There but for The_ A Novel - Ali Smith [29]
That old man, look at him, he wants it.
The friends round him sniggered again.
But even well after the sniggering had died away the boy continued to hold the stare. In it there was a perfectly judged balance of rejection and invitation. The boy was an expert. He looked all of thirteen. He was far too young to be acting so knowing. Mark stilled a wild laugh in his chest. He shook his head at the boy, but to make sure the boy wasn’t offended he winked first. When he shook his head the boy looked down and away, and Mark did too, and moved off, out round the school party, back down through the gate and towards the park.
The slope down was painful to the knees, more painful than the climbing of it had been. Greenwich, the teacher was saying behind him as he went, and Greenwich, and again Greenwich.
Greenwich then: the word, white on black on the label of the 45 in his hands, Mark just thirteen years old himself: London American Recordings 1963 Then He Kissed Me (Spector, Greenwich, Barry) The Crystals.
Greenwich now: the word that had caught his eye when he was in a café skimming their copy of one of the weekend papers on Sunday, Observer, Guardian, whichever, and when he looked properly he saw the picture and recognized the woman, the one from the dinner party.
The column was the Real Life column, where real people told the paper about a real experience; usually something like Dolphins Carried My Baby To Safety or I Woke Up One Day Not Remembering Who I Was or My Life Was Ruined By An Over The Counter Cold Remedy or I Was Mugged By My Own Brother. Mark had waited till all the serving people were out of earshot and then had torn the page out, folded it and put it in his pocket next to that chap Miles’s note. That night in the bath he decided: on his next day off, Thursday, he’d go to Greenwich and slip the page under Miles’s door in case nobody else had thought to show it to him. And it would be nice, too, to spend his day off in Greenwich, see the place again, maybe visit the park.
But when he’d got to the Lees’ house and knocked on the front door this morning there’d been no one home. Well, presumably Miles was in, but he wasn’t about to open the front door to anyone, was he?
He had the article in his inside jacket pocket now, folded, along with Miles’s note, well, he was assuming it was from Miles, it couldn’t really be from anybody else, though it wasn’t signed. He’d found it in there, a plain piece of foolscap folded twice, when he’d got his wallet out to buy a train ticket the Sunday after the dinner party. The handwriting was new to him. It was intelligent, slightly forward-slanted, neatly spaced down the page rather like a poem might be though it wasn’t one. It was quite clear. Only one word was difficult to decipher.
He stopped on the slope. People went past him; a couple of people speaking French. Mark took both folded pieces of paper out of his pocket.
Below the words REAL LIFE: An Uninvited Stranger Lives In My Spare Room, was the picture of Mrs. Lee in profile, standing beside a door, looking rather tragically down at its handle. The caption read: Genevieve Lee recounts what it’s like living twenty-four-seven with an uninvited stranger.
I had always loved living here
in our gracious old historic
Greenwich town house. From
practically the first day my
husband Eric and I and our
young daughter moved in, it
seemed to me to be asking to
be a really sociable space. I don’t
think it’s an exaggeration to say that
among our friends we’re renowned
for our hospitality. Until June
this year we were forever having
people round for interesting
soirées and sending them
home happy after a meal I’d
have taken great pains to cook
to perfection each time.
We had no way of knowing that
this one dinner party, however,
would turn out so dramatically
differently from the others. That
particular