I can hear knocking on the door. It’s once removed. It’s not my door. I put my head against it and listen. It’s coming from across the landing. From Flo’s door. I wish we had those little peepholes so I could see who’s there. I listen carefully. Three knocks. Silence. Three more knocks. Much louder. They’re angry knocks. A bell sounds. It’s very quiet. Muffled. It’s coming from inside Flo’s flat. I didn’t even know she had a bell. Then more silence. I press my ear against the door. Why do we pull faces when we’re straining to hear? And our eyes move around, like they will see the sound. Suddenly the rapping is on my own door. I can feel it through the wood. I stumble backwards. As I fall I put my hands out to cushion my landing, so it’s quiet. I find myself braced in the push-up position, holding my breath. Silence. I wait. I wait. They’ve gone. I still don’t move though. Another knock. Not as urgent. I hear voices in the hallway. It’s just one voice. I can’t work out the words but the tone is not happy. It’s a man’s voice. Then there is silence again. My arms are already shaking. I’m not very fit. I’ve only been in this position for about thirty seconds. I’m actually sweating. It drops off my forehead and makes a dark spot on the carpet. I’m waiting for another drop, to see if it lands in the same place. I’m waiting but I’m also still listening. I must exercise. I lower myself onto the carpet. At eye level I can see all the individual threads. More silence. I begin to wonder if he’s gone. Suddenly my door shakes on its hinges. That’s how hard he is knocking. Or banging. Demanding. I listen carefully. It’s not his knuckles. It sounds like he’s made a fist and is hitting the door with the soft, fleshy bit underneath. Then it stops. Then he does the same to Flo’s door. I’m still on the floor. I won’t move. Another drop of sweat falls off me but I’ve moved so it lands somewhere else. There is a loud crash in the hallway. Something breaks. Heavy footsteps stomping down the stairs. The outer door opens then slams shut. Still I don’t move. I listen. He’s not coming back. I jump up and rush to the window. I’m just in time to see him getting in his car. I can only see the back of his head but I know it’s him. Well. He finally came. I never thought I’d see the day.
‘Do you want to take it?’ I’m holding out the note Derek shoved under her door but Flo doesn’t want to take it. She won’t even look at it. ‘Shall I read it to you, then?’
I turn it over in my hands. It’s been scribbled on the back of a receipt. A coffee and a chicken and bacon sandwich. Nothing incriminating. I skim through it silently.
‘Why does he call you Doris? Not Mum. Or Mother. He should call you Mother. That’s what I imagine him calling you. Anyway. He says he’s sorry he missed you. He came a long way out of his way to see you today.’ I look at Flo and raise just one eyebrow. This guy, my eyebrow says. Who is this guy? She won’t look at me, but she knows. ‘He says he’ll give you a call later.’ I turn the receipt over again. Looking on both sides. Although I know there’s nothing on the other side. ‘That’s all he says.’
I remember seeing a lighter somewhere in here. I wander around the room. There really is so little in here. You think of old people as hoarders. As collectors and repairers and storers of things that are no longer useful. But Flo’s flat is sparse. There are two shelves on the wall that don’t have anything at all on them. There is a photo on her bedside table. And a glass of water. Or just a glass. There is no water in it now. But almost nothing else. There is the lighter. On the floor by the bed. I look around again. Not even a candle. So why the lighter? What might she have been up to in here?
‘Flo? You dark horse. Something you want to tell me?’
I’m just teasing her. I smile and shake my head at the back of her chair. I was much less forthcoming when she was alive. Less friendly. I was reticent and withdrawn. Do they mean the same thing? I was worried what she’d think of me. If she knew me. But I’m telling her things now. I’ve told her about Reggie. That was hard. Admitting that. I’d never said it out loud before. It brought it all back and made my stomach twist. I still can’t believe… but anyway. Enough. Or I’ll get all disturbed again.
In Flo’s defence she’s proven herself to be a good listener. Fantastic even. She hasn’t judged me. I don’t know what she really thinks about the stuff she’s heard, but she’s made it so I’ve not been afraid to tell her other stuff. I think that’s the best you can hope for. I walk up behind her. I’m about to put my hand on her shoulder but stop myself just in time. I won’t touch that. I sit down again and pick up the note. If the lighter doesn’t spark in three flicks then I need to cut off my finger. Or Flo’s finger. Just as Roald Dahl said. But it sparks first time. I wasn’t really going to cut off my finger.
The note smoulders and then catches. In another second I’ve let it go and I am watching the ashes float in front of me. I blow hard and they shudder in mid-air, as though they don’t know which way to go, and then scatter into nothing.
‘He’ll be back,’ I say. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll see him then. I’ll ask him why he smashed up your pot plants. I’m not happy about that.’