Rosie wrote her list on a sheet torn from a telephone directory. Mrs. Durkin wanted dusters and wax. The Reillys needed bedding; blankets, sheets – whatever could be salvaged. Eileen at number 64 was running out of flour, salt and patience.
On the blue Formica top a gallon canister of used vegetable oil glugged its contents into a bucket. To filter out burnt crumbs, she covered its mouth with an old pair of pants. Knickers, her mum used to call them. Everything these days is so Americanised, she would say.
Bag check. There was water in a Coke bottle and bread wrapped in newspaper. There was an adjustable spanner and a screwdriver; tools on a good day, potential weapons on another. And in the bottom, in the blue light from a wind-up torch, a few sticking plasters, some ibuprofen and a cluster of sherbert lemons.
The pail brimming, she began unlocking the kitchen door. Dead-lock first, top bolt, bottom bolt, Yale. She looked out through the crack, the width of half a face, down the path and through the weeds. She’d need to take care of those. Back towards the garden – the communal garden she used to share with old Mary upstairs, that she now shared with the street – the potatoes were through and would need digging in again. No sign of carrots yet. She pulled the door closed for a moment, leaving a peardrop ghost of breath outside. She undid the chain and heaved the bucket through with two hands.
The funnel was where she’d left it; fixed with a length of hairy string, pendulum swinging from the passenger side wing mirror. She unlocked the old Volvo’s diesel cap, decanted the oil. It smelled like chips in a tray and plastic forks. The memory of them.
As she tipped fuel into the car she heard her name called hoarsely. Over her shoulder, a netball’s throw down the street, was Cecil Lumus. When she spelled his name in her head, it was See-sill. He had been jogging, trying to catch up with her, yellow vest patchy with sweat. Now he was resting, panting, palms on his cords. He waved.
“Rosie,” he said, with too little breath to say it, too quiet for her to hear. He had a bandage on his right hand trailing a grey tail, a stain like jam on the back. She put down the bucket.
“Cecil,” she said, “What you running for?”
“I didn’t. Want. To miss you,” he said, fat chest spreading, contracting and spreading. He put a hand in his pocket, pulled out a blue inhaler, clicked the cartridge and sucked. It was empty.
“You haven’t missed me. What’s the fuss?” she patted his back, his scratchy jacket.
“It’s Dor,” he said, hands still on his knees, “She’s not right yet,”
“You need me to get some medicine?”
“No. No,” he said, standing and stretching, “Ben. He’s looking out for her”.
Ben had done two years at medical school. Rosie remembered him from the Copywriter’s Arms; haircut like pineapple fronds and a posh voice that carried over the jukebox. His quiz team had always come second. Still did.
“Dor has a sister in Camden. My phone’s not working,”
“No one’s phone works any more Mr. Lumus,” said Rosie.
He took out an envelope, purple, smelling of lavender.
“You want me to take this to her?”
Cecil nodded. He took off his little grey trilby and fanned himself with it.
“No problem,” she said, “It’s already on its way,”
She put the note in her satchel and took Cecil’s hand. He was breathing more easily.
“Do you want a lift to the end of the street?” she asked.
“No, thank you,” said Cecil, “I want to sit for a while,”
The Volvo started on the third try, burping cobalt smoke from the exhaust as Rosie drove along South Terrace towards Bedford Road, past the park, past Alexandra Palace, slow enough to look long and hard at London through the black trees. Everything was the same as it had always been.
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