Imaginative Experience

  ‘They come cheaper, I tell you, in fives, Mrs Piper.’

  ‘Two fives then, please—’

  ‘And how is little Christy, Mrs Piper?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘Dead, Mrs Piper?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘???’

  ‘In a crash, Mr Patel. Please don’t cry.’ She avoided his eyes.

  ‘But he was with his daddy! You told me!’ Mr Patel protested.

  ‘Dead, too. Please, Mr Patel, how much are the bin-bags?’ She was afraid he would not let her pay.

  ‘Fifty-three pee a packet. They are old stock, a discount for quantity would not help, I think.’ Mr Patel wept as he took her money. He put the bin-bags in a carrier bag and surreptitiously added a ball of string. She had often forgotten to tie up the bags and the neighbourhood cats, filthy things, scattered refuse on the doorsteps.

  Back in the flat, aware of the stale air, Julia flung open the windows, then, bin-bag in hand, she worked her way through the rooms. Into the bags went remnants of Giles: clothes he had not bothered to take, confident that she would send them on and she had not. Socks hardened by wear and sweat, several old T-shirts, a sweater, a pair of jeans, the trainers he had bought a size too small, an anorak, a tweed jacket, a drawer full of grotty underwear, snapshots of happier days and a few books. She tied the necks of the bags and heaved them onto the landing.

  In the kitchen she drank more water and again tried to eat, but could not.

  Christy’s possessions were harder. Bundling his clothes into the bags she averted her eyes, held her breath to avoid his scent. When the bags were full she tied the tops as though some vicious animal might escape from them. His toys were scattered about the flat. Plastic duck, comic sponge and flannel in the bathroom, soft toy in his cot. What had he taken with him? What favourite toy? Why could she not remember? She sat back on her heels, her mind a blank.

  At last, every toy, every garment safely bagged, she dismantled the cot. It was large and heavy. She had put off buying him a bed; she manhandled it out and down the stairs. When all the bags were grouped on the doorstep, she found a taxi and, helped by the driver, loaded it and drove to the Oxfam shop. Walking back through the rain she felt strangely light-headed and had difficulty climbing the stairs.

  Some time in the late afternoon she woke shivering from an exhausted sleep, got up, made strong tea and drank it scalding hot, so that it left a metallic taste on her palate. Then, using soap and ammonia, she set to work scrubbing shelves and drawers, the insides of cupboards, pulling the furniture out and washing the spaces behind; she moved the divan, surprising eddies of dust which soaked into balls of felt. When all was clean she got out the Hoover and siphoned unreachable detritus from behind the radiators and gas fire. She had nearly finished when the Hoover stalled with a metallic clang and regurgitated a whistle. A whistle, a police whistle, a loud and dreadful whistle.

  Mr and Mrs Patel stood on the doorstep. Mrs Patel held a bundle against her chest. Tim Fellowes, tenant of the ground-floor flat, answered the bell, listened to Mr Patel’s query.

  ‘Yes, she’s up there, she must be.’ He looked up. ‘All her windows are open—What? Oh no, we haven’t actually spoken, we don’t know her that well. We’ve passed on the stairs, that sort of thing. We are new here as you—you’d think she’d be cold,’ he said, looking up. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

  Mrs Patel murmured indistinguishably in her native tongue. Her husband translated, ‘Has some friend perhaps? Anybody else?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge,’ said Tim Fellowes, ‘I’ve been working late. Only just got back, as a matter of fact.’ He looked doubtfully at the Asian pair. What could they want? What were they on about? How could one tell with these people? He caught the woman’s eye, looked hastily away. ‘Tell you what,’ he said, ‘I’ll ask my girlfriend, she may know. Wait here.’ He went back into the ground-floor flat, not quite closing the door. The Patels took note of his scrubbed appearance, pink face, fair hair receding from high forehead, Marks & Spencer suit. Through the half-open door they heard colloquy punctuated by a laugh, then a burst of giggles. They waited patiently.

  Tim Fellowes came back, grinning. He had caught Janet half-undressed; she was ticklish.

  ‘She says she supposes she’s up there because earlier on she put out her rubbish in a lot of bin-bags, but she hasn’t spoken. As I said, we are new but Janet, who’s not just a pretty face, suggests your Piper lady wouldn’t go out leaving all her windows open, would she? And apparently she’s on her own since—oh, here she is,’ he said as Janet, tying the belt of a towelling robe round her waist, joined him in the doorway.

  Pink from a bath and smelling of shampoo, she smiled and said, ‘Hi. As I told Tim, she put the trash out but she’s up there now.’

  Mrs Patel murmured again. Her husband translated, ‘The other flat people?’

  ‘The Eddisons? Oh, they are away, they’re on holiday.’

  Still the Patels stood in the hall.

  ‘Well,’ said Tim, ‘I need my sleep, have to be at the office by eight. Why don’t you try again tomorrow? Oh, by the way, we are away this weekend. Could you cancel our papers?’

  Yet again Mrs Patel murmured. Her husband said, ‘May we go up, please?’

  ‘Oh? Go up? I suppose you may. I suppose it’s all right. But shut the street door when you leave, there’s a good—I say,’ he said to his girlfriend as the Patels vanished up the stairs, ‘what a peculiar hour to call, what an odd sort of visit. I suppose it’s all right? D’you suppose I shouldn’t have told them the Eddisons are away?’

  ‘They must know the Eddisons are away,’ said Janet, ‘Angie shops there. They get their papers there, as we do. Are you imagining those two will tip off a burglar?’ she said, laughing.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Tim, to whom this thought had occurred. ‘It’s just that one can’t be too careful with those sorts of—’

  ‘Oh, come on, you old racist.’ The girl drew him into their flat. ‘That sari Mrs P is wearing is the most gorgeous colour; d’you think it would suit me?’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ said her lover, discomfited by her tone. ‘You’d look a freak,’ he said. ‘You are sallow.’

  When eventually Julia answered the Patels’ gentle but insistent knocking it was nearly midnight and the curry, well wrapped though it was in its covered dish, had grown cold in Mrs Patel’s arms. Entering as Julia stood back, Mrs Patel handed her burden to her husband and gestured towards the kitchen. Taking in Julia’s appearance with a slanting glance, Mr Patel took the curry, went into the kitchen and closed the door.

  What followed blurred in Julia’s memory. Extraordinary though it was to seem in retrospect, Mrs Patel had bathed her and washed and dried her hair. What she did remember clearly was that not once did Mrs Patel try to remove the whistle from her clenched fist but with soapy sleight of hand transferred it from one hand to the other as she worked. Then she was back in the sitting-room wrapped in her bathrobe, sitting by the fire which Mr Patel had lighted, cosily in the half-dark of one lamp with the night shut out behind drawn curtains.

  Now the Patels brought the dish of hot vegetable curry and rice from the kitchen and steaming tea. Unwilling to hurt the Patels’ feelings, Julia ate, hesitant at first, then ravenously, and as she ate tears coursed down her cheeks.

  She said, ‘It’s delicious, thank you, and so hot the chillis are making me cry—’

  And the Patels nodded and wiped tears from their sympathetic eyes. Then she was in bed, still clutching the whistle, knees drawn up to her chin with the duvet pulled up to her ears.

  Waking once in the night and crying out, she had the impression that Mrs Patel, crouched at the foot of the bed, rose and laid a cool hand on her forehead and spoke in her own language, but when, late the next day, she woke, the Patels were gone.

  SIX

  RETURNING FROM WORK, SYLVESTER was irritated but not surprised to see his one-time secretary standing on his doorstep in the company of a strange
r.

  ‘Hallo, Rebecca, what brings you here?’ he pecked her cheek.

  ‘This is the man from Chubb,’ said Rebecca. ‘He has fixed your new locks. Since you are here, it will save me posting you the new keys.’

  Sylvester said, ‘Ah,’ and wondered how she had imagined he would get in. (Waited for me on the doorstep, no doubt; she knows my habits all too well!)

  The man from Chubb introduced himself. ‘Somers. I think you will find everything in order now.’

  Sylvester said, ‘It was in order before.’

  ‘So here are your keys, sir, the three lots your secretary ordered. If you could just sign here, I’ll be on my way; our invoice will follow in the post.’ The man handed Sylvester three sets of keys, made an abbreviated gesture indicating that had he been wearing a hat he would have touched it, and walked briskly off.

  Sylvester said, ‘Bloody cheek.’

  Rebecca laughed, ‘Don’t be silly, Sylvester. You needed the locks changed, you can’t run the risk of Celia forever popping in and out.’

  Sylvester said, ‘God!’

  ‘And if you just give me my set,’ Rebecca went on, ‘I’ll see that the cleaning woman gets it. She’s called Andrews. She’s coming Mondays from eleven till one to tidy after the weekend, and Fridays from twelve to two to tidy ready for the next. All arranged.’

  Sylvester said, ‘Unarrange it.’

  Rebecca said, ‘What?’

  Sylvester said, ‘I do not want a cleaning lady.’

  ‘Oh, but you do. It’s fixed with the Sloane Agency. They are totally reliable. If Mrs Andrews can’t come for any reason, they send a substitute. You cannot live in a mess, Sylvester.’ She held out her hand for the keys. ‘I’ll take the keys now, it’s on my way. And by the way, Sylvester, I’ve made you an appointment with your optician.’

  Sylvester said, ‘Now I know why I sacked you.’

  Rebecca smiled. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me in for a drink?’

  Sylvester said, ‘No.’

  Rebecca said, ‘Come on, Sylvester, don’t be such an old—’

  ‘If I want a cleaner, I’ll get one myself.’ Sylvester thrust one of the new keys in the lock and half-opened the door.

  ‘Where from?’ asked Rebecca. ‘Where do you imagine you’ll find a cleaner? Good cleaners are rare as gold. You don’t want an out-of-work actress, or some young thing who will bring her child to pee all over your—Oh, come on, Sylvester!’

  ‘Should I want a cleaner, which I don’t, I would put a card in the Corner Shop.’

  Rebecca said, ‘What corner shop? You can’t do that, not nowadays. You—’

  Sylvester opened the door. ‘And you can cancel the appointment with the optician.’ He stepped across the threshold, just managing to block access without appearing deliberately rude.

  ‘Sylvester, your eyes!’ Rebecca exclaimed. ‘You must be careful of your eyesight, you need bifocals. You—’

  ‘Mind your own business, leave mine to me.’ Sylvester began closing the door. ‘If you must know,’ he said more kindly, ‘I’ve been to my oculist and he says the last thing I need are bifocals. My long sight is remarkably good. I only need to use reading glasses if I get over-tired. Good night, Rebecca. It’s good of you to be so interfering and bossy, but I can manage without it. I won’t ask you in for a drink. I’ve been dealing with nitwits all day and look forward to my own company. Bye,’ and he closed the door.

  ‘Whew!’ he said, standing alone in his sitting-room. ‘Was I too strong?’ He mixed himself a drink and took a revivifying gulp. ‘What do I need with a cleaning lady? I’m quite able to dust and hoover. Gosh, look at that.’ He drew a line with his finger across the dust on a side-table; then, grinning, he wrote ‘Free!’, tracing the word in joyful loops, swallowed his whisky, refilled the glass and sat back on his sofa. ‘Great!’ he said. ‘Great.’ And then, ‘Oh, curse it, I forgot to order the Sunday papers.’ Sipping his drink, he ruminated: should he wait until the morning and go out and buy them, or should he go now and arrange for them to be delivered? Were they delivered he would hear that wonderful Sabbath plop of papers on doormat, wander downstairs—naked if he wished—gather them up and trail back to bed to the sound of church bells, as he had not done since his marriage to Celia. Oh, Sundays, blessed Sundays, to waste again in snooze and idleness in one’s own bed, solo!

  Reminded of this item of furniture Sylvester got up and went upstairs. There was something wrong with the bed. The pillows, of course. ‘Fool,’ Sylvester exclaimed, ‘fool.’ Swiftly he rearranged the pillows, smacking and punching, stacking them dead centre so that propped against pillows, meagre for two, just right for one, a man could read in comfort, stretch his legs without fear of encounter. (Oh Christ! Why can’t you cut your toenails? You’ve scratched my ankle.)

  On impulse Sylvester ran downstairs and out of the house. He was no longer bound by marital practice to ask what paper Celia would enjoy, nor bound to buy her flowers—how had that placatory act grown into habit?—nor add to the flowers Harpers, Marie Claire or Hello! depending on her mood, all of which entailed walking as far as Sloane Square—one did not dare take the car for fear of losing one’s—Celia’s to be exact—parking space. Now, if he doubled back towards World’s End, he could sample a corner shop sometimes sighted in passing but never entered.

  Waiting to be served, Sylvester eyed the display of goods. All the usual breakfast foods and tinned meats were there, baked beans, pastas, jams, marmalades and honeys, but somehow they took back place to a truly splendid display of rice, brown, white and wild, spices, chutneys, herbs and poppadams. Jingling the change in his pocket, Sylvester hummed, ‘Poppadam, poppadam, a preponderance of poppadam—’

  ‘Sir?’ Mr Patel was ready to serve him.

  ‘Oh!’

  ‘?’ Mr Patel’s eyes were large and thoughtful.

  ‘Oh,’ Sylvester said again. ‘Um—do you deliver newspapers? Sunday newspapers?’

  ‘We deliver, certainly, yes, Sundays too.’ Mr Patel indicated a newspaper rack presently occupied by a solitary Evening Standard. ‘Gone tonight,’ he said. ‘Sold out.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Could I open an account?’

  ‘Address?’ Mr Patel picked up a pen.

  ‘Not far.’ Sylvester named his street and watched Mr Patel write it in a ledger.

  ‘Which?’ said Mr Patel.

  ‘No, no, I don’t want Which?, I’d like the Independent on weekdays, and on Sundays the Observer and The Sunday Times, please.’

  ‘And smellies?’

  ‘Smellies? You have me foxed.’

  ‘One moment.’ The man disappeared through a door behind the counter. ‘Smellies,’ he said, returning with a colour magazine of the previous week and indicating with deprecating finger a scented sachet attached to an advertisement for aftershave. ‘We remove or leave in to customer’s taste.’

  ‘Now that’s what I call service,’ said Sylvester. ‘What a splendid business you run. No smellies, please.’

  Mr Patel smiled.

  ‘Why don’t I pay a month in advance?’ Sylvester suggested.

  Mr Patel was agreeable, and while he wrote a receipt Sylvester, renewing his inventory of goods on offer, noticed a small board on which were pinned ads and requests: Violin Lessons, Massage, Home needed for Tabby Kitten (neutered), Wanted Child’s Cot in good condition, Ski boots size 12. On impulse he asked, ‘Would you stick up a notice for me?’

  ‘One pound a week,’ said Mr Patel and handed Sylvester a blank card.

  Sylvester wrote: Cleaner wanted four hours a week, usual rates, while owner out at work, and added his address.

  ‘Better not give address, burglars,’ said Mr Patel. ‘I write it again with telephone number and I go-between.’

  ‘Fine,’ said Sylvester. ‘I leave it to you.’ But on his way home he regretted his impulse and blamed Rebecca for her pervasive though waning influence; then, rendered optimistic by the delightful solitude in his house, he consoled himself as he mixe
d himself a drink with the thought that nothing would come of it. Should some person apply, it would be simple to rebuff her.

  Sitting back on the sofa and stretching his legs, Sylvester relished Rebecca’s departure as he gazed appreciatively at his almost empty sitting-room. Celia had been a great one for clutter. He sipped his drink and eyed the mantelshelf denuded of Capo di Monte snuff boxes, Meissen pugs and the fussy French carriage-clock which had been her pride and joy. Contentedly he savoured his whisky, considering without rancour his errant wife, and began to laugh out loud at the thought that, had the house not belonged to him as it had before their marriage, Celia would have that, too. Or perhaps not, he thought. A tiny house in a Chelsea cul-de-sac was not comparable to the establishment on Barnes Common owned by Andrew Battersby into which Celia was planning to move next. There was, too, a house in Gloucestershire. How meteoric had been Andrew Battersby’s rise in the City since Celia divorced him. From ‘something or other in insurance’ the name of Battersby had grown to giant proportions in the financial world. She won’t divorce him a second time, Sylvester thought, sipping his whisky; she will turn a blind eye to pretty secretaries. She won’t want to stay long in that new flat; she has to remarry before some other girl catches him. She should have stuck to Battersby; I was never more than an inadequate safety net, a five-year stop-gap. Five long years. Phew!

  How quickly, he wondered, would she get around to asking for a divorce? How would she word it? Would she expect him to divorce her? Unlikely. Would she want to divorce him? What grounds would she find? Sylvester pondered. He had not been unfaithful; he had not been cruel or violent, rather the contrary. Celia was not a woman to inspire crimes of passion; he had let her go taking most of the contents of their home with her without a bleat of protest. ‘Good luck to you, Celia,’ he said out loud, ‘first and about to be third wife of Andrew Battersby.’

  SEVEN

  JANET HEAVED HER BAGS of shopping into the ground-floor flat and kicked the door shut.

  Sorting out groceries in the kitchen, she pondered over the growing pile of letters lying in the communal hall addressed to Piper.