Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine(12)

When the grim engagement presentation was over, I zipped up my jerkin and turned off my computer, excited at the thought of switching on my personal laptop at home as soon as I could. There might be some useful information online about his school days, given the nugget of new information I’d inveigled from Bernadette earlier. How wonderful if there was a class photograph! I’d love to see how he looked in his youth, whether he’d always been beautiful, or whether he’d blossomed into a glorious butterfly at a relatively late stage. My money was on him being stunning from birth. There might be a list of prizes he’d won! Music, obviously, English, probably: he wrote such wonderful lyrics, after all. Either way, he definitely struck me as a prizewinner.

I try to plan my exits from the office so that I don’t need to talk to anyone else on the way out. There are always so many questions. What are you up to tonight? Plans for the weekend? Booked a holiday yet? I’ve no idea why other people are always so interested in my schedule. I’d timed it all perfectly, and was maneuvering my shopper over the threshold when I realized that someone had pulled the door back and was holding it open for me. I turned around.

“All right, Eleanor?” the man said, smiling patiently as I unraveled the string on my mittens from my sleeve. Even though they were not required in the current temperate atmosphere, I keep them in situ, ready to don as the eventual change in season requires.

“Yes,” I said, and then, remembering my manners, I muttered, “Thank you, Raymond.”

“No bother,” he said.

Annoyingly, we began walking down the path at the same time.

“Where are you headed?” he asked. I nodded vaguely in the direction of the hill.

“Me too,” he said.

I bent down and pretended to refasten the Velcro on my shoe. I took as long as I could, hoping that he would take the hint. When eventually I stood up again, he was still there, arms dangling by his sides. I noticed that he was wearing a duffle coat. A duffle coat! Surely they were the preserve of children and small bears? We started to walk downhill together and he took out a packet of cigarettes, offered me one. I reared back from the packet.

“How disgusting,” I said. Undeterred, he lit up.

“Sorry,” he mumbled. “Filthy habit, I know.”

“It is,” I said. “You’ll die years earlier than you would have otherwise, probably from cancer or heart disease. You won’t see the effects on your heart or your lungs for a while, but you’ll notice it in your mouth—gum disease, loss of teeth—and you’ve already got the smoker’s characteristically dull, prematurely lined skin. The chemical constitution of cigarettes includes cyanide and ammonia, you know. Do you really want to willingly ingest such toxic substances?”

“You seem to know an awful lot about fags for a nonsmoker,” he said, blowing a noxious cloud of carcinogens from between his thin lips.

“I did briefly consider taking up smoking,” I admitted, “but I thoroughly research all activities before commencement, and smoking did not in the end seem to me to be a viable or sensible pastime. It’s financially rebarbative too,” I said.

“Aye,” he nodded, “it does cost a fortune, right enough.” There was a pause. “Which way are you going, Eleanor?” he asked.

I considered the best response to this question. I was heading home for an exciting rendezvous. This highly unusual occasion—an appointment with a visitor to my home—meant that I needed to curtail this tedious, unplanned interaction posthaste. I therefore ought to pick any route but the one Raymond would be taking. But which one? We were about to pass the chiropody clinic and inspiration struck.

“I have an appointment over there,” I said, pointing to the chiropodist’s opposite. He looked at me. “Bunions,” I improvised. I saw him looking at my shoes.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Eleanor,” he said. “My mother’s the same; she’s got terrible trouble with her feet.”

We waited at the pedestrian crossing, and he was silent at last. I watched an old man stagger down the opposite side of the road. He was small and square, and had caught my eye because of his tomato-red sweater, which burst out from beneath his standard-issue pensioner grays and muted pastels. Almost in slow motion, the old man began to weave and wobble erratically, swaying wildly from side to side, his bulging carrier bags creating a sort of human pendulum.

“Drunk in the daytime,” I said quietly, more to myself than to Raymond. Raymond opened his mouth to reply when the old man finally toppled, fell backward hard and lay still. His shopping exploded around him, and I noticed he’d bought Tunnock’s Caramel Logs and a jumbo pack of sausages.

“Shit,” said Raymond, stabbing at the button on the crossing control.

“Leave him,” I said. “He’s drunk. He’ll be fine.”

Raymond stared at me.

“He’s a wee old man, Eleanor. He smacked his head on that pavement pretty hard,” he said.

Then I felt bad. Even alcoholics deserve help, I suppose, although they should get drunk at home, like I do, so that they don’t cause anyone else any trouble. But then, not everyone is as sensible and considerate as me.

Finally, the green man flashed and Raymond jogged across the road, having flung his cigarette into the gutter. No need to be a litter lout, I thought, walking at a more measured pace behind him. When I reached the other side, Raymond was already kneeling beside the old man, feeling for a pulse in his neck. He was talking loudly and slowly, silly nonsense like Hiya, old-timer, how you doing? and Can you hear me, mister? The old man didn’t respond. I leaned over him and sniffed deeply.