Angel Cake (5 page)

Thursday was still distinct because it was the day after Pearl came. Friday was already blurred. Apart from ‘Desert Island Discs’ on the radio, it could have been any day of the week. Alicia’s one luxury would have to be her dentures. The ‘Meal on Wheels’ was a piece of blue-grey fish, muddy-looking boiled potatoes and ancient sprouts. She wondered if her caller would come back. Saturday, she knew it must be Saturday because the ‘Meals on Wheels’ stopped coming for the weekend. She carried down a framed photograph of Leonard on the steps of The Gaiety in Scarborough and put it on the shelf near the front door to keep watch over her. Sunday, when it came, was one long-drawn-out agonizing wait. The possibility raised by Pearl loomed at the end of the day with crazed contorted features. Although Alicia realized that, logically, there was no reason at all why the caller should come back at exactly the same time as he had last week, her sleeping pills did for logic. From the moment she
woke up, she was on tenterhooks. A good part of the morning was taken up with finding new spots for the belongings which she had brought downstairs during the week, and with the morning service on the radio. The hymns did her good; the surging voices settled her, like a dose of Eno’s salts or milk of magnesia. Towards lunchtime, she noticed that outside the sun had come out but instead of filling the front room with welcome light, it rudely showed up the layer of thick dust which lay over everything. Alicia’s first thought was to curse Pearl – most unfairly, since she never let her lay a finger on the front room. But then it occurred to her to find the feather duster and to do some dusting of the delicate objects which Pearl would surely break. The dusting made her wheeze and she had to stop after a while and have her lunch.

In the afternoon, she must have got up to look out of the front-room window at least a dozen times. She was beside herself, but strange to relate, it seemed to be as much with excitement as with fear. It made such a difference to have something to look forward to, even if it was only the possibility of her undoing. As it began to get dark, fear gained the upper hand over excitement. What would she do if he came back with a gang? If he poured petrol through the letter box like in the
Shepherd’s
Bush
Gazette,
if he broke a window? To calm her thudding heart, she tried to think of other alternatives; it had only been a neighbour’s child up to mischief, like Pearl said, or collecting signatures for some petition against war or for trees, or doing a school project. It had only been a mistake. He would not come back. She was so disappointed by the last alternative that she dismissed it. She would prefer danger. She did not turn on the light, so that she could see out but not be seen. No one came by, no one stirred; it was Sunday. Once, a small black boy sped down the street on roller-skates. You could not see the skates on his feet until he shot past the front gate; he seemed powered by some silent demonic motor on which he flew effortlessly the length of the street. When it was almost completely dark, Alicia left the window. It was half-past four already and she was on the verge of wanting her tea. But she felt she ought to postpone tea, in case the caller returned and
caught her at it again. On the other hand, she would want to be well fortified if he came. She went into the kitchen. It would be sardines today, on toast. She didn’t want sardines. She wanted a visitor. At a quarter to five, she went and turned on the light in the hall, although with the light coming in from the street-lamp she could have managed without it for a little bit longer. Hang the expense. She went back into the kitchen. With her arthriticky hands, it took her ten minutes to open a tin of sardines. She had with a terrible wrenching effort, uncovered the first silver tail when the bell rang.

She was convinced that, for a full minute, her heart and her breathing both stopped. She was standing right in the line of the doorway, of course, and with the light on she had probably already been seen. Steadying herself against the draining-board, she swallowed her panic and looked round. The short shadow had come back.

Still holding the tin-opener, she began to tiptoe silently down the hall. She had not yet decided if she would actually answer the door, but she wasn’t going to let him get away without her seeing him this time. She still hadn’t decided if she would answer the door when she was less than a yard away from it, and his second ring made her jump out of her skin. Dreadfully conscious of the stupidity of what she was doing, but desperate that he might lose patience before she had a chance to get round to the front-room window, Alicia unlocked the door. He heard the rattle, of course, and now he knew that she was there. Violent death, Alicia thought to her surprise, would not be worse than not knowing and she opened the door an inch. It was a girl. Alicia was so astonished that her grip on the door-handle, braced to slam the door in self-defence, relaxed of its own accord and the door opened an inch further. It was a girl.

‘Oh, hello,’ said the girl. ‘You must be Mrs Queripel.’

Not even an especially rough-looking girl, Alicia thought, in fact quite a tidy, well-spoken polite sort of girl.

‘I’m Alison Woodgate,’ she said. ‘You know, from Age Concern.’

‘Age Concern?’ snapped Alicia. ‘Whatever do you mean, Age Concern?’

The girl looked distressed. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you asked for a visitor.’

Alicia retorted, ‘I never did anything of the sort.’

‘Oh,’ said the girl a bit stupidly. ‘Oh, I thought you had. They told me your social worker had passed on a request.’

Miss Midgley! Alicia thought. That interfering cow! Maybe Miss Midgley had said something about a visitor, come to think of it, a long time ago. But Alicia had assumed that nothing had come of it; she had forgotten all about it. Relief was flooding through her at such a rate that she grew quite haughty. ‘Maybe something of the sort was once suggested,’ she answered loftily, ‘but I don’t know what gave you the idea that you could just turn up. I’m quite a busy person, you know. You should have written or telephoned first to let me know when you were coming. I can’t have people just turning up.’

‘I’m sorry,’ the girl said again. ‘I did call last week at about this time too, actually, but you were out.’

‘I know you did,’ Alicia said triumphantly. ‘I wasn’t out. I was here. But I don’t answer the door to unexpected callers who just turn up … usually.’

‘You were here?’ the girl repeated. ‘But couldn’t you have taken a look at me from a window or something? Just think,’ she smiled, ‘I might have given up and not come back.’

‘You scarcely gave me a chance,’ Alicia said scornfully. ‘Ring, ring, ring and then gone in a twinkling before I could get to the window. I thought you were a … mischief maker.’

‘Well, I’m sorry,’ the girl said again. ‘The last thing I wanted was to give you a fright.’ And then she just stood rather awkwardly on the doorstep, obviously expecting to be asked in.

Alicia hesitated. It was so many years since she had invited anyone into her home that it seemed to her a most hazardous thing to do. How could she let someone – and someone she had never seen before – into her own front room? And there was her tea, waiting for her on the kitchen table.

‘Well, now you’ll know for another time,’ Alicia said crisply. She wanted to close the door, she was cold, but she
felt she couldn’t chase the girl away, so she asked grudgingly, ‘When were you thinking of coming, then?’

‘Oh,’ said the girl. ‘Oh, I couldn’t come back before next Sunday, I’m afraid. I work in the week. Couldn’t I come in now just for a minute?’

What a nerve, Alicia thought. What a nerve. ‘And so I sent her packing,’ she imagined herself telling Pearl. ‘Can you beat it?’

She shook her head. ‘No, I’m afraid it’s not at all convenient.’ She showed that she wanted to close the door and, to her dismay, the girl burst out, ‘All right, but you will let me in next Sunday then, won’t you? I mean, it’ll be the third time, you realize, and I’ve come on my bike and it’s quite a way.’

Alicia stared at her. For the life of her, she could think of no sound reason why this girl should be so keen to call on her. She suspected some sinister motive. She stared at her for such a long time, scrutinizing her, that the girl grew embarrassed and added, ‘Please don’t get me wrong. I’m not trying to put pressure on you or anything. It’s just that I’d very much like to make your acquaintance and – well, really – it’s not very easy on the doorstep, is it?’

Alicia narrowed her eyes. ‘What proof do you have that you’re who you say you are?’ she asked sharply.

The girl grew flustered. ‘Well, none, I suppose. They should have written to tell you my name. But I promise everything’s quite in order. I’ll bring a bit of paper from Age Concern with me next weekend.’

She started to put on her multi-coloured mittens, which she had perhaps taken off thinking that she was going to shake Alicia by the hand.

Alicia felt curious consternation. So she really was going to go away and wait seven more days to come back and complete her mission. She really was about to turn round and disappear into the evening without a backward glance.

‘Oh, come on in then,’ she said crossly. ‘I can spare five minutes, I suppose.’

They sat nervously opposite each other in the two armchairs. Alicia was ashamed of the mess and she felt angry with the girl for having seen it. Now that the girl had made
her way in, Alicia felt obscurely that she had been got the better of.

‘So you work for that organization, then?’ she asked sternly.

‘For Age Concern?’ (She had to keep rubbing them in, didn’t she, Alicia thought bitterly; those words she could not bring herself to utter.) ‘Oh no, I’m just a volunteer. I work in a museum actually; this is just something I do at weekends.’

‘I see,’ Alicia said coldly. ‘And how much of your weekends do you devote to it? How many people do you call on?’

‘Oh,’ said the girl, ‘only you.’

‘Only me?’ exclaimed Alicia. ‘You mean you’ve only just begun, in other words?’

The girl looked embarrassed. ‘Well, yes.’

Alicia was insulted. They had fobbed her off with a beginner. The whole thing was casual, careless.

‘How old are you?’ she asked sharply.

‘Twenty-five,’ said the girl.

Well, that was something. Alicia had thought she was much younger. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘And to what do I owe the honour?’

‘Well, they gave me your name,’ the girl explained, ‘and you lived more or less in my area.’

‘And they told you nothing about me? You just had my name and address and that was it?’

The girl hesitated. ‘Well, only the barest details.’

‘What?’ snapped Alicia. ‘What did they tell you about me?’

‘Hardly anything,’ said the girl. ‘That you lived on your own, that you … that you were a widow and a bit – literally nothing – about the kind of thing you were interested in.’

‘The kind of thing I was interested in?’

‘The theatre. That you had been an actress.’

Alicia stared at her until she shifted uncomfortably on her chair. ‘And when they told you that,’ she asked ominously, ‘what did you think?’

‘I was really pleased,’ the girl said simply. ‘I thought it would be fascinating to talk to you.’

‘And you?’ said Alicia. ‘Where was it you said that you worked?’

‘I work in a museum,’ she replied.

Alicia laughed a hard, hurt laugh. ‘Oh,’ she said mockingly. ‘Well, I should think you’ll feel quite at home here, then, won’t you?’

She stood up after that and told the girl that it was time for her to go. Throughout their conversation, the sardines had been darting to and fro across the back of her mind and now she could bear it no longer. They were lined up against the side of their tin aquarium, blowing shiny rings at her through the oil.

She showed the girl as quickly as she could to the front door.

‘Well, thank you for letting me in,’ the girl said in the doorway. ‘I look forward to a proper conversation next week.’

Alicia thought, We’ll see about that. She wasn’t at all sure that she wanted to go through with this caper now. Above all, she wanted the girl to be gone. She felt her day had been disrupted long enough; she yearned for the quiet of her kitchen and her blue tea-plate.

‘Don’t make me keep the door open,’ she grumbled. ‘I’ll catch my death.’

She shut it on the girl’s goodbye wave. But old habits are hard to break and, despite the call of the sardines, she couldn’t resist watching the girl go on her way. From behind the front room curtain, she watched her bend over her bicycle, unlock it and switch on the lights. She was far too young, Alicia thought critically, to wear such a tatty bit of old fox round her neck.

I don’t think I truly loved anyone before Rob. There had been other people, one or two, and I wasn’t a virgin any more, but no one whom I had really and truly adored. Unless of course you count my father and since he was largely imaginary, I don’t really think you can. He left my mother and me when I was five. He went off to South America. I always imagined he had gone for the adventure, that my
mother and I had simply become too boring for such an adventurous man, but thinking over all I knew about it later, I realized he probably went after a woman. My mother’s sparse thin-lipped references to his disappearance down the years – you don’t stay that jealous of a continent.

All I remember of my father is a shape, but I loved that shape deeply. He used to come home late, when I was already in bed and bend over me and croon, ‘Bye Baby Bunting, Daddy’s gone a-hunting,’ every night, a tall, thin, stoop-shouldered shape, which sometimes had a smelly pipe sticking out of it. (And my mother’s voice calling in the background, ‘Oh, Edward, don’t puff your vile smoke in the child’s face!’)

I forgave him totally for having left my mother and me because really we were not that interesting. Through all the long seasons of my childhood, I quite saw how confined and circumscribed our life was, in our cluttered little house; just my mother and I, two old maids, one who had gladly adopted old maidhood and the other who was being reared in its ways. I imagined my father far away in Brazil, tanned and stoop-shouldered, smoking his pipe and cutting down forests to make fine furniture – he dealt in exotic timber – and it wasn’t until Rob told me in horror what people like my father were doing to the forests in Brazil that it stopped seeming a grand and glamorous activity.