‘Any jam, pet?’ said Jimmy, looking through the jars before him, most of which were labelled in a language (chiefly French) he was unable to decipher.
‘I’m so glad you came, Jimmy. Did you get my messages?’ Hattie asked tentatively as she sipped her tea and watched him devour five slices of toast covered in the entire contents of a jar of Toby’s favourite Tiptree redcurrant jelly. She wished he would close his mouth while he ate. Her view of his masticated toast – and more unpleasantly, his stained and twisted teeth (one of which, the important front left incisor, was missing) – was repulsive.
‘Noowhere to go, like, that’s all. I’ll not be staying long.’
‘No, you mustn’t go. You’re not fit to go anywhere, least of all out on the streets again. You must stay here.’
‘And him?’ Jimmy moved his head to indicate the bedroom upstairs where Toby still slept.
‘Oh, he doesn’t really mean you any harm. He was just eager to impress those people that were here last night,’ she said.
There was an uneasy silence.
‘What really happened to you last night?’ she said eventually.
‘Some kids, looking for someone to kick aboot. It happens,’ he said as he lit another cigarette.
‘You mean they attacked you for no reason?’ He nodded.
‘Jimmy, that need never happen to you again. I can make sure of that, if you’ll only trust me,’ she said.
He looked at her with his astonishing eyes and she, for some strange reason, had to look away.
‘Why me, though?’ he asked.
She couldn’t tell him about Jon’s bet. It would hurt him and might even frighten him away. He couldn’t think that she wanted to help him just in order to win a wager thought up over dinner in some smart restaurant. It was better, she persuaded herself, to make him believe that it was a professional matter, to do with her work. Which, in a way, it was.
‘It’s very important to me, Jimmy, for my research, and it could be life-changing for you,’ she said, not daring to meet those eyes again and instead fixing her gaze on the series of earrings that punctured his left ear.
He was looking round the huge flat as if taking an inventory of her and her life. And if her range of teas, coffees and confitures had invoked in him some kind of culture shock her home was even more incomprehensible to him.
‘Where’s your telly?’ he said.
‘It slides away into the wall,’ she said, moving across to the living area to demonstrate.
‘Why d’ya wanna do that?’ he said incredulously.
‘Because, Jimmy, the person who designed this place suggested it. It’s funny really but televisions – in the circles I mix in – are something rather shameful. We hide them away in the way that other people might hide things that they think might betray basic instincts in them that they would not like others to see – like pornography or Jeffrey Archer novels …’
‘What?’ he said, his face creased up with confusion.
‘I like bare space,’ she said, suddenly thinking how very pretentious the term ‘minimalist’ was.
‘I like places to be a bit more cosy, like,’ he said. ‘No offence, mind.’
Gradually she began to talk to Jimmy in rather the way that Toby spoke to their Bosnian cleaning lady: very slowly, choosing her words carefully so as not to baffle or confuse him. It wasn’t that she thought that he was stupid, just that he came from such a different world to hers that it really was as if there were some international barrier between them.
‘Can I watch it, like?’ he said, indicating the television.
‘Of course. I’m going to get dressed and then we can talk some more.’ Hattie handed him the remote control.
In the bathroom she rang Claire, who sounded a little grumpy, and insisted that she get herself over as soon as she could. When she emerged, bathed and dressed, she found Toby making himself some coffee in the kitchen. His mood, she instantly surmised, was no better for a good sleep, and she had to suppress a smile.
‘He’s still here then?’ He nodded his head towards the figure of Jimmy who was flicking from channel to channel on the remote control, a fag burning in his other hand.
‘Yes, and so are you,’ Hattie said sharply.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he replied.
‘Oh Toby, I haven’t the energy for another row. Claire is on her way over to help me with Jimmy. If we get our way he’ll be staying here for a while.’
‘You aren’t seriously saying you’re taking Jon up on his bet?’
‘Ssh, the boy doesn’t know about the bet. He thinks that he’s helping me with some research paper I’m writing,’ she hissed.
‘But does he have to stay here? Does he have to take up residence with us? Christ, Hattie, he’s smoking in there!’ A look of disgust and horror passed across Toby’s already disgruntled face.
They were saved from further argument by the doorbell and the arrival of Claire, now in high spirits.
‘Well, where is he, darling?’ she shouted as she came through the doorway.
‘Ssh,’ said Hattie. ‘He’s watching television.’
Jimmy had given his channel hopping a kind of rap rhythm. With split-second timing he wove between terrestrial and cable programmes, oblivious of the two women who stood watching him or the irritation he was causing Toby, who was clearing up in the kitchen, washing up last night’s glasses that would, he always claimed, be ruined in the dishwasher.
‘Hadn’t we better clean him up first?’ said Claire, her enthusiasm dimmed by her first glimpse of Jimmy in daylight.
‘I didn’t know quite how to raise the subject,’ said Hattie in a whisper. ‘I didn’t want to offend him.’
‘Leave it to me,’ said Claire, walking across to Jimmy and grabbing the remote control from his hand.
‘Hi,’ she said. ‘I don’t expect you remember but I was here when you arrived last night. I’m Claire. I bet you would like a nice hot bath, and a shave. I’ll go through and run one for you.’
Jimmy’s eyes lit up. ‘I divvant know if she had one, like. What with the telly in the wall and all. I had to pittle in the sink this morning …’
‘Pittle?’ said Claire in a bemused tone.
‘Eeee, you know – pittle, piss …’
At this Toby, who had been rinsing the last of the glasses, threw in the mop. ‘Christ, I can’t take any more of this,’ he said, looking distastefully into the murky waters of the kitchen sink. ‘I’m going out.’
Hattie was enormously relieved to see him go and smiled encouragingly at Jimmy whilst making a mental note to rewash the glasses that were standing on the stainless-steel rack in the kitchen.
Claire was organising things in the bathroom, pulling from the concealed cupboards an assortment of pungent bath oils, soaps, shaving foams and razors for Jimmy.
‘Don’t forget to clean behind your ears,’ she said, glancing with disgust at his matted hair as he walked in, his face wide with wonderment at Hattie’s bathroom.
‘Eee, man …’ he said as he looked around him.
‘The towels are in the cupboard by the loo,’ said Hattie in a maternal fashion as they closed the door on him.
The two of them stood cautiously outside as Jimmy wrestled with the