bell went. As I was putting down my swab, it went again, straightaway. Probably kids, I thought, they’re the only ones to ring like that. Wanting to clean the car. Either that or they’re finding out if someone’s home before going round the back and breaking in.
So I went all the way down to the door slightly irritated, and what did I see? A huge bunch of flowers, all blue and white in a Cellophane wrapping. ‘Stuart!’ I thought – I mean, I thought they had come from Stuart. And when I saw Oliver holding them I still believed that was the most probable explanation – Stuart had sent Oliver round with the flowers.
‘Oliver!’ I said. ‘What a surprise. Come in.’
But he just stood there, trying to say something. White as a sheet, and holding his arms out as rigid as a shelf. His lips moved, and some noises came out but I couldn’t make sense of them. It was like in films when people have a heart attack – they mumble something which seems very important to them but which no-one can understand. I looked at Oliver and he seemed to be in genuine distress. The flowers had dripped all down his trousers, his face was frighteningly lacking in colour, he was trembling, and his lips seemed to be sticking together as he tried to speak.
I thought it might help if I took the flowers off him, so I reached out and lifted them carefully, holding the stem ends away from me. Just instinct, because I had my painting clothes on and a bit of water wouldn’t have done any harm.
‘Oliver,’ I said. ‘What is it? Do you want to come in?’
He still stood there with his arms sticking out, like a robotbutler without a tray to carry. Suddenly, and very loudly, he said,
‘I love you.’
Just like that. Well, I laughed, of course. It was quarter to nine in the morning and it was Oliver speaking. I laughed – not scornfully or anything, but just as if it was a joke which I’d only half got.
I was waiting for the other half when Oliver fled. He just turned on his heel and fled. I mean it. He ran, and I was left there on the step with this huge bunch of flowers. There didn’t seem anything else to do except take them inside and put them in water. There were huge quantities of them, and I ended up filling three vases and a couple of Stuart’s beer-mugs. Then I went back to work.
I finished the testing and started cleaning the sky, which is where I always begin. It didn’t need much concentration, and all through the morning I kept getting interrupted by the thought of Oliver standing there not being able to say anything, and then practically shouting what he did. He’s definitely in an extremely jumpy mood at the moment.
I suppose it was because we know he’s been highly strung lately – his peculiar behaviour at the airport, for a start – that it took longer than it should have done for me to think over properly what had happened. And when I did I found I couldn’t concentrate on my work at all. I kept imagining conversations that evening with Stuart.
‘I say, what a lot of flowers.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Got a secret admirer, have we? I say, there are a lot.’
‘Oliver brought them.’
‘Oliver? When was that?’
‘About ten minutes after you left for work. You must have just missed him.’
‘But why? I mean, why did he give us all these flowers?’
‘They’re not for us, they’re for me. He says he’s in love with me.’
No, I couldn’t have this conversation. I couldn’t have anything approaching this conversation. In which case, I would have to get rid of the flowers. My first thought was to put them in the dustbin. Except what if Stuart took something out there? What would you think if you found your own dustbin stuffed full of completely fresh flowers? Then I thought of going across the road and throwing them in a skip – except that this would look very peculiar. We don’t as yet have any friends in the street, but we’re on Hello terms with a few neighbours, and frankly I wouldn’t want
So I went all the way down to the door slightly irritated, and what did I see? A huge bunch of flowers, all blue and white in a Cellophane wrapping. ‘Stuart!’ I thought – I mean, I thought they had come from Stuart. And when I saw Oliver holding them I still believed that was the most probable explanation – Stuart had sent Oliver round with the flowers.
‘Oliver!’ I said. ‘What a surprise. Come in.’
But he just stood there, trying to say something. White as a sheet, and holding his arms out as rigid as a shelf. His lips moved, and some noises came out but I couldn’t make sense of them. It was like in films when people have a heart attack – they mumble something which seems very important to them but which no-one can understand. I looked at Oliver and he seemed to be in genuine distress. The flowers had dripped all down his trousers, his face was frighteningly lacking in colour, he was trembling, and his lips seemed to be sticking together as he tried to speak.
I thought it might help if I took the flowers off him, so I reached out and lifted them carefully, holding the stem ends away from me. Just instinct, because I had my painting clothes on and a bit of water wouldn’t have done any harm.
‘Oliver,’ I said. ‘What is it? Do you want to come in?’
He still stood there with his arms sticking out, like a robotbutler without a tray to carry. Suddenly, and very loudly, he said,
‘I love you.’
Just like that. Well, I laughed, of course. It was quarter to nine in the morning and it was Oliver speaking. I laughed – not scornfully or anything, but just as if it was a joke which I’d only half got.
I was waiting for the other half when Oliver fled. He just turned on his heel and fled. I mean it. He ran, and I was left there on the step with this huge bunch of flowers. There didn’t seem anything else to do except take them inside and put them in water. There were huge quantities of them, and I ended up filling three vases and a couple of Stuart’s beer-mugs. Then I went back to work.
I finished the testing and started cleaning the sky, which is where I always begin. It didn’t need much concentration, and all through the morning I kept getting interrupted by the thought of Oliver standing there not being able to say anything, and then practically shouting what he did. He’s definitely in an extremely jumpy mood at the moment.
I suppose it was because we know he’s been highly strung lately – his peculiar behaviour at the airport, for a start – that it took longer than it should have done for me to think over properly what had happened. And when I did I found I couldn’t concentrate on my work at all. I kept imagining conversations that evening with Stuart.
‘I say, what a lot of flowers.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Got a secret admirer, have we? I say, there are a lot.’
‘Oliver brought them.’
‘Oliver? When was that?’
‘About ten minutes after you left for work. You must have just missed him.’
‘But why? I mean, why did he give us all these flowers?’
‘They’re not for us, they’re for me. He says he’s in love with me.’
No, I couldn’t have this conversation. I couldn’t have anything approaching this conversation. In which case, I would have to get rid of the flowers. My first thought was to put them in the dustbin. Except what if Stuart took something out there? What would you think if you found your own dustbin stuffed full of completely fresh flowers? Then I thought of going across the road and throwing them in a skip – except that this would look very peculiar. We don’t as yet have any friends in the street, but we’re on Hello terms with a few neighbours, and frankly I wouldn’t want
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