A is for Angelica (19 page)

‘What a beautiful night,’ I say.

‘Yes.’

‘Look at the stars.’

‘I know.’

‘Aren’t they bright?’

‘I suppose.’

‘You don’t seem impressed.’

‘I guess I’ve seen them before.’

Benny puts his paintbrush on the windowsill and walks to the dark side of his room. The side the light from the candles can’t reach. We watch him fade away. Then he disappears completely.
He must’ve gone to the toilet. He can’t have finished painting.

‘Is that it?’ says Angelica.

‘No, he’ll come back. The candles are lit.’

‘Where’s he gone?’

‘I don’t know.’

She links her hands, holds the back of her head, yawns and stretches her shoulders. This is how it’s been. We stand in silence for most of the time. Then she’ll ask me about Benny.
About his painting or how long we’ve got before he stops and packs his things away. Before she has to go again. I answer her politely and attempt to think of questions of my own. But I very
rarely ask them. She makes me feel uncomfortable.

Note: Arrived = 12:54. Jeans (again), cream blouse. Conversations = 3. Departure = 02:04. Little progress. Note end.

‘There he is. I told you he’d be back.’

‘Is he limping?’

‘Yes, he is.’

‘How come?’

‘He always limps.’

‘I’ve never noticed.’

‘It’s not that bad.’

‘What happened?’

‘A dog attacked him.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not Kipling?’

‘No, not Kipling. It was a dog from the estate. Beech

Avenue.’

‘What did it do?’

‘He was walking home from school. It jumped at him and dug its teeth into his ankle.’

‘Is that all?’

‘It wouldn’t let go.’

‘What do you mean it wouldn’t let go?’

‘I mean it wouldn’t let go. He had to go to hospital.’

‘Bollocks. You’re lying.’

‘It’s true. That’s why he limps.’

‘And does he really steal?’

‘No. I made that up.’

Angelica shakes her head and half-laughs. It’s the longest conversation we’ve had since we started watching Benny together. She doesn’t know whether to believe me or not. I
wish she wouldn’t swear so much. She turns back to the window. The moonlight takes years off her. It reminds me where we are and what we’re doing. We’re sat on a bed together. We
hardly know each other. And we’re talking. We’re finally talking.

‘Have you ever had any pets?’ I ask.

‘Once.’

‘What did you have?’

‘A cat.’

‘What was it called?’

‘Patch.’

‘That’s nice.’

‘It got hit by a car.’

I open my mouth to reply. Nothing comes out. I think about asking her what type of car it was. But I don’t. I just stare out the window at Benny. He’s stopped painting again. One of
his candles is out. It’s quarter to two in the morning and he’ll soon be finishing up for the night. Angelica will be leaving.

‘Are you sure his eyes are always closed?’ she says.

‘Absolutely.’

‘Sometimes it’s difficult to tell. It’s pretty dark.’

‘You get used to it.’

‘I suppose so. Do you think he’s had enough?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe.’

‘Have you heard from Georgina? Is she coming home soon?’

Unbelievable. We’ve spent an entire week together with barely a passing comment, and now she asks me that. Like she knows her. Like Georgina’s an old friend that she’s looking
forward to seeing again. I don’t know how to reply. If I say no she might well ask me again tomorrow. And then the next day. She’ll start to get suspicious. I need a different answer.
One that’s not the truth.

‘Next week,’ I say. Another lie. I regret it instantly.

‘How’s she getting here?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘We can pick her up in my car.’

‘You don’t need to do that.’

‘It’s fine.’

‘I couldn’t.’

‘Don told me to keep an eye on you. I’m happy to help.’

Benny is taking his canvas down and putting his paintbrush and paints away. I’ve watched him do it more times than I care to remember. Angelica’s hand is on my knee. She’s
being sympathetic. She’s pretending to care about me. This is not what I expected. I don’t know what I expected.

‘Have you thought about telling his mother?’ I ask.

‘Telling whose mother what?’

‘Benny’s mother. About the kiss.’

‘Why would I do that?’

‘I suppose she might like to know what happened. ‘

Her eyes narrow in the dark. She’s deciding how to answer and wondering why I’m changing the subject. She wants to do the same thing now herself. Benny has finished painting.
It’s time for her to go.

‘So next week then,’ she says, standing up. We watch Benny walk over to his bedroom window, put his palm on the glass and blow out his candles. ‘It’s a date.’

I should tell her to mind her own business or tell her the facts. But it’s too soon for that. Instead I say nothing and follow her downstairs. She picks up her coat from the banister and
wraps it around her shoulders. She ties her scarf around her neck. I switch on the hall light. It hurts my eyes. They need time to adjust. Angelica squints and it makes the lines on her forehead
stand out. She looks forty-two again. I remove the chain and hold the door open. She squeezes past me and puts her hand on my chest for a moment. I force a smile. She smiles back and turns to walk
away. Then she stops. She turns again.

‘How did they remove the dog?’ she says.

‘Drugs,’ I reply.

Spillage

Georgina doesn’t know about Angelica. She is sleeping more than ever. When she is awake we go through our routines. If she’s feeling up to it, I’ll talk to
her. Then she’ll talk back as best she can, or use our system. I sat with her last night and ate my dinner. I handed Georgina a yoghurt, but she refused to take it. I peeled back the lid,
scooped some out with a spoon and put it to her mouth. She slowly turned her head away. I asked her what the matter was. Did she want something else? Had I done something wrong? But she
wouldn’t speak to me. She didn’t even try. Her face was pale. Her pulse was slow. She looked awful.

It’s seven o’clock in the morning and I’m sitting on a cushion in the loft. The room is lit by an old-fashioned desk lamp that used to belong to
Georgina’s father. The lamp is metal painted beige with a dark brown button. It’s attached to an extension lead that runs from the loft to the plug socket in the spare room. It’s
been up here for more than thirty years and I can’t believe that it works. My files are still in boxes. I’ve cut the tape with scissors and lined them up against the wall in
alphabetical order. Spines facing upwards. I woke up early to transcribe last night’s events. Angelica was here again. She’s been here every night this week. We’re developing
routines. She boils the kettle and I make the tea. Hers is the curtain on the right. Mine’s the one on the left. It’s all perfectly normal. There is nothing to worry about. Sometimes we
talk. Sometimes we’re silent. It depends on her mood and I don’t mind either way. She’s only here to watch Benny.

Last night Angelica wore an evening dress and earrings. Both were black and sparkled. Five hours earlier she’d left her house and walked to the end of Cressington Vale. She stood there for
more than eighteen minutes. Checking her watch and adjusting her dress. I made notes while my malt loaf burned in the oven. I left it for as long as I could. When the smoke started creeping into
the hall I put down my pen and rushed to the kitchen. I took the loaf from the oven and scraped it into the bin. It was black at the edges and completely ruined. When I went back to the window,
Angelica had gone. She returned at five to one in the morning, came straight to our front door.

‘Where have you been?’ I asked. She took off her coat and sat next to me on the bed. Her dress was covered in glitter. Benny was lighting his candles.

‘Out.’

‘Where to?’

‘Nowhere you’d know. He’s almost ready to start.’ She held her mug by the handle, walked to the curtain and waited for Benny. I began to repeat my question, but stopped
before the words arrived. I asked her something else instead.

‘Why do you go to the surgery so often?’ She turned and looked at me. The room was dark and my eyes had yet to adjust. It was hard to gauge her reaction.

‘You’re nosy tonight.’

‘I just wondered, that’s all. I’ve never asked you.’

‘Why would you ask me?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s a very personal question, Gordon.’

‘It wasn’t meant to be.’

Angelica looked at the floor. It was a private matter. Women’s troubles or something similar. I shouldn’t have asked. I should have known better. It’s none of my business. Not
really. Not yet.

‘Depression,’ she said, without flinching. The silence seemed to last for minutes. ‘And athlete’s foot.’ Her mouth cracked and formed a smile. ‘What do you go
for?’ I tried to think of a joke of my own, but nothing felt amusing. Instead, I told her the truth.

‘I don’t anymore.’

Benny closed his eyes, outstretched his arm, placed his brush on the canvas and started painting. I stood up and joined Angelica at the window. She slurped her tea at approximately thirty-second
intervals. It made it hard to concentrate. I almost asked her to stop. We were watching Benny together. He was painting pictures. She was keeping me company.

Note: Possible slurping solutions a) cool with extra milk b) use thinner mug c) suggest more patience required. Risk factor = 8. Note end.

I’m still in the loft. It’s now seven fifteen and no longer dark outside. I can tell by the change in the light from the hole in the floor to the landing. I finish
my notes, close Angelica’s file and put it back in the appropriate box. The loft is cramped and the roof is covered in foam. It keeps the cold out and the heat in. If I want to walk to the
other side of the room I have to tread carefully. The wooden beams are stable but the spaces in between won’t hold my weight. One false step and I might fall through the floor and into the
bedroom. My cushion is placed on a plank of wood that bridges one of the gaps. It makes my back ache. More than the chair in the bedroom.

I reach for the file that contains Georgina’s homework. I’ve decided to teach myself Russian. When she gets better, we can do it together. First she’ll learn to talk again.
Then she’ll finish what she started. It might take years. But that’s what we’ll do. This is my first lesson. The pages at the front of the file don’t make any sense, so I
flick through and search for some instructions. The final page is a glossary of terms with Russian words next to English translations. It has a photograph stuck to the front, Sellotape over the
corners. In it are Georgina, Georgina’s mother, my parents and me. We’re pulling faces and pointing at the camera. There is Russian in the margin. Arrows leading to each of us. I
don’t know what they mean. We look like a family.

I unpeel the tape and hold the photograph up to the light. I remember when it was taken. My father was working again. He’d found a job at the local shop. It was ten minutes walk from their
new house. We’d gone in and asked his boss to take a picture. We wanted to cheer him up and make him smile. He’d said he didn’t want to work there. He’d said it was
degrading and his friends would laugh. But he had no choice. My parents needed the money. He’d been one of only three drivers to lose their jobs when they began to run out of coal at
Gutterton Half. They told him it was one of those things. He’d done little wrong. There was nothing they could do. So he took the job at the shop and worked there until he retired. Twenty
years later. The morning after Georgina had her first stroke. He rang me to celebrate.

‘It’s my last day tomorrow, Gordon.’

‘Yes Dad, I know.’

‘No more early mornings for me.’

‘Good for you.’

‘I’ve got all the time in the world.’

‘Dad I can’t talk to you at the moment.’ He started to say something else, but stopped. We didn’t speak for several seconds. I’d upset him. He didn’t like my
tone. But I didn’t care. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’ I waited for him to reply. Still nothing. He wanted an apology. I didn’t offer. Eventually he spoke.

‘Keep faith, Son,’ he said. ‘Keep faith.’

I’ve spent thirty minutes learning Russian. Georgina must have put her latest work at the front of the file, which means the basic material is all at the back. So far,
I’ve mastered numbers one to ten and several colours. I copied them out and started a file of my own. R is for Russian. I stand up slowly to make sure I don’t bang my head on the roof.
I press the button on the lamp with my foot. It flickers half-light into the room then fizzles into darkness. I climb down from the loft and onto the landing.

Georgina is asleep in the bedroom. In fifteen minutes I will need to wake her up, help her drink her water, help her take her tablets, ask if she wants breakfast. Sunlight floods through the
spare room window and illuminates the dust in the air. Particles swirl and fall. They are usually invisible. I walk into the light and check the street for activity. Nothing is happening.
Cressington Vale is perfectly calm. I go back to the landing, close the hatch to the loft and walk downstairs to the kitchen.

Georgina will soon need another prescription. I haven’t been to the surgery since Kipling passed away because I don’t want Jonathan’s questions. He’ll want to know why
the phone doesn’t work. He’ll want to see Georgina. I open the cupboard under the sink and take out my manual. It’s still my thickest file. Angelica has several, but none of them
are thicker. I use it to count tablets and measure water, even though I know quantities without looking. I crush the tablets with the back of a teaspoon. When I get upstairs I’ll wake
Georgina slowly. I’ll replace her glass and sit with her until she takes her medication. It could take half an hour. She may do it first time. It depends on how she’s feeling. I flick
the switch on the kettle and wait for it to boil. I drink tea at the kitchen table. Watch the clock on the oven.

‘Good morning,’ I whisper, as I unlock the bedroom door and push it open with my hip. ‘Rise and shine. Let’s get it over and done with.’ I close
the door behind me, leave the sunlight on the landing. The room smells worse than usual and Georgina has moved. She’s not in the position that I left her in last night. Instead she’s on
her back, her head half-hanging off the bed. Her glass has also moved. It’s gone from the bedside table. I always leave it close enough to reach, but now it’s on the carpet. A
‘V’ shape sliced from its side, two single pieces of glass. There is water everywhere. On the bed sheets, the pillows and Georgina’s nightdress. It’s even on the bible by
the bed. The pages are ruined, soaked through to the New Testament. I walk over to Georgina. Her face is white. Her eyes are closed. I place my wrist beneath her nose and wait to feel her
breathing. It seems to take forever, but eventually it comes. Slowly and more gentle than its ever been before. But she is breathing. She is breathing.