This Is All (71 page)

‘Done,’ Dad says.

They shake hands, laughing, Doris gives him a hug and a kiss, and I feel a slight touch of jealousy at the attention he’s receiving but am glad he’s accepted.

‘We’ll move you in after work tomorrow,’ Dad says.

Which doesn’t require much effort. Arry loads a modest cardboard box and an equally modest backpack into the boot of the car.

‘That it?’ I say.

‘All my worldlies,’ Arry says.

Dad’s so shocked he can’t speak. When Doris sees what we’re carrying up to the room she already calls Arry’s, she looks like she’s going to faint – not her usual reaction to anything at all.

‘I suspect,’ she says to me while Dad is showing Arry the upstairs arrangements, ‘we’d better choose an appropriate moment to audit his belongings.’

‘I’ll go up,’ I say as Dad comes down, making would-you-believe-it eyes at Doris.

Arry’s unpacking his box. I sit on the bed and watch. Tree-climbing
gear, rope, helmet. Walkman CD player and radio, ten or so discs (trad jazz and songs circa 1920), toilet gear wrapped in plastic bag, electric razor possibly older than he is (20), two tatty paperback books:
Sailing Alone Around the World
by Joshua Slocum and
The Journal of Denton Welch
, neither of which I’ve heard of. ‘Car boot sale last Sunday,’ he says when I look at them.

‘Travelling light,’ I say, ‘would be an exaggeration in your case.’

‘And that’s the prettiest compliment I’ve received for weeks,’ he says.

He starts on his backpack: three T-shirts, two sweatshirts, a spare pair of jeans, two pairs of Adidas trainers (one old, one newish), three pairs of blue y-fronts, five pairs of heavy-duty grey socks.

‘Why so little?’

‘One on, one to wash, one spare. What else d’you need? The less you have the less to carry.’

‘Or be stolen?’

‘There is that. Work clothes were provided and my social life was not demanding.’

‘I’ve a feeling Doris will be tempted to improve your wardrobe.’

‘Now why would she want to do that?’

‘She doesn’t share your admirable detachment from possessions and you inspire the mothering instinct in her.’

‘I do have that effect on women of a certain age, I can’t deny the fact. Not that I refuse an offer from time to time, so long as there’s no strings attached.’

‘Apron or otherwise,’ I say.

‘Particularly otherwise.’

‘So if the question comes up, you’d suggest I give her Oscar’s advice?’

‘And what’s that?’

‘The best way to deal with temptation is to give in to it.’

‘Begorra,’ he says, camping the Irish, ‘but that’s an admirable sentiment from the great man.’

Before the week is up, his make-over is well under way, to which he shows no sign of objection. Just the opposite. It seems to me he revels in the shopping trip Doris insists on, and soon she and he are bantering over such vital matters as whether he cleans the bath properly after use and whether he changes his T-shirts often enough. And when T-shirts are in question can underpants be far behind?

‘You’re a heartless woman when it comes to the laundry,’ Arry says.

‘And your hair needs attention as well,’ Doris replies.

Two days later his blond locks are shampooed, shorn, disciplined and restyled by Doris’s favourite young man at Hair Wave, while she stands by to oversee and instruct, an occasion that takes far longer than necessary because all three enhance it with campery. And I must say, but don’t, the metamorphosis is impressive, nor am I surprised to hear that Arry is seen one night swanning about town with his Hair Wave stylist.

As for Dad, by the time the second week is coming to its end, he’s equipped Arry with a bank account (‘Can’t imagine how he’s managed all this time without one’), and has taken to working in the garden with him in the evening, an activity it’s made wordlessly plain to me is confined to the two of them. ‘Good for them both,’ Doris says. ‘The exercise is good for your dad and having a father-figure to talk to is just what Arry needs.’ I do not offer comment, preferring to leave her to her illusions.

The Saturday when the agreed two weeks’ board and lodging are up, Dad says, ‘You’ve settled in nicely. Nothing more suitable has turned up. We like having you. If you’re happy, why not stay a bit longer?’

And so Arry becomes a permanent resident.

>>
Cal
>>

Books

Books are essential to me. I cannot live without them, because I cannot live without reading.

But, Arry has just said to me, you can always borrow them so why buy them?

I don’t buy books just to collect them. I’m not a collector. I’m not interested in them as objects that might be valuable one day, regardless of what they are about, nor do I want to own every book ever written by one particular author or on one particular subject. I buy them because I want to read them, and I keep them because I’ve read them.

I can’t afford to buy all the ones I’d like to, so I have to borrow quite a few, and this has taught me something about myself, which I haven’t heard anyone else admit. When I’ve read a book which I really like, a book which
matters
, I feel it belongs to me. I mean, the book itself, the copy I’ve read. It’s as if I pour myself onto the pages as I read them, all my thoughts and emotions, so that by the time I’ve finished that copy holds inside it the essence of my reading.

A borrowed book has to be returned, so I lose this essence of myself when I give it back. Besides which, a borrowed book has inside it something of everyone else who’s read it. They’ve fingered it and pawed over it, breathed on it, done heaven knows what else as well as read it. And knowing this spoils my reading. The other readers get in my way. I can feel their presence on the cover and on the pages. They even make it smell differently from my own books. In fact, to my mind they’ve polluted the book and everything in it. That is also why I never buy second-hand books.

So I’m always nervous when I borrow a book. It doesn’t matter if all I need it for is to do some school work or to find out something. If I borrow a book that I want to read for its own sake, and when I get into it I realise this is going to be a book that is important to me, I get upset, because I know
I’ll have to give it back. If I’m not too far in, I stop at once and buy a copy of my own, start reading again from the beginning, and try to forget that I’ve read some of it in a borrowed book.

There’s another reason why I don’t like borrowed books. I always want to reread any book that matters to me, I want to look through it, and read parts of it again and again. In my opinion, the test of a good book is that you want to read it more than once and want it available to look at and read at any time. Obviously, you can’t do that with borrowed books. They have to be returned, so they aren’t there whenever you want them. And even if you don’t mind giving them back and borrowing them again when you want to reread them, you’re unlikely to find the very same copy – ‘your’ copy – to borrow the next time.

All this came up because I decided that as my books are essential to me I ought to list them so that I have a record, and arrange them like a proper library on my shelves. I recruited Arry’s help. I called out the titles and authors, which he typed into my laptop, arranged in alphabetical order of author in one list, and in alphabetical order of title in another. I enjoyed doing this. It was a soothing task that took my mind off ‘other topics’ (i.e. Will, exams, university applications and interviews, undone homework, to mention but a few). And handling each book and looking at it was like meeting old friends again.

Which I suppose is what I’m trying to say about my books: they are friends, companions, who accompany me through my life. Today, I especially loved going through my childhood books, which I haven’t looked at for years. They reminded me of the times when I was reading them – some sad, some happy. Which is another thing about your own books: they are memory banks. And what would we be without our memory? Answer: unconscious.

Cal

I’m alone with Arry. Dad and Doris have flitted off on another travel-agent’s weekend freebie.

It’s two months since Arry came to stay. We get on well. I like him, he amuses me, and we talk about anything and everything, without complications, because he isn’t my lover and he isn’t an ordinary friend. I didn’t select him or he me. Circumstances brought us together. Of course, if I hadn’t liked him, I’d not have agreed to him living with us. In some ways he’s like a brother, which appeals to me because I always wanted a brother. When I was about eight I longed for one, longed all the more because I knew I could never have one.

But it’s still only two months since Arry joined us. I don’t feel I really know him yet. That hasn’t mattered until now, the evening after D&D left for their holiday. I suddenly feel uneasy. I realise I’m responsible for the house and what we do in it. I’m in charge. I’ve been on my own before, but Dad or Doris was always nearby, and Granddad before he died, to look out for me. I wasn’t really alone or responsible. And lately, when D&D have gone away, leaving me on my own because they consider I’m old enough at seventeen, there’s been no one else in the house to think about.

Is this a premonition? Does your subconscious sometimes know what’s going to happen before it happens?

Arry goes out for the evening. I don’t ask him where and he doesn’t tell me. It’s none of my business. He has done this before. I assume he sees his gay friends. It hasn’t occurred to me till this evening to wonder if he tells Doris or Dad what he’s doing. They’d certainly expect me to tell them what I’m doing when I go out in the evening. But I’m their daughter. Arry is a boarder.

I’m fast asleep in bed. A hot July night. I’m woken by loud noises in the street. A car drawing up, its motor running, voices yelling back-chat. One of them is Arry’s. Three-fifteen. I get up and look out of the window. A taxi. The hair stylist
on the pavement with Arry and another young man. They’re happy-drunk. Arry and the other man are saying goodbye to the hair stylist. The hair stylist kisses Arry. The other man mock punches him. The stylist gets into the taxi, which drives off with him leaning out of the window and shouting, ‘Don’t do anything I would!’ Arry and the other man yahoo back and laugh and come to our front door. Arry fiddles with his key, missing the lock at first. I hear them downstairs. They’ve hushed each other up. They go into the kitchen, closing the door behind them.

I get back into bed. I’m shivering despite the heat. If Dad were here, he’d be down there now sorting things out. What should I do? Should I do anything? Arry lives here. Why shouldn’t he bring friends home? I do. But not without letting D&D know. Would Arry have done, if D&D were here? Does he think he needn’t ask if we’re on our own? Doesn’t he think of me as being responsible? Or doesn’t he care?

I’m upset, angry. But if I go down and confront them, what will I say? And won’t I look silly in a dressing gown being prissy about Arry bringing a friend home? Humiliating. But mainly, I don’t want to be seen looking a stupid mess.

I lie in bed stewing in body and mind. I’m about to go down when I hear them coming upstairs, being elaborately quiet, which is more disturbing than if they’d behaved normally. I start to worry that they might come into my room. But why would they do that? Because boozed-up people don’t behave predictably. (I’m an expert in boozed-up people to the point of phobia. I detest drunkenness.) They tiptoe, suppressing giggles, past my room and go into Arry’s.

I’m tense, listening. I hear them muttering, sniggering, moving around. Then, first one then the other uses the bathroom.

They’re both in Arry’s room again. Very soon they’re quiet. Before long I hear loud snores. I’ve never heard Arry snore, so guess it’s the other man. I can’t help smiling. A snoring man isn’t a threat. I relax and drift off to sleep.

Next morning, I’m in the kitchen, washing up. They must have eaten bread and cheese and some left-over salad before going to bed; they didn’t bother to clear up and their dirty dishes are on the table. This annoys me. I’m thinking again about whether I ought to say anything. I hear someone on the stairs. The young man comes in. He’s tall, black haired, hunky-built, and dressed in a tight black T-shirt and jeans. Strikingly sexy. Which disarms me. How susceptible we are to fanciable good looks. But he’s one of those men who have a long torso and short heavy legs, which is not my taste. Long slim legs, like Will’s, are my preference.

He stands by the door, eyeing me warily, waiting to find out what reception he’ll receive. But now I’m confused and stare at him and say nothing.

He says with a broad local accent, ‘I’m Cal.’

I say Cordelia and turn back to the dishes to cover my confusion.

He says, ‘We woke you up?’

I say yes.

He says, ‘It was Si’s birthday.’

‘Si?’

‘Friend of Arry’s. If you know what I mean.’

I don’t respond to the offensive hint; wipe my hands and start to prepare breakfast, not looking at him.

‘Arry put me up for the night.’

‘How good of him,’ I say as tartly as I can.

‘I’ll be off,’ he says.

I want him to go. But conditioning takes over. I offer him some breakfast. He says, No thanks. I say, Well, take this, and give him a banana and a bottle of water. He says that’ll do nicely. And leaves. He is gorgeous. I feel a bit of a heel for being so unwelcoming, but that’s only because he’s so attractive. And really it’s not his fault but Arry’s. And I decide I have to say something. I’ll only fret if I don’t. And Doris has always taught me ‘never let the sun go down on your wrath’.

Arry stays in bed till the middle of the afternoon. I’m practising in the music room when he comes in with a mug of coffee and sits and listens. I know mine isn’t his kind of music and I can’t continue for more than a few minutes, not to mention being impatient to get my worry off my chest.

‘Don’t stop,’ he says.

I turn and face him and say, ‘About last night.’

‘What about it?’

‘I don’t think you should bring your friends in for the night without checking it’s okay first.’