Raymond clapped his hands together in fake bonhomie.
“Right then, time’s marching on. Mum, go and sit down—your program’s about to start. Eleanor, could you maybe give me a hand and bring in the washing?”
I was glad to help, glad to be moving away from Mummy-related conversation. There were various chores Mrs. Gibbons needed assistance with—Raymond had elected to change the cats’ litter trays and empty the bins, so I’d certainly drawn the long straw with the laundry.
Outside, the early evening sun was weak and pale. There was a row of gardens to the right and the left, stretching off in both directions. I placed the laundry basket on the ground and took the peg bag (on which, in looping cursive, someone had helpfully stitched “Pegs’) and hung it on the line. The washing was dry and smelled of summer. I heard the syncopated thud of a football being kicked against a wall, and girls chanting as a skipping rope skimmed the ground. The distant chimes of the ice-cream van were now almost inaudible. Someone’s back door slammed, and a man’s voice shouted a furious reprimand at—one hoped—a dog. There was birdsong, a descant over the sounds of a television drifting through an open window. Everything felt safe, everything felt normal. How different Raymond’s life had been from mine—a proper family, a mother and a father and a sister, nestled among other proper families. How different it was still; every Sunday, here, this.
Back indoors, I helped Raymond swap the sheets on his mother’s bed for the clean ones I’d brought in from the line. Her bedroom was very pink and smelled of talcum powder. It was clean and nondescript—not like a hotel room, more like a bed and breakfast, I imagined. Save for a fat paperback and a packet of extra strong mints on the bedside table, there was nothing personal in the room, no clue to the owner’s personality. It struck me that, in the nicest possible way, she didn’t really have a personality; she was a mother, a kind, loving woman, about whom no one would ever say, “She was crazy, that Betty!” or, “You’ll never guess what Betty’s done now!” or, “After reviewing psychiatric reports, Betty was refused bail on grounds that she posed an extreme risk to the general public.” She was, quite simply, a nice lady who’d raised a family and now lived quietly with her cats and grew vegetables. This was both nothing and everything.
“Does your sister help out with your mother, Raymond?” I asked. He was grappling with the duvet and I took it from him. There is a knack to such things. Raymond is a man without the knack. He put on the pillowcases (flowers, ruffles) instead.
“Nah,” he said, concentrating. “She’s got two kids, and they’re a bit of a handful. Mark works offshore, so she’s a single parent for weeks at a time, really. It’s not easy. It’ll be better when the kids are at school, she says.”
“Ah,” I said. “Do you—do you enjoy being an uncle, then?” Uncle Raymond: a somewhat unlikely role model, I felt. He shrugged.
“Yeah, they’re good fun. There’s not much to it, to be honest; I just slip them some cash at Christmas and birthdays, take them to the park a couple of times a month. Job done.”
I would never be an aunt, of course. Probably just as well.
“You had a lucky escape with Mum and the photo albums this time, Eleanor,” Raymond said. “She’ll bore the pants off you next time about the grandkids, just you wait and see.”
He was making a lot of assumptions there, I thought, but I let it pass. I looked at my watch, surprised to see it was after eight.
“I must be off, Raymond,” I said.
“If you want to hang on for another hour or so, I’ll be done here and we can get the bus together?” he said. I declined, naturally.
I went downstairs and thanked Mrs. Gibbons for “tea.” She, in turn, thanked me profusely for coming and for helping with the chores.
“Eleanor, it’s been lovely, so it has,” she said. “I haven’t been beyond the garden for months now—these knees of mine—so it’s a pleasure to see a new face, and such a friendly one at that. You’ve been a great help around the house too—thanks, hen, thanks very much.”
I smiled at her. Twice in one day, to be the recipient of thanks and warm regard! I would never have suspected that small deeds could elicit such genuine, generous responses. I felt a little glow inside—not a blaze, more like a small, steady candle.
“Come back anytime, Eleanor—I’m always in. You don’t have to come with”—she jabbed a finger Raymond-ward—“him, just come yourself, if you like. You know where I am now. Don’t be a stranger.”
On impulse, I leaned forward and brushed my cheek (not the scarred one, the normal one) close to hers. It wasn’t a kiss or an embrace, but it was as close as I was able to come.
“Cheerio!” she said. “Safe home, now!”
Raymond walked me to the end of the road to show me where the bus stop was located. I’d probably have a bit of a wait, it being Sunday, he said. I shrugged; I was used to waiting, and life has taught me to be a very patient person.
“See you tomorrow, then, Eleanor,” he said.
I took out my travel pass and showed it to him. “Unlimited travel!” I said. He nodded, gave a small smile. Miraculously, the bus arrived. I raised my hand and climbed on board. I stared straight ahead as the bus pulled away to avoid any awkwardness with waving.
It had been quite a day. I felt drained, but something had crystallized in my mind. These new people, new adventures . . . this contact. I found it overwhelming, but, to my surprise, not at all unpleasant. I’d coped surprisingly well, I thought. I’d met new people, introduced myself to them, and we’d spent problem-free social time together. If there was one thing I could take from today’s experiences, it was this: I was nearly ready to declare my intentions to the musician. The time for our momentous first encounter was drawing ever closer.
11
I didn’t see Raymond on Monday, or on Tuesday. I didn’t think about him, although my mind did return to Sammy and to Mrs. Gibbons on occasion. I could, of course, visit either or both of them without Raymond being there. Indeed, both had stressed that to me on Sunday. But would it be better if he were by my side? I suspected that it would, not least because he could always fill a silence with banal, inane comments and questions should the need arise. In the meantime, I’d gone to the mobile telephone emporium with the least garish fascia in the closest location to the office and, on the highly suspect advice of a bored salesperson, had eventually purchased a reasonably priced handset and “package” which allowed me to make calls, access the Internet and also do various other things, most of which were of no interest to me. He’d mentioned apps and games; I asked about crosswords, but was very disappointed with his response. I was familiarizing myself with the manual for the new device, rather than completing the VAT details on Mr. Leonard’s invoice, when, very much against my will, I became aware of the conversation going on around me, due to its excessive volume. It was, of all things, on the topic of our annual Christmas lunch.
“Yeah, but they have entertainment laid on there! And lots of other big groups go, so we can meet new people, have a laugh,” Bernadette was saying.
Entertainment! I wondered if that would involve a band, and, if so, might it be his band? A very early Christmas miracle? Was this fate interceding once again? Before I could ask for details, Billy jumped in.
“You just want to cop off with some drunk guy from Allied Carpets under the mistletoe,” Billy said. “There’s no way I’m paying sixty quid a head for a dry roast turkey dinner and a cheesy afternoon disco. Not just so’s you can scout for talent!”
Bernadette cackled and slapped him on the arm.
“No,” she said, “it’s not that. I just think it might be more fun if there’s a bigger crowd there, that’s all . . .”