Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine

32

ANGER WAS GOOD, SHE’D said, while I was putting my coat on. If I was finally getting in touch with my anger, then I was starting to do some important work, unpicking and addressing things that I’d buried too deep. I hadn’t thought about it before, but I suppose I’d never really been angry before now. Irritated, bored, sad, yes, but not actually angry. I supposed she had a point; perhaps things had happened that I ought to feel angry about. It wasn’t an emotion I enjoyed feeling, and it certainly wasn’t fair to direct it towards Dr Maria Temple, who was, after all, only doing her job. I’d apologized profusely straight after my outburst, and she was very understanding, even seemed quite pleased. Still, I wouldn’t be making a habit of telling people to go to hell. Obscenity is the distinguishing hallmark of a sadly limited vocabulary.

On top of all this, I was trying to find a new routine, but it wasn’t easy. For more than nine years, I’d got up, gone to work, come home. At the weekends, I had my vodka. None of that would work now. I decided to clean the flat from top to bottom. I saw how grubby it was, how tired. It looked like I felt – unloved, uncared for. I imagined inviting someone – Raymond, I supposed – for lunch. I tried to see it through his eyes. There were things I could do to make it nicer, I realized, things that didn’t cost much but which would make a big difference. Another houseplant, some brightly coloured cushions. I thought about Laura’s house, how elegant it was. She lived alone, had a job, her own business even. She certainly seemed to have a life, not just an existence. She seemed happy. It must be possible, then.

The bell made me jump, mid-clean. It wasn’t a sound I heard often. I felt, as I usually did, slightly apprehensive as I unbolted the door and threw the locks, noted the slight increase in my heart rate, the gentle tremor in my hands. I peered around the chain. A youth in sports clothing stood on my doormat, his trainer-shod foot tapping. More than that; his whole body was vibrating with energy. His cap was on backwards. Why? Instinctively, I took a step back.

‘Oliphant?’ he said.

Apprehensively, I nodded. He dipped down to the side of the door, out of sight, then reappeared with a huge basket filled with flowers, wrapped in cellophane and ribbons. He made to hand it over and I unlatched the chain and took it from him gingerly, fearing some sort of trick. He rummaged in his jacket pocket and pulled out a black electronic gadget.

‘Sign here, please,’ he said, handing me a plastic pencil which had, horrifically, been lurking behind his ear. I produced my special autograph, which he did not even glance at.

‘Cheers!’ he said, already skittering off down the stairs. I had never seen so much nervous energy contained in one human body.

A tiny envelope, like a hamster’s birthday card, was affixed to the cellophane. Inside, a business card – plain white – bore the following message:

Get well soon, Eleanor – we are all thinking of you. Love and best wishes from Bob and everyone at By Design xxx

I took the basket into the kitchen and put it on the table. Thinking of me. The scent of a summer garden, sweet and heady, was released when I removed the cellophane. They’d been thinking. Of me! I sat down and stroked the petals of a red gerbera, and I smiled.

Flowers placed carefully on the coffee table, I continued my slow progress around the flat, and as I cleaned, I thought about what it meant to make a home. I didn’t have much experience to draw on. I opened all of the windows, tuned the radio until I found some inoffensive music, and scrubbed each room in turn. Some of the stains in the carpet wouldn’t come out, but I managed to lift most of them. I filled four black bags with rubbish – old crosswords, dried-out pens, ugly knick-knacks that I’d collected over the years. I sorted out my bookshelf, making a pile to take (and in some cases, return) to the charity shop.

I’d recently finished reading a management tome which seemed to be aimed at psychopaths with no common sense (quite a dangerous combination). I have always enjoyed reading, but I’ve never been sure how to select appropriate material. There are so many books in the world – how do you tell them all apart? How do you know which one will match your tastes and interests? That’s why I just pick the first book I see. There’s no point in trying to choose. The covers are of very little help, because they always say only good things, and I’ve found out to my cost that they’re rarely accurate. ‘Exhilarating’ ‘Dazzling’ ‘Hilarious’. No.

The only criterion I have is that the books must look clean, which means that I have to disregard a lot of potential reading material in the charity shop. I don’t use the library for the same reason, although obviously, in principle and reality, libraries are life-enhancing palaces of wonder. It’s not you, libraries, it’s me, as the popular saying goes. The thought of books passing through so many unwashed hands – people reading them in the bath, letting their dogs sit on them, picking their nose and wiping the results on the pages. People eating cheesy crisps and then reading a few chapters without washing their hands first. I just can’t. No; I look for books with one careful owner. The books in Tesco are nice and clean. I sometimes treat myself to a few tomes from there on payday.

At the end of the process, the flat was clean, and very nearly empty. I made a cup of tea and looked around the living room. It just needed pictures on the walls and a rug or two. Some new plants. Sorry, Polly. The flowers would have to do for now. I took a deep breath, picked up the pouffe, and squashed it into a bin liner. It was quite a fight to get it in. As I grappled with it, I thought about what I must look like, my arms wrapped around a giant frog, wrestling it to the ground. I snorted a bit, and then I laughed and laughed until my chest hurt. When I stood up and finally tied the handles, a jaunty pop music song was playing and I realized what I felt … happy. It was such a strange, unusual feeling – light, calm, as though I’d swallowed sunshine. Only this morning I’d been furious, and now I was calm and happy. I was gradually getting used to feeling the range of available human emotions, their intensity, the rapidity with which they could change. Until now, any time that emotions, feelings, had threatened to unsettle me, I’d drink them down fast, drown them. That had allowed me to exist, but I was starting to understand that I needed, wanted, something more than that now.

I took the rubbish downstairs and when I came back into the flat, I noticed that it smelled lemony. It was a pleasure to enter. I didn’t normally notice my surroundings, I realized. It was like my walk to Maria Temple’s office this morning: when you took a moment to see what was around you, noticed all the little things, it made you feel … lighter.

Perhaps, if you had friends or a family, they might help you to notice things more often. They might even point them out to you. I turned off the radio and sat in silence on the sofa, drinking another cup of tea. All I could hear was the breeze whistling softly through the open window and two men laughing in the street below. It was a weekday afternoon. Normally, I’d be at work, watching the hands tick round until five, waiting for pizza and vodka time and then Friday night and the three long sleeps until Monday. With the exception of the shot I’d had in the pub, I hadn’t drunk any vodka for some weeks now. I’d always thought that it helped me sleep, but in fact I’d been sleeping more deeply than ever before, untroubled by disturbing dreams.

An electronic noise startled me and I almost spilled my tea. Someone had sent me a text message. I ran into the hall for my phone. The little envelope flashed:

U about early evening? Can I come over? Got a surprise 4 u! Rx

A surprise! I replied immediately.

Yes. Eleanor O.

No one had ever asked to come and visit me before. The social worker made an appointment, and the meter reader just turned up. I was conscious that Raymond’s previous visits had not been very pleasant for him – or me – and decided to try to make amends. I put on my jerkin and headed out to the corner shop. Mr Dewan looked up from reading a newspaper at the sound of the electronic alert. It must drive him to distraction, bleeping all day like that. He smiled cautiously at me. I took a basket and got some milk, Earl Grey teabags and a lemon to slice, in case Raymond preferred his tea that way. I spent a considerable amount of time in the aisles, somewhat overwhelmed by the choice. In the end, I plumped for Garibaldi biscuits, throwing in a packet of pink wafers too – apparently, it’s nice to offer guests an option. I wondered if Raymond might prefer something savoury, and so I got some cream crackers and a packet of cheese slices. All bases covered.

I stood in line with my basket, not eavesdropping but nonetheless forced to overhear the conversation of the couple in front of me as we waited our turn. Eventually, I felt compelled to intervene and provide assistance.

‘It’s “tagine”,’ I said.

No reply. I sighed, and leaned forward again.

‘Tagine,’ I repeated, speaking slowly and clearly and, I thought, in a passable French accent.

‘Sorry?’ the woman said, not sounding sorry at all. The man simply stared at me, in a manner best described as mildly hostile.

‘Neither of you can remember the word for the – as you described it – “ceramic pot with the pointy lid” that “Judith” – whoever she is – had put on her wedding list, leading you’ – here, I indicated the woman with a gentle nod of my head – ‘to describe her as a “pretentious cow”.’ I was quite enjoying the occasional use of the waggling finger gesture now that I’d got the hang of it.

Neither of them spoke, so I felt emboldened to continue.

‘A tagine is a traditional cooking vessel of North African origin,’ I said helpfully, ‘generally made from fired clay and decorated with a brightly coloured glaze. It’s also the name of the stew that is cooked within it.’

The man’s mouth had fallen open slightly, and the woman’s had slowly changed shape to form a very thin, very tight line. She turned back to him and they began to whisper together, looking round more than once to steal a quick glance at me.

Nothing more was said, although they glared at me as they walked out, having paid for their goods. Not a word of thanks. I gave them a little wave.

Mr Dewan smiled warmly at me when I finally reached the till.

‘The levels of rudeness and the complete lack of awareness of the comme il faut amongst the general population never ceases to disappoint me, Mr Dewan,’ I said, shaking my head.

‘Miss Oliphant,’ he said, smiling in an understanding way. ‘How nice to see you again! You’re looking very well.’

I felt myself beaming in response.

‘Thank you very much, Mr Dewan,’ I said. ‘It’s nice to see you too. Pleasant day today, is it not?’

He nodded, still smiling, and scanned my items. When he’d done that, his smile faltered slightly. ‘Will there be anything else today, Miss Oliphant?’

The bottles behind him glittered in the glare of the overhead lights, red and gold and clear.

‘Yes!’ I said. ‘I’d almost forgotten.’ I leaned over to the newspaper stand and picked up a Telegraph – I was itching to get back to the crossword again.

Back home, I lit the gas fire and laid out the teacups. I wished that they matched, but I was sure Raymond wouldn’t mind. I sliced the lemon and arranged the biscuits as alternating spokes on a wheel on my nicest plate, the one with flowers on it. I decided to keep the savoury items in reserve. No need to go crazy.

Being somewhat out of practice, I was only halfway through the crossword when the doorbell rang, a bit later than I’d been expecting. Due to hunger pangs I’d been forced to have a few biscuits, so a couple of the spokes on the wheel were missing now. Too bad.

Raymond was holding a cardboard box with handles in one hand, and a huge, bulging plastic bag in the other. He seemed very out of breath, placed both items gently on my hall carpet without being asked, and started to take off his jacket, still puffing and blowing like a beached porpoise. Smoking kills.

He passed me his jacket and I looked at it for a moment before realizing I was supposed to hang it up. I didn’t have anywhere suitable, so I folded it into a square as best I could and then put it on the floor in the corner of the hall. He didn’t look very pleased, although I had no idea why. It wasn’t an expensive-looking jacket.

I showed him into the living room and offered him tea. He seemed quite excitable. ‘Later, maybe. I’ve got to tell you about the surprise first, Eleanor,’ he said.

I sat down.

‘Go ahead,’ I said, bracing myself. My experience of surprises is limited and not particularly positive. He fetched the cardboard box from the hall and placed it on the floor.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘you don’t have to do this. My mum will be more than happy to oblige. I just thought … well …’

He opened the lid very gently, and I instinctively took a step back.

‘Come on, darling,’ he said, in a soft, crooning voice that I’d never heard him use before. ‘Don’t be frightened …’

He reached in and lifted out the fattest cat I’d ever seen. It was, in theory, jet black, the darkness extending even to its nose and whiskers, but its thick fur was covered in bald patches which looked all the paler by comparison. He held it close to his chest and continued to whisper endearments in its ear. The creature looked distinctly underwhelmed.

‘What do you think?’ he said.

I stared into its green eyes, and it stared back. I took a step forward and he offered her to me. There was a bit of awkwardness as he passed her over, trying to transfer her bulk from his arms into mine, and then, all at once, it was done. I held her like a baby, close against my chest, and felt, rather than heard, her deep, sonorous purring. Oh, the warm weight of her! I buried my face in what remained of her fur and felt her turn her head towards me as she gently sniffed my hairline.

Eventually, I looked up. Raymond was unpacking the other bag, which contained a disposable litter tray, a squishy cushion bed and a small box of kibble. The cat squirmed in my arms and landed on the carpet with a heavy thump. She strolled over to the litter tray, squatted down and urinated loudly, maintaining extremely assertive eye contact with me throughout. After the deluge, she lazily kicked over the traces with her back legs, scattering litter all over my freshly cleaned floor.

A woman who knew her own mind and scorned the conventions of polite society. We were going to get along just fine.

Raymond declined all of the biscuits on offer and also the tea. He requested beer or coffee, but I had neither. Taking care of guests was more challenging than I’d thought. Eventually, he settled for a glass of water, which he didn’t even drink. Desi, one of his flatmates, had rescued the cat from the back court of his flats last night, he told me. Someone had put her in a metal dustbin and set it alight – Desi had heard the screams when he was returning home from work. I stood up and ran towards the bathroom, where I vomited up the pink wafers. Raymond knocked gently on the door, but I shouted at him to leave me alone. When I came back, both he and the cat were sitting separately on the sofa. I sat down in the chair opposite, and they both watched me carefully.

‘Who would do such a thing, Raymond?’ I said, when I could finally speak. Both he and the cat looked sad.

‘Sick fucks,’ said Raymond, shaking his head. ‘Desi brought her in and we made sure she was OK. He’s allergic, though, so we can’t keep her. I was going to take her to the Cats Protection, or see if my mum wanted another one, but then … I dunno, I thought she might be a nice bit of company for you, Eleanor? Just say, if not. It’s a big deal, having a pet – a lot of responsibility …’

This was tricky. On the one hand, I could not deny that I was drawn to her. She had an undeniably rakish, alopecia-based charm and a devil-may-care attitude that would melt the hardest of hearts. I could tell that she was a cat that brooked no nonsense. She was, at the same time, a vulnerable creature, one which needed looking after. Therein lay the rub. Was I up to the task?

I thought back to the counselling sessions, how we’d talked about thinking things through rationally, recognizing unhelpful patterns of behaviour and being brave enough to try doing things differently. Come on, Eleanor, I said to myself. Be brave. This is not the same as before, not even close to it. She’s a cat, and you’re a grown woman. You’re more than capable of doing this.

‘I will assume the mantle of care, Raymond,’ I said, firmly. ‘This creature will be looked after assiduously.’

He smiled.

‘I’m sure she will be. She looks at home here already, right enough,’ he said. The cat was now sprawled across the sofa cushions, to all intents and purposes asleep, although one ear twitched intermittently as she monitored the conversation.

‘What are you going to call her?’ he said.

I put my head on one side while I considered this. After a while, Raymond stood up.

‘I’m going to nip downstairs for a fag. I’ll leave the door on the latch,’ he said.

‘Don’t blow the smoke towards my windows!’ I shouted after him.

When he came back ten minutes later, I told him that her name was Glen. He laughed.

‘Glen? That’s a boy’s name, surely?’

I thought about all of those red labels, all those empty bottles. ‘She’s named after an old friend,’ I said.

The next day I woke with a start to find Glen lying beside me, her head on the pillow and her body under the covers, just like a human. Her huge green eyes were staring intently at me, as though she had willed me awake. She followed me into the kitchen and I gave her some water, which she ignored, and some kibble, which she bolted down and promptly vomited back up onto the kitchen floor. I turned away to get some cleaning materials from under the sink, but when I looked around, she was eating her sick back up again.

‘Good girl, Glen,’ I said. Low maintenance.

Raymond had only brought the bare minimum for her to spend the night, so, while she was snoozing on top of the duvet, I snuck out of the flat and took the bus to the retail park, where I knew that there was a big pet supplies store. I bought her a bigger, comfier bed, a proper litter tray with a covered roof for privacy, four different kinds of wet and dry food, and a sack of organic cat litter. I picked up a bottle of oil that was supposed to be good for her coat – a teaspoon was to be mixed in with her food every day. I didn’t care if her coat grew back or not, because she was fine just as she was, but I felt that she might be more comfortable without the bare patches of skin. She didn’t strike me as the type to enjoy playing with toys, but just in case, I bought a glittery ball and a huge fluffy mouse, the size of an old man’s slipper, which was stuffed with catnip. When I took the trolley to the till, I realized that I was going to have to call a taxi to get it all home. I felt quite proud of myself.

The driver wouldn’t help me carry it upstairs, so it took me a few trips, and I was sweating by the time I got everything indoors. The expedition had taken over two hours, from start to finish. Glen was still asleep on the duvet.

I spent the day pottering around the flat. Glen was good company: quiet, self-contained, mostly asleep. That evening, as I sat with a cup of tea and listened to a play on the radio, she jumped onto my lap and began kneading my thighs with her paws, claws partially unsheathed. It was slightly uncomfortable, but I could tell that she meant it kindly. After doing that for a minute or so, she settled herself carefully onto my lap and went to sleep. I needed to go to the bathroom about twenty minutes later, a necessity exacerbated by the fact that she was far from slender and was lounging with her full body weight directly atop my bladder. I tried to gently shift her to one side; she resisted. I tried again. On the third attempt, she got to her feet slowly, arched her back and then shuddered out a long, judgemental sigh, before dropping down onto the floor and waddling off towards her new bed. Once ensconced there, she glared at me as I left the room, maintaining the expression when I returned, and continued to glower at me throughout the evening. I wasn’t worried. I’d dealt with far, far worse things than an irritated feline.

Raymond paid a visit again a few days later to see how Glen was settling in. I’d invited him and his mother, as he’d mentioned that she was keen and, as a cat obsessive, I imagined she’d enjoy meeting Glen. In any case, there were still plenty of biscuits left over from his previous visit, so it was not as though it was any trouble.

They arrived in a black cab, which Mrs Gibbons was very pleased about.

‘The driver was lovely, Eleanor, wasn’t he, Raymond?’ she said. Raymond nodded, and I thought I detected a hint, just a tiny one, of weariness, as though it wasn’t the first time she’d gone over the topic during their short journey from the south to the west of the city. ‘Oh, he couldn’t have been nicer, helped me in – and out! – of the taxi, held the door open while I got my walking frame …’

‘That’s right, Mum,’ he said, tucking her walking frame into the corner of the living room while she settled herself on the sofa. Glen, ever the iconoclast, had immediately gone to bed – my bed – as soon as they arrived, and there was nothing to see of her but a lightly snoring lump under the duvet. Mrs Gibbons was disappointed, but I left her to peruse some photos on my phone while I went to make tea. Raymond joined me in the kitchen, leaning against the worktop while he watched me pour. He placed a carrier bag next to me.

‘It’s nothing much,’ he said. I peered inside. There was a white cardboard box, from a bakery, tied with ribbon. There was also a tiny tin of ‘gourmet’ cat food. ‘How lovely!’ I said, delighted.

‘I wasn’t sure what you liked, didn’t want to come empty-handed …’ Raymond said, blushing. ‘I thought, well … you seem like the kind of person who likes nice things,’ he said, looking up at me. ‘You deserve to have nice things,’ he said firmly.

This was strange. I must confess I was somewhat lost for words for a moment or two. Did I deserve nice things?

‘It’s funny, you know, Raymond,’ I said. ‘Growing up with Mummy was very disorientating. Sometimes she gave us nice things, other times … not. I mean, one week we’d be dipping quails’ eggs in celery salt and shucking oysters, the next we’d be starving. I mean, you know, literally, deprived of food and water,’ I said. His eyes widened.

‘Everything was always extreme, so extreme, with her,’ I said, nodding to myself. ‘I used to long for normal. You know, three meals a day, ordinary stuff – tomato soup, mashed potatoes, cornflakes …’

I untied the ribbons and looked inside the box. The sponge cake inside was an artful confection, chocolate ganache scattered with bright raspberry jewels. It was an ordinary luxury, which Raymond had chosen, especially for me.

‘Thank you,’ I said, feeling tears threaten to well up. There was really nothing else I needed to say.

‘Thanks for inviting us, Eleanor,’ he said. ‘Mum loves to get out, but she doesn’t often get the chance.’

‘You’re welcome any time, both of you are,’ I said, and I meant it.

I set the cake on a tray with the tea things but, before I could pick it up, Raymond did the honours. I followed behind. He had had his hair cut, I noticed.

‘How are you feeling, Eleanor?’ Mrs Gibbons asked, once we were all settled. ‘Raymond mentioned that you’d been a bit under the weather recently?’

She wore an expression of mild, polite concern, nothing more, and I realized, flushed with gratitude, that he hadn’t provided her with any details.

‘I’m feeling much better, thank you,’ I said. ‘Raymond’s been keeping an eye on me. I’m very lucky.’ He looked surprised. His mother did not.

‘He’s got a heart of gold, my boy,’ she said, nodding. Raymond’s face looked like Glen’s did the time she noticed that I’d seen her trying and failing to jump from the sofa to the windowsill. I laughed.

‘We’re embarrassing you!’ I said.

‘No, you’re embarrassing you,’ he said, ‘rabbiting away about nothing like a proper pair of old biddies. Anyone want some more tea?’ He reached forward for the teapot, and I saw he was smiling.

The Gibbons were easy, pleasant company. We were all slightly surprised at how quickly time had passed when the pre-booked taxi honked its horn in irritation an hour later, I think, and their departure was, by necessity, somewhat rushed.

‘Your turn to come to me next time, Eleanor,’ she said, as they struggled out of the door with the walking frame, Raymond shrugging on his jacket at the same time. I nodded. She kissed me quickly on the cheek, the scarred one, and I didn’t even flinch.

‘Come again with Raymond one Sunday, have your tea, stay for a while,’ she whispered. I nodded again.

Raymond lumbered past me, then, before I could do anything about it, leaned in and kissed me on the cheek like his mother had done. ‘See you at work,’ he said, and he was off, manhandling both her and her wheels down the stairs in a very precarious fashion. I put my hand to my face. They were quite a kissy family, the Gibbons – some families were like that.

I washed up the cups and plates, at which point Glen finally decided to make an appearance. ‘That wasn’t very sociable, Glen,’ I said. She stared up at me and let out a short sound, not really a meow, more of a chirp, strangely. The import – namely, that she didn’t give a fig – was abundantly clear. I spooned the special cat food that Raymond had brought into her bowl. This was met with considerable enthusiasm, although, regretfully, her table manners were sadly reminiscent of her benefactor’s.

Raymond had left his tabloid newspaper behind on the chair in the living room – unfortunately, he often carried one rolled up in his back pocket. I leafed through it, just in case it had a halfway decent crossword, and stopped at page nine, my eyes drawn to the headline.

Glasgow Evening Times

Entertainment News

Pilgrim Pioneers discover America:

Glasgow band tipped to be ‘bigger than Biffy’

Scottish band Pilgrim Pioneers are celebrating this week after reaching number five in the American Billboard Top 100.

The Glasgow-based four-piece look set to crack the lucrative US market after years of gigging locally in pubs and clubs.

Their single ‘Don’t Miss You’, written after the acrimonious departure of their previous frontman, was picked up last month by an industry insider via YouTube. Since then, it’s been broadcast nightly across the USA as the soundtrack to a big budget advert for a telecoms company.

The band are set to head Stateside next month on a coast-to-coast tour.

Reading this, I was taken straight back to another place, another person: the person I was trying to be and the changes I was trying and failing to make to myself and in my life. The singer wasn’t ever the point, really; Maria Temple had helped me see that.

In my eagerness to change, to connect with someone, I’d focused on the wrong thing, the wrong person. On the charge of being a catastrophic disaster, a failed human being, I was starting to find myself, with Maria’s help, not guilty.

The story didn’t mention what Johnnie Lomond was doing now. It really didn’t matter. I folded up the newspaper – I could line Glen’s litter tray with it later.