.

I have
created chaos in the dull street where I lived meekly for twenty-one years. I
know I can never go back.

6
Inspector Sly Investigates

6.15
p.m. 13 Badger’s Copse Close, Grey Paths Estate. Wednesday
evening

Detective Inspector Sly
was getting impatient. He hated slobbergobs and Derek Dakin had been talking
for ten minutes and forty seconds non-stop. Sly took this opportunity to study
Derek and the interior of the living-room. He made mental notes, later to be
inscribed into his notebook.

1.         Furnishings and carpets: beige (also
curtains)

2.         Wallpaper: beige (with cherry pattern)

3.         Framed pictures of steam trains (seven)

4.         Bookcase: box files, encyclopedias,
tortoise reference books

5.         Ornaments: few; tortoise trophies on TV,
plus cup for third-year hurdles: winner, Coventry Lambert

6.         Arrangement of dried grasses on small
table

7.         Pets: cats (two); one with conjunctivitis

8.         Children: (two); boy and girl (clean
types)

9.         Husband: (one) boring fart

10.       Proof that Coventry Dakin has been
domiciled at this address: pair of fluffy mules (size 6½) by the fireside

11.       Wedding photo on bookcase: bride beautiful,
smiling; groom rat-faced, unsmiling

12.       Brown plastic handbag, containing: child
benefit book, hairbrush, pkt clothes pegs, keys, bus tickets, two tampons
(regular size), one cat’s flea-collar

Sly broke into Derek’s
consciousness by raising his voice and looking stern. ‘So what time was it when
you last saw your wife, Mr Dakin?’

Derek
started to whimper and examine his fingernails; tears gathered in his eyes. Sly
mentally noted:

13.       Husband:
possible poofter?

Coventry’s children left
the room. They had never seen their father display extreme emotion before. The
sight of Derek’s distorted face, together with the undignified grunts heaving
from his chest, drove them into the hall. Sly shouted after them, ‘Don’t leave
the house, I shall need to talk to you next.’ Detective Inspector Sly offered
Derek no comfort; in his experience it only started them off again. Nor did he
loan his handkerchief; he never got them back.

‘It was
the word “wife” that set me off,’ Derek explained to Sly, as soon as he had
stopped gulping and sobbing. ‘A wife is a woman who wears an apron and has her
arms inside a mixing bowl. A wife is gentle and kind, and speaks loving words
to her family. A wife doesn’t murder her neighbour, and then run away from home.
…’

Mary
and John Dakin sat at the bottom of the stairs. They looked like the
non-threatening type of teenagers to be found inside the pages of a Littlewoods
catalogue, usually pictured lounging on bales of hay, or beaming ecstatically
on clean motorbikes. They didn’t know what to think; nothing in their previous
experience had prepared them for the shock of being told that their mother was
a murderer. Neither of them knew what to say to each other. They listened to
the rumble of voices behind the living-room door in silence. The door opened;
Detective Inspector Sly stood there, imposing in his dark uniform. ‘Mary, be a
good girl and make your dad a cup of tea … plenty of sugar … he’s in
shock.’ Mary glanced into the living-room on her way to the kitchen. Derek was
shaking his body about; saliva hung from his mouth; his fingers twisted
together like mating snakes.

‘My
mother’s a murderer, and my father’s gone mad,’ thought Mary. She conjured up
the atmosphere in the house at breakfast-time that morning. It was normal… ordinary … average … conventional. It was dull … safe … nice
… there was NOTHING TO WORRY ABOUT. John stared down at the hall carpet; he
was thinking that now he could never go back to sixth-form college where he was
doing A levels. Not unless he dyed his hair and took to wearing sunglasses
during the day. Worse,
Coventry,
his mother’s stupid name, would be in
the papers. He had told his friends at college that her name was Margaret.

Inspector
Sly stood up; the interview with Derek was nearly over. Derek was howling like
an upset wolf. Sly watched him contemptuously. He thought, ‘Give me five
minutes alone with him in the cells and I’d make a man of him. A good kicking
is what he needs.’ Detective Inspector Sly was an inveterate advocate of a good
kicking. He’d seen it work wonders. Men had left the police station with their
backs invisibly bruised but their heads held high.

Mary
came into the room with two mugs of thin, milky tea. She averted her eyes from
her father. Sly gave her one of his ‘strong man with heart of gold’ glances;
this consisted of slightly inclining his head, while pursing his lips and twinkling
his eyes. ‘I can see that you’ll be a great comfort to your father in the days
ahead, Mary,’ said Sly, using his ‘I know how to talk to teenagers’ voice.

Derek
burst into a loud crying fit again and Mary quickly left the room. She was
repelled and disgusted by the snot and tears running down her father’s face.
She felt sorry for him, but sorrier for herself. Her life was ruined; she could
never leave the house again. She would lose all her friends and now, with her
mother gone, she would have to do all the ironing and housework. She looked at
herself in the hall mirror. She thought: ‘I’ve aged ten years, I look at least
twenty-six.’ She sucked on her gold necklace and sat back on the stairs,
waiting to be called for her interrogation.