Think Yourself Lucky Page 2

"I will if it's appropriate. What do you collect, may I ask?"

  "Let's say payments that are due." I'm at the foot of the ladder now. "Today I'm after payment for an accident," I advise him.

  "I wish you joy of it. If people paid up when they should there'd be no need for your kind of profession."

  "I'm glad you agree," I say and take hold of the ladder.

  "You carry on with your good work. I don't want any help."

  I plant one foot on the lowest rung. "I am."

  "I've already told you I can do this by myself. Please just leave it alone." With a grimace that quivers his floppy jowls he adds "And me, if you don't mind."

  "I mind," I tell him and climb another rung. "I'm only doing what you asked for."

  There's a loud clang below us. He has dropped the trowel, and now he's staring at it as though he should have kept it for a weapon. "What are you playing at, you lunatic? Get off my ladder."

  His situation has caught up with him at last. That often happens, and watching the delay can be half the fun. "I keep telling you what I'm doing," I remind him. "Collecting."

  He slaps the wall under the gutter with both hands and stifles a cry. "Collecting what, you—" Apparently he can't think of a strong enough word, unless even in these circumstances politeness won't let him discharge it. "Get off there this instant," he says as if he imagines I could be a child, "or you won't like the consequences."

  "I'm glad you've brought those up. That's exactly why we're here. Don't tell me you've forgotten what you said to Mrs Rubbish not half an hour ago. Someone scraped their car and all because of you distracting them."

  There's recognition in his eyes at last, and it's on the edge of fear. "If you're after compensation you must know this isn't the way—"

  "It isn't just the car. It's never just that kind of thing. It's everything you are," I say and scurry up the ladder to tug at his ankles. This time he can't keep his cry to himself. As I dislodge one of his feet from the rung they're desperate to stay on, he lunges upwards to clutch at the gutter.

  I couldn't hope for better. I'm down the ladder in a moment, and in another I've snatched it away. It clatters at full length on the concrete as its owner dangles from the flimsy gutter. "Help," he screams. "Look what he's done. Christ, someone help."

  He's saying more than he needs to, as so many of them do. You'd think they've taken a vow to use up all the oxygen they can, but he won't for much longer. I watch him struggle to haul himself up and find a handhold on the roof. His hand slips off the wet tiles, and the gutter emits a creak that sounds as if it's splintering. I might enjoy watching him dangle and wave his helpless legs for however many seconds he has left, but my instincts send me to the back door, since it's partly open. As I hear a choked gasp and a long loud creak I let myself into the house.

  I can't see anything worth noticing. A day next week on the calendar beside the coffin-sized refrigerator is ringed in red and marked GREAT NIECE'S CHRISTENING. That'll be missing a guest, I'm guessing. I prop my elbows on the edges of the metal sink and peer between the slats of the plastic blind. Pretty soon a flailing shape falls past the kitchen window. I don't see it land, but I hear it. You might think somebody has thrown a bag of rubbish on the concrete—pottery and useless meat. The large flattened slap will be the bag, and the crunch could be a piece of pottery that's sticking out of the top of the sack. I crane over the sink to make sure nothing is about to move except the contents of the piece of pottery, which has produced quite a spill. "We need you, Mrs Rubbish," I murmur, but the sight isn't sufficiently interesting to detain me. I make my way along the hall, past a lonely yellow vacuum cleaner with a furry upper plastic lip, and out of the house.

  FOUR

  "Here's our favourite waitress," David's mother declared.

  "Our favourite chef," David's father said.

  "So long as you're having a good birthday, Susan," Stephanie said, "I don't care what you call me."

  She was wearing her chef's apron that said MICK'S. The candle on the cake she was carrying lent an extra radiance to her face—round chin, pinkish lips ready with a smile, snub nose, brown eyes with a glimmer of green beneath eyebrows whose height seemed to anticipate a surprise. Her auburn hair was tied back from her high forehead but had grown a little dishevelled, no doubt by the heat in her kitchen, which had left a bead of perspiration bejewelling her hairline. Once she'd set down the cake she led the song. "Happy birthday—"

  "Who's having one of them?" Mick protested and trotted weightily to the Bothams' table, mopping his wide fleshy forehead. "Nobody told me."

  "David's mother Susan is, and this is his father Alan. You know David."

  "Not a comp, are they? You know you've got to clear freebies with me in advance. There's still plenty of my mates that haven't eaten here yet." As all the Bothams gazed at him he urged "Go on then. Happy birthday—"

  By the time he finished singing along he'd mopped his forehead twice. David couldn't see much reason, unless Mick's bulk was constricted by the dinner jacket and dress shirt and bow tie he seemed to think a manager should wear. The photographs on all the walls showed that he'd been less podgy as a footballer. "Steph been keeping up our standards, has she?" he said.

  "It was exceptional," David's mother said. "You've found yourself a treasure, Mr..."

  "Call me Mick," the manager said but was visibly peeved not to have been recognised. "Mick as in Mediterranean Mick's, because we give you a mix of stuff from over there. She's good at all that food, no argument. I don't care where you come from if you do what I want, same as if you were ace with the ball on the field we never bothered what colour you were or if you could speak English."

  "Thanks for the appreciation," Stephanie told him.

  "No sweat, girl. Go ahead and cut the cake and bring these their coffees and liqueurs if they're having them. I've sent Jess and Rio home before they start squawking about overtime, so you can clear up in the kitchen, can't you? I'll be doing it out here."

  Apart from the Bothams' table he would have nothing to clear. They were the last remaining diners in the restaurant, which had never been more than half full. As Stephanie headed for the kitchen, having dealt each of the Bothams a slice of cake, David's father said "So what made you choose Stephanie for your enterprise, Mick?"

  "She came cheapest."

  David's parents opened their mouths as if they were about to perform a reproving duet, until Stephanie sent them a quick wry smile from the kitchen doorway and put her finger to her lips. Nevertheless David's mother murmured "Nothing like being valued, is there?"

  His father wasn't quite so muted. "And that was nothing like."

  David saw the manager hunch up his shoulders as he might have prepared for a clash on a football field, and then he shambled into his office behind the bar. "Well," David's mother said and let the word gain weight. "Just you make sure she knows she's appreciated, David."

  "I do."

  "Hang on to her, that's what we're saying," his father contributed. "I don't mind telling you we didn't think Andrea was any great loss."

  It was apparent to David that they'd all had a good deal to drink. He felt it was best to keep his thoughts to himself, but his silence earned him an injured blink. "Don't listen to us more than you want to," his father said. "Maybe we're so used to sorting people's lives out that we don't know when to stop."

  "If they're sorted that's what matters."

  "Too often they aren't, is that what you're saying?"

  "I wouldn't." Since both his parents were gazing at him David couldn't help admitting "Some of the people at work might, but they wouldn't have meant you."

  "What were they saying, David?" his mother said as if she were coaxing a child to speak.

  "Just about someone's friend who was attacked by somebody in care. The friend was a community policeman and he was trying to defend his daughter."

  "Sounds like—who is it, Susan?"

  "Benny Moorcroft." She was plainly annoyed with having divulg
ed the name as she said "He's one of my cases, David."

  "But you wouldn't have defended him if it had gone to court."

  "I'm afraid I would. He's been on cannabis since he was seven years old. "You'd be psychotic too if you were him. People like him never had a chance at the kind of lives we have."

  "Let's not spoil the birthday," David's father said.

  "I didn't mean to," David said, though he wasn't sure that the remark had been aimed at him.

  "You haven't," his mother said, knuckling the corners of her eyes. "Thank you for a lovely meal."

  At least they weren't doggedly offering to pay, which would be worse than a rebuke. Once when he'd taken them out for dinner they'd ended the occasion by insisting, before he'd learned not to question their work too closely if at all. He was relieved to see Stephanie approaching with cappuccinos and grappa on a tray. "And thank you just as much, Stephanie," his mother said loud enough to be heard in the office.

  "We'll have you both over very soon," David's father told him once they'd all finished their drinks. "We promise not to bring up work."

  Mick emerged from the office as David's parents left the restaurant. He was clearly less than pleased that David lingered when he'd paid. "I'll wait for Steph if you don't mind," David said.

  The manager's face sagged, especially the mouth. "Not been saying she's not safe with me, has she?"

  "She'd have no reason, would she?" Having taken the silence for a denial, David said "We'll be going back to her place or mine, that's all."

  "Lucky you." With no enthusiasm Mick said "Get you anything?"

  "I'm fine unless you've something I could read."

  Might this sound like a gibe about literacy? The manager hunched one shoulder and then the other as he lurched into the office, to reappear with Liverpool's daily newspaper. "Here's our news," he said, thrusting the jumble of pages at David. "If it's not beneath you lot from across the river."

  David might have pointed out that the paper reported stories from his side of the Mersey as well. It was turned inside out with the football pages uppermost instead of at the rear, and the rest of it wasn't even in order. David set about putting it right, glancing at stories as he did. Football, football, monstrous interest rates on loans, police raids on cannabis farms, care homes shutting down for lack of funds... All at once a story caught his eye, or rather the photograph that illustrated it did.

  MAN DIES IN LIFT. While his face was no larger than a picture in a passport, his obesity was plain. His name was wholly unfamiliar, but something didn't seem to be. It must be the struggle to place him that was turning David dizzy; he felt as if the contents of his skull were drifting loose. He raised his head to gaze at the empty restaurant, which hemmed him in with squares and rectangles checked blue and white. Just now it looked like a parody of domestic life or else of travelling abroad. His head wavered drunkenly, and then he shoved back his chair and dashed for the Gents, where the black tiles on every side gave him the impression that his vision was deserting him. He stumbled into the nearest cubicle, where he just had time to flush the toilet before falling to his knees and heaving up his dinner. He had to flush again to cover up his sounds. Stephanie mustn't think it was the fault of her cooking, even if he had no idea what was wrong with him.

  FIVE

  'What's stopping us now?"

  "You just did."

  I may as well not have answered him. He's simply complaining, not inviting anybody else to speak. The train had almost shut its doors when he waddled along the platform and gave the nearest one a flabby thump. If I were the driver I'd have put on all the speed I could and never mind how close the late commuter might be—the later the better. When the doors flinched away from the puffy puffing character, who is bagged in a track suit that I'm sure has never ventured anywhere near a track or any other exercise, he dumped himself on the seat across the aisle from me. The seat opposite him is occupied as well, not just by his feet in fat trainers that must have started out white but by a plastic bag that smells of its hot contents. "Are we off yet?" he asks nobody except himself. "Always being held up. Third time this week, which."

  He doesn't even make the sentence sound as if it isn't finished. He's using the last word like an overgrown full stop, leaving it to lie there like a block of verbal lead. He finds the floor with his feet while he rummages in the bag for a hamburger. The polystyrene bivalve squeals as he opens it, releasing more of the greasy stench. Chomping on the burger shuts him up, but only until he clears his mouth enough to mumble. "Too hot in here. What are they playing at? Can't hardly breathe. No air down here as it is, which."

  The train has gone underground with a roar the tunnel traps around the carriage. Windows someone opened to tone down the fierce heat let in more of the noise. "Too loud and all," the muncher moans through another mouthful. "God, what a racket. Won't let you think, which."

  "Do you go in for much of that? I was assuming you just talk."

  I don’t imagine he hears me. I suspect he mostly hears himself, and he's his own best audience as well, though maybe he was hoping somebody would take the hint and shut the windows to save him from standing up. He plainly has no plans along those lines, since his feet are back on the upholstery. His eyes are as dull as the dough of a bun, and the rest of his face is more evidence of what he eats—it has the texture of an uncooked burger and isn't much less round. I don't know if I'm smelling the food in his hand or in his mouth, if not both. The train is coming to a station, and I wonder if it's his, but he's stirring only to plant his feet further apart, presumably in case anyone thinks of sitting opposite. "Conway Park," he says a good deal less distinctly than the recorded announcement overhead. "No use to me. They don't sell my style of shoes in Birkenhead, which. Every sod's but mine."

  "Which style is that? I can't say I'd noticed you had any, Mr Meatface."

  I needn't have bothered asking. I can tell he'll be keeping up his commentary all the way to his destination. He's like a child who can't stop babbling, even while he takes another big-mouthed bite. "It's the arches," he complains, and a half-chewed chunk of burger lands on the seat he's facing. "Doctor says I've got to have the shoes to fit, which. Pity his lot can't pay for them if he says they're for my health."

  Apparently talking isn't enough any longer, and it's time for a demonstration. He plants the carton on the other seat he's opposite and sets about untying the knot on his left trainer. The mammoth task involves hauling the leg towards him with his hands behind the knee and straining his top half forwards over his stomach. "Give it up, you bugger," he snarls. "Don't go messing me about. Just come here, you bastard. Bloody come here."

  He's forgotten to say which for once. Eventually he captures both ends of the shoelace and gasps as he gives them a hearty tug. He treads on the shoe while he releases the foot along with an extra smell that the draught from the open windows can't disperse. "Ah, that's it," he moans, pressing his foot in its discoloured chunky sock against the seat opposite and wriggling his sluggish toes. "Next best thing to a rub off the wife, which. She could do it for a living, her. Don't like to think how she'd leave the house if she ever got a job."

  I can't tell whether he's thinking about the state of the place or saying she's confined there, not that I want to know. Once his foot has finished squirming like an animal in a sack he stuffs it back into the trainer, puffing out more of the stale sweaty stink as he hauls at the tongue of the shoe with both hands. "Get in, you little," he pants. "Get where you're bloody told, which. Get right in."

  "Need a hand, Mr Meatface? I've two here that want to go to work."

  He's too busy gasping and sweating and tugging at his shoe to hear me. At last he triumphs over the trainer and succeeds in tying a sloppy knot. The impromptu pedicure has taken us past one underground station, and I wonder how many the other foot may call for. He seems to think he's made enough effort, however, and slumps back to dig in his bag for a packet of crisps, which don't prevent him from talking. "Here's the shop
s," he announces as the train halts at the first station under Liverpool. "Hordes of shoes, which. No time to look. I'm everybody's servant, me."

  The crunching of crisps is as loud as his voice. Both seem to need him to keep his mouth open as much as he can, expelling a smell of cheese and onion to join the other aromas he's bestowed on the carriage, not to mention spraying the floor and the seats with crumbs and larger fragments. "Next one for me," he proclaims at the second stop. "Wife's sister coming up from London, which. Can't get the train to us herself. Wants meeting and her bags carried, and the wife's too feeble to help."

  "I thought you said she couldn't leave the house."

  He's already waddling to the doors as the train moves off. He has left more than his mark—footprints on the other seats, the empty plastic bag, the crisp packet unfurling like an artificial flower and surrounded by a generous distribution of its contents, the carton gaping to display the remains of the hamburger and bun still glistening from his last bite, the various smells he donated to the train. "Let's get her done with," he says, only to protest when the carriage lurches. "Watch how you're driving, you. Some of us are standing up here, which."

  He continues muttering until we arrive at Lime Street, where the trains from London terminate. He plops onto the platform and plods towards the lift. By the time the train worms its way into the dark we're alone down here. The corridor leading to the lift is tiled as white as a morgue and full of his plump footsteps, not to mention the smells in his wake. I wait for him to reach the end and thumb the button. "Get yourself down here," he exhorts the lift. "Some of us need the lav before the train comes, which."

  He's started to repeat himself before the lift settles into view beyond the midget window. As the doors crawl open I move close to him, and I'm behind him in the lift when he pushes the Up button. His moist thumbprint shrinks on the plastic as the metal cell creeps upwards. I don't know whether he can see my blurred reflection in the window of the door ahead of him, but he shakes his head as if he's trying to get rid of an unwelcome impression. His cheeks haven’t finished wobbling when he swings ponderously around and finds me at his back. He clutches his chest, and his shoulders slam against the wall so hard that the lift shakes. "Sweet Jesus," he gasps. "Where did you come from? Trying to give me a heart attack?"