Observatory Mansions Read Online Free PDF

Peter and Francis Orme.
    She sighed, her mind on other creatures – other beautiful, sun-gold creatures who spoke of love and dollars. We were not part of her beautiful life. I had a swollen bottom lip, Peter Bugg was bald, was crying, was sweating. Our skins were pale. We had little money. At best we could have been extras, padding for the crowd scenes, kept in the back. But that evening we had come forward and were threatening to place ourselves in front of the viewer’s eyes. And Miss Higg’s eyes had adjusted themselves to beauty only. Coming out of that state of mind required a little concentration. She would have to convince herself that we were characters from the television and that the characters from the television were the real people. She would have to convince herself that she had switched the channels over and was caught on some documentary, probably, or some small-budget black and white film that was concerned solely with non-beautiful people without suntans and without money. She would have to convince herself that the actress who was about to perform the role of Miss Claire Higg had absolutely nothing to do with her. The name was just a coincidence. The real Miss Claire Higg was on a beach oceans away. How much convincing would that take?
    I’m busy.
    It’s nine o’clock. The news is on.
    I’m watching the news.
    You never watch the news.
    I’ve got company.
    Yes, but at the moment on the wrong side of your door.
    You can’t stay long.
    We shan’t stay long.
    No longer than half an hour.
    We know the news is only half an hour long.
    Come in. Sit down. Let me fetch you a martini.
    Miss Higg’s martini tasted more like tea. She sat in her favourite armchair and as we talked she placed sun cream on to her face and arms. She was still in her nightdress, she rarely wore anything else, she had no reason to venture outside, there was nothing for her there. Peter Bugg did her shopping. In her list of bare essentials there would often be a more idiosyncratic item: sun block, a bikini, a champagne glass, a red rose. These requirements were hidden between tea bags, mulligatawny soup, tuna chunks, tooth glue. Occasionally, though, even she went outside, but only when there were power cuts. When the electricity failed Peter Bugg and I would always go straight to her flat. There we would find her in a state of panic. We would put her in her coat and, each taking one arm, escort her downstairs. Time for your walk, we would say on those occasions. Everyone’s died, she would say. They haven’t died, we’d say, they’ll be back soon, time for a little fresh air. Then she would smile. You’re my beaux, don’t go taking advantage of me, she would say. We would say: We won’t. Peter Bugg and I, more lifting Miss Higg than escorting her, would walk her around the walled enclosure of Observatory Mansions. If, during the walk, the lights came back on inside the building she would begin to panic, and we would immediately cease our stroll and return her to her flat. Those were the only times Miss Higg left it.
    She had not always been like this. There were other Higgtimes too. She loved and was loved once, weren’t you Claire? I was, wasn’t I? Wasn’t I? But that is another story.
    Miss Higg had her reasons for not wanting a new resident. Particularly one living on her own floor. She wanted nothing to interrupt her viewing hours. She wanted no more company, considered it dangerous. A new companion might become attached to her television set, might have affairs with her beautiful friends. Worse though, a new companion might encourage her to see less television, might encourage her to visit the outdoors.
    She had, she told us, heard the new resident moving into flat eighteen. She had heard voices. Plural. Who was she conversing with? we enquired. With the Porter, she said. Impossible. Talking and hissing, we suggested. Talking and talking, she insisted. We ignored that comment, put it down to Miss Higg’s lack of