Crazy Paving (6 page)

Nobbie was saying, ‘You wouldn’t believe what I found out yesterday Richard. Do you know, there is a company somewhere in Essex that makes the British Standard turd? Honest, honest
to God.’

Richard recalled that Nobbie was in fixtures and fittings and had talked of crossing over to bathroom and sanitary equipment.

‘The toilets all have to be tested of course, and to conform to the Standards inspectorate they have to be able to flush a turd of a certain size, shape and density. Sawdust, I think. I
hope so, anyway.’ He chuckled. ‘So yesterday we had to ring up this place in Essex that manufactures the standard British turd and order a box. Now, what I’d like to know is . .
.’

‘Excuse me sir,’ an authoritative voice came from somewhere out of Richard’s field of vision. A fireman stepped forward. A group of others was surrounding the BMW and examining
the point at which it was jammed into Richard’s car.

‘Oh sorry,’ said Nobbie, stepping back.

‘My arm . . .’ grimaced Richard at the fireman.

‘Right-o sir,’ said the fireman, and worked a heavily-gloved hand into the gap between the window and the buckled door frame, feeling around Richard’s trapped arm. Nobbie was
leaning over the fireman’s shoulder and calling, ‘How do they get the measurements? That’s what I’d like to know.’

Gillian was listening to reports of the crash when the hospital rang. The radio announcer was telling her, with admirable calm, that it was one of the worst pile-ups in the
history of the M23. Four dead and as many as twenty injured. Gillian was in the middle of polishing a set of six stainless steel dessert dishes and continued her work, determinedly. A policeman on
the radio informed her that people these days found it impossible to keep their distance.

When the phone rang, she dropped a dish and it landed on her tiled floor with a metallic clatter that echoed around the kitchen.

Richard was completely uninjured. A young lady doctor informed him, with some venom, that he had had a remarkable escape. There was bruising to the right forearm and he had
wrenched his back; nothing that a couple of days’ rest wouldn’t cure. She saw no reason to keep him in hospital overnight.

When they reached home, Gillian saw him up to bed and then went down to the kitchen to make hot drinks. Horlicks, they had decided. There was an old tin in the pantry somewhere. They would
normally be drinking whisky at this time but Horlicks somehow had the right sound. The tin was so old it was rusty around the seam. Gillian peeled back the blue plastic lid and peered in. The
Horlicks had got slightly damp but other than that it seemed fine. She began to cry with relief.

Richard was in bed when she took the drinks up. She had arranged some fruit cake on a plate. Settled beside him, on top of the coverlet with the tray on her lap, she broke off small pieces of
cake and began to feed them to him until he shook his head. They drank their drinks in silence. Richard cradled his cup between his hands. ‘You know,’ he said eventually, ‘I saw
dying today.’

‘You had a very lucky escape . . .’ murmured Gillian, lifting a hand to stroke his head.

‘No, I don’t mean that.’ Richard frowned.

‘You mean when you were watching the dead man, when Nobbie was talking to you?’

‘No. Before that even.’ Richard turned the mug round in his hands. ‘I mean just before his car hit mine, when it was swinging round. I saw him, his hands up in the air, mouth
open, the look on his face. It must have lasted only a split second, but in that split second . . .’ Richard coughed, wincing at the stiffness in his back, ‘. . . in that second, that
man knew he was about to die.’

Gillian reached out a hand and took the mug from his grasp. She placed it on the tray and then lifted the tray to the bedside table. Then she turned back to Richard and took his hand. She held
it between both of hers, tightly.

‘I never want to see that moment, Gillian,’ Richard said. ‘I’m not afraid of dying, not really, but I am afraid of that – that split second. Some people might be
curious I suppose, wonder what it’s like. I’m not. I couldn’t stand it, all that defeat, knowing you have lost everything . . .’

‘Sshh,’ said Gillian, stroking his hand. ‘Sshh . . . you never will. I promise, you never will.’

They lapsed into silence and Richard closed his eyes. Gillian watched his face, stroked his hand.

Rosewood Cottage sat on the edge of a patch of wasteground, a small, squat building at the end of a street surrounded by a wide expanse of earth, concrete and scrubby grass.
Sutton Street had once been a thriving row of cottages on the very edge of pre-First World War London. Then the city had swallowed it whole. Tower blocks and factories had sprung up around it. The
cottages had crumbled, one by one. Rosewood was the sole survivor in a wide patch of dereliction, the last molar in a broken, ruined mouth.

William stood at the top of the street, looking down to where the cottage sat alone. To the left, the wasteground stretched away. On the other side, an informal rubbish tip had sprung up:
cardboard boxes, prams, a blue mattress with a burnt and blackened hole. Beyond it was the railway line embankment, punctuated by arches. Commuters coming in from Kent were able to look down on
Rosewood Cottage every day. Behind the embankment was the main road, cutting a swathe through Deptford. Sutton Street itself was inaccessible. If you exited from the road at the wrong place you
were stranded in the wilds of Rotherhithe. The nearest BR station was twenty minutes’ walk away. William had got badly lost and tramped around the quiet backstreets for over half an hour.

It was a heavy day, with solid wads of cloud in grey folds overhead; so dark it almost seemed that night could fall at any minute. After he had turned out of the station, a brown mongrel had
picked up his trail. When William paused to consult the list of directions he had copied down from the
A-Z
in the office, the dog paused too, pretending to snuffle in the verge. As William
moved on, so did the dog. When William stopped again, the dog trotted to a halt, lifted its leg and urinated.

In the end, William stopped and said loudly, ‘Piss off, dog.’

The dog lifted his head and regarded him blankly, then turned and lolloped off down the road. William felt bad.

The door to Rosewood Cottage had been painted pink a great many years ago but was cracked and peeling now, set in a small porch of crumbling brickwork. From the front of the porch, someone had
used a piece of frayed string to hang an oval-shaped, porcelain sign with the name of the cottage painted in curling letters and a sprig of flowers enamelled underneath. It swung lightly in the
wind. William had to duck underneath it to step into the porch and ring the bell.

If the bell was working, it made no sound. He waited. He sighed. He stepped back from the house and peered upwards. He thought he saw a net curtain twitch at an upstairs window but it was hard
to tell. It was beginning to rain. He went back into the porch and pressed the bell again, then knocked lightly.

Eventually, there was the sound of shuffling behind the door. A voice mumbled. Then, very slowly, the door opened a crack. William tipped his head to one side, clutching an orange wallet file to
his chest. He felt suddenly aware that he was wearing a suit. ‘Mrs Appleton?’ he asked, hesitantly.

No reply.

‘I’m William Bennett. I’m a surveyor for the Capital Transport Authority. I have come to talk to you about the cottage. The compulsory purchase . . .’ Thinking that the
door was about to slam shut, William began to talk very quickly. ‘There have been a few developments Mrs Appleton we thought we would have to demolish the cottage due to site works as you
know but it now appears that it might not be necessary . . .’

Very slowly, the door opened. A woman of indeterminate age was revealed – late sixties perhaps. What was left of her hair was scraped back from her forehead into a green rubber band that
held a topknot on the crown of her head. She wore thick bi-focal glasses. She regarded him. William tried to keep his eyes on her face while being unable to avoid noticing that she wore huge
slippers which were rimmed with bright purple fur.

Mrs Appleton held his gaze for some time. ‘Better come in,’ she said eventually. As she turned and stepped back into the hall, he noticed that she waddled slightly. The feet in the
purple fur-rimmed slippers dragged along the carpet. He was reminded of some creature he had read about in an encyclopaedia when he was a child. He struggled to remember its name. Then it came to
him: a duck-billed platypus.

The hall was dark and very narrow. He squeezed past a mock-wooden coat rack on which were hung various macs in slightly different shades of beige or navy blue. Mrs Duck-billed Platypus gestured
into the living room.

Sitting in a chair beside an unlit gas fire was Mr Duck-billed Platypus. At least William presumed that it was he. They were not introduced. Mrs Appleton said shortly, ‘I’ll put the
kettle on.’

William had taken a seat opposite Mr Appleton. He turned. ‘I shan’t take up too much of your time Mrs Duckapple, really there’s no . . .’ but she had already gone.
William turned to face the old man. He smiled uncertainly. The old man did not respond.

Mrs Appleton was gone for a very long time. At first, William tried to keep smiling but the old man met him with the same unnervingly blank stare that the dog had given. So he occupied himself
by opening the orange wallet file and withdrawing his papers, then shuffling them around and flicking through. Gradually, he became aware of a noise – a dull, regular thumping from the
ceiling above. He looked up, and then across at Mr Appleton. The noise stopped. Then it began again. Mr Appleton lifted a fist and shook it slowly at the ceiling. The noise stopped. Mr Appleton
returned to his immobile, stony state. William looked down at his papers.

Mrs Appleton shuffled back into the room carrying a kitchen tray with wicker handles. On it sat a large brown mug and two jam jars, all filled with weak grey tea. Next to them was a plate on
which three Digestive biscuits had been neatly arranged.

‘He has to have his mug,’ said Mrs Appleton as she put down the tray. She picked up the mug and placed it on the coffee table at her husband’s side. Still he did not move.

‘Sugar?’ she asked, as she picked up one of the jam jars and handed it to William.

William watched as the jam jar made its way inexorably towards him. Around the rim he could see a few remnants of pink jam, encrusted. He managed to shake his head and say, ‘Thank
you.’

He took the jam jar from her and placed it on the carpet at his feet. Mrs Appleton sat on the sofa and picked up her jar. She sipped from it at intervals while he talked.

‘Well, I’ve good news of a sort . . .’ William began. He explained to them that the compulsory purchase had been suspended due to an unforeseen difficulty. It seemed likely
that they would not now have to move. He couldn’t offer them any guarantees, however, and there would be some disruption when the building work began.

The couple listened in silence. Eventually, Mrs Appleton said, ‘So will you be coming back?’

William paused. ‘I don’t know, Mrs Appleton. Probably not for a long while. I think you can relax.’

At that, Mr Appleton made a sudden movement. William jumped. Mr Appleton was waving his left arm wildly. Mrs Appleton rose, shuffled across to him and handed him a stick that was lying beside
the chair. As she helped him out of the chair, he began to cough, softly at first, then in great harrumphing gulps that shook his body. He was leaning his full weight on the stick and it wobbled
frantically, even though his wife still had hold of his arm. ‘Careful, dear,’ she shouted into his ear, ‘you’ll have one of your turns!’

Mr Appleton was coughing so hard he began to turn slightly blue. Eventually he stopped, on the cusp of one huge gasp – and froze. He hung there while his wife explained, ‘It’s
news of any sort, good or bad, doesn’t matter what, always turns him a bit funny.’

William was concerned that Mr Appleton appeared not to be breathing. At what point should he insist that an ambulance be called, and how? There was no phone.

‘I’ve tried to tell him not to get excited. One of these days . . .’ Mrs Appleton continued. Her husband had still not moved.

‘Er, do you think perhaps . . .’ William began.

Then, Mr Appleton, still without moving, began to tip slowly backwards into the chair. Mrs Appleton let go of his arm and he fell, frozen, appearing to have suffered instant rigor mortis.
William jumped to his feet.

‘Oh, Mr Bent!’ his wife exclaimed. ‘You can’t go yet. You haven’t finished your tea.’

William looked down at the jam jar in alarm. ‘Oh dear, I really must go,’ he said. ‘That is, if you don’t have any questions? I hope.’

‘Just a minute now,’ Mrs Appleton said firmly, lifting a finger. She shuffled over to where he stood and picked up the jam jar, then she shuffled out of the room. William glanced
over anxiously at Mr Appleton, who still showed no signs of life. He picked up the orange wallet file and stepped out into the hall.

Mrs Appleton was making her way towards him holding the jam jar. She had found a lid and screwed it on. ‘There you are,’ she said proudly, extending the jar, ‘you can finish it
later.’

William took the jar from her. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Goodbye.’

As he turned to open the front door, he heard the thumping noise from upstairs again, more distinct this time, three separate banging noises in sharp succession. Mrs Appleton rolled her eyes and
leant forward. ‘That’s my mother,’ she murmured to William, confidentially. ‘We keep her upstairs. She’s a little eccentric, you know.’

Outside, the sky had cleared slightly. It was brighter. William walked briskly down Sutton Street, the folder under his arm, the lukewarm jar of tea in his hand. As he reached the corner of the
street, he turned and looked back at Rosewood Cottage. Mrs Appleton was standing in front of the porch, waving. He waved back.

Half-way to the main road, he realised he was going to have to sit on the train holding a jam jar of tea. He looked around for a rubbish bin, saw one screwed to a lamp-post and went over. It had
no bottom. People had dropped rubbish in anyway and underneath there was a small pile of crisp packets, drinks cartons and cigarette ends. He knelt down and placed the jam jar amongst the heap,
carefully pushing rubbish around it to conceal it. When he had finished, he looked up to see that he was being observed by the brown dog, which stood on the pavement a few feet away.