Fratelli Pizza Delivered Directly to Your Door 50% DISCOUNT with this leaflet
Neither she nor John ate pizza, but it did seem like a very good offer. The people who owned the restaurant were obviously trying very hard to sell their pizzas; perhaps business wasn’t going well, and they needed to reduce prices in order to gain new customers. It seemed cruel to just throw the leaflet in the bin when they had gone to so much effort, so she put that into the save pile too. Then she came across:
RAY’S RELIABLE ROOFING—FREE QUOTES GIVEN
and:
BRIGHTEN UP YOUR WORLD—MORLEY DOUBLE GLAZING
What if they really needed double glazing or the roof needed fixing? Who would they go to? Should she not keep these for reference or in case of emergency? Just by throwing a leaflet away, might she not be tempting fate to break their windows or damage the roof? Suddenly the thought of sorting through all these leaflets and deciding which ones needed to be kept and which should be thrown away seemed too much for Marion to cope with, especially on the day she had to undergo something as daunting as a lunch appointment with her neighbor, so she gathered them all together and shoved them into a cabinet above the sink.
As she crossed the kitchen, dark fluff and grime filling the gap between the sink and the refrigerator caught her eye, making her think of hairy armpits. She really ought to do some cleaning when she got back, but there was so much that needed doing, where to start? Why pick one place rather than another? The bathroom tiles were all black around the edges, dust balls got fat beneath the beds, and each room was filled with so much junk and clutter that it was hard to cross the floor without tripping.
The six-bedroom house, once so immaculately maintained, had tumbled into a state of domestic chaos in the twenty-odd years since Mother’s death. Cobwebs draped the high, corniced ceilings, the Meissen figurines were surrounded by white drifts of dust, Georgian dressers were heaped with piles of old newspapers, and the fine oak flooring was cluttered with broken toasters and TV sets that John said he intended to fix but never got round to it. Before Mother died, the housekeeper, Mrs. Morrison, kept everything in order; but no sane person would even think of taking the job on with things in such a state, and even if they did, John would never allow a stranger into their house.
In fairness, Marion tried to keep some areas of the house clean; she had a dustpan and brush that she used to clear biscuit crumbs and bits of fluff from the big leather living room chairs and the sofa where she lay while watching television in the afternoons. The kitchen and bathroom surfaces were wiped down regularly with a cloth soaked in a weak solution of bleach; the smell that lingered on her skin afterwards always bringing back miserable memories of school swimming lessons.
And as usual, whenever she thought about all the mess, she felt as if she herself were just another piece of nameless junk trapped underneath one of the many piles that littered the house. So as not to have to look at her surroundings, she tightened the drawstring of her hood until it covered her eyes, leaving only her mouth and nose framed by a small oval of puckered nylon.
As the bolt behind the cellar door scraped back, a little worm of anxiety crawled around in her stomach. The door swung open, letting a whiff of old-church smell into the kitchen, and Marion held her breath so she wouldn’t have to breathe the same air as them. Then John appeared, panting with effort from climbing the steep cellar steps. It wasn’t until her brother had slammed the heavy door behind him and locked it that Marion allowed herself to breathe again.
John used his handkerchief to wipe sweat from cheeks crisscrossed with tiny red veins. Well over six feet tall and with a huge belly that hung over his leather belt, he seemed to fill up the whole kitchen. Marion noticed that his well-polished, black leather shoes had rubbed his ankles raw.
“John, why aren’t you wearing any socks, love?” asked Marion.
“Couldn’t find them.”
“I left the clean ones on the bed in the spare room.”
“In Mother’s room?”
“No, the spare room.”
“The room with the cracked window?”
“No, the spare room with the face wardrobe.”
The face wardrobe was the polished-oak wardrobe where winter coats were kept. In the dark grain of one of the doors you could see a shape that, as children, Marion and John thought resembled the face of a screaming man. Marion had been too afraid to go into the room by herself until she was nearly fourteen.
“Why didn’t you leave them on my bed?”
“I always put them in that room. You don’t like me going in your bedroom.”
He made a huffing sound, then shook his head, jiggling the heavy jowls around his neck.
As he walked past her, the scent of the cologne she had bought him for his birthday tickled her nose. It was called Apollo, the one with the advert where a man from Greek legend was riding a white horse. She had chosen it because he was so fond of classical mythology. His hair was combed carefully across his scalp in a manner that even Marion knew was considered old-fashioned nowadays; most men shaved off the remaining hair the minute they began to go bald. Around his wrist was the watch with the stainless steel band that had belonged to Dad. The same watch that had been recovered miraculously still working from the river after the accident.
John went over to the sink, took off the watch, and placed it on the ledge before turning on the hot tap. As steam clouded the kitchen window he put his hands under the running water, and then began scrubbing them with a bar of dirt-streaked, coal tar soap. Marion noticed a neat round scar on the inside of his wrist.
After drying his hands on a kitchen towel, her brother switched on the radio, then stomped across the kitchen and began chopping up tomatoes for sandwiches, drumming his knife in time with the music playing. Little piles of seeds slid across the cutting board like frogspawn tinged with blood. These sandwiches would be for the visitors, and even to look at them made Marion uneasy.
“Why are you sitting there with your coat on, Mar?”
“I’m going to Judith’s for lunch.”
“Does Judith even eat lunch?” He snorted. “She looks like she lives on fresh air and tap water.”
“I suppose she must eat now and then.”
“I’ll bet she wants something.”
“Don’t be silly. What could she possibly want from me?”
“You’re a soft touch, Marion. That’s why she uses you.”
Marion didn’t mind the idea of being used; surely that was better than being unused, like a forgotten carton of milk going slowly sour in the fridge.
“All that babysitting you did for her and without paying you a penny.”
“But I enjoyed babysitting for Lydia. I would never take money for that,” said Marion, a little shocked by the idea.
“Well, it’s a shame Lydia can’t be bothered to come and see you now she’s all grown up.”