LITMIR.BIZ

      8

      Barbara stretched out on her bed, breathed in steaming coffee from her mug and stared at the open page again, but the words blurred. She’d read the same sentence three times without realising it. The room was still chilly despite the creamy midday sunshine that shone through the window and left a buttery yellow slice of light on the Buddha duvet.

      Pauline had gone off to yoga again, promising to do a bit of grocery shopping afterwards in Winsley Green. Barbara hadn’t felt at all sociable; she’d decided she’d stay in the privacy of her own room and read her book, an interesting sensible piece of non-fiction by an intelligent man called Malcolm about how to achieve success. Barbara had been attracted to the idea that it took ten thousand hours of dedicated practice to become really good at something. She sighed and closed the book, the hard cover enclosing the pages with a soft thud as she dropped it on the covers of the bed. She’d had much more than ten thousand hours of life and she still hadn’t worked out how to make it a success, not really.

      Bisto slept for most of the time. He’d been here for over a week now and it was only yesterday that he’d made an effusive apology to the disgruntled neighbour whose roses he had violated. Natalie had prescribed lots of bed rest, fluids and pain relief for his concussion, and he’d certainly been resting a lot, although Pauline had limited his fluids to water and tea. He was probably still in bed now, at almost one o’clock in the afternoon, although he’d appeared for a dinner of bangers and mash last night, but he’d seemed quiet and he hardly ate anything. Barbara was puzzled: it may have been her fault, his reticence. Perhaps she’d asked too many questions over dinner: where he lived, why he was a tramp, if he had any family.

      He’d told her he was seventy-six years old, from Dublin; that he had a son, and she certainly thought she’d overheard him talking on his mobile phone to someone after dinner in his room. She’d heard a few words: ‘I’ll be leaving soon,’ and, ‘not so great,’ but she wandered away from his door when she heard Pauline’s footfall on the creaky stairs. Barbara still felt a little guilty; Pauline’s face had been disapproving when she’d told Bisto that people were tramps because their mother hadn’t shown them enough love during childhood. Bisto had turned away, and she felt she must have struck a nerve, something that rang true for him. Perhaps no one had ever loved him at all.

      Barbara wondered if she should try harder to be more like Pauline, but she’d never been one to offer sympathy. Her own mother had been straight-laced and strict, never hugging the girls and rarely praising them. Barbara had idolised her mother, copied her in all respects, down to her severe hairstyle and sensible clothes.

      Pauline was Daddy’s girl, cuddling up on his knee, babbling about trivia, kissing his wonky nose and laughing, but Barbara had kept herself busy, well-ordered, at a distance. She’d neglected Pauline even then, pulled away from her sister’s gentle embraces and sweet-natured chatter. Emotions were pointless; they were for weak and foolish people. Love was one of those things that blinded everyone: you thought you were deliriously happy and then suddenly you weren’t. Barbara decided it was the same for Pauline now. Even though Douglas had been far too thoughtless, too sociable, too obsessed with his own hobbies to give his wife his full attention, Pauline had clearly been shocked by his death; it had shaken her routine and left her alone. And Bisto was clearly alone too. Barbara wondered again if she’d hurt his feelings and resolved not to do it again.

      Perhaps if she’d spent ten thousand hours trying to connect with her emotions rather than seal them up and hide them away, she’d have been better at relationships and therefore happier. But she doubted it. She’d tried once, tried very hard for several years, to capture and keep the elusive happy-forever-after feeling that had made her skin tingle beyond belief, with a man she’d been very much in love with, who’d said he loved her too. She remembered their secret times together, him sitting on the edge of her bed at the bedsit, his arms around her, the beautifully strange shape of his feet and his knees, the comforting smell of his warming flesh next to her own trembling body.

      Barbara instantly felt cold; loneliness wrapped its arms around her now, hugged her too close so that she shivered and shrank into herself, staying separate, safe. Perhaps she should apologise to Bisto, try to be pleasant to him. She thought of his shrunken frame in her nightgown the morning after he had arrived, his stubbornly hairy chest peeking through the fabric, and the swollen purple of his injured ankle. She recalled the way he looked at her, the curling of his lip. He clearly disliked her. And he’d be gone soon, so it was pointless attempting to be too agreeable or to form some sort of friendship. Barbara didn’t form friendships as a rule. She had herself, and that was all, and it was all for the best. She picked up her book and stared at the merging words on the page, wondering if she should observe Pauline’s behaviour more. After all, Bisto had taken to her sister very quickly.

      The click of keys in the door and the sound of cheerful voices at the bottom of the stairs made her sit upright. It was Pauline and someone else, a woman. Barbara listened carefully to the excited babble, then she heard Pauline raise her voice. ‘Barbara? Are you in your room? Come down, will you please – I’m making lunch. We have a guest.’

      Barbara saw Pauline at the bottom of the stairs, the front door closing behind her. She was wrapped in a warm jacket, her cheeks gleaming. The woman with hair in various bright colours was with her, a wide smile on her face, carrying a shopping bag. Barbara could hear the annoying woman’s voice ringing out, too brash. ‘Such a shame he wasn’t cleaning the windows again this week. I was hoping we’d get a glimpse of his gorgeous Greek god body. He’s called Kostas, you know. He’s from Crete.’

      ‘He’s certainly handsome.’ Pauline patted the younger woman’s arm. ‘I think most of the class were craning their necks throughout the entire yoga session in case he came back. I wonder what he’s doing, Dizzy, in Milton Rogus?’

      ‘He’s doing odd jobs, staying in lodgings. I spoke to Yvonne in the Post Office. She had him round to do her windows and found out about him. Apparently, she and Tamsin spent the whole time watching his bottom go up and down the ladder.’

      ‘How silly. He’s just a man.’ Barbara stood firmly on the bottom step. In her roll-neck jumper, dark slacks and sensible shoes, she towered over the other two women.

      Pauline giggled. ‘It’s harmless fun. And he’s very classically good-looking.’

      Dizzy agreed. ‘Yvonne was saying she hopes Tamsin and he might get to know each other. Yvonne said she’d love to have him as a son-in-law.’

      Barbara grimaced. ‘It’s not the wisest criteria to select a relative, is it? By how good their posterior appears as it bobs up a ladder?’

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