The Flatshare

15 Tiffy

As I peel the Post-its and taped scraps of paper off cupboard doors, tables, walls and (in one case) the bin lid, I find myself grinning. It was a weird way to get to know Leon, writing all these notes over the last few months, and it sort of happened without me noticing — one minute I was scribbling him a quick note about leftovers, the next I was in a full-on, day-to-day correspondence.

Though, as I follow the trail of heart-to-hearts along the back of the sofa, I can’t help noticing that I generally write about five times as many words as Leon does. And that my Post-its are a lot more personal and revealing than his. It’s kind of strange reading it all back — you can see how dodgy my memory is, for starters. Like in one of the notes, I mentioned how super awkward it was that I’d forgotten to pass on Rachel’s birthday-party invite to Justin last year, but I remember now — I did invite him. We ended up having a huge fight about whether I could go. Justin always said my memory was terrible; it’s very annoying to find written evidence that he’s right.

It’s half five now. I finished work early because everyone’s out of the office for a goodbye party that I can’t afford to go to, so I made an executive decision to go home in the absence of any actual execu­tives to make the decision for me. I’m sure it’s what they would have wanted.

I thought I might actually catch Leon tonight, as I got back at around 5 p.m. It felt a bit strange. I’m not really allowed to come home early and bump into him, according to the official terms of our agreement. I knew when I signed up for this that we wouldn’t be in the flat at the same time — that was why it was such a good idea. But I didn’t realise that we would literally never meet. Like, ever, at all, for four whole months.

I did think about spending this hour at the coffee place around the corner, but then I thought . . . it is starting to get a bit weird, being friends but not having actually met. And it does feel like that, like we’re friends — I don’t think it could be otherwise, the way we’re in each other’s space all the time. I know exactly how he likes his eggs fried, though I’ve never actually seen him eat one (there’s always tons of runny yolk left over on the plate). I could describe his dress sense pretty accurately, even though I’ve never seen him in any of the clothes drying on the clothes horse in the living room. And, weirdest of all, I know what he smells like.

I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t meet — it wouldn’t change the terms of how we live here. It would just mean I would actually recognise my flatmate if I saw him walking down the street.

The phone rings, which is odd, because I wasn’t aware we had a phone. At first I go for my mobile, but my ringtone is a jingly happy tune from right down the list of those available from Samsung, not the retro ring ring that’s currently singing out from somewhere invisible in the living room.

I eventually track down a landline on the kitchen counter, under one of Mr Prior’s scarves and a string of notes about whether or not Leon used up all the butter (he totally did).

A landline! Who knew! I thought landlines were just relics you paid for in order to get broadband.

‘Hello?’ I try tentatively.

‘Oh, hey,’ says the guy at the other end. He sounds surprised (presumably I am more female than he had expected) and has a weird accent — kind of half Irish, half Londoner.

‘It’s Tiffy,’ I offer. ‘Leon’s flatmate.’

‘Ey! Hi!’ He seems to have been greatly cheered by this fact. ‘And don’t you mean bedmate?’

‘We prefer flatmate,’ I say, wincing.

‘Fair play,’ he says, and somehow I can sort of hear that he’s grinning. ‘Well, nice to meet you, Tiffy. I’m Richie. Leon’s brother.’

‘Pleased to meet you too, Richie.’ I didn’t know Leon had a brother. But then I suppose there are probably an enormous number of things I don’t know about Leon, even if I do know what he’s reading before bed at the moment (The Bell Jar, very slowly). ‘You just missed Leon, I guess. I got in half an hour ago and he was already gone.’

‘The man works too hard,’ Richie says. ‘I didn’t realise it was half five already. What’s your tap-in-tap-out time?’

‘Six, usually, but I got out of work early,’ I say. ‘You could try him on his mobile?’

‘Ah, now you see, Tiffy, I can’t do that,’ Richie says.

I frown. ‘You can’t call his mobile?’

‘To be honest with you, it’s a bit of a long story.’ Richie pauses. ‘Short version is, I’m in a high-security prison, and the only phone number I’ve managed to get set up for me to call is Leon’s home line. Mobiles cost twice as much to call, too, and I earn about fourteen pounds a week in my job cleaning the wing, which by the way I had to pay someone to get me . . . so that doesn’t get me very far.’

I feel a little shell-shocked. ‘Shit!’ I say. ‘That’s awful. Are you all right?’

It just comes out. It’s almost certainly not the right thing to say in the circumstance, but there we are — that’s what I’m thinking, and that’s what comes out of my mouth.

To my surprise — and maybe to his too — Richie starts laughing.

‘I’m all right,’ he says, after a moment. ‘Cheers, though. It’s been seven months now. I guess I’m . . . what is it Leon calls it? Acclimatising. Learning how to live, as well as just get through each minute.’

I nod. ‘Well, that’s something, at least. How is it? On the scale of, you know, Alcatraz to the Hilton?’

He laughs again. ‘Definitely somewhere on that scale, yeah. Whereabouts depends on how I’m feeling day to day. But I’m pretty lucky compared to lots of people, let me tell you that. I have my own cell now, and I can see visitors twice a month.’

It doesn’t seem like he’s lucky from where I’m standing. ‘I don’t want to keep you on the phone if it’s costing you. Did you have a message for Leon?’

There’s a rattling sort of silence at the other end, just the sound of echoing background noise.

‘Aren’t you going to ask what I’m in for, Tiffy?’

‘No,’ I say, taken aback. ‘Do you want to tell me?’

‘Yeah, a bit. But normally people ask.’

I shrug. ‘It’s not my place to judge — you’re Leon’s brother, and you rang to talk to him. And anyway, we were talking about how horrible prison is, and that’s true regardless of what you did. Everyone knows prison doesn’t work. Right?’

‘Right — I mean, do they?’

‘Oh, sure.’

More silence.

‘I’m in for armed robbery. But I didn’t do it.’

‘God. I’m sorry. This is really shit, then.’

‘Pretty much, yeah,’ Richie says. He waits. And then he asks, ‘Do you believe me?’

‘I don’t even know you. Why does it matter?’

‘I don’t know. It just . . . does.’

‘Well, I need some of the facts before I say I believe you. It wouldn’t mean much otherwise, would it?’

‘That’s my message for Leon then. Tell him I’d like him to give you the facts, so you can tell me if you believe me.’

‘Hang on.’ I reach for a pad of Post-its and a pen. ‘Hi Leon,’ I say, reading as I write. ‘This is a message from Richie. He says . . .’

‘I’d like Tiffy to know what happened to me. I want her to believe I didn’t do it. She seems like a very nice lady, and I bet she’s pretty to boot, you can just tell man, she’s got that kind of voice — deep and sexy, you know the—’

I’m laughing. ‘I’m not writing that!’

‘How far did you get?’

‘“Sexy”,’ I admit, and Richie laughs.

‘All right. You can sign the note off now. But leave that last bit, if you don’t mind — it’ll make Leon smile.’

I shake my head, but I’m smiling too. ‘Fine. I’ll leave it. It was good to meet you, Richie.’

‘You too, Tiffy. You look after my brother for me, all right?’

I pause, surprised at the request. For starters, it seems like Richie’s the one who needs looking after, and for seconds, I’m really not best placed for looking after any of the Twomey family, given that I’ve never met a single one of them. But by the time I open my mouth to respond, Richie’s hung up the phone, and all I can hear is the dial tone.

16 Leon

Can’t help laughing. This is typical. He’s trying to charm his way into the affections of my flatmate even from a prison yard.

Kay leans over my shoulder, reading the note.

Kay: Richie is still his old self, I see.

I stiffen. She feels it and tenses too, but doesn’t backtrack or say sorry.

Me: He’s trying to keep things light. Keep everyone laughing. It’s Richie’s way.

Kay: Well, is Tiffy on the market?

Me: She’s a human, not a cow, Kay.

Kay: You’re so principled, Leon! It was an expression, ‘on the market’. You know I’m not actually trying to sell the poor girl to Richie.

There’s something else wrong with that sentence, but am too tired to trace it.

Me: She’s single, but in love with her ex still.

Kay, interested now: Really?

Can’t fathom why she’d care — whenever I mention Tiffy she switches off or gets grumpy. This is first time we’ve been in my flat for months, actually. Kay has the morning off work so came to see me for brinner before bed. She got a bit prickly about the notes stuck everywhere, for some reason.

Me: Ex seems average. Far inferior to bricklayer-turned—

Kay rolls eyes.

Kay: Will you stop talking about that bloody bricklayer book!

She wouldn’t be so judgemental if she’d read it.

A few weeks on and it’s the sort of sunny day that normally only happens abroad. England is unaccustomed to such warmth, especially when it strikes so suddenly. It’s only June, barely summer yet. Commuters hurry around corners, heads still down as if it’s raining, backs of pale-blue shirts stained dark with Vs of sweat. Teenage boys whip off T-shirts until there are stark white limbs and chests and gawky sticking-out elbows all over the place. Can barely move without being confronted with sunburnt skin and/or unpleasant body heat emanating from man in suit.

Am on my way back from visit to Imperial War Museum Research Room, following a final lead on the hunt for Johnny White. In my backpack, I have a list of eight names and addresses. Addresses were gathered through endless record-office riffling, contacting relatives, and online stalking, so not exactly foolproof, but it’s a start — or rather, eight starts. Mr Prior gave me plenty to bulk out my research in the end. Get the man talking and he remembers a lot more than he claims to.

Every man on list is called Johnny White. Unsure where to start. Pick favourite Johnny? Nearest Johnny?

Get out phone and text Tiffy. Filled her in on the search for Mr Prior’s Johnny White last month. Was after a lengthy letter from her about ups and downs of book about crochet; I was obviously in a sharing sort of mood. It’s peculiar. Like Tiffy’s compulsive oversharing is contagious. Always feel slightly embarrassed when I get to the hospice and remember whatever I ended up revealing in that evening’s scribbled note written with coffee before heading to the door.

Hi. Got eight Johnnies (sing. Johnny) to choose from. How to pick where to start? Leon

Response comes five minutes or so later. She’s working on the crazy crochet author’s book full-time, and it appears her concentration is low. I’m not surprised. Crochet is weird and boring. Even tried reading some of the manuscript when she left it on the coffee table, to check was not like bricklayer book, but no. It’s just a book of detailed crochet instructions, with end results that look very difficult to achieve.

That’s easy. Eenie meenie mini emo, catch a tiger by its toe . . . xx

And then, two seconds later,

Eenie meenie MINIE MO. Autocorrect. I don’t think you’d gain much by getting any small emos involved xx

Peculiar woman. Nonetheless, dutifully pause in patch of shade under bus stop to get out list of names and do eenie meenie. Land on Johnny White (obviously). It’s the one who lives up near Birmingham.

Good choice. Can visit this one when next visiting Richie — he’s in Birmingham area. Thanks. Leon.

A few minutes of silence. Walk through busy, sweaty London as it basks in the heat, sunglasses turned up to the sky. I’m knackered. Should have been in bed hours ago. But I spend so little actual daylight time out here in the open air these days, and miss the feel of sun on skin. Consider idly whether I might be vitamin D deficient, then thoughts shift, and I’m wondering how much open-air time Richie got this week. According to government, he should be let outside for thirty minutes a day. That rarely happens. Prison guards are low on numbers; time unlocked is even more limited than usual.

Did you get my note about Richie, by the way? And telling me what happened to him? I don’t want to push but it was over a month ago now, and I just want you to know I would like to hear it, if you want to tell it. xx

I stare down at her text, sun bleaching my screen until the words are almost invisible. I shade it with one hand and reread. It’s odd, how it came like that, just as I was thinking of Richie.

Wasn’t sure what to make of Richie’s note about telling Tiffy. As soon as I knew they’d spoken I found myself wondering if Tiffy thinks he’s innocent, even though she doesn’t know him and doesn’t know a thing about the case. Ridiculous. Even if she knew everything, it shouldn’t matter if she believes him. Haven’t even met her. But it’s always like this — a constant nagging that you feel with everybody, no matter who they are. You’re conversing perfectly normally, and then, next moment, you’re thinking, ‘Would you believe my brother is innocent?’

Can’t ask people, though. Is a horrible conversation to have and a horrible thing to be asked on the spot, as Kay will testify.

Reply via note when I get home. Don’t really text Tiffy much; feels a bit weird. Like emailing Mam. Notes are just . . . how we talk.

On wardrobe (latest note trail stops here):

Printed-out screenshot from Twitter, pasted below note:

New Post-it below that:

Next Post-it:

Printed-out screenshot from Twitter (now so low down the wardrobe door I have to crouch to read it):

Another two Post-it notes beneath:

. . . Will wait until I’ve slept before attempting to reply to this one.