Renée Knight - Disclaimer

I was like a child at Christmas when my friend the printer delivered the first copies of my book. In fact, Christmas had been and gone — a solitary one for me. A ready-meal of turkey for one, roast potatoes and Brussels sprouts, gravy and cranberry sauce. It smelled better than it tasted — a hint of festive spice in the air when I peeled back the cardboard lid. I had to wait until the end of January for my real Christmas, but when I took that first book out of the box, I knew it had been worth waiting for. I’d used an image from one of Jonathan’s postcards on the cover. Blue sky, burning sun. Yes, it worked very well: a hot, white sun which you could see even when you closed your eyes. My friend was all for sitting me down and guiding me through the process of managing orders online but I didn’t have time for that, I was keen to get on, so I assured him that I’d mastered the Internet universe and was managing very well. I had no intention of waiting for orders online.

When I put that first book into a jiffy bag and wrote her address on it, my hands were trembling with anticipation. I took such care, making sure I didn’t transpose any letters or numbers on the post code, but then in the end I decided I would hand-deliver it. Hot off the press, a free gift for a very special person. To keep it a surprise I delivered it in the wee, small hours when I was sure I wouldn’t be seen. There was a satisfying slap when it landed on the mat: a little grenade waiting for someone to pull out the pin. I wanted her to feel its full blast when she was least expecting it, perhaps curled up on the sofa with a glass of wine in her hand. I didn’t include a note with the book. I wasn’t seeking attention for myself — it was recognition I was after. Not of me, but of her. I wanted her to recognise that the woman in the book was her true self, not the one she pretended to be, but the real one. I wanted to smack her in the face with the truth.

I suppose the book was like a terrier, my little Jack Russell of a novel which would sniff her out from her hiding place and chase her into the open. Its little pointed teeth would expose her, strip away the counterfeit selves she’d assembled. How well she’s hidden inside her long, successful marriage; her celebrated career; being a mother too, we mustn’t forget that. Such a useful disguise. Be honest, for fuck’s sake. Own yourself. And then we’ll see how you live with yourself after that.

I was tired when I got home so I went back to bed for a bit. I woke around lunchtime and made myself a cheese sandwich but it was a sad affair. The cheese was dry and the bread stale. I still had a shelf in the larder where I kept the preserves Nancy had made. I hadn’t touched them since she’d died, but that day I picked out a jar of onion chutney, scraped off the mould, and spread it over the cheese. As I swallowed down the first bite of sandwich, something caught at the back of my throat. I stopped chewing, using my tongue to wheedle out the alien body. It wasn’t alien though, it was part of Nancy — a long, white hair. I could have chosen any jar, but for some reason it was that one I’d been drawn to — the one which contained a token from my wife. I sucked it clean and laid it on the side of my plate. It was a sign, I was sure. This was vintage Nancy — she’d never been one to allow a good deed to go unmarked. It was her seal of approval and it made me think about what else I might do to please her. Be bold, I thought.

It was a bright, crisp day, the sun sharp and valiant, and I enjoyed the feel of it on my face as I sat on the top of the bus. It was only a short walk from Oxford Circus, but it took longer than it should have to negotiate my way through the dithering pedestrians and reach the electrical department of John Lewis, but lunch had restored my energy. A new vacuum cleaner, that’s what I settled on, but which one? I needed help so I looked around and there he was. The man I was looking for. He was helpful at first, the suited young salesman with his slip-on shoes and his name badge. He seemed to understand exactly what I needed. Something light for an old boy to manage up and down the stairs. He was sympathetic when I told him that my wife, now dead, had taken care of most of the household duties. He suggested a Dyson, something I could pull behind me, but which had a handle to make it easier to get up the stairs. Attachments and a super-suck, nothing stronger on the market. Oh, but I did feel nostalgic for an upright. I felt I would be more comfortable with something which at least resembled our old model. I couldn’t help noticing the smell of tobacco on him. Just back from a sneaky fag no doubt. But the upright was even heavier than the Dyson — I wasn’t sure I had the strength to manage it. Perhaps something nonelectrical might be better? A Bissle? Isn’t that what they’re called? Something with rollers which catch the dust as they move over the carpet? What about that? He cocked his head and looked as if I had asked him to conjugate his Latin verbs. Then he fired back his own questions: How thick was my pile? Carpet or rugs? Bare floors? He struggled on as best he could and we went backwards and forwards, until he could no longer hide his impatience. Was I taking up too much of his time? Was I eating into his tea break? I could see the tension in his jaw, the gritting of his teeth, the glancing over to a colleague and the rolling of his eyes. I’m sure if his manager had seen that, he would have been taken to task. What would you do, if you were me? I asked. The Dyson, he said. You’re the expert, I replied, and he took down the box and told me how “it wouldn’t disappoint.” Well worth the money. Never knowingly undersold. He carried it to the cash desk, but I had a change of heart. How to break it to him? It was a lot of money for someone on a pension. I couldn’t go through with it, I said, and hoped I hadn’t wasted his time.

I’d wanted to give him a chance. I’d hoped he might at least have come close to persuading me to buy something I didn’t need, but he was hopeless. A complete waste of space. I doubt he would be considered the right material for the management training scheme. A couple of days later I went back with a thank-you gift for him and left it with the girl at the cash desk. Tell him it’s from an appreciative customer, I said.

Having delivered my first two books, I now had to wait and frequently checked my laptop for a review of the book, a message, anything. I wasn’t surprised there was nothing from him, but I had anticipated some feedback from her. Heartless bitch. I had wanted to remain anonymous for as long as possible and to tease her out, but now I felt compelled to go back to her house and see what the hell was going on.

Such a nice house. Recently painted, front garden well planted. This was a home. A nice home, but a home into which I would not be welcome. I had been standing there for about an hour. It was cold. It was spring but a bitter one. At last a car pulled up. The back doors burst open and children piled out. Three of them in varying sizes. That wasn’t right. And then a woman. The mother. But the wrong mother. Perhaps it was the wrong car too. Just because it had stopped outside the right house didn’t make it the right car. But the wrong mother walked up the path of the right house and unlocked the front door and went inside. I crossed over. This was the house where I had dropped my grenade, but it had fallen into the wrong hands.

I took a step onto the path, and saw a face looking at me from a downstairs window. Then another joined it. Two small faces looking at me. And then a third trying to get in on the act. I smiled at them and they shot away from their post, the curtain swinging back into place. I kept smiling as I walked up to the front door and rang the bell. I could hear their little squealy voices inside, excited, I suppose, by the idea of a stranger at their door. The three little pigs.