Free This Perfect World by Suzanne Bugler

held
it, and listened to Mr Partridge’s lungs collapse and gasp,
collapse and gasp, as if there was some pedal-pump inside
him, pumping him up like a lilo.
    We played cards. Gin rummy and things that I thought
were just for grown-ups. I wanted my dad, and my mum,
badly. I wanted the loo badly too, but I was far too scared
to venture up into the dark upstairs of the Partridges’ house.
We were sitting on the floor – not Mr Partridge of course,
but the rest of us. I sat on the heel of one foot, finding it
hard to keep still, until in the end I was fidgeting so much
that Mrs Partridge said to me, ‘Need the lavvie, Laura?
Heddy’ll show you where it is.’
    Heddy showed me up the dark, narrow stairs where the
air was much, much colder and smelled of old mattresses
and damp. The bathroom was down the end of the landing,
past the two bedrooms. Heddy flicked on the landing light,
a dusty, solitary bulb hanging yellow and shadeless from the
ceiling, illuminating the shadows and spooky corners. ‘It’s
there,’ she said, pointing at the bathroom door. ‘Do you want
me to wait for you?’
    And I said No , in the way that we always said no to
Heddy, as if everything she suggested was stupid, or weird,
or both.
    The light in the bathroom was one of those old-fashioned
strips, worked by a cord. I yanked it on, and closed the door
behind me. Bathrooms are intimate places. I remember laughing,
recently, over someone’s tale about a bathroom cabinet
stuffed with marbles, so that when a nosy guest went prying
the marbles came tumbling out, crashing all over the place,
for everyone else to hear.
    They had a really old-fashioned loo with a big, black cistern
up above it, which looked as if it might crash down upon
your head while you were sitting there; and a proper chain
to pull, to flush it; and square sheets of toilet paper in a box,
not on a roll like we had at home. The soap was on a little
shell-shaped dish, and going soft underneath. I washed my
hands and dried them on the big towel hanging over the
bath. I wondered whose towel it was, and how they ever
managed to have a bath when it was so filled with the
washing basket, a cactus plant in a tub and Mrs Partridge’s
sewing machine.
    Mrs Partridge had got the cake out when I came back
down. She’d put it on the table and was sticking the candles
into little holders balanced precariously on top. Heddy and
Ian were standing by the table, watching her, both of them
puffing their cheeks in and out as if practising their blowing-out
skills. I looked over at Mr Partridge, still sitting in his
chair. He’d fallen asleep, with his head tilted backwards and
his mouth wide open.
    I thought he was dead. I thought he was dead and no one
else had noticed.
    ‘There,’ Mrs Partridge said, as she stuck the last candle
in. She patted the pockets of her pinny, found matches and
pulled them out. ‘Now, what else do we need?’ She glanced
around the room, vaguely, her eyes passing over Mr Partridge.
She didn’t seem to notice that he was dead. ‘Heddy,’ she said,
‘go and fetch some plates, and a knife.’
    And Heddy went out to the kitchen, walking past Mr
Partridge, and she didn’t notice that he was dead, either.
Soon she came back again, carrying plates with a big kitchen
knife balanced on top. She watched what she was doing,
so as not to drop anything. Still she didn’t notice what had
happened to Mr Partridge.
    I didn’t know what to do.
    Ian was starting to jump about a bit now, excited at the
prospect of cake. He’d see, I thought. He’d see that his dad
was dead. But Ian didn’t take his eyes off the cake, and now
Mrs Partridge was striking up a match and lighting those
candles.
    ‘Come on, come on, gather round,’ she said to me, but I
stood rooted to the spot. ‘ Happy birthday to you . . .’ she
started up, and Ian joined in, and I tried to, but I couldn’t
stop glancing sideways at Mr Partridge. I