The Last Girl (4 page)

After
that,
all
we
had
to
do
was
wait.

Even then it seemed like an age, though to be honest it
couldn't have been more than five minutes. It's just that I thought she'd be up
sooner than she was. I mean, all she had to do was see the fruit, read the note
and then put two and two together. Then suddenly there comes this little knock on
the wall at the bottom of my stairs. Even then it made me jump because I'd
expected to hear her come along the landing. Still I must have remembered to
say something, because the next thing I know, she's standing in my kitchen
door, large as life and twice as natural.

But just that little bit different from
what I remembered. She was wearing a woolly jumper, way too big for her, that
could only have looked right on a man, plus a-pair of those trousers that are
one step up from pyjama bottoms. And I don't know if it was simply my
imagination but, tucked behind Ethel, she had seemed smaller than this. Now she
seemed to be taller. For a second I thought she might have popped on a pair of
heels just to come up and see Larry, but when I looked at her feet I was a bit
taken aback to discover she wasn't wearing shoes at all. She just had on a pair
of socks, black, the sort that men wear. That's why I hadn't heard her. Now
don't ask me why, but in anyone else I'd see that as a warning. I mean, you've
got to wear shoes when you go visiting, and maybe be a touch smarter in your
dress. But again, it was like with her hair. You simply didn't think any the
worse of her because of it. You see, her saving grace was her face.This really
was just as I remembered it - although I'll admit I might have overdone the
part about her being so pale. But she had had a sleep, after all. The important
thing was, her expression was just the same. Something shy, bordering on the
anxious even. What I suppose I'm saying is, she looked like the serious type, a
far cry from the young hussies you meet everywhere who'd laugh as soon as look
at you. The good thing about a face like that is, it puts you at your ease. I
mean, it's the over-confident types who throw you off your stride, isn't it? The
know-alls and the clever dicks. In other words, the Doreens of this world. But
you only had to look at her to see she was different. That's what made it so
easy for me to smile and say cheerily as if she was an old friend, 'Hello
stranger. Had a nice sleep then?'

To which she
answered: 'Sorry?'

Isn't it
wonderful? Some people you can feel you know from the very start. If anyone had
asked me what I thought her first words might have been, I'd bet you almost
anything I would have said: an apology. Not knowing what she was apologizing
about was neither here nor there. Maybe it was for sleeping all that time when
there were folk just waiting to be neighbourly.

'Sleep,' I
said. 'It works wonders. One minute you're feeling like an old rag, then you
have a little snooze and you're on top of the world again.'

'Oh,' she
said. 'But I haven't been asleep.'

Well, that
put an end to that. I waited for her to tell me what she had been doing all
this time, but she didn't. In fact, she didn't say another word. Another few seconds
passed while she looked at her toes and the danger was that things were getting
a bit awkward. Then just in time she stepped in with:

'Mr Mann,
there's an awful lot of fruit sitting on my kitchen table.'

'Oh yes?' I
said, all innocence, but in actual fact breathing a big sigh of relief. This
was the bit I'd been waiting for, you might even say, been rehearsing for, all
the time she'd been keeping herself to herself. Also I was enjoying just
listening to her. No wonder the snob in Ethel got so excited. Beautifully
spoken she was, but not in the way that makes you feel put down. She had the
accent for it all right, but her voice was too quiet for that, and so high that
if you heard her on the phone you'd think you were speaking to a kid of about
twelve. It said a lot for her, that voice, showed you that here was a girl who
had been nicely brought up, yet wasn't trying to be superior. What her actual
words were hardly mattered.

Trouble was,
now she was frowning because I'd made it sound as if I didn't know anything
about any fruit. But that was only meant to be part of the joke. There was my
note as well, and that should have given the game away. Otherwise who else did
she think could have left that stuff? The Ducks? Surely not. See what I mean
about her being the serious type?

I'll come
clean and admit it. I panicked, then. Jettisoned all ideas I'd had about being
coy and stringing her along in friendly fashion. There was too much at stake.
You just couldn't tell how she might react. She might have been the sort who
wouldn't wait to hear the end of a sentence because she was that eager to rush
off and thank the Ducks for their kind gift.

'Don't look
so worried;' I said. 'Of course I know about the fruit. It was me that put it
there. It's just my way of saying hello. I try to get on with all the new
girls. Specially when they seem as nice as you.'

Well there
you are. I don't think anyone could have put it more pleasantly than that. Not
clever, not pushy, just kind. But would you believe it, even that didn't seem
to wipe the frown off her face. I'd be starting to think she was born with it
soon.

'Mr Mann...'
she begins. And that's when I decide to be firm.

'Now, look
here, love,' I said. 'There's only one way you can upset me, and that's by
calling me Mr Mann. That's strictly for the Ducks, My name is Larry. Got that?
Anything else just isn't friendly.' And since even that didn't seem to cheer
her up - she was biting her lip like she was trying to chew it right off -
there was nothing for it but to give her a little push towards the lounge.
Otherwise she might have stood there all day, at the top, of the stairs as if
we were a couple of perfect strangers, and where would that have got us?

Mind you,
it's as we're stepping into the lounge that I could see why it might seem a bit
much to take all in at once. There wasn't a lot for her to notice in the
kitchen, what with us crowding each other out, but here in the lounge it's a
different picture. Standing here, she wouldn't have been human if she hadn't
taken one look and wondered if we were living in the same house, the same
street even. Judging by what she's got downstairs, she could hardly have been
expecting - this.

But she is
human. You can see the effect on her straight away. She takes that one look,
then stops. Clams up completely, doesn't say a  word.  It's the surprise you
see, it gets some folk like that. They see the state of the rest of the house,
and then they set eyes on this. It’s the reason that I don't even hold it
against her that there's half a barrowload of fruit sitting on her kitchen
table, but there are still two little words that have yet to be spoken.

All the same,
its nice to have a bit of feedback, and you never know, opinions might vary, so
I press her just a little

'Well then,
what do you think? Bit different from what Ethel's charging you for, don't you
think?'

'Oh,' she
says, and you have to hand it to her, those lovely brown eyes of hers are
nearly falling out of her head. 'It's ...it's very nice.' 

Well, that
was fine as far as it went. But when it was clear that was all she was going to
say, I couldn’t help thinking she could have done a little better. Brought up
the way she was, and probably educated to boot, you'd have thought she could
have managed something more than just plain old 'nice'. You might as well call
Buckingham Palace 'nice'. Not that I'm suggesting for one minute that this
could compare to what HM is used to. Only you wouldn't be doing it justice if
you didn't admit this room is a bit of an achievement.

To start
with, everything's got it place; nothing jars. Not even the TV. There's a forty
inch beauty behind those mahogany doors, but you'd never know it, not unless it
was on. And cosy. You should see me in winter. You don't have to worry about
draughts up here. I sealed up the windows years ago. The gas fire pumps out the
heat and not a scrap of it escapes. You can still feel the warmth, trapped in
the flock of the wallpaper, the next morning when you get up. Lovely. But most
importantly, it's me that put it all there.

You probably
think I'm leaving something out, claiming all the credit like this, that
somewhere along the line there's been a wife putting her oar in, making sure
that what she says goes. Not here. She left, didn't she, and good riddance.
Except then it turns out that leaving isn't enough, not when every mortal thing
she's left behind has her stamp on it. It's like having the woman here herself,
looking over your shoulder, never letting you know a moment's peace. A man
doesn't need that sort of thing, not after what Larry's been through.

So I threw it
out, all of it. Every last stick of furniture, ornaments and all. Got rid of
every mortal thing she ever touched. The best way of course would have been a
blooming great bonfire - with her sitting on the top but there's regulations
against that sort of behaviour. So I did the next best thing. I started again,
only this time with no expense spared. Always wanted wall-towall carpet she
did, and that's what I've got. Pile. Shag. And a three-piece suite with matching
pouffe and magazine stand. Not to mention the cocktail cabinet with drinks
dispenser and feature lighting, display shelving; and the. two wall niches
installed by none other than yours truly. All in the best possible taste. My
taste. There's not a thing here that's not me. What's more, I've been adding to
it over the years, a novelty ashtray here, a statuette there. And one day, just
to cap it all, I'm going to have one of those Royal Doultons - maybe a young
girl with billowing skirts holding on to her hat. I'll be a happy man then.

Meanwhile
there's enough here to impress. Only more importantly than that, you'd never
know that a woman called Doreen had ever been born, let alone lived up here for
thirty-five years. A triumph, that's what this room is. A veritable triumph. No
wonder I feel so much at home.

Of course, I
don’t go into the reason for the place with Miss Tyson, not now. For the moment
it's enough just to see her face - even if all she can think of to say is 'very
nice'. Yet to be perfectly honest, even that doesn't matter. Because if you
were to ask me why it was I'd  suddenly gone all quiet, I'd say it wasn't just
a case of standing here with a new acquaintance. It was as if I was looking at
the future, a future where two people get together in the spirit of friendship,
in a room that fits around them like a glove.

Which only
made it all the more important to break the ice, properly, before she got the
wrong impression. Because if I stood there much longer thinking about the shape
of things to come, she'd decide that Larry Mann    was not the sociable type.
As it happened, though, she was staring straight at my pride and joy, what you
might call the jewel in the crown.

'Yamaha,' I
said, half thinking that she might know that already. 'Top of the range. Got
everything, it has - violins, percussion, brass. You name it, and I can put my
finger on it.'

'Oh,' she
says, in that way I'm already beginning to recognize. 'You mean it's an
organ
?'

Well, I have
to tell you that just for a second she had me wondering if, nice as she is, she
might not be just that little bit stupid. Then I looked again, the way she
would have done, and realized that, with the lid down and the antimacassar on
top, and the family of woodland animals on top of that, there was always the
chance you might mistake it for something different. The room is too small for
it really. If I'd known ten years ago that I was going to become a musical
type, I might have thought twice about the feature bookcase. Then again, who
can ever say what the future holds? The fact is, I wouldn't be without the
Yamaha now, not for anything. Two fingers, that's all you need for the Liberace
touch. The organ does the rest. There's even a book that shows you how.

And once
again - it seemed to be happening all the time since meeting Miss T - I had a
picture of the future, this time with me sitting at the organ barrelling out
all the old favourites, and her on the settee, listening to every note. The gas
fire would be glowing, the TV shimmering in the corner, and on the table a
little glass of something for us both.

Which
reminded me.

'Right then.
What's it to be - port or sherry?'

You know, it
was getting to be comical. Everything I'd said to her so far seemed to bewilder
her. Right now she was staring at me as if she wasn't quite sure she had heard
me right. Still, patience is my middle name, and so I said it again, slowly, 'I
was wondering what it was you would care to drink. I've got port and I've got
sherry. So you've got to tell old Larry which is it to be, Miss... ?'

I let that
hang in the air deliberately, bearing in mind that I'd been telling her to call
me Larry all this time, yet quite obviously she had forgotten to return the
compliment. For once though, the penny dropped straightaway, and she smiled and
said, 'Amanda. My name is Amanda.' Then the smile disappeared. 'As for that
drink though, it's terribly kind of you to offer, but I really don't think ...'

Quite what it
was she thought I never did hear, because by then it was too late and I'd
already plonked a schooner of sherry in her hand. The fact is, you only had to
look at her to know she wasn't the port and lemon type.

'Oh' she
said. Then remembering her manners just as you'd expect in a girl like her,
added, 'Thank you very much'

Now then, if
someone bad told me yesterday that I’d be sitting here in my own lounge with a
young person of the female tendency, sipping Old England and chatting away like
old friends, I'd have told him to pull the other one. Yet there she was,
looking for all the world as if she belonged there. It was enough to make a man
feel quite disorientated really, and I hadn't even touched a drop yet. So I
raised my glass and said, 'Here's to you, Mandy love, and many happy days
ahead.'