Jonathan Coe - The Dwarves of Death

When I got back to the flat I went straight into my bedroom, switched on the keyboard and the amp and played what I’d written so far:

That was as far as I’d got. I’d had some ideas for the middle section but wasn’t in a position to start working on them yet. What should come next? The C seven implied an F minor, that was easy enough; and suddenly, with a stronger idea in my mind of the mood I was striving for, I wrote the next four bars straight off:

I played all eight bars through, several times, and felt pleased with them; but still I couldn’t think of a way to get the middle eight started. I tried thirteen different chords and none of them sounded right, so I gave up. I went into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea instead.

While I was waiting for the kettle to boil, I looked to see if Tina had written me a note before going out to work. She worked on the night shift in the word-processing department of a big legal firm in the City; her hours were from seven in the evening until two in the morning. This meant that she was never in when I got home at night, and always asleep when I left for work in the mornings. In other words, we never saw each other. I doubt if I had seen Tina for more than two or three hours in total since moving into her flat. Even at weekends she would sleep during the day and stay up all night, and besides, I made a point of trying not to be in the flat at weekends, because I found it too depressing. Just about everything I knew about her, then, I had learnt either from Tony and Judith, or from the notes which she used to leave me before going out to work. I knew, for instance, that she was about five years older than me and that she was dating a Spanish guy called Pedro, who lived in Hackney and worked similar hours to hers, as a mini-cab driver. She’d given him a key to the flat and he used to come in every morning at about three, just to sleep with her. Actually I don’t know why I’d got the impression that he was smarmy. I’d never met him or anything. Until that night, I’d never even heard his voice.

For the purpose of leaving notes to each other, there was a pad of lined A4 on the kitchen table. It seemed so much more satisfactory than just writing on little scraps of paper. This way we could get a proper dialogue going. I picked up the most recent sheet and read over the whole of the last week’s exchanges. They started fairly modestly, with a message from Tina:

Dear W, I see you have still not done the washing up. Nearly all the dirty crocks are yours and I’m blowed if I’m going to do it all for you. How do you expect me to cook a nice breakfast for P in the afternoons when I can’t even get at the sink? A man phoned for you this afternoon. Love T.

T — The simple reason I have not done the washing up is that there is NO LIQUID, and I know for a fact it is your turn to buy it. Have you noticed those damp patches on the bathroom walls and what do you think we should do about it? Telling me ‘a man phoned’ is no use at all if you’re not going to tell me what it was about. Did he have a Welsh accent? W.

Dear W, Are you blind or something, I put the washing-up liquid in the cupboard, right next to the chocohte biscuits. I’m sorry about the patches on the bathroom walls, it’s nothing serious. P and I had a bath together yesterday afternoon and he got a bit excited, that’s all. He’s such a sweetheart. I’m not very good at accents — it sounded more West Country to me. Somebody else rang today only I’m not sure if it was the same person, they got me out of bed and I wasn’t really with it. Are you going to eat up that cheese or just let it go mouldy? Love, T.

T — I’ve done most of the washing up, you’ll notice, but didn’t have time to finish it because I overslept. Why did I oversleep? Because the bloody phone woke me at four in the morning, that’s why! I suppose it was good old Tommy the Toreador again. You didn’t exactly keep your voice down while you were talking to him, either. You must have been nattering away for nearly half an hour. Incidentally could you take proper messages in future because these people ringing up for me might be offering WORK. Yes, I am going to eat the cheese. It looks in perfectly good condition to me. W.

Dear W, How do you think I felt, having to ANSWER the phone at four in the morning? I was devastated when P rang at that hour. He’s never done anything like this to me before. He didn’t give any proper reason for not coming over but I could hear music playing in the background so he must have been at some club or party or something. We weren’t talking for NEARLY half an hour. In fact he was very short with me. And I had to raise my voice because he could hardly hear me. Anyway, I was damn well going to have my say, if he was going to treat me like that. I’m sorry if I disturbed your sleep but what about MY FEELINGS? I didn’t sleep a WINK that night, as you can imagine.

I’ve thrown away your cheese. It was starting to pong the place out. Love, T.

P.S. What with your messages and P phoning up at all hours, what would you say to sharing the cost of an answering machine?

T — I’m sorry if Pedro upset you and you had a rough night, but I think it’s a bit small-minded to take it out on an inoffensive bit of cheese. The kitchen still smells and if you look in the fridge I think you’ll find that the culprit is your jar of taramasalata which is well past its ‘best before’ date. Yes, getting an answering machine would be an excellent idea and I’d be very happy to pay half. W.

Dear W, I had another bad night last night and I must say it didn’t help hearing you clattering about this morning like a herd of merording buffaloes. Could you not be a bit quieter when you get your breakfast in the mornings? There have been no more calls for you but I wonder if our phone is out of order or something because I’m sure P would have rung up to apologize for not coming round again. Have you got any intention of giving me any money for the rent? It’s been more than four weeks now and I’m not made of money you know. By the way I saw you out of the window today going off to work and you do look thin. Are you eating enough? There is some cold casserole in the fridge and you are welcome to it. I made enough for two this afternoon but guess who never turned up to have his share.

I popped into Town this afternoon and bought the machine. Exciting, isn’t it? I hope I’ve set it up right. You can check and also see if anybody has left a message yet. Love, T.

I opened the fridge and found the cold casserole dish. It looked pretty grim by now but tasted all right. I suppose I should have heated it up and put it on a plate and everything but that’s not the kind of thing you feel like doing at that time in the morning. I just got a spoon and took the whole thing through into the sitting-room.

The answering machine was all fixed up and there was a little green light flashing. I gathered from the instruction book (which Tina had left by the side of the telephone) that this meant there was a message waiting. I wondered if it would be my mysterious caller with the West Country accent, or maybe someone from Midi Mania magazine, calling to say that they’d read my reviews and wanted me to write for them. But as it turned out there was only one message, delivered by a voice which was unmistakably Spanish: