Imaginative Experience

  The dolphin knocker was brightly polished and the paintwork gleaming; he turned the key. He was enormously tired, aching for sleep. He put the rolled rugs beside his bags and, shutting the door, listened gratefully to the silence.

  From the sitting-room came a rustling sound.

  A dog crouched by the sofa; it swept its tail to and fro across the parquet. On the sofa there was a woman asleep.

  Overwhelmed by fatigue and surprise, Sylvester sat in the armchair.

  The dog rose, came towards him, sniffed his trousers. Sylvester whispered, ‘It’s all right.’ The dog repositioned itself by the sofa. Sylvester stretched his legs, leaned back, tried to think, heard the rustle of the dog’s tail. Hadn’t Rebecca said something in her letter?

  TWENTY-FIVE

  WHEN JOYFUL BARKED SYLVESTER jerked awake with a grunt and the woman on the sofa telescoped her legs to her chin and stared speechless across her knees.

  Sylvester said, ‘My God. I fell asleep. Who are you?’ His heart was thudding.

  It was still quite dark; the clatter of the letter-box as the postman pushed in mail ceased and the hair along the dog’s back subsided. Sylvester repeated, ‘Who are you?’

  The woman sprang to her feet. Putting the sofa between them, she said, ‘How did you get in?’

  He could see that she was afraid. He said, ‘I let myself in with my key. I live here.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I live here. This is my house.’

  Her face was paper white. ‘Can you prove it?’ She was quite a tall girl, wearing jeans and a heavy sweater under a black coat.

  Irritably Sylvester said, ‘Of course I can prove it.’

  ‘How?’ The dog moved to stand between them. She repeated, ‘How?’ and glanced towards the telephone. The dog, infected by her fear, growled.

  Sylvester said, ‘The letters which have just come through the box will be addressed to me; my name is Sylvester Wykes.’

  She said, ‘I don’t believe you. Don’t move. My dog—’

  ‘I hate to undeceive you,’ Sylvester said, ‘but your dog wagged his tail when I came in. Why don’t you go and look at the letters? I won’t move. Go on.’

  She hesitated, then edged warily out of the room. Sylvester called after her, ‘Don’t run away.’

  She came back with the letters and handed them to him. She said, ‘Are you his son?’

  ‘Whose son?’

  ‘Sylvester Wykes’s.’

  ‘I am Sylvester Wykes. Who may you be?’ His startled heart had settled down; he was intrigued.

  ‘I thought he was quite old.’ She spoke as of some character in the past. ‘Quite an old man,’ she said.

  Irritably Sylvester said, ‘I’ve got jet lag and I feel bloody old, but I am not all that ancient. You still have not told me who you are.’

  ‘Julia Piper.’

  ‘My cleaning lady? Gosh!’ He was taken aback. Breaking into laughter, he said, ‘I visualized you as on the old side, too. But tell me, do you work over Christmas?’

  Julia said, ‘I was taking refuge. Don’t worry, I’ll go now. I’m sorry I—’

  He could see embarrassment flood her face pink. He said, ‘Please don’t go. Please stay. Have some breakfast,’ he said, ‘I’m starving. There’s food in the house. There should be bread in the freezer, and butter; there’s marmalade and coffee and dried milk, we can manage.’ And as she still appeared poised for flight, he repeated, ‘Please.’

  At her feet the dog sat back and began to scratch, its leg thumping on the bare floor. Sylvester said, ‘I brought rugs from the cleaners; I left them in the hall with my luggage when I came in. I saw you, I sat down for a moment and fell asleep. I’ll take my stuff upstairs. Tell you what, why don’t you go and put the kettle on while I do that? I trust you not to scarper,’ he said cheerfully.

  Half-reassured, Julia said, ‘All right.’

  Carrying his bags upstairs Sylvester wished that he had watched her instead of dozing off; asleep she would not have looked so wary or so defensive. What was she defensive about? What was she doing here? It was odd. Hadn’t Rebecca written something about squatters? Was she a squatter? Far too young to be a cleaning lady. Perhaps she just knew the cleaning lady’s name and was using it? He put his bags down in the bedroom and looked about for signs of illicit occupation.

  Spotless room, faint smell of brasso and floor polish, his father’s silver brushes gleaming on the dressing table. Clean sheets on bed. Bathroom spotless also. Fresh towels on towel rail, bath and basin gleaming and dry as a bone, new unused cake of soap. What’s going on? He opened the bathroom window and looked out. ‘Good God! What’s happened to the garden?’

  Running down the stairs two at a time, arriving abruptly in the kitchen, startling the dog, he shouted, ‘What’s happened to the garden?’

  Backed against the stove, a coffee grinder in her hand, Julia said defensively, ‘You arranged—we arranged—I thought it—’

  ‘God! I’d forgotten. Quite forgotten. Hi! Don’t look like that. Don’t! It’s bloody marvellous. It’s lovely. There’s a snowdrop out, a Christmas rose, winter jasmine. It’s a work of genius! Who did you get to do it? It’s wonderful.’

  ‘I did it.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh.’

  They stood appraising each other across the room. Julia smiled faintly.

  It occurred to Sylvester that it was years, if ever, since he had had such an agreeable homecoming. He said, ‘Would your genius stretch to making us both breakfast? And your dog? What’s his name?’

  ‘Joyful.’

  ‘Apt.’

  ‘Coffee?’ She held up the grinder. Sylvester nodded. She pressed her thumb on the button and the kitchen filled with its screech.

  When the noise stopped Sylvester said, ‘Explanations later.’ Julia nodded. He said, ‘Toast isn’t going to be enough. There should be sardines in the store cupboard; let’s have sardines on toast, I’m starving. I bet you are, too.’

  Laying the table, finding marmalade, fishing butter from the freezer, watching her make coffee, toast bread, spread sardines and put them under the grill, Sylvester refrained from asking questions. People who are frightened are likely to lie. The girl was nervous; he would wait. Waiting, he sat at the kitchen table and, searching for something innocuous, said, ‘On my way in from Heathrow I collected some rugs I bought before I went to America; will you help me arrange them in the sitting-room after breakfast?’

  Her eye on the sardines under the grill, she nodded.

  ‘The dealer lives above his shop. It seems to be Bank Holiday, so I was lucky to find him in.’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘I had planned to stop at the corner-shop and buy milk and order the papers, but I had no luck there,’ Sylvester said.

  ‘The Patels have gone to spend Christmas with his family.’

  ‘The Patels? Oh, of course, you know them. Stupid of me. He is our go-between! Forgive me, I am still only half awake.’

  Julia said, ‘Coffee,’ and set the pot in front of him. ‘Thank you for sending that cheque from America, but it is far too much.’

  Sylvester said, ‘I did not know how long I’d still be away. I had to go and stay with a weird character. I did not want you inconvenienced.’

  Julia said, ‘Thank you,’ again.

  Sylvester poured coffee into their cups and mixed in dried milk; he gulped his coffee scalding hot. He said, ‘Delicious, revivifying. You make good coffee.’

  ‘It is your coffee.’ She was still uptight. ‘Why didn’t you ring the police when you came in and saw me?’ she asked.

  ‘You did not look very dangerous.’

  She said, ‘I might have had an accomplice.’

  ‘In my jet-lagged state that did not occur to me. Besides,’ said Sylvester, ‘Joyful here wagged his tail.’

  Julia said, ‘So you say,’ and drank her coffee glancing covertly at her employer who was not, as she had imagined, an old or
middle-aged bachelor, probably homosexual, but young with hetero airs.

  Sylvester ate his sardines and progressed to toast and marmalade and more coffee. He said, ‘You suggested you were taking refuge?’

  Julia said, ‘Both lots of people in the flats below me throw a party which goes on all through Christmas. It’s noisy and I—’

  ‘Couldn’t stand it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘I could stuff my ears with cotton wool, but not his.’ She glanced at the dog, asleep, nose and paws twitching in a dream. ‘He howled,’ she said.

  ‘But you could—’

  ‘If the Patels had not been away I might have gone there, but—’

  ‘No-one else?’ Sylvester pried.

  ‘No,’ she said, averting her eyes.

  ‘So, um—’

  ‘I had walked about—er—sat in the Park, that sort of thing, but—’

  ‘Found it a bit chilly?’

  ‘I tried going back but, well, it was worse. A man from the party was lurking on my landing—I live at the top. He tried to grab—’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Nothing, really. He was drunk. It wasn’t that, of course.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I recognized his voice. I’ve been getting calls.’

  ‘Heavy breather? Obscene?’

  ‘They were to me. It used to be my ex-husband, he did it a lot, but he’s dead. Then this started and the last time he—’ She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. ‘He pretended to be a child,’ she said, shocking her listener by the misery in her voice.

  Sylvester said, ‘So?’

  ‘So I went out again. I tried sitting in a church. I mean, nothing else is open over Christmas, is it?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘No.’ She paused, looking away from him through the area window.

  ‘How was the church?’ (What a surreal conversation.)

  ‘The verger said Joyful was not a Guide Dog, so—’

  ‘So, out?’

  ‘I suppose it’s the rule.’ Julia spoke quickly now. ‘A rule for dogs. London isn’t Italy, I’ve seen horses in church in Italy—’

  ‘Before the Palio in Siena?’

  ‘Yes. But this church was C of E, rather posh, and although there is a church which I am pretty sure would have let us sit and rest our feet, I cannot for the life of me remember where it is or how to get there. I was there once before; the priest was kind, lovely, although I couldn’t tell him the worst thing—’ Julia stopped, distressed. ‘I am boring you,’ she said. ‘I should leave,’ she said stiffly. ‘I do apologize, the party may be over. I should never have—’

  Sylvester said, ‘Oh, shut up! Don’t be a fool. I am so glad you did, you are more than welcome,’ he said expansively. ‘I am really pleased. It’s a nice surprise. Stay and help me with the rugs. Have a bath—’ Julia laughed. ‘You have to tell me what you have planned in the garden. You can’t possibly go until you’ve done that,’ he said almost angrily. ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘I want a bath. I never feel I’m really home until I’ve had a bath. I will have a bath, then we will spread the rugs and you’ll show me round the garden, right?’

  Julia said, ‘All right. I will just let Joyful out for a pee.’

  ‘But don’t run away? Swear?’

  ‘I’ll come back and wash the breakfast things.’

  Sylvester went upstairs whistling.

  In the bath, in the luxury of his own surroundings, he nearly fell asleep again but was nudged by the thought that he must rouse himself to open his mail, listen to a month’s accumulation of messages on his answerphone and telephone his office; but before all that he wanted to arrange his new rugs and explore the garden which this extraordinary cleaning lady had created. Surging out of the water he wondered whether she really was what she said, and not some weird sort of joke? Her story was improbable. Wandering about the streets? Sitting in the Park? Trying to take refuge in a church? Pull the other one. He towelled briskly. She would have disappeared when he got back downstairs, pinched the spoons as likely as not, or would have if Celia had not done that already. He pulled on jeans and a sweater and took the stairs two at a time.

  ‘Thought you might have hopped it, like Celia,’ he said, arriving in the kitchen.

  ‘Who is Celia?’ She had cleared the breakfast debris and was sweeping the floor.

  ‘My wife. Ex-wife, actually.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Tell you about her some time. No, why should I? You wouldn’t be interested. Now, will you show me round the garden? I want to inspect it properly, be told what you’ve planted. The only thing my ex ever planted were things in their pots which she forgot to water, and a ghastly cherub.’

  Julia laughed; laughter transformed her face (laughter transforms most faces). Sylvester said, ‘Right, then, let’s inspect,’ and led the way upstairs, picking up the jacket he had discarded when he came in the night before and putting it on. ‘Will you be warm enough?’

  She said, ‘Yes,’ indicating that her sweater was thick.

  Sylvester said, ‘This garden was OK in my mother’s day, but nothing has flourished lately except weeds.’

  Julia murmured something which ended in ‘shit’.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It needed feeding. I gave it compost and dung.’

  ‘Horse?’ Had not Rebecca written something about horse manure?

  ‘Actually yes, and mushroom compost.’

  Sylvester opened the french windows and stepped out. Julia watched him perambulate, stooping to read labels she had left on the climbers, fumbling in his pocket for his glasses to read name-tags blurred by rain, murmuring the Latin, muttering to himself as he bent to touch a Christmas rose and lay a hand palm down on the earth. ‘You have brought a sad corpse to life,’ he said, ‘re-created a garden. And what is so wonderful is that everything you have planted which can smell, will.’

  ‘You noticed.’ She was delighted.

  ‘I noticed all right. How can I thank you? Where did you learn?’

  ‘My mother had a garden. I worked in that.’

  ‘Is she dead?’ He was sympathetic. ‘You must miss—’

  ‘No, no, not dead—’ She appeared to recoil from something. ‘And in one or two jobs I had, I worked in the garden as well as the house.’

  ‘Jobs?’ She had planted a flowering box; he stooped to sniff. Pure honey.

  She said, ‘Cleaning jobs.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I have no qualifications,’ she said stiffly.

  ‘It’s a long time since I smelled a flowering box,’ he said. ‘Did you find this in the garden centre?’

  ‘Actually I did not use the two I suggested, I found everything I wanted in the country. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Why should I mind?’

  ‘I had borrowed Mr Patel’s van and gone for a walk. I felt desperate for the country.’

  ‘I know the feeling. Did the dung come from the country?’

  ‘Yes. I scrubbed the van thoroughly afterwards.’

  Sylvester smiled. ‘Gosh,’ he said, turning back to the house, ‘you have given the wistaria a shock.’

  ‘It needed it.’

  ‘And you have given me rather a shock, too,’ Sylvester said, ‘I’d forgotten about the garden. How can I thank you?’

  ‘But I have loved doing it, it’s saved—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Shall you help me decide where to put my new rugs and then have a celebratory drink?’ (Why was she so reserved? He did not know how best to express his pleasure, was afraid too much enthusiasm might daunt her. Perhaps she would unravel a bit when she’d had a drink?) ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s do the rugs.’ They went back into the house.

  ‘I thought one in front of the fire.’ He brought in the bundle of rugs. ‘And one along the bookshelf. What about the others? Come on,’ he said, ‘it’s you who are going to sweep them. How should they go???
?

  She did not answer but helped him try the rugs in various positions. Joyful stood watching from the hall.

  Julia said, ‘You should have one by the desk, it’s lovely.’

  ‘I was considering sitting at that desk and writing a novel.’

  Julia said, ‘What’s the title?’

  ‘Wellington’s Valet.’

  ‘That could be fascinating.’ She was serious.

  ‘My ex found the idea antipathetic’

  Julia said, ‘The last rug would look good by the door.’

  ‘So it would. You have a good eye.’ (And, too, ask no questions.)

  They spread the rug. Sylvester stood back to view the effect. Screwing up his eyes, fumbling for a handkerchief to stave off a sneeze, his hand encountered an alien object. It was the toy given him by the carpet dealer’s child. It was soft and fleecy. Smiling, he turned it this way and that. He said, ‘Oh, look. It’s made of real fleece, a lamb, neat!’ He held it out for Julia to see.

  She drew in her breath. ‘Christy.’ Her face drained of colour, her mouth became an ugly square; tears splashed from her eyes.

  Shocked, Sylvester stared, then with a leap of recognition he exclaimed, ‘It’s the Sheep Girl!’ and, stepping across the rug they had just laid, took her in his arms.

  TWENTY-SIX

  JULIA’S HEAD WAS BOWED; her hands held the toy fisted against her chest. With arms encircling her Sylvester looked down on her head and, while appreciating the colour of her hair (almost black), registered concern at the torrent of tears presently soaking the front of his jersey.

  He had seen girls cry, of course, but not like this. Celia had wept copiously from rage and thrown things. He had seen his mother in distress but this was something altogether new; by giving her the toy he had triggered some unbearable, desperate emotion.

  ‘Emotion’, he thought. Thank God this girl doesn’t use it. She smells nice actually, rather like hay. That was a near miss with whatever her name was in America. Thank heaven I caught hold of this girl and did not hesitate. If I had hesitated she would have been out of the door in a flash and lost, as she was that first time. She hasn’t registered that I recognized her. She was muttering something, some name? I am quite happy to stand like this holding her, Sylvester thought, looking over Julia’s head at the dog who, catching his eye, wagged its tail.