Free The Last Girl by Penelope evans Page B

That is, marching downstairs,
banging a tattoo on her kitchen door, and yelling, 'Now then, Mandy, hows about
telling your old Larry what's up?' And why not? For the simple reason that
Larry Mann is not the sort to go poking his nose anywhere he's not wanted. It's
just not in my nature. Another person's life is their own, and you don't go
barging in, trying to take over if they don't want you to.
    On the other
hand, what could you do? You couldn't just sit around, waiting for her to tell
you, because that might never happen. What I needed was a clue, the merest hint
as to what was going on. That was the only way I would be able to help. And if
I couldn't get that clue from her, then the only sensible solution was to look
elsewhere.
    Which is a
roundabout way of explaining why it is that at half-past ten in the morning,
long after Mandy has gone out, and Ethel has done her rounds, I'm here, outside
Mandy's lounge, my hand on the door knob. There's no-one in of course, but
that's the whole idea.
    I'm looking
for clues, that's all.
    The problem
is now, when it's time to turn the knob and walk in. You may laugh, but it's
not as easy as it sounds. All this time I've been making her welcome as can be
in my own place, yet she hasn't once returned the compliment. I haven't seen
downstairs since she moved in. And now here I was, all set to enter uninvited.
    Daft, I know.
Like a second home these rooms should be, seeing as I must have been in and out
of them hundreds of times over the years. No-one has ever thought twice about
calling old Larry down when there was a hairdrier that needed fixing or plug
that wanted  changing. Then there have been all the times Ethel has sent me in
with an errand of her own. So what was the difference now?
    Hardly any.
That's what I said to myself. Hardly any, and with a good firm grip on the
handle I opened the door.
    Even so, it
comes as a shock.
    These rooms
have always been dingy, and the lounge the worst of the lot. Decrepit, damp,
neglected are words that spring to mind. Old rooms in an old house. It would
take an awful lot of good money to turn them around, but you can't expect that
of Ethel not when it's someone else who'd get the benefit.
    So why the
shock?
    Because
looking around me now was like seeing the place for the first time. I've never
had to think very hard about what it would be like to live here. After all, if
it's Indian girls you're talking about, these rooms might not exactly be your
ideal home, but they're still a darn sight better than what they must be used
to on the Subcontinent. I've yet to hear whether they have wallpaper over
there. But now, looking at it, as it were, all through Mandy's eyes, you start
seeing things afresh.
    It's a case
of copping the wallpaper, trying to remember when it first went up, and
failing, it was that long ago. Yet it was me that put it there. One thing I was
fairly sure of, it wasn't brown in those days, and nor is it because of me that
it's coming away from the ceilings. Those great spreading dark patches are
responsible for that.
    The
plasterwork is just as bad. I reckon you could hoover up twice a day here, and
you'll still find it scattered like dandruff over the floor. It's a shame that,
because it was on the plaster that I remember Ethel gave me free rein. 'Do what
you want, Mr Mann,' she said. So I went ahead and painted the rosettes and
garlands in colours I reckoned would brighten up the place. They're still
there, the lime greens and the oranges, but they don't do me credit, not with
all the cracks and gaps everywhere.
    Mind you, I
don't suppose Mandy gives two hoots about the plasterwork. I reckon she'd be
happy if there was just some way of stopping the wind howling through the gaps
in the window frames. It doesn't matter where you stand, you can feel the hairs
on the back of your neck lifted by something stronger than just a draught. What
I want to know, though, is why Mandy has tied back the net curtains. They're
not going to keep