Flowers placed carefully on the coffee table, I continued my slow progress around the flat, and as I cleaned, I thought about what it meant to make a home. I didn’t have much experience to draw on. I opened all of the windows, tuned the radio until I found some inoffensive music and scrubbed each room in turn. Some of the stains in the carpet wouldn’t come out, but I managed to lift most of them. I filled four black bags with rubbish—old crosswords, dried-out pens, ugly knick-knacks that I’d collected over the years. I sorted out my bookshelf, making a pile to take (and in some cases, return) to the charity shop.
I’d recently finished reading a management tome which seemed to be aimed at psychopaths with no common sense (quite a dangerous combination). I have always enjoyed reading, but I’ve never been sure how to select appropriate material. There are so many books in the world—how do you tell them all apart? How do you know which one will match your tastes and interests? That’s why I just pick the first book I see. There’s no point in trying to choose. The covers are of very little help, because they always say only good things, and I’ve found out to my cost that they’re rarely accurate. “Exhilarating” “Dazzling” “Hilarious.” No.
The only criterion I have is that the books must look clean, which means that I have to disregard a lot of potential reading material in the charity shop. I don’t use the library for the same reason, although obviously, in principle and reality, libraries are life-enhancing palaces of wonder. It’s not you, libraries, it’s me, as the popular saying goes. The thought of books passing through so many unwashed hands—people reading them in the bath, letting their dogs sit on them, picking their nose and wiping the results on the pages. People eating cheesy crisps and then reading a few chapters without washing their hands first. I just can’t. No, I look for books with one careful owner. The books in Tesco are nice and clean. I sometimes treat myself to a few tomes from there on payday.
At the end of the process, the flat was clean, and very nearly empty. I made a cup of tea and looked around the living room. It just needed pictures on the walls and a rug or two. Some new plants. Sorry, Polly. The flowers would have to do for now. I took a deep breath, picked up the pouf and squashed it into a bin liner. It was quite a fight to get it in. As I grappled with it, I thought about what I must look like, my arms wrapped around a giant frog, wrestling it to the ground. I snorted a bit, and then I laughed and laughed until my chest hurt. When I stood up and finally tied the handles, a jaunty pop music song was playing and I realized what I felt . . . happy. It was such a strange, unusual feeling—light, calm, as though I’d swallowed sunshine. Only this morning I’d been furious, and now I was calm and happy. I was gradually getting used to feeling the range of available human emotions, their intensity, the rapidity with which they could change. Until now, anytime that emotions, feelings, had threatened to unsettle me, I’d drink them down fast, drown them. That had allowed me to exist, but I was starting to understand that I needed, wanted, something more than that now.
I took the rubbish downstairs and when I came back into the flat, I noticed that it smelled lemony. It was a pleasure to enter. I didn’t normally notice my surroundings, I realized. It was like my walk to Maria Temple’s office this morning: when you took a moment to see what was around you, noticed all the little things, it made you feel . . . lighter.
Perhaps, if you had friends or a family, they might help you to notice things more often. They might even point them out to you. I turned off the radio and sat in silence on the sofa, drinking another cup of tea. All I could hear was the breeze whistling softly through the open window and two men laughing in the street below. It was a weekday afternoon. Normally, I’d be at work, watching the hands tick round until five, waiting for pizza and vodka time and then Friday night and the three long sleeps until Monday. With the exception of the shot I’d had in the pub, I hadn’t drunk any vodka for some weeks now. I’d always thought that it helped me sleep, but in fact I’d been sleeping more deeply than ever before, untroubled by disturbing dreams.
An electronic noise startled me and I almost spilled my tea. Someone had sent me a text message. I ran into the hall for my phone. The little envelope flashed:
U about early evening? Can I come over? Got a surprise 4 u! Rx
A surprise! I replied immediately.
Yes. Eleanor O.
No one had ever asked to come and visit me before. The social worker made an appointment, and the meter reader just turned up. I was conscious that Raymond’s previous visits had not been very pleasant for him—or me—and decided to try to make amends. I put on my jerkin and headed out to the corner shop. Mr. Dewan looked up from reading a newspaper at the sound of the electronic alert. It must drive him to distraction, bleeping all day like that. He smiled cautiously at me. I took a basket and got some milk, Earl Grey tea bags and a lemon to slice, in case Raymond preferred his tea that way. I spent a considerable amount of time in the aisles, somewhat overwhelmed by the choice. In the end, I plumped for Garibaldi biscuits, throwing in a packet of pink wafers too—apparently, it’s nice to offer guests an option. I wondered if Raymond might prefer something savory, and so I got some cream crackers and a packet of cheese slices. All bases covered.
I stood in line with my basket, not eavesdropping but nonetheless forced to overhear the conversation of the couple in front of me as we waited our turn. Eventually, I felt compelled to intervene and provide assistance.
“It’s ‘tagine’,” I said.
No reply. I sighed, and leaned forward again.
“Tagine,” I repeated, speaking slowly and clearly and, I thought, in a passable French accent.
“Sorry?” the woman said, not sounding sorry at all. The man simply stared at me, in a manner best described as mildly hostile.
“Neither of you can remember the word for the—as you described it—‘ceramic pot with the pointy lid’ that ‘Judith’—whoever she is—had put on her wedding list, leading you”—here, I indicated the woman with a gentle nod of my head—“to describe her as a ‘pretentious cow’.” I was quite enjoying the occasional use of the waggling finger gesture now that I’d got the hang of it.
Neither of them spoke, so I felt emboldened to continue.
“A tagine is a traditional cooking vessel of North African origin,” I said helpfully, “generally made from fired clay and decorated with a brightly colored glaze. It’s also the name of the stew that is cooked within it.”
The man’s mouth had fallen open slightly, and the woman’s had slowly changed shape to form a very thin, very tight line. She turned back to him and they began to whisper together, looking round more than once to steal a quick glance at me.
Nothing more was said, although they glared at me as they walked out, having paid for their goods. Not a word of thanks. I gave them a little wave.
Mr. Dewan smiled warmly at me when I finally reached the till.
“The levels of rudeness and the complete lack of awareness of the comme il faut among the general population never ceases to disappoint me, Mr. Dewan,” I said, shaking my head.
“Miss Oliphant,” he said, smiling in an understanding way. “How nice to see you again! You’re looking very well.”
I felt myself beaming in response.
“Thank you very much, Mr. Dewan,” I said. “It’s nice to see you too. Pleasant day today, is it not?”
He nodded, still smiling, and scanned my items. When he’d done that, his smile faltered slightly. “Will there be anything else today, Miss Oliphant?”