In the Approaches. Nicola Barker

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ khaki work coat. It’s 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 week’s wages. I just didn’t have the …’

      ‘Does it fit properly?’

      I push back the frayed sleeve of his work coat and pull away, worriedly, at the cuff. There’s not so much as a millimetre of give.

      ‘It’s a bit snug,’ he concedes.

      ‘Isn’t 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. ‘It’ll tear when I do. So I’m 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. ‘Isn’t it difficult to breathe?’

      ‘I feel entombed’ – he nods – ‘like an Egyptian mummy. Although it’s fine,’ he rallies, ‘so long as I don’t 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. It’s like …’ I shudder. ‘It’s like an expensive, lambswool python has swallowed you up, whole.’

      ‘I tried to get it off this morning,’ he confesses, ‘but I couldn’t do it by myself. I knew if I asked Mum or Dad or Bill it’d get straight back to Alice in a flash. They all think it’s bloody hilarious.’

      ‘Gracious me!’ I stare at the welts on his neck, somewhat daunted (almost as if they aren’t 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 don’t mind my saying so – but such a … a …’

      I don’t have the heart to say it out loud.

      ‘Yes.’ He looks suitably crestfallen at the notion. ‘We’ve 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 it’s 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 shan’t. 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 can’t 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.

      His face lights up. It lights up. Every pore and auburn whisker is suffused with joy.

      No! No, Carla! Bad Carla! Mustn’t. 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 you’re 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 jumper’s 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 there’s 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.

      ‘I’ll fix it if you like,’ Clifford volunteers, ‘the frame.’

      ‘It’s 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 don’t know why, they just make me feel so … so …’

      ‘Russian,’ he murmurs.

      I start.

СКАЧАТЬ