A Little Rain (26 page)

He speaks first.  He turns his wrinkled, slightly
pudgy head as he says, “Ella, where have you been all my life?”   Maybe a
house, no, a block of flats has landed upon me, wicked-witch of the east-style. 
Utterly and totally crushed, I feel like getting straight back in the car and
demanding that Rob drives me home this second, but then he speaks again.  “Sorry...”

“
Sorry
?”  I repeat silently in my head, trying
to make sense of the word.

He moves closer like he might touch me but I quickly shuffle
back to a safer distance.  He drops his hands to his side, turns to face Rob and
shrugs. “What?” he says. “I said sorry.”  Rob blinks and shakes his head in just
a tiny motion.  I know what he’s thinking.  He wants to back me up but he won’t
say anything now.  
Don’t piss the old man off, not before he lets you move
in
.  I don’t begrudge his silence.  It’s not all about me, for once.  This
is for him.

“Look, you can’t just say sorry, and expect me to be
ok.”  I blurt out unexpectedly and they both look at me.  “You know what?  I’m
sorry too…”  I say and I turn and go to get back in the car before I say
something I regret.  I know I’m right but I don’t want to put nine inch nails all
around the edge of the already shut coffin that is mine and my dad’s
relationship.

Rob comes over to me closely.  He whispers, “He really
is sorry, you know.  He just ain’t good with words, like me.”  His breath feels
warm.  I stop and think maybe, just maybe, I am being harsh and my reaction hasty.
 I get up from being seated in the front of the car once more.  It isn’t any
easier a second time.

I say, “Ok, I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to sound rude, and
if I did, I’m sorry...  But things just can’t be perfect straight away.  This
is going to take time.  I need time.  I’m not going to lie.  I’m not ready for
this.  It’s just too much for me to take in at the moment.”

“We can give it time,” he says softly, apologetically.
 I look at him and I know that he is sorry.  I can see it.  The expression in
his sparkling silver-grey eyes is true.  Not that I can trust him yet, of
course.  I can give him the benefit of the doubt this time.  “Let’s see where
we go from here,” he says, and I let him move his hand towards my arm and feel
his touch for the first time.  Apart from fingers pressing gently on my shoulder,
I feel nothing else.  The more I look at him, the more like Rob he becomes.  I
can see similar bits in them both.  His expressions are familiar and his voice has
the same tone of depth and grit, just it sounds older, croakier, and maybe even
wiser.  He’s far from being forgiven but his second chance starts now.  He
says, “Do you want to come in and have something to eat?  Or come in and have a
drink at least?”  I can’t take my eyes away from his.  The voices in my head
are silent.

“Ok,” I say, reluctantly but I’m suddenly starving.  I
hear my stomach bubble with anticipation as it finds a new enthusiasm for
food.  I cannot even remember the last time I ate.  He opens the back door of
the car to get my crutches and passes them gently to me.  He smiles, again like
Rob, and I begin to trust him a little more.  After helping me, he turns and
heads towards the house.

Rob waits near me.  “Come on then.” He says, softly
and gently, and I know now for sure, I am doing this for him.  I still want to
go home but I really want to go in the house too.  I start to cross the
pavement to the driveway easily and then it becomes more of a struggle to move
on the loose gravel, both in body and mind.  My crutches slip away uncertainly
with every step.  I just look ahead and go slowly and steadily forward and on
through the now open navy blue door.  Rob closes it behind me.  I step into a little
hallway, with boots and shoes, umbrellas and coats.  Before I’m even all the
way in, I notice that the porch smells weird, like maybe there is cabbage
cooking in the kitchen.  As I walk further in, everything seems wooden and now the
whole house starts to smell like the furniture polish.  I wonder if animals
live here.  It does not smell like dog, but I wonder if they may be hiding,
about to jump out on me.  I look ahead in anticipation but nothing comes.

We are ushered into the lounge which is one big stark
room that goes all the way back through the house to a dining room.  At the end
there are patio windows through which I can see a very green garden that just
seems to go on and on.  I have never seen so much space.  Plenty of room for
Rob I think.  I look around at everything which is so sparse and white.  The
walls are like blocks of vanilla ice-cream.  The soft dense lumpy bumpy carpet is
reminiscent of cauliflower cheese.  The sofas are a little darker, like
mushroom soup.  The dining room suite is neutral.  The rustic wooden table is
like a gigantic cheeseboard with a glass bowl of purple and green grapes in the
centre.  I visualise a giant wedge of brie that would fit on there too, next to
a massive chunk of stilton.  I imagine the smell.  There are eight leather
backed dining chairs that look soft and plush, the colour of crisp-breads on
skinny chipstick legs.  The only furniture that isn’t cream or brown is the silver
super-sized television in the corner, plastic and inedible.

“Would you like something to drink?”  My dad says, and
I’m tempted to ask for something strong, a double vodka with the power to numb,
but Rob answers first, saying quickly that we would both like a cup of tea.  Rob
is the sensibility here, and he is right.  Now is not the time to even think
about getting drunk.

“Two sugars please.”  I say, and he leaves the room.  We
sit down together, Rob next to me on the mushroom sofa.  It nearly eats me, it
is so big.  I rest my crutches on the floor and sit forward on the edge.  I do
not feel comfortable at all.  There is nothing to see or look at.  No pictures
on the wall, no photos on the mantelpiece.  Everything must be kept in
cupboards.  I find the lack of clutter disturbing.  I tell Rob in a whisper, “I
don’t like it here.”

“It’s ok,” he says, his tone reassuring, expected. 
“We don’t have to stay long.  Let’s just have some lunch, and then we’ll go,
ok?”

“Ok,” I say, and my stomach rumbles again, a tiny
earthquake.  Moments later a little lady walks into the room.  She smiles at
me.  She looks far-eastern, Thai maybe.  She is so very slim and pretty and small,
smaller than me.  She carries a white tray of cut French bread to the table. 
She leaves without saying a word.  “Who’s that?”  I hiss at Rob, under my
breath.  He just shrugs.  About thirty seconds later, my dad walks back in, not
carrying anything.  I wonder where our cups of tea are.  He sits down with us. 
Then the door is pushed open again and the lady is back, carrying a silver tea
tray with cups, spoons, a teapot and even a sugar bowl.  I look at Rob, then at
her.  She smiles at me again, bows her head and then leaves the room.  “Who is
that?”  I say again.  I feel rude asking, but I have to.  No-one says anything
so I hazard a guess.  “Is it your maid?”

“No,” my dad says quietly, shaking his head.  I look
at Rob who’s looking at the floor.

“Who is it then?”

“She’s my wife.”  I look up to the white ceiling, still
no spaceship, no little green men. “I know what you’re thinking and you’re
probably right.”  Oh.  God...  I don’t want to be right.  I’m thinking that
there, my new diddified step-mum is a mail-order bride who is probably younger
than Rob and smells like a baby.  And then she walks in again, carefully
carrying two white bowls of steaming soup.  I feel embarrassed.  I can only
look down at her feet and notice she is wearing the most delicate of shoes.  Pretty
pink mesh slippers with stuck-on papery flowers.  She shuffles out of the room
again.

“Please, go through,” my dad says.

Stunned into silence, I begin to walk over awkwardly
with my crutches to the table.  Rob helps me into my chair.  My dad sits one
side of me and Rob in front of the other bowl.  Then the lady appears again,
with just one more bowl and places it in front of my dad and then she leaves
the room once more.  The men start to eat noisily in the deafening silence.  My
ears are ringing loud like non-stop intruder alarms.  I can’t ignore them.  I just
want to go home.  They continue to eat.  My belly growls again.

Rob speaks suddenly with firm determination.  “You
should eat something.  Have some bread at least.  It’ll make you feel better.  You
can then take some more painkillers.  Please.”  He sounds almost like he’s
begging now.  I am hungry.  Very hungry.  I don’t feel like eating, but I do.  I
pick up a spoon and take a small piece of bread.  I dip a corner in the hot
soup and bite it.  Tomato soup.  Tinned tomato soup.  The most colourful thing
in the room.  I think about throwing the whole bowl at the wall.  Splat!  But I
don’t.  Defeated, I eat it, all of it, along with two more pieces of bread and
now at least my belly is now silent too.  I sit still and satisfied.  The food was
a nice distraction from everything.  I start to see the tea leaves at the bottom
of my cup and it makes me remember where I am.  The pain that didn’t exist when
I was hungry now starts to burn up from my toes to my leg again.  My face
scrunches up a little.

My dad looks at me, then down towards my foot, maybe
sensing my pain.  “Are you ok?” he says in a voice that is so creepily like
Rob’s this time, I look at him, straight, no blinks, no expression.  Why do
people ask that question when clearly the answer is, “No!?”

I look at him closely still but Rob speaks, “Her
boyfriend ran over her foot yesterday.”

“Ex-boyfriend.”  I add.  Rob and my dad nod
simultaneously and again I shiver.  Mirror people.  Then they say nothing.  Something’s
got to give in the long forever silence and it’s me.  “Actually, I think I
might need to go back to the hospital.  My foot’s killing me!”  I say instantly
feeling like I’ve spoken out of turn but this stalemate was going nowhere fast
and pain is the first thing on my mind.

Surprisingly Rob says, “Ok then, we’ll go.  I will
take you.”

I get up, picking up my crutches from the floor, sliding
in my arms and I hear myself say bye to my dad.  I don’t meet his eye.  Before I
start to head outside towards the car, Rob hands me the key which I put in my
pocket.  I start to swing away and don’t look back.  I open the front door and
go through, leaving it open for Rob.  I don’t know how long he is going to be,
but I know that he will follow.  I can hear the scrape of furniture behind me
as I start to move away from the front door towards the car.

When I’m by the car, I don’t want to, but I cannot
help but look behind and over at them.  They are talking on the doorstep, shaking
hands, saying goodbye.  I am glad to be away from them.  I sit in the car and
wait and watch the tiny soundless tears that start falling from my face onto my
lap.  I can still taste tomato soup.  There are breadcrumbs scattered on my
clothes.  I brush them away.

Eventually, ten minutes maybe, Rob is in the car and
we’re moving off.   I look back at him in the wing mirror.  I see him watching
us go.  His hands are in his pockets.

Rob has seen my tears.  He reaches for my bag of
painkillers and places them on my lap.  “Hey Skit,” he says rubbing my
shoulder.  “It’ll be ok.  You’ve met him now at least. You’ve done the worst
part.  Things can only get better, that’s if you want them to.  If you let them.” 
I shrug, swallowing all the tablets that I am allowed to.  The silence is not
so deafening now but still, I turn up the radio loud, some Euro-pop repetitive
beats play drowning out the forever ringing that is still buzzing in my ears.

Time does not exist.  No minutes in the hour. 
Everything has stopped, including the pain.  My eyes are still stinging a
little from salt studded tears but my face is dry now.  When I found his eviction
note, I thought he was dead.  I was so happy to find him living but then I
found myself in a boat on stormy seas about to get smashed on the rocks.  But now
I think of Heather and smile a little, I think I can see her vague and distant
on the rough sea’s horizon, getting closer, bringing a rubber dinghy to come
and rescue me, but she’s too far away to focus on yet.

Rob asks me politely to try and start packing up my
things from the flat, reminding me we move out tomorrow.  Of course, I already
know.  He hands me a plain black canvas holdall which is big and boxy.  I don’t
think I even own enough stuff to fill it halfway.  It feels scratchy against my
hand.  The handle is synthetic.  He is holding a roll of bin bags too.  Dark
containers for this dark day.  “We should chuck out any rubbish,” he says.  He
tells me to leave my mattress set up for tonight.  I think this is it.  One
last sleep.  When I wake up it starts.  There will be no stopping.  No
deciding.  The end is here, and so is the beginning.  “I’m not going to do it
for you. Anything you don’t take now, you’ll lose.”

I start to look around the flat, hold-all in hand.  The
first thing I see that I want to take is Rob’s leather jacket, resting on the
big brown sofa.  As I pick it up and hold it close, it still has the smell of
being new in places.  It is heavy in my hand and must weigh a few pounds at
least.  It still looks good.  Still mostly black as night, like a thoroughbred
stallion.  It’s been well looked after.  I drape it round my shoulders.  The
softness of its touch wrapped heavy around me.  I feel its warmth on my skin,
feeling its closeness is like the clutch of my brother.  I feel its strength as
it gently creaks, and its power within.  Now just a little faded in places, it
has aged over the years.  Greying in parts, maybe like Rob would’ve done by
now, if he had hair.  I reach into the deep pockets, the left one is frayed.  I
feel a hole in the silky seam that I can push my fingers through.  Years of
memories, of happiness.  I want to take it with me, but he wears it, always.  I
place it back on the sofa.