The Last Girl (23 page)

No, there was
only one real risk that I could see.
He
was down there too, in the lounge as usual. If he caught me creeping past the
door then that would be it. The game would be up. But there you are - nothing
ventured, nothing gained. So I picked up the bear and made for the door.

And the first
thing I notice is that the smell is gone. Or to be more exact, it was still
there - I'd always notice it now - but it was a welcoming familiar smell, part
of the atmosphere. And that was a sign in itself that I was doing the right
thing.

Coming down
those stairs, I don't suppose a mouse could have made less noise, yet it wasn't
as if it was easy. Naturally I could have found my way down blindfold, but you
try it when there's a bundle of fur bumping up against you on every step.
Still, I didn't put a foot wrong. The result was, I felt that cocky, passing the
lounge, that I did a silly thing. I pressed my head against the door and
thumbed my nose at the nasty piece of work there, snoring away in his
adulterous dreams on the other side.

And then it
was to the hard part. Clicking open Mandy's door, tiptoeing inside, keeping all
my fingers crossed that I wouldn't bump into anything. You see, I'd expected
the difficulty to be that it would be darker here than anywhere else. But it
didn't turn out that way. I stepped into Mandy's room to find it was lighter
here than on the stairs. The curtains were open, drawing in the moonlight,
making the whole room seem nearly bright in comparison. And that's how I could
see straightaway that there was no-one there. The bed was empty. Hadn't even
been slept in. After all this, they were still out, painting the town red
somewhere when she should have been home, getting her sleep. All that
tiptoeing, all that effort, for nothing. I couldn't even leave the bear now,
not when
he
might be the one to see it first.

Yet I didn't
have the heart to be angry, not looking around this little room of hers. I
couldn't imagine what she'd been up to since I was in here last. For a start,
though I'd seen it done in the daytime, I never dreamt that she would be
leaving her window open even now, in the middle of the night, in the dead of
winter. It was as if she was trying to get rid of every scrap of air that
belonged to the house. But that wasn't all, though it took me a moment or two
to realize it. The room was strangely bare, unnaturally tidy. All the funny
rugs had gone from her bed, and off the walls as well. If there hadn't been the
jumble of bottles and boxes still on her dressing table I might have been
tempted to think the worst, that she had done a midnight flit. But there were
her shoes, lined up under her bed, neat as anything.

But oh, it
was sad. Seen like this, the room was so cold, so unwelcoming. This was what
she would be coming home to tonight - or the small hours to be exact. And there
wasn't even a pillow on her bed. What had she done with her pillow?

One thing was
for sure. I wasn't going to leave the room like that, not for Mandy, not even
when Francis was around. I put the bear down for a second and closed the
window. It was all I could do for her, and yet I doubted if it would so much as
take the chill off the room. Then I picked up the bear, gave him a quick hug
because I reckoned we both needed cheering up, and made my way out again. At
least on the landing I didn't have to creep, not when the only people I could
be disturbing were Gilbert and Ethel. And passing the lounge door, I began to
smile. Because just then another thought popped into my head: I could do more
than simply thumb my nose at someone who turned out not even to be there. I
could actually manage a tiny piece of mischief. Harmless, of course, but
satisfying enough. I could run in quickly and open all the windows, making sure
to draw the curtains after me. That way, when he got back, it would be like an
ice-box, and with any luck he'd never realize that the windows were wide open
behind the drapes. He might just end up freezing to death and serve him right.

One thing,
though - you get into the habit of moving quietly in this house, even when
there's no need for it. So when I opened the door, it was as silently as if it
was a draught that was doing the work. That's why no one heard me.

That's why I
saw them before either of them saw me.

You see, they
were there after all, together. On Doreen's aunty's settee, the one with
horse's hair falling out, the one that makes up into a beautifully comfortable
double bed. Only I'd forgotten all about that. Until now.

At first,
it's only the bed that makes any sense. That and the light which is no more
than the glow from the gas fire. It's enough to see the two of them on the bed,
a slow tangle of naked arms and legs with Mandy's funny covers caught here and
there between them. And still.it takes a minute to understand. He's on top of
her, his back and buttocks like the heel of a hand pinning her to the bed,
pushing to and fro, head buried in the pillow beside hers. But it's her face
that brings it home, unmistakably Mandy's, turned away from him, and the fire,
towards the door. And me.

You never saw
a face more peaceful. Eyes closed, cheeks as rosy as a child, not thinking of
anything but the here and now. The face of someone making music, listening to
herself. And it was her face that kept me standing there, watching, long after
I had begun to believe.

Then, of
course, it was too late. Something made her stir, open her eyes, and there we both
were, the two of us, and nobody else in the world. Mandy and me. That's how it
was, then slowly, like someone turning on a tap, the tears began to roll, ever
so quietly, down her face.

I was gone
before he saw me.

All I could
think of was that I had to get up those stairs, that if I could get to the top
before anything else happened, then somehow we would all be all right. But it
was no good. There were only two more steps to go when his voice broke,
smashing the little bit of silence that was left.

'What the ...
?'

And somehow
that did for me. The legs gave way from under me and I couldn't take another
step. I ended up half falling, half sitting on the stairs as far away from the
top as I was from the bottom. At the same time, downstairs, a light goes on.
But after that, nothing. There was no more sound from anywhere. Then the
minutes began to pass, until little by little I must have forgotten even to
listen. The bulb was burning in the kitchen behind me, lighting up the walls on
the stairs, and for some reason that started me off thinking on another tack
altogether. Every now and then perhaps, I would look again and wonder what I
was doing here four steps from the top, staring down at a big brown bear that
someone had left lying at the bottom. But then I'd forget about that and get
back to what I was thinking. The fact is, I used to sit here all the time,
years ago when June was little. She would sit on the top step, legs dangling,
while I stopped here, telling her I was checking her laces were done up properly
before we went out. It was a trick I thought up for her when she was a nipper,
to make sure she didn't just run helter skelter down the stairs and out into
the street. This way, she always had to wait for me first.

So I started
reckoning up the years since then and found the effort was more than I could
manage. There was too much fog in my brain. Something else was beginning to
bother me. For the first time ever, I was wondering why it was I'd never got
round to redecorating these stairs. I'd done all the rest within a month of
Doreen leaving, but not here. As it is, the paper is still the same as what
Doreen chose, the summer before the Christmas before she left - all big gaudy
flowers, roses or something, hardly what you'd call tasteful. Only I remember
her saying that there had to be something bright here or else you'd never see
it, and I realize now that she was right for once. Normally the light on these
stairs is so bad you'd practically need a spotlight before you noticed what was
on the walls. Added to which, there's the brown mark that goes all the way up
at elbow level where my coat must have brushed every time I'd come in or out.
But the paper itself is still there, and you can see it if you look hard
enough, like I'm looking now. And what that means is, even after all these
years and all my hard work, Doreen has still managed to leave traces here to
remember her by.

It's enough
to make you weep really. I mean you go to all that trouble, toil and labour to
scrub out every last speck of something rotten, and what happens? It pops up to
meet you when you're least expecting it. And the result? I'm sitting here with
Doreen all around me.

And then the
shouting starts.

'That's it,
Amanda. That's bloody it. I've had it up to here with this place. This is the
last time, do you hear me?'

A small voice
interrupts - too small to make any difference.

'It's no
good, Amanda. You pester me to come down here, all this way, to this shit-hole
of a house, just so that every Tom, Dick and Harry ...'

Larry. My
name is Larry.

'...Can come
and gawp at us just at the very moment I'm ...'

She's trying
to interrupt again, but nothing's going to work, you can see it straightaway.

'No, Amanda.
You've got to look at it from my point of view. I could raise the dead with the
lengths I go to make sure Sheila doesn't get to hear about this. Then what
happens? I find you might as well be selling ringside seats.'

Why is it
such a surprise to discover that he is married after all? Maybe because he
never did act as if he was. Not really. Not when you sit here in Doreen's place
and look back.

Downstairs,
it's gone quiet. He's thinking about what he's going to say next. But me, I
know what's coming.

'Listen to
me.' He's not shouting now. The idea is to sound considerate. 'It's got to end you
know. We can't go on like this. I've got too much to lose. I don't have to tell
you.' Then his real feelings get the better of him and it's back to the
shouting, loud enough to wake the dead. 'Damn it all, you little idiot. I can
do a lot better than help you provide live sex shows for an old pervert.'

'Oh no,
Francis.' That little voice again. Then: 'Francis, don't go.' And this time,
finally, her voice rings out. Does more than that. It echoes, high enough to
set the glass trembling in the mirrors, making all the windows hum. It spills
out and fills the landings and passages of the house. That's all she says, but
the words have a life of their own. They follow him as he tramps along the
landing, past her kitchen and down the stairs, must still be ringing in his
ears as he thuds along the hall. They only stop, at last, when the front door
opens and slams closed again.

There's a
moment's pause before a smaller door opens, this time belonging to the Ducks,
with Gilbert's voice escaping briefly into the hallway, before it, too, closes
in its turn.

After that,
nothing.

And now here
we all sit, each in our own little bit of house, for once in our lives staying
out of each others' business. Yet I can see us all perfectly, the way we would
look to anyone else who could see us. Ethel and Gilbert in the dark, mumbling
across the pillow about what will have to happen tomorrow. Mandy sitting on the
edge of Doreen's aunty's bed, shivering because she's naked and too thin and
won't keep down what she eats, not daring to cry, because who is there left now
to hold her hand?

And then of
course there's me, still sat here on the stairs, still trying to get my
bearings. But even I can't stay here all night. I've got things to do.

It took me a while though, getting off those stairs.
First I had to wait for the shaking to stop and for the old knees to get a bit
of strength back in them. But there was more. Call it the influence of Doreen
coming at me from all sides, stopping me thinking straight just the same way
she ever did, call it what you like, but all the time I was there I couldn't
have told you if I was coming or going. If anybody had bothered to ask, more
than likely I'd have said I was still waiting for June to dangle her legs over
the top of the stairs for me-to check those shoes of hers.

Then all of a
sudden, the fog clears and I’m thinking straight again. Larry's not waiting for
anyone, least of all June who went the way of her mother long ago. There's not
one ounce of her here, or Doreen come to that. Never mind the flowers on the
wall, this is Larry's place. And Larry's in charge. When I get to my feet I’m
light as a feather and fairly float up those stairs, back to the kitchen, and
civilization.

And I’ll tell
you what, having that funny turn just now has gone and improved my memory no
end. Because the trouble is, a busy chap like Larry is bound to forget all
sorts, until something comes along to jog his mind. Take my fireplace for
instance. I can look at it for months and never remember what's there. Yet it
was me that built it, brick upon brick, twelve years ago now, straight after
she left. Took my time about it too, making sure I got it right, But the last
brick I left loose, and that's the one I keep forgetting, until just now on the
stairs.

Well,
everyone's got a secret place haven't they, where things can get tucked away,
without having the whole world in on it? In my case, it's not so much a secret
as wanting to keep the rest of the place nice, and not spilling over with odds
and ends that frankly you'd rather not have around, not on a daily basis. All
the same, I can't help shaking just that little bit when I take the brick away,
because in the back of my mind is the fear that someone else might have come
along and stolen what's inside, as if there was another soul who knew.

But I didn't
need to worry. It's still there. Doreen's scarf. Or to be more exact, Doreen's
scarf and a few other bits and bobs besides.