Id be scared stiff to go to bed at night, she murmurs, neatly tearing a small selection of stamps from their sheets, I mean you can never be sure. A bit of heavy rain and the clay just it just slips. And there goes your home! Off a cliff! A high cliff! Into the sea! Everything you own everything youve worked for all gone! Kaput!
And an airmail sticker, please, I remind her.
Poor Dr and Mrs Bassett lost the best part of their front kitchen. She said they found the cat in a cupboard almost half-dead with fear.
They were up most of the night calling for it. I nod.
For the life of me I dont know why the council doesnt do more to enforce the demolition order, she tuts.
Tildas place is still perfectly livable, I interrupt, and the Bassetts havent actually occupied the front kitchen since the last big drop
Youre all nutty as fruitcakes! Biddy mutters, pushing over the stamps and the sticker. Thats two pounds and seventy pence please, Carla.
I pass her the money, then quickly affix the stamps.
Well I suppose we should all just be grateful that nobody was actually hurt on this occasion, she concedes, generously.
Yes. We should. We are. Thanks.
Although its only a question of time if you ask me, Biddy persists. Theres no point fighting against nature, Carla. I say that as someone who spent much of their childhood in India Bangladesh as it now is. The Indians respect Mother Nature. Dont have any other choice. They know, first-hand, what shes capable of.
She hands me my change.
Im sure thats very true, I concede, limply (and I am, too).
Without prior warning, Biddys disapproving radar suddenly shifts focus and is now centred on the hapless Clifford.
Enjoying that, are we, Rusty? she demands, scowling.
Clifford has idly picked up a copy of the local paper from the shop counter and is blankly perusing the front page. He quickly throws it down with a stuttered, Nnn n no!
(Biddy, who was once the headmistress of our local primary school, traumatized several generations of small children with her searching questions, her piercing looks and her perpetual air of slight disapproval until a stubborn hip injury put an end to her reign of terror in 1978 or thereabouts.)
I turn for the door, muttering my thanks, but Biddy stops me in my tracks.
Shall I put that in the post-bag? she asks, reaching out for the letter. I hand it over, somewhat regretfully (it never feels like youve actually sent a letter until its been shoved into the hungry mouth of a bright, red postbox. Oh well).
I thank Biddy again and start for the exit. I am actually through the door (jingle-jingle!) and halfway across the little car park before Clifford finally catches up with me, as he inevitably must.
I left my stuff on the counter, he pants. He is still holding the Tuc biscuits.
Youve still got the Tuc biscuits, I observe.
Damn.
Clifford inspects the Tuc biscuits, foiled.
Youd better go back in, I caution him, or Biddy will eat you alive.
Yes. He nods, not moving.
I am about to go on to apologize for not responding to his calls (and his visit etc.) when I cant help but notice the new jumper hes wearing, partially hidden under his scruffy, khaki work coat. Its a pure horror: a fashionable Pringle; pale yellow in the main, the front a vile knitted patchwork of interconnected pink, white and mauve diamonds.
I instinctively wince. Birthday present? I ask.
Alice. He nods. She was so pleased with it cost her almost a weeks wages. I just didnt have the
Does it fit properly?
I push back the frayed sleeve of his work coat and pull away, worriedly, at the cuff. Theres not so much as a millimetre of give.
Its a bit snug, he concedes.
Isnt that interfering with your circulation? I wonder.
I have no feeling in my hands, he confirms.
Can you actually get it off?
Nope, he sighs. Itll tear when I do. So Im just keeping it on for as long as I possibly can.
I did that with a sticking plaster once after a polio injection at school, I fondly reminisce, and I developed blood poisoning.
I remember. He nods.
How high can you lift your arms?
With considerable difficulty he lifts them to a 65-degree angle.
There are two tiny holes at the armpit and the elbow, he explains, which have allowed a certain amount of flexibility.
You need to get it off, quick, I warn him. Isnt it difficult to breathe?
I feel entombed he nods like an Egyptian mummy. Although its fine, he rallies, so long as I dont over-exert myself.
But what if you get a call out for the lifeboat? I demand.
He shrugs.
There are little marks on the side of your neck, I observe, with increasing concern, little welts. Its like I shudder. Its like an expensive, lambswool python has swallowed you up, whole.
I tried to get it off this morning, he confesses, but I couldnt do it by myself. I knew if I asked Mum or Dad or Bill itd get straight back to Alice in a flash. They all think its bloody hilarious.
Gracious me! I stare at the welts on his neck, somewhat daunted (almost as if they arent friction burns at all, but tender little love bites). You must really care for her, I reason, jolted, to put yourself through all this discomfort just for the sake of not for the sake of for a jumper. And such a I mean I hope you dont mind my saying so but such a a
I dont have the heart to say it out loud.
Yes. He looks suitably crestfallen at the notion. Weve been engaged for eight years now. I suppose I must probably feel something.
(Clifford and Alice, a local milkmaid, were engaged after she proposed to him, in 1976, a leap year, and he was just too kind to say no. At least that was always his version of events. Alice plays the scene quite differently, by all accounts.) I nod. Now its my turn to look crestfallen. I decide to take it on the chin, though, and promptly rally. I draw a steadying breath and strengthen my resolve. I know that the worst thing I could possibly do under these particular circumstances would be to offer Clifford any form of assistance.
No. I shant. I shall not. I will not must not, definitely not offer Clifford Bickerton any kind of help. I must never help Clifford Bickerton, and I must never receive help from Clifford Bickerton.
Oh, but the urge to offer help is so so natural, so instinctive, so spontaneous, so so
No. No! No help, Carla. No offers of help! None.
Go and pay for the biscuits, I promptly tell him, then pop around to the bungalow. I cant possibly leave you like this. I have a pair of shears Uh I pause, scowling. At least I did have a pair of shears
In the shed? he asks, almost tender (I suppose men will feel emotional about outbuildings).
I nod. I do have some kitchen scissors, though, I persist.
I nod. I do have some kitchen scissors, though, I persist.
His face lights up. It lights up. Every pore and auburn whisker is suffused with joy.
No! No, Carla! Bad Carla! Mustnt. Offer. Help.
Will. Not.
I. Must. Not.
No. Help.
None!
Ten minutes later and he is kneeling on the worn kitchen lino and I am brandishing the scissors in front of him.
Sure youre all right with this?
Yup. Do it. He braces himself.
I kneel down beside him and gently slide the bottom blade of the scissors under the right-hand side of the jumpers collar.
Stay very still, I instruct him, leaning in closer. It is difficult to find the correct angle and draw the blades together without resting my lower arm and wrist against his leonine neck and cheek. Ah, and theres that all too familiar Clifford smell of candle wax, sleeping puppies and engine grease! A lovely smell. The smell of industry and loyalty and good intent.
Your Tikhomirov study of the birches is on the floor, Clifford quietly observes.
Uh Sorry? I re-focus.
Your painting of the birch trees he repeats.
Oh. Yes. Of course. It fell down. During the landslip. It was the only casualty inside the house. The bottom of the frame snapped.
I remember the day you bought that. He smiles tenderly at the memory.
Yes.
I adjust my arm, frowning, and start to cut. The jumper curls away beneath my hand on both sides like two obliging slithers of apple peel. The trusty old vest below has to its eternal credit somehow managed to stay intact.
Ill fix it if you like, Clifford volunteers, the frame.
Its fine, I insist, I can do it myself. Some strong glue
Oh. Okay. He is slightly hurt yet resigned.
I still love it. I still love birch trees, I muse. Berezka. Beautiful Berezka. I dont know why, they just make me feel so so
Russian, he murmurs.
I start.
I really like all your new propaganda posters He inspects the busy walls, thoughtfully, his eyes pausing on an early Liberated Women Build up Socialism! poster which features a wholesome Russian peasant girl brandishing a pistol. Next to it the Think About Those Who Are Starving! poster in blue and black with a loaf, cup, bowl and ominous, pointing hand.
Ive been using them as a cheap way of covering up all the stains on the old wallpaper, I explain, although theyre way too good for a kitchen, really
I see your collection of Russian lacquered boxes has increased a fair bit since I last visited, he interrupts, flexing his chest as the scissors finally break through the jumpers waistline. And the Soviet china figurines He tips his head towards the old dresser. Is that a new Lomonosov Chow?
Uh Yes. I found it wrapped up in a big box of Uzbek fabrics. In an antique shop near Hythe Dyou think you might manage to pull it off manually from here?
Clifford tries to yank the jumper from his shoulder but his arms are still stiff and he has no luck.
Shall I cut down the back?
He nods and shuffles around, obligingly.
Has Shimmy been to visit you here lately? he wonders.
Shimmy? I pause, briefly, before answering. Uh. No. Not of late. Hes still not especially mobile. That problem with his feet.
Clifford turns his head to peer towards the blades as I insert them, pressing gently into the nape of his neck.
Why dyou ask? I wonder, slightly anxious. He doesnt respond so I recommence cutting again.
Ive been doing some work for a man in Bexhill whos trying to get shot of a collection of Soviet army surplus stuff a gas mask, a transistor radio, a canteen and a vodka flask, some military badges
Sounds interesting. I continue to cut.
He showed me a little, wooden sewing kit a travelling kit in the shape of a minaret. And a group of Kiddush cups the sterling silver ones. Not a complete set. I think he had five in total. In fact
I can see how this mightve been expensive, I muse, smoothly running the scissors and my hand down the back of the jumper, its very soft.
Soft but lethal, Clifford affirms.
And very bright. Luminous, almost.
A statement piece. Clifford smiles, wanly.
Is that how Alice described it? I wonder, chuckling.
Uh he frowns, obviously not wanting to appear disloyal.
The scissors cut the waistband and I pull back with a measure of satisfaction (like a smug Lady Mayor on cutting the ribbon at a local fete): The Pringle is vanquished! I grin, throwing down the scissors and grabbing the jumper firmly at the top of his arm in order to yank it off. Clifford Bickerton is finally liberated from the scourge of lambswool!
I pull, but the jumper hardly gives. Instead I yank Clifford towards me and we both nearly topple sideways. He tips but steadies himself, his weight supported on his arm which is now planted, firmly, between my knees. I stop myself from falling by simply holding on. His bicep is like a giant squash. So hard. He doesnt automatically straighten himself.
Dont let go, he murmurs, into my hair. I am close to his ear. I long to press the cool outline of it against the skin of my forehead. Its a random urge. Silly. But Clifford has such nice ears. Good ears. Familiar ears.
Ive been reading that Ivan Yefremov novel you bought me for Christmas, I say, turning my head away, releasing my grip, delighting thrilling, even at my considerable powers of self-control, the sci-fi thing. Andromeda. Its very good.
That was three Christmases ago, he answers, thickly.
Pardon?
Its from three Christmases ago.
Oh. Well its very good, I repeat.
He suddenly straightens himself and clambers heavily to his feet. He walks to the window and peers out.
What did the surveyor say? he murmurs, coolly assessing the damage.
I stand up myself. Tiered gardens are all the vogue, apparently. I try to make light of it.
That bad?
No. No, I lie.
Youve still got the sauna, he observes. That sauna is indestructible.
I grab the scissors from the floor and walk over. Although I havent seen a single bird on the feeders since it happened.
Strange. You wouldnt think theyd be that bothered.
They have wings. I nod.
I take a hold of his arm, lift it and gently insert the bottom blade under the cuff. As I start to cut something terrible occurs to me.
Hang on a second the landslip wasnt that your birthday? You came around here on your birthday? Then you ended up searching for a lost cat half the night?
(The Bassetts had informed me of these small details the morning after. It had been Clifford whod bravely ventured into the front kitchen just as dawn was breaking at the pathetic sound of mewing.)
Clifford doesnt volunteer anything further.
Howd you find out? I wonder.
The coastguard.