Morag Joss - Half Broken Things

‘Now there was that breakage for a start, wasn’t there? You never did supply the details, Jean, though I do remember we asked. So if you’d just get the inventory, we can action that one, for a start.’ She smiled efficiently.

Jean’s mind swam. ‘I kept the bits,’ she said, hopelessly, ‘it was a teapot.’

‘That’s no good,’ Shelley said, busy filling in boxes on her form. ‘I need to work off the inventory, so if you can just get your copy.’ She looked up. ‘You do have the paperwork, don’t you?’

‘Oh well, of course. Somewhere, though I can’t quite think…’

There had been no time, in the alarming hour between Shelley’s telephone call and her arrival, to work out quite what they would do or say if the question of the inventory came up. They had torn around tidying up, removing their group photographs in the silver frames, the funny pictures and messages on the front of the fridge, trying to make the house look less relaxed and lived-in. They had decided that whatever else happened Shelley must not be allowed upstairs. The smell of fresh paint from the nursery that was obvious even on the landing would be difficult to explain; temporary house guests do not usually embark on redecorating, particularly when their hosts are absent. But Michael had been quite bumptious by then.

‘Oh well, if we have to, we’ll just wing it!’ he had told Jean. ‘Just stay in character. Remember, you’re the house sitter, me and Steph and Charlie are Oliver’s relations. Just hang on to that and stay in character . And wing it!’

That was all very well. But how was she to stay in character and wing it when she actually was the house sitter, one who had filled the house with her own family? And burned the inventory, emptied the freezer, altered whole tracts of the garden, moved into the best rooms, purloined clothes, destroyed photographs, sold furniture and artefacts? It sounded quite unreal, put like that, not at all an accurate way of describing what she had done, but that was how somebody like Shelley would look at it.

‘Jean? The inventory? You’re not saying you’ve lost it, are you?’

Jean felt as if her brain were melting. She shot a look at Michael, who grinned at her. ‘Oh, mea culpa, I expect! Blame us!’ he told Shelley, suddenly. ‘I’m afraid we’ve rather turned the place upside down, descending out of the blue. I have made it clear that Jean’s not here to clear up after us, haven’t I, Jean, so things are not as pristine as they were. It was hunky-dory when we arrived. Sorry!’

He moved over to the teapot and refilled Shelley’s half-empty cup. ‘Tell you what though, I did shift a load of papers upstairs. Didn’t I, Jean? Let me see if it’s there. Shan’t be a tick.’ He loped happily from the room.

His absence hung awkwardly between the two women. Jean got up and wandered over to the window. There seemed to be not a single safe thing to say. She grasped for a remark that would be in character . ‘They’re pretty, aren’t they, these windows, with the lavender growing in the border there, just outside, underneath?’ she offered. ‘It’s a lovely kitchen, don’t you think?’

‘You sound well at home,’ Shelley said, flatly. ‘I’ll say that.’

‘Oh, no, you just notice things after a while,’ Jean said, backtracking. She felt like screaming at the woman. ‘I just mean, the flowers. That’s honeysuckle growing through that tree, for instance.’

Shelley did not reply. Just then Michael reappeared, followed by a shyly smiling Steph, dressed from top to toe in white. Her hair hung like long, gleaming cornstalks and Charlie’s fingers turned and twisted in its thickness as he stared round. His skin was the same colour as Steph’s, a mixture of gold and milk, and their faces wore the same sleep-soothed shine. Jean, for a moment until she remembered herself, looked at them with unguarded adoration.

‘Hello! Charlie’s come to say hello !’ Steph trilled. She stepped forward and shook Charlie’s forearm in the air. ‘Charlie says hello!’

Shelley had no option but to lift her hand and give a tinkling wave back, with a sort of Watch with Mother smile. ‘Hello, Charlie!’ she said. Jean did the same.

‘No sign, I’m afraid,’ Michael was saying, scratching the back of his head. ‘Bloody paperwork, never where you think it is. Know it’s there somewhere, but need to have a bloody good look. Sorry!’

But Shelley was not listening. Steph had advanced towards her with Charlie, who had given a sudden beam and stretched his arms out towards her. He was now being settled in Shelley’s lap and Shelley was taking off in an unselfconscious flight of rapture. It was not clear to whom she was speaking, Charlie, his parents, or herself, but she was making kissing faces and letting loose with a burble of words and noises of admiration. Charlie gazed up at her, impassive and open-mouthed. A bead of saliva that had been gathering on his bottom lip fell onto the back of her hand. She did not even notice.

It was Charlie who saved us. I never would have taken Shelley for the type to go helpless over babies, but once she’d got Charlie on her lap I knew we would be all right. I apologised nicely about the inventory again and Michael kept butting in saying the fault was his; between us we bored Shelley into the ground over the inventory until she said it wouldn’t matter. She was hardly listening. By then Charlie was smiling and laughing up at her and she was completely taken up with talking to him and shaking his bunny rabbit at him. We just bombarded her- Charlie with his giggles, I with cup after cup of tea, Michael with all sorts of banter to show what a scatty but charming sort he was. Steph just sat nearby looking luminous and drinking up the compliments about Charlie. Michael offered to check over the house himself with the inventory, when he found it, and report anything amiss direct to her in Stockport. Shelley said that would be fine.

I suppose Michael simply wore her out with protestations about what a good job I was doing and how he had said so to Oliver on the telephone. Now that was an awkward moment, because Shelley was a bit surprised at that. For a minute I thought we’d gone too far. But it was just that the agency had been instructed not to contact ‘Oliver’ (as Shelley was now calling him, even though she had never met him) unless there was some dire emergency. He did not wish to be disturbed, apparently. Oh, but of course the family keeps in touch, Michael said, so barefaced I could have blushed for him. So when he finally pulled her off to see the swimming pool nobody even remembered she was supposed to be here on this stupid ‘Management Visit’ and she’d long since lost any hope of seeing over the house. But by then she didn’t really care. After all, she had satisfied herself that the place was still standing.

I point this out because even though I’ve never been a fan of Shelley’s I don’t think the agency can be blamed for anything, except for trying to get rid of me before I was ready.

Charlie grew fractious just in time. First he got a little cranky, and then he twisted in Shelley’s arms until Steph took him firmly, settled herself back in her chair and flipped out one enormous blue-veined breast. Shelley at once turned her startled eyes away, embarrassed at being embarrassed. Nobody else was.

‘More tea?’ Jean asked, cupping her hand round the pot and frowning. She glanced at the clock. ‘You’ve got a bit of a journey, haven’t you?’ she said pleasantly.

‘Yes, poor you,’ Steph murmured, smiling down at Charlie, who was slapping and guzzling happily.

‘I usually go round and close the windows about now,’ Jean went on. ‘So if you’ll excuse me-’