One Day in May - Catherine Alliott [119]
Quick as a flash I lay flat on my stomach. I’d watched enough 007 films to know instinctively that prone was the way forward. If I was to achieve my keys, glinting ten bags away in the evening sunlight, I had to spread the weight. Had to crawl, commando-style, towards them. Nose and mouth clenched, I inched my way across bags of a heave-making revolting nature, some of which had split, spewing forth their disgusting contents. Finally I was within snatching distance. I lunged, grasped – and slipped sideways down a crevice. Hugging a bag in a full-on embrace to stop myself falling, the red leather tag in my fist, I whimpered with panic, eyes bulging in terror. I could hear the elderly couple at the side, twittering in consternation. I clung on. Then, slowly, slowly, eased myself out of the crack, out of the… kipper bones… the ancient yoghurts, the mayonnaise, the coleslaw, the – oh, dear God – nappies… and crawled back, slowly, hyperventilating gently, towards the side. Towards freedom.
Getting out, however, was not so straightforward. Whilst I’d lowered myself impulsively and easily down an eight-foot skip wall, without bionic springs, I couldn’t just as easily leap out. Whimpering now, I piled bag upon bag of rancid rubbish into a rotting, tottering pagoda up which to climb. I placed my foot just so – and the bag split under the pressure. Chicken vindaloo squelched over my witty little shoes and right up my legs. I told myself it would all end soon. Soon be over. I clamoured aboard the top one, declined the delicate arms that flailed over to help lest I snap them, and heaved myself over the side.
Much consternation and agitation then ensued, but even my new friends backed off sharpish at the pong that was emanating from me; at the sight of me, slathered from head to toe in household waste. They thought twice about laying their papery hands on my ketchup-smeared arms. Off they scampered to their car, croaking their thanks, whilst I, walking – appropriately enough – like The Thing From the Swamp, arms and legs away from my body, dripping with – oh, let’s just call it goo – went to mine.
Not wanting to brush myself down for fear of what I might brush, longing to strip, to shower, to scrub, to flay even, longing for an out-of-clothes-and-body experience, I found an old newspaper to sit on. Then I opened all the windows – hands trembling, I noticed – and sped back down the lanes to Laura’s. Chin raised, lips clenched, I could almost hear the shower running. Could almost sniff the Lifebuoy. No: don’t sniff.
I crunched up the gravel drive and parked in a creative fashion at the front, making a mental note to hose the car out later. Eschewing the grand portal and steps, I ran, arms still hanging like a baboon’s, around the side of the house to the back door, but as I beetled past the herb garden, past the scullery window and turned the corner, Laura appeared, already dressed in a beautiful navy silk dress. Already coiffed and fragrant.
‘Oh!’ She halted in her tracks. ‘Hattie. Good God, whatever’s happened? You’re covered in muck! You’ve got spaghetti and – oh yuk, teabags, and something gross in your hair! Is that a condom?’
She stared at me in horror and since I hadn’t dared glance in the rear-view mirror, could only imagine the gory scene I presented.
‘Long story,’ I gasped, as she backed away, hand to nose. ‘Been in the tip.’ I could hardly speak.
‘Hattie, you don’t have to get in.’ Her blue eyes widened in dismay. ‘You just drop the bags in. You don’t actually have to—Oh.’ Suddenly her face changed. Was covered in confusion as