Small Acts of Kindness, page 1
To Alexandra Lines. Because of all the fun we had.
CONTENTS
Ned
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Mrs M
Kiki
Ned
Kiki
Ned
Kiki
Ned
Kiki
Ned
Kiki
Ned
Kiki
Also by Caroline Day
Author’s Note and the Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
NED
T
HIS IS IT. THE chance. The perfect cross – whipped, powerful yet controlled. Brilliantly angled. And I’m there.
I’m past the centre back and the goalie, already beginning my leap. Throwing myself towards the ball. It’s heading for the back post. And I’m there. All I have to do is nod it in. This is mine. I stretch my neck muscles. Then a crack and a burst of pain in my head. And the world goes grey.
MAY 2019
KIKI
O
UCH. OUCH. OUCH.
Do they not have any signposts in this country? Just field after field, and mud and rain, and cows watching you like they could tell you exactly where you should be going, if they could be bothered.
Squeak. Squelch. Squeak. Squelch.
Stupid boots.
I haven’t slept for two nights and here I am, out on a tiki tour through the wop wops. Let’s hope that smell is just the cows.
‘When the time is right, little Kiriaki, we will go back to England,’ my Yaya used to say. ‘You will love it there. I know it.’
But, Yaya, now I’m here, my feet hurt, I’m soaked, I’ve already spent all my money and this backpack’s like an elephant on my back and I’ve been tramping forever.
Squeak. Squelch. Squeak. Squelch. Ouch.
Remind me never to buy a pair of gumboots without trying them on again. So much for £1.75 in the Stratford Dogs Trust charity shop. So much for only half a size too small, so much for I reckon they’ll stretch.
And that mean woman with her Land Rover, driving off like that and leaving me at that petrol station in the middle of nowhere. Crystal, her name was. No way she didn’t understand, ‘I’m just popping in to the loo’. Just as well I took my backpack out with me.
Squeak. Squelch. Squeak. Squelch.
I couldn’t not buy them though, these boots. Sitting there in the window, like they knew one day I’d come. Like they’d been looking out with their big froggy eyeballs, waiting for me. The Cinderellas of animal wellies. Because how often does that happen? You go out looking for some festival gumboots, and they’re right there. ‘Novelty wellingtons’, the shop assistant called them. Fate, or karma, or – I don’t know – just luck, maybe. The shop assistant couldn’t believe that gummies like these even existed in size five – well, size four and a half. She was sure they only made them for children.
It’s the right boot that’s squeaking. And scraping my poor blister. Then the left one squidges around my toes. Like a wet sponge.
Why did I not just buy some sensible boots? Nobody else there was even dressed up.
Stupid cows chewing at me, with their big faces. And, this poncho – water resistant? And if I wipe my glasses it’ll just make them worse.
Stupid ratbag Crystal with her, ‘I can take you as far as Bristol if you give me the petrol money upfront.’
Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow.
She overheard me arguing with my mother while she was filling up with petrol, I reckon. Hardly a reason to dump me in the rain though. Mean old ratbag.
What is it with people? That Pete and Paul and their, ‘We’ll text you as soon as we’ve pitched the tent.’ What was their problem, gapping it on me like that? Where did they disappear to? They seemed so nice in that pub in Stratford – the Hairy Biker? Scary Biker? – selling me the ticket even though they didn’t know me. Although I’m not so sure about it being like the actual Glastonbury. Everyone at this thing seemed so agitated. All those people throwing themselves off the stage into the crowd, and beer cans flying over your head, and all those men shouting ‘ribbit’ when I walked past. And the music. Just screaming mostly. I can’t imagine Yaya would have enjoyed that.
Yes, cows. I’m lost and I’m broke and I don’t have a clue where I’m going. Not back to Stratford, that’s for sure.
‘Enjoy your festival.’ That’s what Siobhan-the-ratbag-landlady said. ‘Oh, and if you could clear the bedroom. There’s someone else arriving on Monday.’
It was a dingy room anyway, and the wrong Stratford. You’d think maybe she would have said something when I booked it. She must have thought I was pretty daft with my emails about Shakespeare and cottages.
This is pretty, though. Or it would be if it wasn’t so wet. And there’ll be a hostel or something soon, I reckon. Bound to be. If my phone had any charge left, I’d find a B&B just round the corner. Definitely there’ll be somewhere. Because—
You’re kidding me. That’s not a puddle. How am I meant to get through that?
And what’s that noise? From the trees over there? You heard that, right?
Is that howling?
NED
W
HEN I WAS STILL me, I once dived from a cliff into the sea far below. In the moment before I leapt, I looked down and my insides lurched and rolled like the waves beneath. In the moment before, I felt the pull of death and life. I felt the warmth of sun on my skin and I heard the water below. I raised my arms until my muscles pulled tight, and contemplated what I was about to do. Scared. Excited. Alive.
Readying myself. Staring down at the white breaking through the blue far beneath me. Knowing I could turn away. Knowing I would not. Petrified but exhilarated too.
I dived.
Dove?
Dived. Yes, dived.
I dived.
I have known what it is to dive from the rocks into the ocean below, the crash of water as it split open to let me in, the slap of cold as I arrowed into it. I have known what it is to rise again, shaking saltwater drops from my eyes and hair.
The thrill of opening the door to death. Of staring it in the face and beckoning it closer. Of waiting until it’s so near that you can feel its breath on your cheek, and only then slamming the door shut.
When I was still me, I dived from a bridge, much higher still, above a river, an elastic rope clipped to my ankles, and a group of friends with their phones held up to capture my moment. The air roared past me and time itself surrendered to gravity. Face first. All that existed was the falling. And then the snap and the bounce, and the laughter that was my return to life.
I laughed at death. I dived. I returned to life. To my wonderful, intact life. When I was still me.
Now, though, life itself ebbs and flows around me. The darkness comes and goes – voices drift, and I forget, and then I remember and I hear them say, ‘We don’t know. He may know that you are here. There may be some consciousness.’
I try to scream, ‘I am here.’
And nobody hears.
MRS M
Y
OU NEVER WERE TERRIBLY fond of these tumblers, Roger. You would rather your glasses did not look as if they came from Amazon or IKEA you said, though of course they weren’t from either. I don’t even know how one goes about buying a thing from Amazon, though I presume on one of those iPad tablets. And I’ve never set foot in IKEA, as you well know, although parking is terribly convenient, I hear. They have a cafeteria too. Rather good pastries, Harriet always said.
John Lewis, in actual fact. These glasses. Look, if I hold this one up, no bubbles in the glass, good thick base, delicate sides. Classic, Roger. Good-quality glass. How clearly you can see the
See those eyes. ‘Go on, dog,’ I say. He’s giving me that look, but one has to be firm and tell him, ‘Yes, Wordsworth, indeed, it is wet. However out you go to do your business.’ And out he goes, as if that was his intention all along.
Listen, Roger, if I tap the rim – granted, not the same ring as lead crystal. But still, you hear that? Good quality.
It was never you who washed them up, was it, Roger? Standing right here and looking out at the garden with your Marigolds on? It was not you who laid a tea cloth on the base of the sink, before filling it with water and detergent, because cut glass breaks so easily. I suppose you didn’t know that. Or that I rinsed the glassware in a vinegar mix every other month to prevent clouding. And, you see, these ones – these basic ones – are dishwasher-proof. Not that you were terribly fond of the dishwasher either. Why waste the electricity, you said, when it took longer than my doing it by hand. Even though it was you who insisted we have the dratted thing in the first place and you who was ever so determined to have the most hi-tech model one could find. Too many programmes, if truth be told. Still, I’ve rather taken to using it now.
Anyway, Roger, happy anniversary, if you’ll excuse the beaker. I thought it would be appropriate to have a little toast with your favourite . . .
Goodness me. Is one supposed to actually drink this? The smell, Roger. Where was it you brought this back from? The Isle of something? Neither of us imagined that would be your last golf trip.
The bottle does attract dust rather, rare batch or not. Though I should be a popular hostess if anyone were to call round for pre-dinner drinks. I’d use the best glasses then.
I did mention to the neighbours, actually, that they must pop in for some fruit cake or a sherry, you know, the ones who bought number four. I thought after that misunderstanding over the wisteria that it might be nice. I suspect he’d know a good single malt. I’ve seen golf clubs in their car. But I think perhaps they’ve forgotten.
Talking of which, I telephoned Faith last week. I hadn’t heard a peep from her since she and Clive came for dinner and that was when you were still . . .
I’d been a little surprised not to have had an invitation back, and I wondered if it might have something to do with that silly discussion about those grandchildren of hers. You know how sensitive Faith can be, although, to be perfectly frank, it was about time somebody said something. Anyway – very sad – poor Clive died in February. Awful, of course, but you’d have thought she might have made sure that I knew. I should have liked to attend the funeral. After all, I invited her to yours.
Clive would have liked a glass of this Scotch, I suspect.
Anyway, Roger. Happy anniversary.
Sixty-four years. How can that be? It wouldn’t stop raining, if you remember, a bit like today – just look at it out there – and Mother cried the whole way through.
Not that we ever made a fuss over anniversaries. Clever you for choosing a wife who was too sensible to bother about such things, you always said. Though you did give me that gift four years ago, if you remember. So much more economical not having to replace the bags when they’re full. I won’t repeat Harriet’s words when I told her what you’d bought me.
She said surely it was a double bluff, and you had secret plans to whisk me away to Venice for a second honeymoon. Funny Harriet.
I said, ‘How can one have a second if one never had a first?’
Platinum? Is that sixty years? No, no, sixty is diamond. Platinum, that’s seventy.
Harriet said not to worry and that she’d make it up to me. She said, once mean old Roger has popped his clogs – sorry Roger, it was only a joke, and there was no way she could have known – then she and I should go to Venice. Italy wouldn’t know what had hit it, Harriet said. Pasta and opera and gondolas and toy boy gigolos. That part was a joke, evidently.
I rather think I should have liked Italy though. I did so enjoy the television series with that chef who drinks all the wine.
But what have I been thinking of? Look at me, standing here. The poor dog.
Goodness me but it’s pouring.
Wordsworth. Where have you gone?
I know, Roger. But Harriet was my best friend and nobody else offered to take him in. Penny, you might have thought. But these young people are so busy with their back-to-back meetings and their work–life balances. And just because you were never much of a dog person, it doesn’t mean that I should not be. He is sweet, even if he does insist on digging up the lawn. See what a mess he’s made over by the pear tree?
Where on earth can he have gone? He was right there a moment ago, sniffing around under the lilac. But, gosh, it’s pouring out here. There is no way he can’t hear me shouting for all I’m worth.
Don’t say he’s managed to open the side gate again. I shall have to ask that gardener boy to sort it out.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, I thought as much. I always did say this catch needed tightening. Still, he’s a dog. How does he do it? Naughty Wordsworth, don’t you dare be digging around number ten’s privet again.
Here I am, yelling through the rain, ‘Wordsworth.’ And the ground is so slippery down the side here. Silly old legs. I shall end up on my backside. Bothersome hound, making me come out in my slippers.
Not here in the front either, and I’m sure half the neighbourhood can hear me.
Well, not in number four. And not digging up number ten again. But where on earth . . . ?
Oh.
I see. There you are.
Coming out of the trees with a very unapologetic spring in your step. Have you been off hunting foxes again, you wicked creature? Look at how wet you have made me, you naught—
But who is this – person – and what is she doing emerging from the woods with my dog? The state of her. Has she painted her face green? Camouflage? A vagrant? Who else would wear such a ridiculous waterproof? And those plaits look like something a toddler might have. As for that handbag, it’s like a green football on a rope. And those wellingtons.
I trust she’s not dangerous. Foreign, perhaps. I had better address her slowly.
‘Hello? Young lady, Yes, you. Do you speak English, girl? What are you doing with my Wordsworth, and why are you dressed as a frog . . . ?’
THREE DAYS LATER
KIKI
I
BET THAT FIRE LOOKS amazing in winter, with heaps of logs and real flames. Yaya would have loved seeing me here behind the bar, with these pictures of foxes, and the ones of dogs wearing jackets and playing cards. Because of the name, I guess – The Fox and Hounds. Yaya would have been so stoked.
And, look, I’m getting the hang of pouring a pint – see this one? It’s harder than you’d think. Because of all that froth. I had a bar job back home once. I loved chatting to the customers. But they only did bottled beers. And then it turned out they didn’t need me anymore, which was funny, because they always seemed so busy.
The boss was a grouchy old ratbag anyway, always saying things like, ‘give me strength’. This one’s grumpy too. Mervyn. His daughter’s even worse, although she’s not here tonight. She’s at a party.
I don’t think Mervyn smiles. He just sits at the end of the bar, shaking his head and asking if I don’t have a job to do, which is funny, because, look, I’ve poured this excellent pint for the old man. It’s not like I can’t have a little chat at the same time. That’s called multi-tasking. It’s good customer service. You’d think Mervyn would be pleased. You’d think he might say something nice about this great pint I’ve poured.
If Sue was here – that’s my old flatmate Sue from Auckland – she’d tell Mervyn a few things. Sue says motivational management is important for a happy workforce. Sue studied psychology so she should know. She didn’t finish the course but still, she knows heaps about it. Like a conversation is not just words – there’s a whole technique to it. If nobody is speaking, you ask the other person about something they’re interested in. And see, I’ve been the only one talking for a while – telling the story about that dog, Wordsworth, howling outside the pub again this afternoon, and me taking him back to his owner, the old woman who looks a bit like the Queen. Mervyn’s not said anything, just sat at the end of the bar, leaning on his elbows. The old man hasn’t said a thing either, except for ‘thank you’ when I passed him the pint. So now I’m telling Mervyn how much I like the pictures of the dogs playing cards. I say, ‘They’re like your pub theme, eh?’
