The Toll Bridge (14 page)

Now, my dear, you must let me know what you'd like for Christmas, or give me a hint at least, it's so silly to give unwanted gifts to someone of your advanced age, being, as your father insists on telling me every day, no longer a child, just so they'll come as a surprise. Much better give something that's wanted, so do say and I'll get it. I saw a very nice calfskin wallet that might be useful in Dressers this week when Mrs Fletcher was hunting for a Parker ballpoint for her Brian, who, by the by, has upset the applecart by announcing that he doesn't think teaching is his cup of tea after all and wants to leave college and go into computer software, which he says would pay better and have better prospects and suit him more. It seems his first taste of the classroom put him right off children, but then he never did have much patience which you certainly need with children, so perhaps it will be better for the children in the end if he does something else, though at the moment his mother doesn't agree and is very down about it.

I have always thought I would have liked teaching and even been good at it for I love children, as you know, and do have patience I think I can say without being immodest, but all I wanted at 16 was to get a job and have a lively social life and went into secretarial work instead, where anyway I met your father so some good came of it. Though this last few weeks since you left I have been thinking how nice it would have been to have a profession to take up again in my middle years. Your father suggests I should find a job of some kind anyway, as I have so much time to spare, not having you to look after, though my office skills are pretty rusty now, but I expect I could soon buff them up with a bit of effort and perhaps a refresher course. I quite
fancy becoming proficient with a word processor, which these days is a requirement, and office life can be enjoyable if the place is well run and the other staff amenable. One thing for sure is that I wouldn't want to work in your father's office again, he's far too relaxed with the juniors if you ask me.

Well, we can talk about all this at Christmas and you can advise me. After all, new horizons might buck me up, don't you think . . .

1

NEXT MORNING I
woke regretting that I'd given in the night before. And to such a sob story, even if it were true. In the cold grey grainy fog of a late November dawn, when your clothes are clammy and the house smells of tacky new paint laced with the heavy sweaty tang of decorator's dust, then reigniting the living-room fire from the remains of last night's cinders and getting washed in tepid water at the kitchen sink and making breakfast are tedious enough. Having to attend to someone else as well – the space he occupies, somehow making the place seem smaller than it is, too small now, his coming and going, his noises and smells, his grunts and sighs and coughs and sniffs and belches and farts, his behaviour at the sink, splashing water onto the bench where I'm trying to cut bread and make toast for
HIM
, dammit, as well as myself – having to
think
instead of zombie your way into the day was enough to make me wish I hadn't been such a soft touch.

To make things worse, while Adam scoffed bread and honey as if stoking up for a winter famine, I got to reckoning the financial cost of letting him stay. Two can live as cheaply as one? Tell it to the birds. Two can live as cheaply as two. Or three, if one of them eats like Adam did that morning.

I soon learned that he usually ate very little, it was just that he liked snacky bits at times when I didn't – I'm a regular meal, no snacks eater, due to strict training as a child. In fact, I was the problem. I'd make plenty for two, serve him as much as myself and he'd leave half, which I threw away, till I realized after two or three days what was happening and gradually cut his share down. Not that Adam noticed. And eventually I learned how much to give him in order to satisfy his appetite with just enough left over that could safely be kept cold for him to snack on when he wanted. I even got to the point of enjoying this secret game. The pleasure came from the skill of judging exactly
how much food to make, how much to serve up at the meal and which things in the meal would do for snacks or keep till next day, when I could use them as part of another meal. He liked potatoes, for example, and he liked them done in their jackets in the fire, and he liked them mashed and fried. So I'd do more in their jackets than I knew we'd need, keep the leftovers till next day, when I'd mash them up and fry them as potato pancakes. I don't think he ever noticed that the pancakes were the old potatoes done that way. Which was another part of the game and the pleasure: his not noticing what I'd done. Of course, the weather being cold, stews were good, and keeping a stew pot of cheap scrap-ends going on the fire was easy. I simply chucked in any leftovers so that over a few days it went from being a meaty stew to being a thick vegetable soup. It was cheap and Adam could snack on it whenever he liked.

But this developed over the next few days. That first morning all I could think of was how I wouldn't have enough money to feed us both, even with the stuff Tess gave me and my mother's weekly parcel. But I was too morose to mention it. Just glowered into my tea.

And another thing niggled me.

‘We'll have to get you a bed,' I say when we've finished eating.

‘I'm not bothered.'

‘But I am. The place looks like a dosshouse with you on the floor.'

He doesn't respond.

‘And more bedclothes.'

‘There's plenty.'

‘No, there isn't. I was cold last night. It'll get worse as well, winter coming on.'

And that was the moment when the postman arrived, delivering Dad's letter about Mother.

2

‘She'll be OK,' Adam says.

‘I ought to go home.'

‘Why? Your dad says don't.'

‘He's just saying that so I won't feel pressured. He's always like that. Do nothing till you have to, that's his motto.'

‘I like it! He's right.'

‘What do you know about it?'

‘OK, don't believe me, ask Tess.'

‘No, no! I don't want her to know.'

‘Why not? She could help.'

‘No, leave it.'

‘Why . . .?'

‘Because I don't. I don't know why. I just don't, that's all. You said yourself, you don't want everybody knowing your personal details.'

‘But Tess is supposed to be a friend.'

‘Just shut up about it, will you! You say one word, and that's it, all right?'

‘OK, OK, I'm not saying a word.'

‘Well, just think on!'

‘Calm down, will you. No sweat. I'll be tight as a duck's arse, honest. But at least talk to your dad before you go. Ring him. He says you can.'

‘I'm not sure.'

‘Yes, you are. Do it.'

‘It's too early, he won't be at the office yet.'

‘But as soon as he is.'

‘There's the tolls.'

‘Remember me? I'm here. I'll hold the fort. You'll not be gone for long.'

I dither.

‘Told you I'd be useful, didn't I,' Adam says.

‘Let's get on with it, then,' I say, clearing the table. ‘Bloody painting. We'll never be done in time.'

Adam stands up, stretching in his loose-limbed animal way. ‘You worry too much. Relax. Leave it to me. I like painting. You can see where you've been and it passes the time. Everything'll be OK, honest.'

‘That a promise?'

‘You betcha, squire.'

Suddenly I really am glad he's here. Everyone needs somebody to break the closed circle of his mind. Adam used a blunt instrument and banged his way straight in, no subtlety, no fash about wounded feelings. The quickest form of ventilation. If you can stand the blows. A month before, I couldn't have survived them.

3

Dad was adamant. Stay away. Mother would feel worse if I suddenly turned up for whatever excuse and she had to explain. Christmas was the right time. She was expecting me then, was preparing herself for it.

I told him about Adam. Or, at least, that I'd made friends with this out-of-work boy who was good at decorating so he was staying for a while to help me get finished.