My friend stands up and looks at his watch as though he has an appointment to keep, but we both know that it’s all for show. I’ll see you later this week, Monica, but please try and eat something to build up your strength. I’ve left the shopping for you on the counter. I stand up now and tell him that I might not be here as I really need to get a job. This place doesn’t have a telephone, so how can anybody get in touch with me? He looks at me with a hurt expression on his face. Do you want me to put in a telephone? I’m not asking him to do anything; I’m just telling him the facts. I’m grateful that he’s letting me stay in the flat, but I need some kind of permanent address, that’s all. My friend is already standing by the door, and I can see that he’s dying to leave, and it’s obvious that he won’t give me the time to either properly explain myself or thank him for the groceries. Look after yourself, Monica. I hear the front door slam shut, and I hope that the noise hasn’t disturbed the old lady on the first floor.
It’s still light outside, so I rummage around for another can of beer in the bag that has the drinks in it, and then I go out into the back garden and find a spot on the overgrown path where I can sit cross-legged and bathe my face in some sunshine and think again about how to get a job without having to deal with the people at the Jobcentre. I remember now: I forgot to tell him about the bathwater being cold, but it doesn’t really matter as I’ve got used to just splashing some water onto my face and making the best of it. After he kissed me, he told me that I should venture out more, but to where? I’ve not spent anything from the pound note, and it makes no sense to go wasting it when I don’t have another job. When I think about it, the last time I went out by myself was on Christmas Eve, when I put on my coat and left the flat and went to the Mecca Ballroom, although I’d told myself that I’d never again go back to that place.
I sat at a table on the balcony and wondered how a woman like me could have got herself mixed up with a man like that. I knew right enough how it began, but I thought it was my fault that he soon got bored with any intimacy. I was just grateful that he still took an interest in the kids, but when he started asking for photos of them, I should have known, shouldn’t I? I’d had ages now with it all turning over in my head: the four weeks in the hospital, then convalescing in Bridlington, and now back at the flat and working again at the library, and even though people kept telling me it wasn’t my fault (his own sister took her kids off to Canada to get them away from him), I knew that I was to blame, for after he gave me the key back, I got so wrapped up in just thinking about myself and trying to get other blokes to fancy me. I could see people down below on the dance floor, acting stupidly and getting increasingly drunk, and I felt sick in my stomach and wished I’d stayed at home. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and just because I’d made a few phone calls to the so-called foster parents in an effort to try and speak to my own son, it turns out I now wasn’t allowed to see him unless my visits were supervised. On Christmas morning I didn’t answer the door because I knew that it would be the social worker come to take me to see Ben. I pulled the blanket up over my head and waited until she’d finished shouting through the letter box before I got up. Then I turned on the television set, and I didn’t move from in front of it for the rest of the day. I thought, he’ll understand why I haven’t come to see him even though it’s Christmas Day. After all, it’s a matter of dignity. Nobody’s going to watch over me while I talk to my son. I’m not a bloody criminal.
After nearly a week locked away in the flat, I decide to take a trip out and present myself at the Jobcentre. However, the mousy woman, with one arm of her spectacles held together with Sellotape, insists that they have nothing for me, and although we manage to keep everything civil and polite, it’s clear that I don’t like her and she doesn’t like me. As I’m walking back to the house, I can see that the man from next door is standing by his gate and looking up at his house, as though he’s making sure that it hasn’t caught some kind of disease as a result of its close proximity to my actor friend’s house. As I pass him by, he speaks without looking at me. Isn’t it about time you moved on? I stop and turn and face him and tell him that I’m a grown woman and where I stay and what I do are none of his bloody business, but I can see from the look on his face that this isn’t going to shut him up. The others didn’t stay this long. Don’t you have a home to go to? I take a step towards him. No, I say, I don’t have a home to go to. Are you happy now? I go inside and hurry up to the first floor and bang on the door of the old lady, but there’s no response. I worry that maybe she’s dead and lying in there all alone, so I sit down outside of her door in the hope that maybe I’ll hear her moving about. But after a few hours it’s still quiet, and so I stand up and make my way back down to the garden flat.
I can’t sleep, so I just sit on the settee and listen to the noises of the night and finally decide that I can’t possibly spend another moment in a house with a dead person, so I put on my coat. When I get to the phone box, I dial my friend’s number and wait, but nobody picks up, so I put down the receiver and try again, but again nobody picks up, so now I don’t know what to do except walk the streets. It’s soon lunchtime, and there’s hardly anybody in the pub, so I buy a half of lager and take it to the table in the corner and drink it slowly, and then fetch a few more, and nobody bothers me. When I’ve finished, I go and call yet again, and this time he answers the phone, and I can hear it in his voice that he’s surprised to hear from me. He tells me that he’s positive that the old lady is fine — she sure as hell understands what is meant by a sitting tenant — then he says that maybe I should think about finding another place, for it’s clear that his flat doesn’t suit me. I don’t know what to say, for I was only trying to be helpful, and I certainly wasn’t expecting this. Look, I’ll come by on Saturday or Sunday and we can talk about it. Maybe go for a drive, he says, and this makes me feel better, although I can tell that he’s just rushing me off the phone.
The weekend is finished, and he didn’t come. I go and knock at the old lady’s door again, and this time I can hear her moving about, and so I definitely know now that she’s not dead and she’s just avoiding me. Of course, the sensible thing to do would be to ignore her, but I stand outside of her door, for I know that at some point the woman has to come out. So, I’m outside of her door waiting, like the time in January that I stood up outside of Ben’s school and waited for him to come out, and all the other boys came out, but not my son. And then a red-faced teacher marched across the playground and told me that I had to go now or they would call the authorities, whoever they might be, and he folded his arms, and I didn’t really see any point in causing a scandal and making life uncomfortable for anybody, including Ben. The next day I could see that Denise was annoyed when the social worker turned up at the library and whispered to me that we had to talk. We went into the staff room, and she read me the riot act and tried to get me to agree that what I did was out of line. Apparently, I can’t wait for my own son after school, it’s not allowed. After my social worker left, Denise gave me my final warning.