Nicola Barker - In the Approaches

I don’t have the heart to say it out loud.

‘Yes.’ He looks suitably crestfallen at the notion. ‘We’ve been engaged for eight years now. I suppose I must probably feel something.’

(Clifford and Alice, a local milkmaid, were engaged after she proposed to him, in 1976, a leap year, and he was just too kind to say no. At least that was always his version of events. Alice plays the scene quite differently, by all accounts.) I nod. Now it’s my turn to look crestfallen. I decide to take it on the chin, though, and promptly rally. I draw a steadying breath and strengthen my resolve. I know that the worst thing I could possibly do under these particular circumstances would be to offer Clifford any form of assistance.

No. I shan’t. I shall not. I will not – must not, definitely not – offer Clifford Bickerton any kind of help. I must never help Clifford Bickerton, and I must never receive help from Clifford Bickerton.

Oh, but the urge to offer help is so … so natural, so instinctive, so spontaneous, so … so …

No. No! No help, Carla. No offers of help! None.

‘Go and pay for the biscuits,’ I promptly tell him, ‘then pop around to the bungalow. I can’t possibly leave you like this. I have a pair of shears … Uh …’ I pause, scowling. ‘At least I did have a pair of shears …’

‘In the shed?’ he asks, almost tender (I suppose men will feel emotional about outbuildings).

I nod. ‘I do have some kitchen scissors, though,’ I persist.

His face lights up. It lights up. Every pore and auburn whisker is suffused with joy.

No! No , Carla! Bad Carla! Mustn’t. Offer. Help.

Will. Not.

I. Must. Not.

No. Help.

None!

Ten minutes later and he is kneeling on the worn kitchen lino and I am brandishing the scissors in front of him.

‘Sure you’re all right with this?’

‘Yup. Do it.’ He braces himself.

I kneel down beside him and gently slide the bottom blade of the scissors under the right-hand side of the jumper’s collar.

‘Stay very still,’ I instruct him, leaning in closer. It is difficult to find the correct angle and draw the blades together without resting my lower arm and wrist against his leonine neck and cheek. Ah, and there’s that all too familiar ‘Clifford smell’ of candle wax, sleeping puppies and engine grease! A lovely smell. The smell of industry and loyalty and good intent.

‘Your Tikhomirov study of the birches is on the floor,’ Clifford quietly observes.

‘Uh … Sorry?’ I re-focus.

‘Your painting of the birch trees …’ he repeats.

‘Oh. Yes. Of course. It fell down. During the landslip. It was the only casualty inside the house. The bottom of the frame snapped.’

‘I remember the day you bought that.’ He smiles tenderly at the memory.

‘Yes.’

I adjust my arm, frowning, and start to cut. The jumper curls away beneath my hand on both sides like two obliging slithers of apple peel. The trusty old vest below has – to its eternal credit – somehow managed to stay intact.

‘I’ll fix it if you like,’ Clifford volunteers, ‘the frame.’

‘It’s fine,’ I insist, ‘I can do it myself. Some strong glue …’

‘Oh. Okay.’ He is slightly hurt yet resigned.

‘I still love it. I still love birch trees,’ I muse. ‘ Berezka . Beautiful Berezka . I don’t know why, they just make me feel so … so …’

‘Russian,’ he murmurs.

I start.

‘I really like all your new propaganda posters …’ He inspects the busy walls, thoughtfully, his eyes pausing on an early ‘Liberated Women Build up Socialism!’ poster which features a wholesome Russian peasant girl brandishing a pistol. Next to it the ‘Think About Those Who Are Starving!’ poster in blue and black with a loaf, cup, bowl and ominous, pointing hand.

‘I’ve been using them as a cheap way of covering up all the stains on the old wallpaper,’ I explain, ‘although they’re way too good for a kitchen, really—’

‘I see your collection of Russian lacquered boxes has increased a fair bit since I last visited,’ he interrupts, flexing his chest as the scissors finally break through the jumper’s waistline. ‘And the Soviet china figurines …’ He tips his head towards the old dresser. ‘Is that a new Lomonosov Chow?’

‘Uh …Yes. I found it wrapped up in a big box of Uzbek fabrics. In an antique shop near Hythe … D’you think you might manage to pull it off manually from here?’

Clifford tries to yank the jumper from his shoulder but his arms are still stiff and he has no luck.

‘Shall I cut down the back?’

He nods and shuffles around, obligingly.

‘Has Shimmy been to visit you here lately?’ he wonders.

‘Shimmy?’ I pause, briefly, before answering. ‘Uh. No. Not of late. He’s still not especially mobile. That problem with his feet.’

Clifford turns his head to peer towards the blades as I insert them, pressing gently into the nape of his neck.

‘Why d’you ask?’ I wonder, slightly anxious. He doesn’t respond so I recommence cutting again.

‘I’ve been doing some work for a man in Bexhill who’s trying to get shot of a collection of Soviet army surplus stuff – a gas mask, a transistor radio, a canteen and a vodka flask, some military badges …’

‘Sounds interesting.’ I continue to cut.

‘He showed me a little, wooden sewing kit – a travelling kit – in the shape of a minaret. And a group of Kiddush cups – the sterling silver ones. Not a complete set. I think he had five in total. In fact …’

‘I can see how this might’ve been expensive,’ I muse, smoothly running the scissors – and my hand – down the back of the jumper, ‘it’s very soft.’

‘Soft but lethal,’ Clifford affirms.

‘And very bright. Luminous, almost.’

‘A statement piece.’ Clifford smiles, wanly.

‘Is that how Alice described it?’ I wonder, chuckling.

‘Uh …’ he frowns, obviously not wanting to appear disloyal.

The scissors cut the waistband and I pull back with a measure of satisfaction (like a smug Lady Mayor on cutting the ribbon at a local fete): ‘The Pringle is vanquished!’ I grin, throwing down the scissors and grabbing the jumper firmly at the top of his arm in order to yank it off. ‘Clifford Bickerton is finally liberated from the scourge of lambswool!’

I pull, but the jumper hardly gives. Instead I yank Clifford towards me and we both nearly topple sideways. He tips but steadies himself, his weight supported on his arm which is now planted, firmly, between my knees. I stop myself from falling by simply holding on. His bicep is like a giant squash. So hard. He doesn’t automatically straighten himself.

‘Don’t let go,’ he murmurs, into my hair. I am close to his ear. I long to press the cool outline of it against the skin of my forehead. It’s a random urge. Silly. But Clifford has such nice ears. Good ears. Familiar ears.

‘I’ve been reading that Ivan Yefremov novel you bought me for Christmas,’ I say, turning my head away, releasing my grip, delighting – thrilling, even – at my considerable powers of self-control, ‘the sci-fi thing. Andromeda . It’s very good.’

‘That was three Christmases ago,’ he answers, thickly.

‘Pardon?’

‘It’s from three Christmases ago.’

‘Oh. Well it’s very good,’ I repeat.

He suddenly straightens himself and clambers heavily to his feet. He walks to the window and peers out.

‘What did the surveyor say?’ he murmurs, coolly assessing the damage.

I stand up myself. ‘Tiered gardens are all the vogue, apparently.’ I try to make light of it.