On top of all this, I was trying to find a new routine, but it wasn’t easy. For more than nine years, I’d got up, gone to work, come home. At the weekends, I had my vodka. None of that would work now. I decided to clean the flat from top to bottom. I saw how grubby it was, how tired. It looked like I felt – unloved, uncared for. I imagined inviting someone – Raymond, I supposed – for lunch. I tried to see it through his eyes. There were things I could do to make it nicer, I realized, things that didn’t cost much but which would make a big difference. Another houseplant, some brightly coloured cushions. I thought about Laura’s house, how elegant it was. She lived alone, had a job, her own business even. She certainly seemed to have a life, not just an existence. She seemed happy. It must be possible, then.
The bell made me jump, mid-clean. It wasn’t a sound I heard often. I felt, as I usually did, slightly apprehensive as I unbolted the door and threw the locks, noted the slight increase in my heart rate, the gentle tremor in my hands. I peered around the chain. A youth in sports clothing stood on my doormat, his trainer-shod foot tapping. More than that; his whole body was vibrating with energy. His cap was on backwards. Why? Instinctively, I took a step back.
‘Oliphant?’ he said.
Apprehensively, I nodded. He dipped down to the side of the door, out of sight, then reappeared with a huge basket filled with flowers, wrapped in cellophane and ribbons. He made to hand it over and I unlatched the chain and took it from him gingerly, fearing some sort of trick. He rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out a black electronic gadget.
‘Sign here, please,’ he said, handing me a plastic pencil which had, horrifically, been lurking behind his ear. I produced my special autograph, which he did not even glance at.
‘Cheers!’ he said, already skittering off down the stairs. I had never seen so much nervous energy contained in one human body.
A tiny envelope, like a hamster’s birthday card, was affixed to the cellophane. Inside, a business card – plain white – bore the following message:
Get well soon, Eleanor – we are all thinking of you. Love and best wishes from Bob and everyone at By Design xxx
I took the basket into the kitchen and put it on the table. Thinking of me. The scent of a summer garden, sweet and heady, was released when I removed the cellophane. They’d been thinking. Of me! I sat down and stroked the petals of a red gerbera, and I smiled.
Flowers placed carefully on the coffee table, I continued my slow progress around the flat, and as I cleaned, I thought about what it meant to make a home. I didn’t have much experience to draw on. I opened all of the windows, tuned the radio until I found some inoffensive music, and scrubbed each room in turn. Some of the stains in the carpet wouldn’t come out, but I managed to lift most of them. I filled four black bags with rubbish – old crosswords, dried-out pens, ugly knick-knacks that I’d collected over the years. I sorted out my bookshelf, making a pile to take (and in some cases, return) to the charity shop.
I’d recently finished reading a management tome which seemed to be aimed at psychopaths with no common sense (quite a dangerous combination). I have always enjoyed reading, but I’ve never been sure how to select appropriate material. There are so many books in the world – how do you tell them all apart? How do you know which one will match your tastes and interests? That’s why I just pick the first book I see. There’s no point in trying to choose. The covers are of very little help, because they always say only good things, and I’ve found out to my cost that they’re rarely accurate. ‘Exhilarating’ ‘Dazzling’ ‘Hilarious’. No.
The only criterion I have is that the books must look clean, which means that I have to disregard a lot of potential reading material in the charity shop. I don’t use the library for the same reason, although obviously, in principle and reality, libraries are life-enhancing palaces of wonder. It’s not you, libraries, it’s me, as the popular saying goes. The thought of books passing through so many unwashed hands – people reading them in the bath, letting their dogs sit on them, picking their nose and wiping the results on the pages. People eating cheesy crisps and then reading a few chapters without washing their hands first. I just can’t. No; I look for books with one careful owner. The books in Tesco are nice and clean. I sometimes treat myself to a few tomes from there on payday.
At the end of the process, the flat was clean, and very nearly empty. I made a cup of tea and looked around the living room. It just needed pictures on the walls and a rug or two. Some new plants. Sorry, Polly. The flowers would have to do for now. I took a deep breath, picked up the pouffe, and squashed it into a bin liner. It was quite a fight to get it in. As I grappled with it, I thought about what I must look like, my arms wrapped around a giant frog, wrestling it to the ground. I snorted a bit, and then I laughed and laughed until my chest hurt. When I stood up and finally tied the handles, a jaunty pop music song was playing and I realized what I felt … happy. It was such a strange, unusual feeling – light, calm, as though I’d swallowed sunshine. Only this morning I’d been furious, and now I was calm and happy. I was gradually getting used to feeling the range of available human emotions, their intensity, the rapidity with which they could change. Until now, any time that emotions, feelings, had threatened to unsettle me, I’d drink them down fast, drown them. That had allowed me to exist, but I was starting to understand that I needed, wanted, something more than that now.
I took the rubbish downstairs and when I came back into the flat, I noticed that it smelled lemony. It was a pleasure to enter. I didn’t normally notice my surroundings, I realized. It was like my walk to Maria Temple’s office this morning: when you took a moment to see what was around you, noticed all the little things, it made you feel … lighter.
Perhaps, if you had friends or a family, they might help you to notice things more often. They might even point them out to you. I turned off the radio and sat in silence on the sofa, drinking another cup of tea. All I could hear was the breeze whistling softly through the open window and two men laughing in the street below. It was a weekday afternoon. Normally, I’d be at work, watching the hands tick round until five, waiting for pizza and vodka time and then Friday night and the three long sleeps until Monday. With the exception of the shot I’d had in the pub, I hadn’t drunk any vodka for some weeks now. I’d always thought that it helped me sleep, but in fact I’d been sleeping more deeply than ever before, untroubled by disturbing dreams.
An electronic noise startled me and I almost spilled my tea. Someone had sent me a text message. I ran into the hall for my phone. The little envelope flashed:
U about early evening? Can I come over? Got a surprise 4 u! Rx
A surprise! I replied immediately.
Yes. Eleanor O.
No one had ever asked to come and visit me before. The social worker made an appointment, and the meter reader just turned up. I was conscious that Raymond’s previous visits had not been very pleasant for him – or me – and decided to try to make amends. I put on my jerkin and headed out to the corner shop. Mr Dewan looked up from reading a newspaper at the sound of the electronic alert. It must drive him to distraction, bleeping all day like that. He smiled cautiously at me. I took a basket and got some milk, Earl Grey teabags and a lemon to slice, in case Raymond preferred his tea that way. I spent a considerable amount of time in the aisles, somewhat overwhelmed by the choice. In the end, I plumped for Garibaldi biscuits, throwing in a packet of pink wafers too – apparently, it’s nice to offer guests an option. I wondered if Raymond might prefer something savoury, and so I got some cream crackers and a packet of cheese slices. All bases covered.