Love of Grace and Angels Page 3

  The communal stairwell was spotlessly clean as always, and Moira liked the fact that the whole of the shared interior looked as if it belonged in a modern hotel, a budget hotel perhaps, but a hotel nevertheless. The mint green patterned carpet and hollow tubular stair newels, the narrow framed watercolour prints on the walls; it all spoke of modest success and peace. Even the glass double doors leading from the entrance foyer – not hall, but foyer – to the limestone gravel car park, and the beloved sporty red car positioned neatly in a private space beneath the thin boughs of a young tree said: Yes Moira, you are a success. Be proud.

  Ordinarily, it was useful living so far from work as it meant leaving home early and returning late. There was less chance for the rooms to become messy and dirty: absence helps the home stay cleaner. But today it was nothing but a nuisance. Moira could never have afforded to buy such clean and modern facilities living closer to work, and more importantly, in a city there would be no peace. Here, even the most distant birds could be heard singing and vixens calling; here a person could live undisturbed in an abundance of privacy. But strangely, it was a place Moira thought of more fondly during arrival and departure, than ever it was thought of while sitting inside. In some ways, to Moira, home was nothing more intimate than an expensive burial plot one would never fully enjoy; no more of a pleasure than an item of jewellery deemed too valuable to wear and only ever drooled over in the security of a safety deposit box.

  *

  Having left home feeling relatively calm, Moira soon began to feel tense and aggressive, full of uncomfortable conversations and imagined arguments. Underway for only a short time, it soon became apparent that every articulated lorry, every old man sporting a hat and driving a small family car, every old lady in an ancient, oversized Mercedes with a distractingly chatty friend, every muddy tractor, was already out, determined to slow down the day. Sunday it was not, yet here they all were, blocking roads with their slowness and awkwardness and incapacity. At first, the mental tirade raged solely against other drivers. But soon it progressed, shifting focus to include events at work the previous day, before rapidly mingling with recollections of years gone by, linking every irritation with its source; irritation something of a familiar feeling. Old resentments popped up, random events clinging to memory. Clothes taken from the pool changing rooms at school, spit in hair, money borrowed but never repaid. And Moira’s revenge: clothes in the pool, hair cut off, money taken back from pockets.

  For Moira, the inadequacies of the wider world ensured almost every waking moment was filled with irritability, leaving only a small and rather tight pocket for love and admiration to lurk, albeit awkwardly.

  Moira checked the mirror. Not for traffic, but to assess a blackhead absently picked while fantasies of punching lorry drivers and receptionists roamed an angry mind. It had popped cleanly, the firm bung rolled away and brushed to the floor. Temptation to tackle others increased.

  Those girls, Moira thought, mind returning to the workplace, those girls. Did they have blackheads? Of course they did. Those girls, so superior, so full of IT: so full of SHIT. They were happy to talk if no one else was around, but as soon as a better offer came along they disappeared, or worse, they banded and turned like a pack of hungry wolves, devouring any pleasantness that may have been shared. Perhaps not wolves, Moira decided, for wolves would never, ever lower themselves to a diet of rice cakes. The girls might be drawn to what was essentially edible foam, but none of them were genuinely drawn to Moira; there was certainty in that.

  Things had been little different at school, and everywhere else for that matter. Moira equalled novelty acquaintance, picked up with curiosity and discarded on a whim in the casual way of the supercilious. Sometimes such interest proved fascinating in itself, other times it was highly offensive, mostly it was just depressing. A smaller frame, a delicately pretty face, less sensitive nature, what a simpler life any one of these changes might have afforded, Moira felt, yet all impossible to achieve. Once upon a time bullying of any nature forced out tears, a reluctant display, perhaps, but of profound sorrow. Times had long since changed, with Moira learning to shut off unwelcome emotion and deaden the pitiful feeling tugging deep in the chest, an awful sensation that narrowed the throat. These days simple calculation aided survival; that, plus a thick-skinned need for no one, at least, no one apart from family; a brother sometimes, but not often.

  Yesterday, Friday, someone had noticed Moira’s glasses. It was a person unknown, just a face from across the room in an impersonal sea of desks. They had noticed how light reflected like a tiny white sheet off the flat plate glass, revealing the fraud of them. It was a person with little interest in the fundamental nature of what they had seen, but who still thought to mention it to someone else, again a person with little interest. They in turn idly commented to someone else, until finally, the observation reached the ears of one who thought it well worth hearing. Predictably it was one of those girls, and with shallow malevolence, she decided it would be amusing to openly challenge Moira during lunch. It had been a very direct assault with no time wasted adding frills of deception.

  Wrong footed and off guard, Moira had become momentarily vulnerable and a piece of hidden self had carelessly slipped free. ‘Oh these,’ Moira had said, taking off the spectacles and viewing them as if they belonged to another, ‘I liked the frame. But yes, the lenses are useless …’ Moira had smiled weakly, submissively, ‘… like me, I suppose. I don’t know why I wear them, but that’s me all over really, an imitation …’ The sentence trailed away to nothing.

  Moira’s companion paused with the coffee cup resting on her thickly painted lips, eyeing Moira suspiciously; perhaps wondering if it was narcissistic crap or the sad cry of a soul with a serious issue. Either way it didn’t matter because this sort of person would never want the bother of it, finding life too short for the problems of others.

  ‘You can be such a fucking twat, Moira,’ she said, coldly.

  This reply neither crushed nor upset anymore than it offended. The emotional leakage had sealed up during the brief pause and the insult bounced off unfelt. Moira went through the remainder of the afternoon appearing as if nothing had happened, although in some respects in wasn’t easy given the unusually vulnerable state she was in. The whole day had seemed full of such encounters, bitches using Moira to exercise their own egos, to exorcise their own inadequacies, using Moira’s solid stature as a platform on which to display their own, hard earned, emaciation. In that sense, the day had not differed greatly from any other, but in a more acute and profound way it was entirely different. A sense of emotional deception – of fighting oneself as brutally as fighting other people – had left Moira feeling weak, letting dark gaps appear in the thick armour usually so well maintained. Aside from the incident with the glasses, a delivery boy had shouted: ‘Where d’ya want it darlin’?’ His allusion was clear and a wounded Moira wept in the toilets. Full of such incidents, it had been a long and unpleasant day and no amount of trying could make it shine.

  *

  Another set of traffic lights on red, holding up the front of a long queue, set Moira’s jaw grinding. It was bizarre to encounter so much traffic on a Saturday morning. Clearly something, somewhere, was going on. A fleeting look at the bag on the passenger seat caused a momentary start, but a glance in the mirror sent mind and fingers slowly wandering over spots unpicked and bristles un-plucked. In the immediate, at least, facial matters were far more distracting than the secrets of the bag. Would it be easier to run away than to fix things? No, it would not.

  Ahead, the lights had changed and the cars in front already driven off. Prompted by impatient beeping, Moira frantically accelerated to catch up, but all too soon amber popped up brightly and a moment later the lights were fixed back on red. Moira thought about driving through anyway, but hesitated for so long that the narrow opportunity was missed. Once more stationary and frustrated, the thin slits of Moira’s angry eyes stared savagely into the rear view mirror
, challenging the intolerant driver behind who was shaking and waving his fists in rage, daring him to take his threatening behaviour from the safety of the vehicle and into the road. Eventually Moira was distracted from their silent dispute by the muffled ringing of the phone, soon pulled from the ever-present bag.

  ‘Oh, hi Ric.’ Moira let out a dismal sigh, not meant for him, ‘Today? Where? Yep. Okay. Time? Yep. Okay. See you then. Yes, I’ll wait. God! ALL RIGHT! Bye. Yep. Bye. Shit, the lights!’

  Eventually the speed of the journey picked up a little, and with it a degree of optimism stirred. The irate driver had turned off only one junction beyond the traffic lights after driving dangerously close, sounding his horn and making several truly obscene gestures. Moira had slammed on the brakes a few times, taking pleasure in the battle, no longer incensed by his attitude but enjoying the easy satisfaction found in remote warfare. Before long, most of the slower traffic had peeled away and for a while the road became comparatively clear. Moira felt confident in the thought that the cleaners would now be in and soon everything would be as it should be. In the handbag was all that was needed to make it so, providing she could get to the desk.

  As the red car followed the winding road, so ahead pale honey limestone began emerging from the thick green of the hills, marking the outskirts of the handsome city of Bath. Although small, it would soon be brimming with visitors as they bustled through the shopping areas and crammed the tourist spots. Moira loved it, but for no other reason than everyone else seemed to like it so much; to have a shared affection made Moira feel part of something, lending a sense of connection to a life otherwise empty. But Moira knew that like any other city, Bath had its downsides. Set in a geographical basin, foul air often became trapped in summer months, a time when unwashed pavements became sticky with dirt and gum. And the shops, so lively by day, shut far too early, considering it was a top tourist destination. Moira easily reconciled these minor imperfections: nobody sensible shopped that late, breathed that deeply, or looked down to walk, and historically it was truly lovely. It was substance that mattered, not trimmings. Moira sighed with knowing satisfaction.

  Once more thoughts returned to the day before, when at the coffee machine Moira had met the new office junior, fresh from college and looking young and clean and hopeful. Never one to be charitable, Moira reflected that the girl looked one file short of a cabinet. Her face was long with eyes set too close together, a deficiency exaggerated by thick black eyeliner and lumpy mascara carefully mounded around her eyes, possibly over a period of several months. Moira had smiled and made conversation and the girl had smiled back, shyly averting her eyes, thus revealing a desire for invisibility. The girl’s obvious reticence stoked confidence and so Moira persevered, for the persecuted Moira was also a practised bully. Reviewing Moira’s life, few would find it hard to discern which came first, victim or tormenter, but the rise of the latter need not have achieved quite such heights.

  In desperation the girl quietly offered, ‘It’s my birthday today.’ Much simpler, of course, to declare that she had to get back to work, but the girl hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘How old are you?’ Moira felt obliged to ask, not in the least bit interested, hoping now the girl would go away. An actual dialogue had not been intended and this smacked of conversation. ‘Sixteen?’ Moira guessed, with a leering smile made bearable only by the blessing of perfect teeth.

  ‘Eighteen.’ With obvious relief the girl saw her supervisor beckoning. ‘Anyway, I have to take these drinks.’

  But Moira decided one more question was in order, ‘It’s my birthday next week. So how old do you think I’ll be? Not sixteen, or seventeen or whatever, obviously.’ Moira could not resist asking, hoping to make the day better. A short, snorting laugh escaped in the wait for a reply. With pleasure Moira noted the girl appeared to feel awkward all over again. ‘Go on guess.’ The teeth gleamed brightly.

  ‘I’d rather not.’

  ‘Oh, go on, what’s the matter with you? Guess. I don’t mind.’ Moira frowned. ‘Guess!’

  ‘I’m not sure…’

  ‘Guess.’ The voice had dropped in pitch, now level and commanding, unintentionally comical.

  ‘Um… alright.’ The office junior inspected Moira, and shrugged, ‘Thirty nine… eight… seven, maybe? Six?’ Her small black eyes darted around, searching for hope.

  Moira’s heart sank. Moira knew the rule. If you guessed someone’s age to their face you took five years off as a courtesy, so that made the guess nearer forty-four.

  ‘Thirty.’ Moira hissed, sneering maniacally, ‘Thirty!’ Walking away, foul abuse condemned the girl as an idiot, one of many.

  Glancing back, it was apparent the office junior had been quick to retreat and was talking about the incident. Coffee in hand, her supervisor stood tall and watched Moira through narrowed eyes, listening to the girl without shifting her gaze.

  That glare had made Moira feel slightly strange, although not from any sense of wrongdoing or regret about the spiteful abuse of the girl. But on a day dominated by oversensitivity, the cool look seemed to say something; it seemed to ask the question: who are you? And who was Moira? This Moira needing no one, this Moira that no one needed? It prompted reflection: what was the point of anything? Life was, in so many ways, utterly unremarkable and as such remained entirely unaccountable for the many disappointments thrown up. There was no sick mother or mad sister, no imprisoned brother or cheating father. Two parents doing their best, one nice brother and a hefty sprinkling of ancient relatives summed up the family, and what use was that when seeking to blame? But deep down, Moira knew that just sometimes in the world there could be no place for blame.

  Moira’s thoughts returned to the journey. Now entering the margins of the city centre the traffic again became heavy, and after a long slow shuffle, jostling through junctions and blocking driveways, Moira eventually turned into Pulteney Street, hoping to find a space near the studio and the restaurant that Ric had suggested, but already the road looked full. Cruising by near empty permit-only parking, the usual resentment bubbled up, antipathy born of jealousy. Moira had no time for privilege unless the beneficiary was Moira.

  The car rolled on towards the few free parking spaces available anywhere in central Bath. Moira groaned loudly, remembering a fact known for many years yet somehow never readily recalled: the whole stretch was short-stay only. Already, a tiny traffic warden was busily noting down licence plate numbers for a later inspection, but it was too late to worry. Moira bristled. What on earth possessed people to come to town so early? And what was it about today that made everything such a chore? If being towed away were not the absolute certainty that it was, Moira would simply have left the treasured little red car in permit-only, honoured residents be damned.

  But suddenly there was an opportunity. A family hogged what amounted to the perfect spot; that is to say, they were parked in one of the spaces closest to the studio. It was impossible to tell if they had just arrived or were about to go, so Moira flicked on an indicator and quickly pulled over to show intention, staring expectantly at the woman sat behind the wheel. Several others may have had similar plans, but Moira’s obvious determination would have caused the most hardened and roguish driver to think twice before competing.

  At first it seemed they were not going to move on. In fact the entire family appeared engaged in an animated argument, the woman too distracted to sense the stare of a stranger waiting to park. Moira was about to give up when the car pulled out and slowly drove away. It seemed the day was taking a turn for the better.

  Once in the space, Moira hurriedly yanked on the handbrake and checked the clock for what would be the last time. Like the family before, Moira was so preoccupied that the long hopeful gaze of a fresh parking-space applicant went unnoticed, and giving up they drove on. With everywhere so busy, it seemed an earlier start would have been preferable, but fate is a fickle thing, Moira decided, and maybe it would have been worse. Perhaps any setbacks encounter
ed would have meant delays of even greater proportions. How could anyone know unless living two lives at once? Anyway, the question was academic, because it was not too late. Bag flung up an arm and car locked by the press of a button, Moira marched off, heels and straight skirt conspiring to narrow a purposeful stride, slowing the pace. With a discreet hitch of the waistband, Moira’s step quickened.

  Moira tried to slip the keys into the bag, but the zip refused to slide. A few good tugs and the mechanism loosened, leaving the corner of the embroidered handkerchief that had been responsible for the jam slightly torn. Moira sighed. It had been a gift, a token of acceptance from a dear old aunt. And there were the papers, those papers, sitting ominously alongside everything, reminding Moira of the notes that must be recovered from the desk – from his desk – before returning what should not be destroyed, and thankfully never was, to its proper place. Closing the bag whilst stepping off the pavement and walking out from the cover of parked cars, Moira was hit side on by a large and accelerating MPV. The bag dropped clear of the car, as the body was punched along the road.