A Little Rain (27 page)

My eyes then move to my dirty Saturday night boots. 
Kicked off on the floor, by the front door, tan suede, worn soles, weathered,
dirty, smelly, and still stained with ketchup and grease.  All the onion has
fallen off now.  They smell of the grimy London street.  They feel heavy as I
pick them up.  Images of that night of Benny and of Lee are evoked just by
their weight.  I remember now the smashed glass.  The noise it made replays in
my head on cue every time I think of it.  I feel sorry for breaking the
window.   I am sorry for the people within.  The poor family.  They are
probably not well off, living on an estate like that.  What if it was an
elderly person?  I might have given them the fright of their life.  To find a
broken window and a bottle on the carpet, a billowing curtain and cold morning
air pouring into their front room.  I am so sorry.  I wish I could go back and
explain.  Give them my reason why.  Offer some sort of apology, even offer to
pay to repair the damage.  I suggest my thinking to Rob who says, “No.  Don’t
go back there.  Don’t ever go back there.  What if you went there and saw Lee? 
What if someone saw you and recognised you?  You could be in trouble.  Criminal
damage.  Assault.  You must never go back there.  Don’t even worry about paying
for the damage.  It’s a council estate.  They get their repairs done anyway.”  But
still, I feel bad.

The boots are now gripped between my fingers.  A
solemn reminder of that night.  I look at them closely again.  They are really
dirty, stained by the gloop from the ground, the rain from the sky, and more
recently the burger and its accomplices, onion, ketchup and grease.  A lot of
grease marks I see now, like splattered drops of paint.  I know they are not
going to come off.  I cannot put boots in a washing machine.  I daren’t.   One
broken window, I’ve caused enough damage.  I don’t want to break the washing
machine too.  One thing I can smile about, the uneven front of the worn right
sole which kicked Lee hard in the shin, causing him to shriek like a startled
monkey.  This little memory is good.  Without these boots I could have died or
been attacked or anything could have happened.  But I have no choice now but to
put these physical remnants of a bad memory in the bin.  They land on the
plastic bottom with a thud.  I look down at them.  The toe of the right one
points up at me, just one last time.  Lucky escape.  I close the lid and look
up the stairs and at Heather’s home.  I see a little beige ceramic sign next to
the door I never noticed before.  It says simply, in green handwritten scrawl,
decorated with pastel flowers, ‘The Haven’.

I head back into the flat at a speedy hobble.  Looking
down I notice the scruffy thin carpets in the hallway.  I can see the
floorboards round the edge.  I notice each speck of grit, every crumb of once
was food, every uneven bump and cigarette burn.  The edges fraying, detached.  I
also see holes in the skirting, big enough for a mouse or rat, the wood the creamy
colour of old, disillusioned paint.  The damage they did fighting is still
plain to see.  Black smudges, spatters and smears of blood.  I pick up the
scattered cushions from the floor putting them in open-topped removal boxes.  Rob
has already packed what is ours.  Cutlery, clothes, clocks, safely stowed in heavy
cardboard.  I trace my fingers down the corner’s edge of one.  It feels smooth,
but smells like year old dust, like when the Christmas decorations come down from
the loft.  We’re leaving most of the furniture as it’s the landlords.  My indispensables
of daily living are all I need to take with me.  The kitchen looks dirty, the
bathroom now filthy, I will never clean this place again.  I go in the bathroom
first, taking my wash bag with me.  The sink is in need of a scour with sticky
soap residue clinging to all sides.  The chrome taps are very green.  I pick up
my shampoo, red-boxed toothpaste, and my green and yellow toothbrush, wild and
frayed.  My beige bath towels, one big, one small.  My face cloth and sponge, aging
and rather smelly.  My cleaning kit and bathroom bits go in a box of their own
too.  Yellow sponge, sprays, bottles, brush and bucket.

I look around the kitchen.  There is nothing for me. 
Burnt saucepans, chipped mugs, cracked plates.  They can keep them.  I take the
custard creams and pink wafer biscuits and the half-full jar of coffee.  I eat
a sweet and crispy strawberry wafer first, dropping many crumbs, but one is not
enough.  I eat one more and then they go in the holdall too.

Back to my bedroom.  Into the holdall goes underwear
first, some clean, some not so.  Vests, crinkled t-shirts, one long-sleeved, a stained
jumper, scruffy hoodie, dirty unmatched socks beyond the ways of washing.  My
fur coat.  I smile as I pack that.  The memory of that night will last
forever.  The wardrobe is now empty, so are the drawers apart from bits of hair
and fluff.  Everything is packed.

As I lift up the mattress on the floor, just to check beneath,
a glint of gold catches my eye and my breath.  I look closer to find one of
Rob’s old sovereigns still on a chain.  He’s never mentioned it being lost
before.  It used to hang from his neck all the time, years ago.  I feel guilty
straight away and don’t know whether to tell him.  I want to keep it and if he
doesn’t know now, maybe he never will.  But not telling him feels deeply wrong
so I find him and show him.  “Oh, wow, I thought I’d lost that a long time
ago.  You know dad gave it to me when I was a boy.  I used to wear it all the
time.  Until I got sick and tired of people asking about it, so I stopped
wearing it and put it away.  I think Ruby found it in the drawer one day.  She
liked playing with it, wearing it and stuff.  She’s not coming back here now,
so, you can keep it.”

And, so it becomes the most precious thing that I have
ever held.  It feels heavy for its size.  I hold it tight feeling its edges
press against the folds of my skin.  “Thank you. I’m going to keep it on me
always.  It will make me think of you, when I need to stay strong.  I’m sure
it’ll help.  Thank you.”  And I look him straight in the eye feeling nothing
but pure love.  I look at it closely again.  There is an etching of a man riding
a horse on the coin.  The neatly marked border a perfect circle.  Fine loops
and swirls of intricate gold around the edge.  A delicate diamond of
perfection.  This is my treasure.  My medal of gold.  Another prize in my
parcel.  I wrap the chain around it carefully and place it gently in my left
jeans pocket.

I wander into my brother’s bedroom, now my last wish
is to relive the night with Etienne in my mind, if only once more and briefly. 
I walk in for the last time.  I remember how I lay with Etienne on the bed that
is now stripped to the mattress, one pillow, one blanket, and bare steel legs. 
The valance is gone.  I want to feel his touch again.  Smell the musk of his
aftershave, the warmth on is skin, the oil in his hair.  Touch his body again,
feel it against mine.  Hear his glittering words.  I now long to bring a piece
of him with me, take this memory away, in case I do not see him again.  Maybe there
is a tissue he has left behind, or a scent trace on the pillow.  Anything.  I
sit on the edge of the bare bed, looking around, feeling like I know something
is there to be found, only I can’t yet see it.  Rob comes by and asks me what
I’m doing.  I lie, and tell him I lost an eyebrow bar ball somewhere.  He goes
away and I lay back and look up to the ceiling.  Plain white nothing.  I turn
on my belly.  My whole body squashed face forward on the mattress.  I breathe
in deep, searching for the scent of him.  Only all I get is the smell of fabricky
nothingness.  Uncomfortable now, I slide off the bed and onto the floor.  Belly
down, arms by my sides.  The scratch of the rough carpet feels even more uncomfortable
against my face.  The smell down here is unpleasant, like mud and glue.  I can
hear the buzz of pipes humming below the floorboards.  There is nothing to see
but the fray of the carpet and pieces of fluff.  I turn my head to face the
other way, expecting only to see the same.  But I see it straight away.  It curves
like a little clear archway but is too close to focus on.  A wavy strand of
dirty blond hair.  I know it is Etienne’s.  It’s certainly not mine or Rob’s or
Ruby’s.  I quickly take it, between finger and thumb, and then hear the creak
of the floorboards beneath me and see Rob’s feet, heavy in black boots,
standing there.

“What are you doing?”

“Err...”  I scrabble up to my feet, quickly tucking the
hair away into my right back pocket.  I brush myself down, straightening out my
clothes.  He’s looking at me strangely.  I wonder if he can see the imprint of
carpet I can still feel now pressing against my cheek, but he’s not, he’s staring
at my eyebrow piercing.

“Both balls are on there.”  He says, pointing rudely. 
“What were you doing on the floor?”

“Nothing!”  I say, feeling like a guilty child, even
though I know I’ve done nothing wrong.

“Skit!”  He calls after me, but I’m already off and out
of the room, picking up my holdall on the way.  But as I get to the open front
door, I stop and breathe in deep.  I hobble onward, still not needing crutches
but feeling the starting of a pain ever so slightly.  When I’m out into the
front garden smiling to myself, there is no pain to feel at all.

The day is bright and the sun shines low in the blue
sky.  The air is dry and cold.  As I stand outside, I can smell something fiery
cooking in oil from a neighbouring house and I feel the warm curry spices
wafting around me.  The smell of food makes me hungry.  I look back at what is
now the old flat, the basement of this three-storey townhouse.  I look up the
stone stairs, to the upper level, split vertically into the two half-house
flats and see Heather is standing on the steps, facing her door, key in hand, looking
like she’s going in.

“Hello?” I say gently and she turns round to look at
me and smiles warmly.  I’m smiling inside as well and I don’t remember feeling like
this before.  Her amber eyes look so friendly.  Her lion’s mane of hair is
tidied away now under an orange and green head-wrap.  Blue dungarees, brown
jumper as standard.   She reaches out an inviting arm and I feel compelled to
move towards her.  This is the very start of now, of my new life, and it has begun. 
I am happy.

“Do you want to come in now?”  She says softly and I
smile broadly at her, gently nodding.  My eyes focus only on hers.

“Yes, I’m ready.”

Heather stands still, in front of her open door,
waiting for me.  “Come on up,” she says.  “Let me show you the room.  Come and
see what you think.”  Without any hesitation, I shout back towards Rob who is
still inside, throwing my holdall in and through the still open front door.  Without
my crutches, I crawl somewhat ungainly on all fours up the stone steps, and on straightening
up, limp through the now wide open blue-green wooden door, admiring the steel lion’s
head knocker as I shuffle forward.  At my feet I see black and white squares
painted on the wooden floorboards of the hallway.  The walls are olive green. 
To the left there is a delicate mahogany side table on four legs so skinny I’m
surprised it stands up.  A vintage cream coil-corded telephone stands upon it,
next to a small glass bowl of lavender and rose petals.  There is a painted off-white
radiator to the right.  I can feel its heat from the doorway.  As I walk
further in, the house smells heady and warm of incense, like Heather did when I
first met her outside.

To the right I see the living room through an open door
but a green and white glass beaded curtain hangs across it, like from an old-fashioned
betting shop, the sort I used to run through when I was about four years old.  Heather
holds the beads back for me and I walk through into the room.  First, I notice
the living breathing Jack Russell dog sitting on the moss-green sofa surrounded
by cushions of so many colours and patterns, blue, pink, orange, checks,
diamonds, little circular mirrors.  It just sits there wagging its tail.  It
does not bark or move.  I cannot smell it at all.  I look up at the walls to
see pictures of bright squares and concentric circles and prints of oriental
figures in red, gold, black and white.  There is a painting of the sun with a
smiley face with blue and red rays.  There is an acoustic guitar leaning
against the wall.  I see a big globe standing in the corner, like something
from an antiques shop. It sits in a wooden ring supported by three sturdy
legs.  The sea is beige.  The countries are mostly pink and green.  Heather
sees me staring and tells me its Georgian and about two hundred years old.  I
go over to this amazing object and feel humbled by it.  Heather says it is
worth a lot of money but to her it’s priceless, a much-loved treasure that belonged
to her great grandmother.  “I can see why you love it.  I love it too.”  I say.
 I have honestly never seen anything like it.

Already, to me this place is amazing, an explosion of warmth
and colour with so many strange and exciting things to see.  My eyes want to
feast on it all but cannot focus.  They jump from place to place.  It’s hard to
even begin to start taking it all in.  Under my feet now, I can feel soft
carpeted floor.  Looking down and out to the edges of the room, I can see the
floor is covered by rugs so big, deeply red and boldest black with intricate
beige flowers and patterns.  Heather tells me they’re Persian.  I keep quiet.  I
don’t even know where Persia is.

“Shall I show you to your room?”  She says, and I nod
enthusiastically, now desperate to see, but at the same time not wanting to
leave the room I am in.  As we head back into the hall, and up the stairs, on
the wall there is a poster print of a beautiful angel flying, with wings of blue
and orange in front of a gold painted sun.  Then I see another picture of a painted
black cat on a block of red.  Finally, when we are at the top of the stairs, a
full string of coloured fairy lights are wrapped around the banister on the
landing, all lit up like a Christmas tree.  “Here,” says Heather and we turn
right and she opens a heavy white wooden door with a dark brass handle, and I
am entranced by the smell of vanilla and roses.  My new room is right there in
front of me and it is Love at first scent.  The small white single bed looks
neat and clean with a beautiful pink and purple check patchwork quilt covering
it all.  I see a little cream painted wooden side table, with a stout vanilla-scented
candle on a gold dish.  A tall chest of six cream drawers, a small glass bowl of
dried pink rose petals on top.  A little wooden desk, matching stool, and
mirror stand opposite the bed.  An invisible wardrobe juts out slightly, built
into the wall.  A dream catcher the size of a dinner plate hangs above the bed with
strings of white feathers and turquoise beads.  Fabrics drapes are pinned to
the ceiling in beautiful colours, shimmering pink, emerald green and frosted cream.
 On the left wall there is a painting of a sunset.  The sea is blue, the sky
orange, purple and yellow.  There is just one other picture of three large black
teardrops on a plain beige background with smaller teardrops of blue, mauve and
green.  I stare at it solemnly.  Heather watches me.  “That one is just for sometimes
when you feel the need to cry.”