Morag Joss - Half Broken Things

She stood in the doorway, unsure of what she should say or do. A remark about how cold it was? He was sitting hunched up with his head almost on his knees, and had not moved to turn on the gas fire. How unwelcoming he was being. She was beginning to wonder if he was quite aware of her presence. She should think of something teasing and sarcastic to say, about the cold or the salty smell, or there being no lampshade or proper curtains, something to make him laugh and break the ice. But the window’s reflection was showing her to herself, hesitant in the doorway, too heavy for the empty metal chairs and too clumsy for sassy remarks. She pulled the T-shirt down, feeling there was too much of her and that she did not fit; although the walls were neutrally patterned and beige, she clashed with them. Just then from above their heads came the bark of a large-sounding dog, followed by pounding noises, which could have been the upstairs neighbour’s feet or missiles missing the dog and landing on the floor. From farther off the sounds of traffic and occasional calling voices from the street reached into the silence of the room through the black glass of the window.

‘Got a toilet?’ she asked. Michael raised his head and nodded past her, through the doorway where she was standing. She backed out, closing the door behind her, into the tiny entrance hall. At least now he had sort of given her permission to find the toilet, so she could try the other doors and see what kind of place it was. A tiny, practically empty kitchen. Only the one bedroom as she’d expected, and the smell was coming from there, which surprised her because the man himself was beautifully clean. A freezing bathroom, not exactly fresh but not filthy. Either he kept it fairly nice or he didn’t use it. But he must, because he was definitely clean himself and he even shaved. It was a pity about the bedroom, not that she would be sharing it, the way things were going. But just getting warm would be enough. Or almost enough, because now she thought about it, she was also starving.

When she returned, the cold bright air of the room had swollen and grown cruel with misery. Michael was hunched forward, crying. Steph dropped down beside him and pulled his hands away. He turned his twisted face from her and tried to bury his head in the back of the sofa. She looked round, working out that there would be no talking to him for a bit, even if she could think of anything to say. Meanwhile, he had pulled his legs up and was hugging his knees, as if to stop up a great overfilled sump of grief somewhere inside him. The sound of his sobs made Steph want to cry too. She was so cold. At least if they got warm, they might both still want to cry, but how could they feel any worse? She got up and turned the dial on the top of the gas fire. After some cranking and twisting, a blue flame whupped behind the chrome bars and the room filled with the smell of burning dust. Michael pulled himself upright and opened his mouth, gulping.

‘Can’t do that- costs a bomb, that fire.’

‘Got to warm the place up, haven’t we? Or we’ll freeze to death.’

Michael sucked in a deep breath. He should explain how he didn’t ever turn the fire on. He should explain about Ken across the way, how Ken’s place was always warm and that Ken was always in. How Ken seemed content to share his heat and hot water in return for a bit of company, even if the occasions when he and Michael were both capable of conversation did not often coincide. He should explain about the money, the fines, getting the stall going again, the electric, the TV licence. He should explain about Mr David and the sudden drop in price, how he only got two hundred and fifty for the figures, half of what he had been promised, and how half of that had already gone on getting the van towed back and it still needed fixing. But talking was too difficult, as would be the effort of making this woman go away. What did she want from him?

‘Got any money?’ Of course. She had seen him count out the notes for the man in the pickup and must have noticed that he hadn’t given him the lot. Michael leaned forward again and covered his face, feeling the backs of his hands soften in the first heat from the fire. Steph picked up the backpack from the floor, watching him carefully, pulled it open and brought out two crumpled magazines. Michael lifted his face but said nothing while she shook them about as if there might be banknotes lurking in them. Then she peered again into the empty backpack, stuffed the magazines into it and dropped it back on the floor.

‘Haven’t you got any ? Go on, give us some money and I’ll go out and get us something to eat. Go on .’ She spoke with an odd mixture of authority and impatience, like somebody much older than she appeared. Like somebody much older than he was, Michael thought, looking closely at her face for the first time. Like she was his mother or something, and she must be twenty years younger. He pulled a tenner from his pocket.

‘Give us another. Go on, twenty’s better. I’ll bring you the change.’ As she folded the second note she said, ‘I could do with a bath. Don’t suppose there’s any hot water, is there? While I’m out you can put the hot water on, OK? And don’t turn the fire off.’

Michael cleared his throat to object, but sank back in the sofa.

‘Bloody freezing out there,’ Steph said, lingering. Would he not volunteer to go instead?

There was a silence while Michael looked at the slice of pink mottled belly between Steph’s T-shirt and skirt. Clumsily he stood up.

‘Take this,’ he managed to say, pulling off his jacket as if he had just remembered what it was for. Holding it out, he said, ‘It’s warm.’ He retreated back into the sofa.

It was better than nothing. Steph slipped on the jacket, smiling in the manner of all women trying on something new with somebody else waiting to see her in it. It fitted over her bump. She did up the last button, thrust her hands in the pockets and looked up, but Michael’s eyes were closed and his face was crumpled again with crying. Upstairs the dog barked and was yelled at once more.

‘What’s your name?’ she asked, fingering the two ten pound notes in the pocket.

Michael’s eyes blinked open. ‘Michael.’

‘Mine’s Steph.’

It may have been in the exchange of names, but when the door closed behind her Michael felt oddly certain that she was not going to disappear with his jacket and twenty pounds, and Steph was confident that when she returned he would not still be weeping.

That evening winter returned. It was dark by the time I came in from the garden, knowing that the sunshine that afternoon had been only the illusion of spring. I ached all over and I was chilled from being out for so long. My exertions had kept me warm for as long as I worked, but as soon as I stopped I could feel that the cold had got right into me. I ran a very hot bath in my lovely white, green and yellow bathroom and lay in it, luxuriating in the knowledge that the drawing-room fire which I had just lit would be blazing for me when I came down. It crossed my mind that it was burning unattended, but I didn’t worry. It was such a benign presence, the drawing-room fire, I knew no sparks would fly from it and burn the rug. A fire can be a great comfort.

After her bath Jean sat by the fire in her alpaca dressing gown and silk pyjamas. Her face burned from the warm water and the tingle of soft cream after the punishment of the wind in the afternoon. Beneath the pyjamas, that were slipping over her shoulders and breasts and across her stomach as she breathed, her body felt and returned every stroke of the supple silk, yet it was stiffening up after all her work in the garden. The hardness in her arms and legs made her slightly triumphant, aware less of the age of her limbs than of their strength, as if she were a schoolgirl flexing them ready to make a long jump. But although the skin all over her body was soothed, at her core she was still cold and it was difficult to tell if she felt better than usual, or about to become ill. Better, she decided. Better, and more than that: it was as if her mind had just made the discovery that she actually had a body, and her body, just very slightly sorry for itself, was basking in the attention.