“Rastamouse,” I read aloud, slowly. “What on earth is this?”
“Give it here,” Raymond said, and poured us both a . . . cup. We tapped our vessels together. There was no clink.
“I thought I’d found the perfect person for me,” he said, staring at the back of the garden. “Didn’t work out, though.”
“Why not?” I said, although I could, in fact, think of many reasons why someone might not want to be with Raymond.
“Thing is, I’m still not entirely sure. I wish I did know—it would make things easier . . .”
I nodded—it seemed like the appropriate thing to do.
“Helen said it wasn’t me, it was her.” He laughed, not an amused laugh, though. “I can’t believe she came out with that old chestnut. After three years . . . you’d think she’d have known before then that it wasn’t working for her. I don’t know what changed. I didn’t change . . . I don’t think I did, anyway . . .”
“People can be . . . unfathomable,” I said, stumbling slightly over the word. “I often find that I don’t understand why they do and say things.”
He nodded.
“We had a lovely wee flat, went on some great holidays. I was . . . I was actually thinking about asking her to marry me. Christ . . .” He stared at the paving stones and I tried and failed to picture Raymond in a morning suit, top hat and cravat, let alone a kilt.
“It’s fine,” he said, after a while. “It’s quite a laugh, sharing with the guys, and I’ve got this new job. Things are OK. It’s just . . . I dunno. She said I was too nice. What exactly am I meant to do with that? I mean . . . become more of a bastard? Should I have hit her, or cheated on her?”
I realized he wasn’t really talking to me; it was like in a play, when a character just talks out loud for no apparent reason. I knew the answer to his question, however.
“No, Raymond,” I said. “You would never have done either of those things.” I finished my cup of wine and poured some more. “I lived with a man called Declan for a couple of years. He used to punch me in the kidneys, slap me—he fractured twelve bones, all in all. He stayed out some nights and then came home and told me about the women he’d been with. It was my fault, all my fault. But still, I know he shouldn’t have done that. I know it now, anyway.”
Raymond stared at me. “Jesus, Eleanor. When was this?”
“Several years ago,” I said. “While I was still at university. He saw me in the Botanic Gardens one day, just came up and started talking to me. I know it sounds ridiculous, looking back. By the end of the week, he’d moved in.”
“Was he a student too?” Raymond said.
“No, he said reading books was a waste of time, boring. He didn’t work either; couldn’t find a job that suited him, he said. It’s not easy to find a job that suits you, I suppose, is it?”
Raymond was looking at me with a strange expression on his face.
“Declan wanted to help me learn how to be a better person,” I said. Raymond lit yet another cigarette.
“How did it end?” he said, not looking at me, blowing smoke up into the air in a long stream, like a very unterrifying dragon.
“Well,” I told him, “he broke my arm again, and when I went to hospital, they somehow guessed that it hadn’t happened the way I’d said. He’d told me to tell them that I’d had a fall, but they didn’t believe me.” I took another large sip. “Anyway, a nice nurse came and spoke to me, and explained that people who truly love you don’t hurt you, and that it wasn’t right to stay with someone who did. The way she explained it, it all made sense. I should have been able to work it out for myself, really. I asked him to leave when I got home and, when he wouldn’t, I called the police, like she’d suggested. And that was that. Oh, and I changed the locks.”
He said nothing, and stared with intense concentration at his shoes. Without looking at me, he put out his hand and touched my arm, patted it very tentatively, as one would a horse or a dog (if one were frightened of horses or dogs). He shook his head gently, for a long time, but seemed unable to articulate a response. No matter; I didn’t require one. The whole thing was ancient history now. I was happy being alone. Eleanor Oliphant, sole survivor—that’s me.
“I’m going to go home now, Raymond,” I said, standing up quickly. “I’m going to get a taxi.”
“Good idea,” he said, finishing his drink. He took out his phone. “But you’re not going to wander the streets on your own and try to hail one, not at this time of night. I’ll call you one—look, I’ve got an app!” He showed me his phone, beaming.
“What am I supposed to be looking at?” I said, peering at the screen. He ignored me and checked the message. “It’ll be here in five minutes,” he said.
He waited with me in the hall until the cab arrived, then walked me to the vehicle and held the door open for me. I saw him peering in at the driver, a middle-aged woman who looked tired and bored, as I climbed into the backseat.
“Are you coming too?” I said, wondering why he was hesitating on the curb. He checked his watch, ruffled his hair and looked from the house to the taxi and back again.
“Nah,” he said. “I think I’ll hang around here for a bit. See what happens.”
I turned to watch him as the car moved off. He staggered slightly as he walked up the path, and I saw Laura framed in the doorway, two glasses in her hands, one of them offered out to him.
18
Raymond sent me an electronic mail message at work the next week—it was very odd, seeing his name in my in-box. As I’d expected, he was semiliterate.
Hi E, hope all good with u. Got a wee favor to ask. Sammy’s son Keith has invited me to his 40th this Saturday (ended up staying late at that party BTW, it was a rite laugh). Fancy being my plus one? It’s at the golf club, there’s a buffet? No worries if not—let me no. R
A buffet. In a golf club. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. And two parties in a month! More parties than I had been to in two decades. I hit reply:
Dear Raymond,
I should be delighted to accompany you to the birthday celebration.
Kind regards,
Eleanor Oliphant (Ms.)
Moments later, I received a response:
Twenty-first-century communication. I fear for our nation’s standards of literacy.
I had arranged to have the afternoon off that day for my appointment at the hairdressers, but ate my lunch in the staff room first as usual, with the Telegraph crossword, a tuna and sweet corn bloomer, salt and vinegar crisps and orange juice, with bits. I must thank the musician, in due course, for introducing me to the pleasure of bits. After this delicious repast, and with a small grin of triumph at the thought of my colleagues having to remain behind at their desks for the rest of the afternoon, I took a bus into town.
Heliotrope was in a smart street in the city center, on the ground floor of a Victorian sandstone building. It was certainly not the sort of place I’d usually frequent—loud music, aggressively fashionable staff and far too many mirrors. I imagined this might be where the musician went for a haircut, and that made me feel slightly better about it. Perhaps one day we’d be sitting side by side in those black leather chairs, holding hands under the hair dryers.
I waited for the receptionist to finish her phone call, and stepped away from the huge vase of white and pink lilies on the counter. Their smell snagged in the back of my throat, like fur or feathers. I gagged; it wasn’t something meant for humans.
I’d forgotten how noisy hairdressers’ salons were, the constant hum of dryers and inane chat, and positioned myself in the window seat, having donned a black nylon kimono which, I was alarmed to see, was already sprinkled with short hair clippings snipped from a previous client. I quickly brushed them off.