Chapter 31 #2
‘Yeah. I’d like that.’ We run across the road and I raise my hand, hailing the bus.
Maggie hesitates, eyes scanning the windows.
It’s empty save for a couple of teenagers locked face to face on the back seat.
I step back to allow her to take a seat and go to sit next to her.
She shakes her head in warning. The space is too small.
I take a seat on the opposite side of the aisle.
The humour and laughter is falling off Maggie, eyes trained on the window and the street passing us by.
She turns back to me, a brave smile in place, but there is a sadness there.
We don’t talk for a while, the reality of our relationship standing between us like an extra passenger.
Could this ever work? Eventually she smiles, reaches for the bell.
‘This is my stop, but it’s late, Jack, so if you want to go home, I—’
‘I’m not tired. Unless… you want me to go?’
She inhales deeply, pulls at the cuffs of her sodden coat, chews on her nail then gives her head the briefest of shakes.
We discuss the film. The ease of before feels more constricted as we walk down her narrow street.
There is a change in the air. Maggie is becoming quieter, her laughter more controlled.
She gestures towards a green door. It’s unassuming, but there is a charm to it, potted plants hanging overhead: glimmers of colour on a dark road.
‘This is me,’ she says, but the words sound overly bright. She wiggles the key, her movements taut, her shoulders tense as she takes off her coat and clicks on the lights.
‘It’s not as impressive as your place but’ – she has her arms wrapped around her as she looks around – ‘it’s home.’
‘I love it. It’s very—’
‘Cluttered?’
‘You.’
‘Is that a good thing?’ she asks, self-conscious.
‘Of course.’
‘And this must be Bruce?’ I bend down and peer into the fish tank. Bruce lets out a bubble as though saying hello.
‘He likes you.’ Maggie smiles. ‘I’ll be back in a sec. I need to…’ She pulls at her tights. ‘The kitchen is through there… Can you stick the kettle on?’ She turns and rushes towards the bedroom.
The kitchen is small. Baby-blue cupboards, more plants, scented candles, spotlessly clean.
I fill the kettle and look for the teabags.
I open the cupboards. They’re empty but for a few essentials: a bag of oats, pasta, tinned cans without pictures but stripes and words.
I look for teabags, finding different sized and shaped canisters, one pink, one white, the other a dark green with gold writing on.
I reach out, fingering the first symbol, hearing an echo of Bob Dylan.
Maggie moves around at the back of the flat, the floorboards creaking quickly.
I prise open the container; there are a few grains of instant coffee.
I think to my own, and to my parents’ house, where the cupboards are packed with oils and herbs, with condiments of every variety.
Behind the pasta is a plastic tub, filled with packets of instant noodles.
‘Sorry!’ She rushes in. ‘I haven’t had chance to go shopping,’ she says briskly, opening the fridge and grabbing a handful of mini milk cartons like the ones at my shop and places them on the counter.
She opens a cupboard door, takes out a ziplock bag with sachets of coffee inside and holds them in her teeth while grabbing two mismatched mugs and landing them beside the kettle.
I step aside. ‘Are you hungry?’ she asks, brow furrowing. ‘I can heat up a tin of soup?’
‘How about a takeaway?’ I ask. ‘My treat?’ Her shoulders drop and she leans her back against the fridge.
‘I…’
‘I was going to take you out for dinner and despite my mother’s suggestion that I should always allow a woman to go Dutch, I’m afraid I have too much of my father in me.’
‘You don’t have to do that.’ Her voice is quiet.
‘I know. But seriously, I could kill for a pizza right now.’ I tilt my head, examining her response.
‘Deal, but I’m not letting you pay.’
I open my mouth to protest but she turns her back and opens a drawer, passing me a coupon.
‘Sorry… I can’t…’ I squint at the paper in front of me.
‘Sorry.’ She points to the words with lilac-varnished nails. ‘Two for one. You buy your pizza and I’ll have the free one?’
‘Deal.’
I go to put out my hands to shake hers but she looks down and we both begin to laugh.
‘Jesus, what a couple!’ I say. Her laughter falls away as she looks at me.
I’m about to step closer. The word ‘couple’ is hanging in the air.
But the power cuts out, the room suddenly in darkness.
‘Oh shit. Just… wait there. Don’t. Move.’ There is an edge of panic to her voice. I stand still, wanting to help, but I think this is one of the times I need to give Maggie space.
I hear the sound of drawers being opened, the scratch of a match.
Maggie’s face lights up above the glow of a candle, her expression tight.
She places it down on the kitchen side, doesn’t meet my eyes, but the soft light casting shadows around the room makes everything feel that much more precarious.
Maggie retreats to the lounge. After a few minutes, she shouts that I can come through.
The room is now lit up, candles casting a soft light from a motley collection in various places around the room. ‘Take a seat.’ She gestures to the sofa. ‘I’ll make the drinks before the water goes cold.’
The room is small, only the sofa to sit on.
I perch on one end, my body sinking into the fabric.
‘Oh!’ She stops still. ‘Be careful – there’s a rogue spring that might bite you in the bum.
That’s a better spot.’ She indicates to the right.
I shift as she places the cup on the floor and folds herself onto the rug, legs crossed, blowing over the rim. ‘It’s decaf, sorry.’
‘It seems we’re destined to spend our time together during power cuts.’ She doesn’t say anything, just takes a sip, eyes on mine. ‘It’s a good job you have so many candles.’
‘Yeah. It’s… it’s a regular occurrence here.’
‘Really?’
She nods, shifts her body and stretches out her legs. ‘I don’t mind. Sometimes it’s good to have quiet, you know?’
‘I do. That’s what I miss the most about reading.
The quiet. The way you can shut off your own world, your own thoughts, how you can travel the world, take yourself to somewhere new, with people who are interesting with their own stories to tell.
Far, far away from your own life, your own troubles. ’
‘Would you—’ She hesitates. ‘Would you like me to read to you?’
My heart quickens. I’ve not even had the guts to listen to an audiobook in months but as I look at her, I can feel a yearning that I haven’t felt for a long time, like a knot unwinding.
‘I’d really like that.’
She smiles and gets up. ‘Right then, you order the pizza, and I’ll go and see what I can find.’
I take out my phone, speak into the search engine and order.
I throw in some cookies and mozzarella sticks too then warm my hands around the cup.
The temperature is dropping quickly. I get up, pull back the curtains and look along the street.
Lights glowing opposite, no sign of a power cut except here.
I frown, notice the radiators, the thermostat dial on the wall.
I can’t read the numbers but can see it’s set to low.
I look at the many DVDs lined up around the TV, leaning in to pull a few out.
A red light behind the TV flickers on and off.
An electric meter, similar to one in my student house.
There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. This isn’t a power cut.
I look to a jam jar filled with coins on one of the shelves amongst the DVDs and knick-knacks; a label I can’t read explaining the contents.
I think of the cupboards, the sachets of coffee and individual milk cartons.
The way Maggie devours her popcorn. There are blankets on the sofa, and next to a bag of knitting is a pair of fingerless gloves.
The weight of the reality of this ‘power cut’ hits me hard, my stomach tightening as I look around.
I want to help. I want to pay for her electric, her heating, take her shopping, help her in some way, any way that would make her life easier. But I know her. She wouldn’t accept help, even if it’s from someone who already cares deeply about her.
Could I insist? I push the thought immediately away. This isn’t about the empty meter and stark cupboards, this is about her self-respect. I won’t cross any line that could jeopardise that.
‘I don’t have many, but I did buy The Great Gatsby in the charity shop down the road?
I love Baz Luhrmann. Shit it’s freezing, just a sec—’ She disappears again and pushes in an old portable gas heater like the one my grampa had in his potting shed.
‘I keep this for emergencies,’ she says.
‘There’s not much in the tank but it’ll take the edge off.
’ She goes about lighting it. There is a knock on the door.
I take the pizzas, arranging the boxes on the floor, next to where Maggie was sitting, and fold myself opposite.
The awkwardness has dissipated now, as if we can understand each other without words.
Vicky was always a fan of grand gestures and perfectly curated ‘Insta-perfect moments’, but in this small room, with the soft glow of candles, it’s like we’ve created a safe place, just for us, protected from the pressures of the world outside.
And it’s perfect.