‘Think About Those Who Are Starving!’ poster in blue and black with a loaf, cup, bowl and ominous, pointing hand.
‘I’ve been using them as a cheap way of covering up all the stains on the old wallpaper,’ I explain, ‘although they’re way too good for a kitchen, really—’
‘I see your collection of Russian lacquered boxes has increased a fair bit since I last visited,’ he interrupts, flexing his chest as the scissors finally break through the jumper’s waistline. ‘And the Soviet china figurines …’ He tips his head towards the old dresser. ‘Is that a new Lomonosov Chow?’
‘Uh …Yes. I found it wrapped up in a big box of Uzbek fabrics. In an antique shop near Hythe … D’you think you might manage to pull it off manually from here?’
Clifford tries to yank the jumper from his shoulder but his arms are still stiff and he has no luck.
‘Shall I cut down the back?’
He nods and shuffles around, obligingly.
‘Has Shimmy been to visit you here lately?’ he wonders.
‘Shimmy?’ I pause, briefly, before answering. ‘Uh. No. Not of late. He’s still not especially mobile. That problem with his feet.’
Clifford turns his head to peer towards the blades as I insert them, pressing gently into the nape of his neck.
‘Why d’you ask?’ I wonder, slightly anxious. He doesn’t respond so I recommence cutting again.
‘I’ve been doing some work for a man in Bexhill who’s trying to get shot of a collection of Soviet army surplus stuff – a gas mask, a transistor radio, a canteen and a vodka flask, some military badges …’
‘Sounds interesting.’ I continue to cut.
‘He showed me a little, wooden sewing kit – a travelling kit – in the shape of a minaret. And a group of Kiddush cups – the sterling silver ones. Not a complete set. I think he had five in total. In fact …’
‘I can see how this might’ve been expensive,’ I muse, smoothly running the scissors – and my hand – down the back of the jumper, ‘it’s very soft.’
‘Soft but lethal,’ Clifford affirms.
‘And very bright. Luminous, almost.’
‘A statement piece.’ Clifford smiles, wanly.
‘Is that how Alice described it?’ I wonder, chuckling.
‘Uh …’ he frowns, obviously not wanting to appear disloyal.
The scissors cut the waistband and I pull back with a measure of satisfaction (like a smug Lady Mayor on cutting the ribbon at a local fete): ‘The Pringle is vanquished!’ I grin, throwing down the scissors and grabbing the jumper firmly at the top of his arm in order to yank it off. ‘Clifford Bickerton is finally liberated from the scourge of lambswool!’
I pull, but the jumper hardly gives. Instead I yank Clifford towards me and we both nearly topple sideways. He tips but steadies himself, his weight supported on his arm which is now planted, firmly, between my knees. I stop myself from falling by simply holding on. His bicep is like a giant squash. So hard. He doesn’t automatically straighten himself.
‘Don’t let go,’ he murmurs, into my hair. I am close to his ear. I long to press the cool outline of it against the skin of my forehead. It’s a random urge. Silly. But Clifford has such nice ears. Good ears. Familiar ears.
‘I’ve been reading that Ivan Yefremov novel you bought me for Christmas,’ I say, turning my head away, releasing my grip, delighting – thrilling, even – at my considerable powers of self-control, ‘the sci-fi thing. Andromeda. It’s very good.’
‘That was three Christmases ago,’ he answers, thickly.
‘Pardon?’
‘It’s from three Christmases ago.’
‘Oh. Well it’s very good,’ I repeat.
He suddenly straightens himself and clambers heavily to his feet. He walks to the window and peers out.
‘What did the surveyor say?’ he murmurs, coolly assessing the damage.
I stand up myself. ‘Tiered gardens are all the vogue, apparently.’ I try to make light of it.
‘That bad?’
‘No. No,’ I lie.
‘You’ve still got the sauna,’ he observes. ‘That sauna is indestructible.’
I grab the scissors from the floor and walk over. ‘Although I haven’t seen a single bird on the feeders since it happened.’
‘Strange. You wouldn’t think they’d be that bothered.’
‘They have wings.’ I nod.
I take a hold of his arm, lift it and gently insert the bottom blade under the cuff. As I start to cut something terrible occurs to me.
‘Hang on a second … the landslip – wasn’t that your birthday? You came around here on your birthday? Then you ended up searching for a lost cat half the night?’
(The Bassetts had informed me of these small details the morning after. It had been Clifford who’d bravely ventured into the front kitchen – just as dawn was breaking – at the pathetic sound of mewing.)
Clifford doesn’t volunteer anything further.
‘How’d you find out?’ I wonder.
‘The coastguard.’
‘Ah.’
‘They were thinking of sending out a boat, so I drove over to check things out.’
I nod. At last his first arm is free. He flexes it, gratefully. I commence work on the second.
‘Georgie Hulton said he saw you in tears on the beach the other day. You were out walking Rogue. He said you’d just been talking to your tenant – a Mr Huff.’
‘What a ridiculous name!’ I mutter, cheeks reddening. ‘Mr Huff! I’ll huff and I’ll puff …’
‘Was he bothering you?’ Clifford demands.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I snort, ‘it was windy. I got sand in my eyes, that’s all.’
‘Georgie said he called out to you but …’
‘I mustn’t have heard him.’ I shrug.
Clifford says nothing and the second arm is soon freed. I step back, grinning. Clifford stands there in his vest. All plain and uncomplicated in his vest. I am so pleased, so relieved, to see that awful jumper finally gone, to see him back to his giant, scruffy but utterly pristine self. Pure now and unadulterated. I bend down and start scooping up the abandoned segments of jumper and
