Swallowing Grandma (30 page)

‘What’ve you done at your leg?’ asked Maggie, squinting down the steps at the stick he was holding. ‘Have you lamed yourself? There’s blood on your trousers, did you know?’

Dogman snorted, and strode through into the living room. When we got down he’d made it to the kitchen and was holding the bag over the sink. Swirls of red were pooling round the plughole. He’d obviously murdered somebody and brought their heart in a bag to show us.

‘Blackberries,’ he grinned. Except he pronounced it blegbrizz. ‘I bet I’ve two pound here. The bushes on t’ station car park are full of them. I could have filled twenty carriers if I’d wanted. Only thing is, I don’t really like ’em myself. So I thought Katherine could mek a nice plate pie out of them. Or jam.’

‘Won’t they be covered in chemicals off the exhausts?’ I found a mixing bowl and tipped the berries into it.

Dogman winked at me, as if I’d just said something flirtatious. ‘Soak ’em in salted water, get the maggots out. That’s all you need to do. Do you like my bramble hook?’ He tried to twirl the cane and dropped it with a clatter on the floor.

‘Poll’s out in the garden,’ I said, to get him off my back. ‘Her Westie statue’s come and we planted him this morning.’

Maggie tottered through the back door and I stayed to wash my hands. ‘They always remind me of Seamus Heaney, blackberries,’ I said, thinking aloud.

‘Is that your boyfriend?’ leered Dogman. ‘You’re not courting a Paddy now, are you?’

‘No and no. I think Poll’s calling you.’ I made to get past him but he blocked my way.

‘I think it’s a good thing you’re not going off to college.’

‘And why’s that, then?’

‘Load of ponces, students.’ Dogman folded his arms. ‘The ones at Oxford are the worst. You have to wear a gown all day, I’ve seen it on t’ telly; swanking about. Then there’s all the murders. It’s one a week.’

‘What, in Oxford?’

‘Aye. All t’ posh people busy knocking each other off, when they’re not listening to opera.’

I shoved him away. ‘Inspector Morse is a fictional character. You know, made up. He’s not real, it’s a cop show.’

Dogman only smiled and tapped the side of his nose sagely. ‘Anyroad, you don’t want to be a student ’cause they do nowt all day long.’

‘As opposed to you, who works all the hours God sends?’

He grinned from ear to ear. ‘I’ve a job, me. Very important.’

‘Oh yeah; what?’

‘Don’t you know? I’m a rent boy,’ he said, laughing at my expression.

I couldn’t get outside fast enough.

Under the streaky blue sky it was warm, with clouds of midges hanging in the air. I went to stand with Maggie and Poll, who were chatting by Winston’s grave.

‘You wouldn’t want him to have suffered, though,’ Maggie was saying. ‘And he’d had a good long life.’

‘Do you remember when we got him, Poll? Off that wacky woman who lived behind the church?’

Poll sighed. ‘I do. I think it were a lucky escape for him. She ran a filthy house. She had about six or seven dogs and they all had their dinners out of one big trough. Poor Winston could never get his share, I reckon. We thought he were a puppy he was so small, but she said he was at least two year owd. He did eat when he came to us, didn’t he?’

We’d gone to get Winston after a particularly hellish period at school. I’d suggested a dog, never for one minute thinking Poll would say yes, but she did.

‘What are the eyes med out of?’ asked Maggie, bending down to see the statue in close-up. ‘Are they glass? Very lifelike.’

‘And what about that time his claws got fast in t’ rug, and we thought his leg was paralysed?’

‘And when he bit that little boy who was tormenting him with a stick outside Porter’s. And you told the mother, “Stop carrying on, he’s learned a valuable lesson.” ’

‘Well, he had. You’ve to go careful with dogs, till you know them.’

‘Ooh,’ said a voice at my neck, ‘stockings.’

I whipped my head round and there was Dogman lifting up the hem of my skirt with his bramble hook.

‘Jesus.’ I leapt away from him in horror. ‘What the
fuck
do you think you’re doing?’

‘Ooh,’ said Maggie, who’d never heard me swear.

‘Whatever’s t’ matter now?’ said Poll wearily.

I took off up the path, feeling dizzy with disgust.

‘That were a mean trick,’ I heard Maggie say, above Dogman’s laughter.

I went out through the side gate and down the ginnel to the road, where I stopped for a moment to kick the wall.

I’d thought I looked nice in my birthday purple sweater and a knee-length bias-cut black skirt that Maggie had brought me off Dawn. ‘It’s an elasticated waist,’ Maggie had pointed out. ‘Dawn says she’s too owd for it. I thought I’d pass it on.’ I’d been thrilled when it fitted. The stockings had been an idea I saw on a daytime makeover show. ‘Black opaques really slim chunky calves,’ the presenter had said, pointing at an embarrassed woman with over-highlighted hair. I thought it was worth a go, so I’d checked tights out in Boots but they were too expensive. Then I’d found some black opaques on Chorley market, except these were holdup stockings. ‘They’re good, them,’ the lady on the stall had remarked as she wrapped them up for me. ‘Very
hygienic
.’ I didn’t know what she meant by that, but she was right about them being good. They stayed put and looked sort of funky.

Oh, the thought, though, of Dogman looking up my skirt. Years of him stretched ahead; poking, prodding, squeezing past, ogling. I didn’t think I could bear it.

I’d go to Miss Dragon and she’d say, That’s awful, I don’t know how you coped with it for so long, move in with me while you train to be a librarian.

She’d say, Well, don’t come crying to me, you had your chance to get away and you blew it.

I’d go to Miss Dragon anyway, whatever she said.

*

It took four years to get my full qualification. Dad offered loads of times to buy me a car so I wouldn’t be mauling with buses, but I always said no. You can read on a bus.

I soon got the house nice again and, after a few months Dad started to do a little bit of gardening. That was the first sign he was on the mend. We kept ourselves to ourselves. It was a happy time.

And then, after I’d got my degree, I had this chance to be near Katherine again, and I found I wanted to take it.

I walked slowly, under a sky of fat white taproots.
It’s only water vapour, it doesn’t tell the future. You make your own future.

Not really; not in real life. My life.

I pined for Dad and his messages which I didn’t believe any more. Who was I to mock Cissie for her anthropomorphism, when that was exactly what I’d been doing all these years? I never knew the man. He was an invention of my head, a fantasy friend.

I wanted to tell all this to Miss Dragon, and try to explain again why I couldn’t go to Oxford, and what had happened with Callum. I still looked for him when I went out, squinted into the distance to see if it was his figure coming towards me. I looked especially when I passed places we’d been together, like the Methodists’, as if I could maybe catch up with the time that had gone. In a stupid way, it was a surprise
not
to see him sitting on the chapel wall, blowing smoke rings and watching the clouds. Of course he wasn’t there. And if he had been, what would I have done?

I didn’t hurry. I wanted to get to the library about fifteen minutes before closing, then I might have a chance to talk to Miss Dragon in private. I had this idea that she might see how upset I was, lock the front doors and take me into her office. I could maybe ask to stay at her house for a few nights, if she didn’t offer first. Logic told me there was a thin chance of that in reality, but what else was there to try?

Even though the schools had only been back a couple of weeks, the kids had been busy with autumn themes. Bank Top Primary had donated some cut-out squirrels to decorate the library windows, and some studies of leaves and poems about harvest for the notice board. Miss Dragon keeps her kingdom smart.

At first I could only spot Miss Mouse, talking on the telephone with her back to me. I slipped past her and settled myself into the children’s corner, grabbing a Jacqueline Wilson and burrowing into the beanbags. You can’t see this area very well from the front desk so I thought I was pretty safe. The place was empty anyway, apart from Mr Rowland, who was pinning up leaflets on the community space. Then Miss Dragon came out of the office looking glum.

The two women muttered together and I could see some kind of mild argument taking place. I wondered what they could possibly be disagreeing about. Miss Dragon looked the most upset. I was sure neither of them had seen me, so I took the opportunity to slide into my secret hiding place; that is, under the curtain which hangs down behind the end of the Early Readers’ bookcase. I’ve used it before, when people have come in that I didn’t want to see, e.g. Clare Greenhalgh. If you crouch down below sill level, then no one can see your back view through the window from outside either.

I put the book down on the floor and settled myself quietly against the wall. I knew I’d only have to wait five minutes or so till the library was officially closed, Miss Mouse went to catch her bus, and Miss Dragon would be alone and available for counsel.

I heard Mr Rowland make a poor joke about daylight saving, then say goodbye. The doors squeaked open, shut. A calm settled.

‘Go on, get yourself off,’ said Miss Mouse’s voice. She sounded quite authoritarian.

‘But your bus,’ came Miss Dragon’s weak reply.

‘I can catch the later one. Stop arguing, you’re in no fit state.’

There was a pause and I caught the scrape of keys along the desk top.

‘Are you all right to lock up? And set the alarm?’

‘Yes. I’m fine. Now
go
.’

Another pause. Miss Dragon, sounding apologetic: ‘I will, then, if you’re positive. I must admit, I am in agony. It must be an abscess. They say bad toothache’s worse than childbirth.’ Feeble laugh. ‘Not that either of us would know. Right, I’m going now.’

‘Good luck,’ said Miss Mouse. ‘Hope you get it sorted.’

The doors squeaked once more. Shit, I thought. Is that not totally bloody typical. Thank you, Fate. And now, how was I going to get out without looking a fool?

There were movements across the room; books thumping into place, chairs shushing across carpet, newspapers crackling. Lights began to go out, click, click. I could say nothing, stay here all night. That wouldn’t be so bad. Because if I emerged now, after staying silent so long, Miss Mouse would probably have some kind of fit. I heard the rattle of curtain along track and knew she was coming closer. Miss Dragon would have understood but Miss Mouse was nervy at the best of times; she’d freak. She’d think I was going to attack her, or something, steal a computer. She’d press the panic button and the police would come. It would be in the papers. The whole village would read it. Dogman would rupture himself laughing, and Clare Greenhalgh would show her friends and say, I always knew she was screwy, that one.

My breath was coming shorter and my heart pounding, so I nearly died when a voice just next to me said, ‘The lights are off. You can come out now.’

There was nothing for it. I pulled the curtain sheepishly to one side, feeling my hair crackle with static. She was standing six feet away, her arms by her sides and her cuffs down over her fingers.

‘I was waiting for Miss Stockley.’

She nodded. ‘Come in the office.’

I let her lead me there because I didn’t know what else to do.

‘Sit down. I’ll make a drink.’

Callum was there again, in my head; sitting across the table, twiddling his pendant. It was too painful, so I turned instead to watch her. Her long skirt today was black, her baggy cardigan olive green. Her clothes always looked too big for her.

‘We’ve no milk left,’ she said, addressing the wall above the sink. ‘Do you mind having black coffee?’

I thought that sounded yuk, but I didn’t say so. I needed to talk to someone and scalding hot coffee guaranteed me at least quarter of an hour.

Finally she settled herself opposite me, but with her legs turned sideways as if poised for escape. She was terribly nervous, I could see. Maybe it was because I was seeing her close to; usually she had her back to you, or her head in a book. I thought I could detect darker roots at her scalp and wondered whether she lightened her hair, although that didn’t seem likely for a woman who never wore make-up. ‘It’s me,’ I felt like saying, ‘don’t be scared of
me
. We’ve never spoken much but we are friends, remember.’

‘You seem – upset,’ she said. ‘You want to tell me about it?’

Yeah, why not, I thought.

‘Oh, you know. Home life. It’s not very easy living with my grandma. You don’t know her, do you? She never comes in here. She thinks libraries are a waste of time.’

‘Miss Stockley’s talked about her,’ said Miss Mouse. The surface of her coffee trembled between her hands. ‘I gather she’s – quite strict with you?’

‘She was. Not any more, though. I’ve turned the tables, it’s me in charge now. She used to tell me what to do when I was younger but I’ve told her, I’m an adult, I can make my own decisions.’

‘Good on you.’ She spoke quietly and carefully.

‘Mmm . . . It doesn’t work like that, though, does it?’

‘What doesn’t?’

‘Life. Being an adult. You can’t just do what you want. I thought you could, but you can’t.’

Miss Mouse pressed her lips together and frowned slightly. ‘What do you want – Kat?’

‘To go to Oxford!’ That was easy. ‘I want to take up my place and do a degree. But I
can’t
because Poll won’t be able to cope without me, emotionally or practically. She poured boiling water down herself a couple of weeks ago, then a few days later she had a bad fall and had to go to hospital. And her dog died . . . I can’t leave her. She brought me up. I couldn’t walk out on her after all these years, it would kill her, probably. There’s no halfway house in these situations either. If you stay you’re a saint, if you walk away you’re a rat. Nothing in between.’

Miss Mouse didn’t say anything to this. She just gazed into my eyes, and the lines at the corner of her mouth tightened.