he said.
Laura looked at him. ‘What does “throw them gingerly at you” mean?’ she said crossly. ‘Just throw them. Don’t knock me out. And don’t – urgh! Oh Paddy – urgh. Don’t throw them at the pigeon. Urgh!’
Paddy had prided himself on his spin bowling at school, and indeed was reckoned to be rather good at it. He tossed each welly in the air, and miraculously each landed, in a slow, spinning arc, in Laura’s outstretched hands. She pulled them on and climbed out of bed. Stepping around the glass and rubbish by her bed, she leapt across the mound of it by the door, and landed next to Paddy.
‘Er…’ she said, not knowing how to ask. ‘Paddy…?’
Paddy stepped forward and gently picked up the dead pigeon. He dropped it into Laura’s wastepaper basket, and picked the receptacle up.
‘Cup of tea?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ said Laura. She pulled her hair back and tied it into a ponytail. ‘Yes, yes please.’
‘Going to buy a new duvet and bin?’ said Paddy, as he pulled the bedroom door firmly shut behind them.
‘Oh, you bet.’
It was Paddy’s last week of term, so he left for work a while later, by which time they had had several cups of tea, called a glazier (Laura), deposited the pigeon in some newspaper and a bag in the rubbish bins outside (Paddy), and donned rubber gloves and begun the work of – once again gingerly – collecting each piece of glass that had managed to spray itself remarkably widely around Laura’s room (Laura). By the time the glazier showed up after lunch, Laura had showered and dressed and had stripped and washed her sheets. She threw away the duvet – she knew it was wrong and a waste of the world’s resources, but it was almost fetid AND covered in dead pigeon. There was no way she’d ever sleep with it again, she knew, and no amount of boil washes could clean it for her.
The glazier was a short, squat man, who looked as if he had been born in blue dungarees. He was called Jan Kowolczyk.
‘Well, well,’ he said when Laura came to check on him after a little while. ‘Nearly finished here, young lady, then all will be good as new again.’
Laura nodded. She agreed. It was all part of it, she knew. Her feeling of having been evangelically cleansed. She had had her time in the wilderness, and A Sign had come to her to show her The Way. Sure, it was a disease-ridden pigeon, and it had almost given her a heart attack, but she had felt and interpreted its symbolism as keenly as if she were an A-level student reading Emily Brontë for the first time. And she knew what she was going to do next.
‘Thank you,’ said Laura, smoothing her long, black linen skirt down with her hands and then clasping them lightly in front of her. Her hair was clean and soft, tied up in a neat ponytail which brushed the back of her neck. The breeze through the window blew gently across her face and chest. She felt so in control now. She glanced around the room, her eye falling on the bookshelf, piled high with her own books and videos, the self-indulgent ones she daren’t have out in the sitting room. It was an unspoken agreement between her and Paddy. The Godfather and Spinal Tap were out in the sitting room, along with various thrillers and classics and the usual clutter of shared possessions. But each flatmate kept their own personal tastes to their bedroom. So Paddy’s room had all his weird sci-fi and fantasy novels, his Buffy and Angel boxed sets, whilst Laura kept all her Georgette Heyers and her romantic comedy videos in her room.
She looked at them affectionately, the rows of pink and purple plastic video-box covers and the lines of paperback books, their spines cracked with repeated rereading. An idea came into her head, one so terrible she shrank from putting it into action, but she realised that to make a fresh start she would have to. She gazed unseeingly at these architects of her doom. Really, she could blame them for a lot of what had happened. Putting ideas in her head. She needed a different role model now. Perhaps she didn’t need them any more. Perhaps – no, that was a bit too extreme, wasn’t it?
Her eye fell upon an old hardback of Rebecca, at the end of the shelf, and she picked it up, idly leafing through the pages. Maybe it was time to read it again. She needed cheering up.
Laura adored Rebecca, it was one of her favourite books. She loved the poor, unnamed Mrs de Winter with a passion, wanted to be her, and desperately loathed evil Rebecca, whom she saw in her mind’s eye as looking very much like Amy. And Maxim…well, he was the embodiment of everything a romantic hero should be…in every way. Brooding, dark, passionate, brusque – just perfect, and she…
Laura brought herself up short. The breeze through the window picked up and she suddenly felt her blood run cold, as Mr Kowolczyk the glazier whistled quietly in the corner.
That’s it. You see? she said to herself. This is why you’re in so much trouble. Get a grip! Mrs de Winter was a complete idiot! She should have married some nice banker from Cheam and lived a nondescript life with him instead of falling head over heels in love with Max de Winter, driving around Monte Carlo, weeping hopelessly over people and fleeing burning buildings. There, right there, was a symbol of what she was doing wrong. She, Laura Foster, would not behave like that any more. She would emulate someone else instead. Mrs Danvers, in fact. The good old reliable housekeeper.
At this idea Laura felt her heart beat faster. Yes, Mrs Danvers. OK, she was a bit mad. In fact, you could call her a homicidal maniac with an obsession with a dead person, namely Rebecca, and an unpleasant penchant for appearing silently in doorways. And she was a pyromaniac. But – but, Laura thought, as this idea took root – at least she wasn’t a fool. She was neatly dressed, ran the house beautifully, moved silently, and was always in control of her emotions. It was so true, Laura couldn’t believe she hadn’t seen it before. Mrs Danvers was the kind of person one would do best to follow (well, up to a certain point), not useless Mrs de Winter, who bleated and cried and kept saying things like, ‘Oh Max, what shall we do? Oh Max, I do love you so much! Oh Max, I have just fallen over as I have no spine to support me.’ No, Mrs Danvers knew keeping the house in order was best. Keeping yourself busy. Putting aside bad things. Having respect for one’s friends and family. OK, perhaps sometimes in a rather extreme way. But it was as good a place to start as any. As Laura ran through the list of broken fences she had to mend, she felt slightly sick, and then suddenly she realised what she had to do, whom she had to see. Not just because she ought to, because she actually wanted to.
Laura straightened herself up. She smoothed down her skirt and pursed her lips.
‘May I get you a drink, Mr Kowolczyk?’ she asked politely. ‘A cup of tea, maybe? Or can I offer you some coffee?’
She gave a thin smile, and raised one eyebrow, as Mrs Danvers would. Mr Kowolczyk looked at her, somewhat bemused.
‘What?’ he said.
Laura came to. ‘Er, sorry, sorry,’ she said, collecting herself hurriedly. ‘Just – er. Coffee? Tea?’
‘Yes, coffee please,’ said Mr Kowolczyk. ‘Three sugars. Look –’ he waved vaguely towards the window with his chisel, and smiled kindly at her. ‘Fresh air, yes? Nice to get fresh air into your room.’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Laura darkly, nodding at him. ‘Fresh air. Oh yes.’ She paused in the doorway, and gave him another cold smile, before gliding (she hoped) smoothly down the corridor to the kitchen.
‘Thank you,’ Mr Kowolczyk called out.
Laura reappeared in the room. ‘Er, I’ve just realised I have
