The Editor's Wife (26 page)

Gerald rustled forward, in baggy waterproof trousers and a hooded oilskin. He had grown a straggly beard since our last meeting and looked as though he'd just stepped off an Icelandic trawler.

‘Sorry,' he said. ‘I was just putting up my tent. All the lights were out when I arrived and I didn't want to disturb you.'

‘But what are you . . . oh, never mind. Come in, we're letting all the cold air in.'

He cast a quick, regretful glance at the unfinished job on the tent and stepped into the room.

I switched on the lamp and we stood blinking at each other through shielded eyes.

‘Where have you been? I've been trying to get hold of you. Why didn't you ring?'

‘I have rung, but you're never in.'

‘You could have left a message.'

‘I hate those machines,' said Gerald darkly. He began to divest himself of his outer layers, while I sat back on the arm of the couch to examine my throbbing toe, which was fat, crooked and the colour of pepperoni. I felt dizzy with pain.

‘I think I've broken it,' I said. Nothing less than a fracture could account for this level of agony.

Gerald had discarded his waterproofs, which sat slumped in the corner like a tramp. Underneath he had
on a pair of low-slung corduroys, patched at both knees, and a guernsey sweater. His eyes kept swivelling to the window. ‘I've left my rucksack out there,' he said at last. ‘Do you think it'll be all right?'

‘Yes.'

‘I wasn't intending to arrive this late,' he went on, maintaining his vigil by the back door. ‘I was going to stay in Malton but I got a second wind so I thought I might as well keep walking.'

‘You've walked all the way from Malton!' I exclaimed. It was a distance of about twelve miles.

‘I walked all the way from Streatham,' he said complacently. ‘Not all in one day, obviously.'

‘Why?'

‘Because I haven't got much money for luxuries like rail fares. Besides, I like to keep fit.'

‘I mean why here? Not that you're not welcome,' I added in a constipated voice.

‘There were some problems with the house. And apart from you, I haven't got anyone else I can stay with while they're sorted out.'

‘What sort of problems?'

‘I had a run-in with the gas board, about the bill.'

‘Non-payment of?' I hazarded.

‘Sort of, yes. Anyway, while I was trying to sort it out there was a cold snap, and the pipes froze, and a bit of water got in.'

‘More than a bit,' I protested.

‘Oh,' said Gerald. ‘You've been to the house.'

‘Of course I went to the house. I thought you might be lying there dead or injured or something. Why don't you sit down? You're making me feel on edge, hovering by the door.'

‘I'll just get my rucksack in. Be on the safe side,' he said, bolting into the garden before I could stop him.

While he was gone I limped to the bathroom and found a pack of Elastoplast in the medicine cabinet. I had an idea that the fracture, as I had confidently diagnosed it, might mend crooked unless the injured toe was taped to its neighbours. It was a pity Richard was away, I thought, as I subjected my foot to this torture: he probably had some horse-strength anaesthetic in the farmhouse.

Gerald returned, dragging a frameless nylon rucksack, much faded by the elements and stuffed to bursting point. It was the one he had brought to the Brixton flat after his eviction by Peggy twenty years ago, and it had obviously accompanied him on all his wanderings since. Even so, it was hard to imagine anyone willingly carrying such a load the two hundred miles from London. Once more in possession of this treasure, Gerald relaxed to the point of being able to perch on a hard-backed chair.

‘Why did you change the locks?' I asked, suddenly remembering.

‘I was worried someone might get in while I was gone. We don't know who Mum and Dad might have given spare keys to over the years. I didn't want to come back and find squatters . . .'

‘Why would anyone squat there? It's uninhabitable.'

A thought struck Gerald. ‘How did you get in? You didn't force the door?'

‘No. I broke a window. But I mended it again straight away,' I added, noting the look of alarm that flitted across his face.

‘I wasn't trying to lock you out,' he said, delving in one of the pockets of the rucksack and producing a key on a plastic tag marked CHRIS. ‘I was actually bringing you a spare.' He laid it on the table.

‘Shall we talk about the house in the morning?' I said, glancing at my watch. ‘You can have the spare room. There are sheets and blankets in the airing cupboard.'

‘It's all right. I've got a sleeping bag,' said Gerald. ‘I'll just make a cup of tea if that's OK. I got a bit cold on that walk.'

‘Of course.' Poor bastard. A twelve-mile hike across country and I hadn't even offered him a drink. I followed him into the kitchen, wincing at every step. There was one tea bag in the dust at the bottom of the box and scarcely enough milk to coat the inside of the carton.

‘Supplies are getting a bit low,' I said. Most of my eating lately had been done at the Crown in Hutton. ‘I was going to do a big shop tomorrow.' It occurred to me that this would not be possible now that I couldn't drive or, indeed, walk. ‘Have you eaten? You could have egg-bread.' This had been a family staple during Gerald's stint on the broken-egg counter at Sainsbury's in our youth. For some reason I wanted to invoke those uncomplicated times.

I watched him fill a mug with water and then tip it
into the kettle. I'd never actually seen anyone except Richard and Sally do that before. I'd assumed it was a Yorkshire custom. ‘Are you having one?' he asked, gesturing with the mug.

I shook my head. ‘I'll get back to bed.'

‘What time do you have to get up for work?'

‘I don't. It's Saturday tomorrow for one thing . . .'

‘Is it? I've lost track of the days. Did you really go all the way to London to check that I was all right?'

‘Yes.'

He raised his eyebrows in something like wonderment, and the beginning of a smile flickered at the corners of his mouth as he turned back to the kettle, which had started to roar.

WHEN I CAME
down the next morning, Gerald had gone out leaving the outer door open and there were two sheep in the conservatory eating the geraniums. I waved them out, and they sprang to and fro, eyes rolling in panic, colliding with each other and knocking several plant pots off the shelves before they found the exit.

I was still sweeping up earth and smashed terracotta when Gerald came back from the barn carrying a full basket of split logs and kindling.

‘Did you sleep all right?' I asked, like a good host.

‘Yes. Very comfortable.' He was dressed in the same old cords and guernsey from the night before, and I wondered if he'd slept in them. Ever since his arrival I had noticed a pungent smell in the air: it was a combination of dirty hair and unwashed clothes, and increased in intensity
when he entered a room, but never quite disappeared when he'd left. His beard looked no less wild by daylight. The only discordant note in his appearance was struck by a gold pendant dangling over the neck of his sweater. I thought at first it was a St Christopher, but a closer look revealed it to be Mum's locket. Every time he lowered his head the chain snagged in his beard.

Without waiting to be asked, he set about clearing out the grate and laying a fresh fire, while I went into the kitchen to make egg-bread, using the end of a rather tired loaf. I left two slices spluttering in the hot fat, and went in search of a Stanley knife, which I used to cut the toecap off one of an old pair of desert boots, leaving the sole intact. This would afford my injured right foot some protection, without the unbearable pressure of a closed shoe. It had been hurting all night, and I felt as though I'd barely slept.

After watching my improvisation for a minute or two without comment, Gerald disappeared upstairs. I could hear him clumping about overhead as I dished up the fried bread, trailing its outgrowths of frizzled egg white.

He came back down holding a telescopic walking stick – the sort used by hikers rather than cripples – and extended it with a few quick twists.

‘Here,' he said. ‘This might come in useful.'

I was about to dismiss the offer – I couldn't see myself mincing around the cottage like Burlington Bertie – but I bit back my ingratitude just in time and said ‘Thanks,' instead, and did a few experimental hobbles. It did feel slightly easier.

‘I'm afraid it's black coffee or nothing,' I said, pointing at the mugs as I sat down to eat, hanging the stick carefully on the back of my chair by its nylon wrist strap. Gerald was off again, bounding up the stairs and returning with a Tupperware container of dried milk. He measured out a teaspoonful for each mug, scraping it level with the back of a knife, and carefully catching the overspill in the tub.

‘You seem to have all sorts in that bag of yours,' I commented, poking at the clods of powder bobbing on the top of my coffee.

‘All the essentials of life can be fitted in a rucksack,' he replied gnomically.

After breakfast, Gerald washed up the plates and pan in about two inches of hot water, so that they were still greasy to the touch when I came to wipe them. I couldn't decide whether he was an eco-warrior, or just tight, but he redeemed himself by offering to walk all the way into Kirkby to get some shopping, when I expressed concern about dwindling supplies.

‘Just give me a list,' he said, as I surveyed the empty shelves in larder and fridge. ‘I'll take the rucksack.'

‘If there's too much to carry you could phone for a cab . . .' I said, forgetting that paying to share an enclosed space with a stranger embraced at least three of his phobias.

He rolled his eyes. ‘It's barely five miles. I'll walk.' I gave him my list and a hundred quid in cash, which he
put carefully in a button-down trouser pocket before climbing back into his trawlerman's outfit and shouldering his empty pack. He strode off across the farmyard just as a few fat drops of rain began to fall.

In his absence I rang the insurance company to check that we were covered for flood damage, something I had been intending to do for weeks, but which Gerald's arrival now made more urgent. To my immense relief and surprise, the policy was paid up to date and made provision for just the sort of disaster we had experienced. Better still, the reassuring female voice on the other end of the line explained that they could assess the damage and arrange for repairs without my needing to be in London.

‘The next-door neighbour has a key. I'm sure she wouldn't mind letting people in and out,' I said, taking shameful liberties with what was after all a fleeting acquaintance. ‘Her name is Mrs Prickett and she lives at number 74.'

The voice promised to send me a claim form for signature and said that the loss adjuster would inspect the property in due course. I rang off, feeling a sense of achievement out of all proportion to the expended effort. Next on my list was the gas board. As with most practical problems, the solution involved writing a cheque. My apologies and explanations were superfluous: once the account was settled they would reconnect us.

Riding this wave of efficiency I called Interflora and ordered a ‘seasonal hand-tied bouquet in predominantly pink' to be delivered to Mrs Prickett. ‘Any message with
that?' the saleswoman asked, once she'd had my credit-card details.

‘Oh . . . “With grateful thanks for your help with number 76, and many apologies for the inconvenience . . .”' and then a spark of evil genius entered me and I signed off, ‘“With love, Gerald.”'

While he was out I took the opportunity to have a look in his room. I was interested to see what he considered ‘the essentials of life'. There was his green caterpillar sleeping bag, its lower edge stained with a succession of watermarks, suggestive of nights in a leaky tent. The scent of tramp that I'd identified earlier was powerfully present here: I couldn't even open a window, as rods of rain were beating almost horizontally against the glass now. Something would have to be done, though, as Alex Canning was supposed to be calling in at some time in the evening to pick up my Goddard papers, and I didn't want her thinking the smell was anything to do with me.

The rest of Gerald's possessions were arranged in piles by category. Camping equipment: gas burner, one saucepan, tin plate and collapsible cup, cutlery and various packets of dehydrated food granules, which I identified as soya mince, onion, coffee and Smash. Standard-issue Boy Scout supplies: foil survival blanket, string, pegs, matches, penknife, compass. First-aid kit: I was momentarily tempted to open it and see what medication, if any, Gerald was on, but good manners prevailed. Clothing: more earth-coloured cords and chunky knits. Neat pillars of coins.

On the bedside table, propped open, was a plastic wallet – the sort used to hold a bus pass – which contained a photo of Mum and Dad on one side and the greasy-fringe photo of me on the other. Next to this was an ancient and broken-backed copy of
The Silver Sword
, a book Gerald had read over and over again as a child with undiminished pleasure. The fact that he had carried it with him, and was still, as its placement suggested, rereading it, brought a lump to my throat. It had all the elements that Gerald would relate to: homelessness, marginalisation and long journeys on foot.

Perhaps for the first time it struck me what a grievous blow it must have been to Gerald to lose Mum and Dad, and the safety net their love had always provided. Even at the age of forty-seven there was something of the orphan about him – a lack of resilience – which I hadn't acknowledged before. It was this, perhaps, rather than mere shilly-shallying, that accounted for his hesitancy over the sale of Gleneldon Road. He really couldn't or wouldn't sever those last ties with Home. A truly heroic and generous brother might have said, ‘Oh to hell with it. You keep the house, Gerald. I've already got one.' I was neither of those things, but as I stood looking at his pathetic collection of belongings – evidence of life pared down to the bones of existence, devoid of any comfort or beauty – a possible solution began to present itself.