Spin Cycle (22 page)

As a consequence of her having spent most of the morning with her Catholic neighbor Mrs. O’Rourke, stuffing her face with mince pies and—more to the point—knocking back half a dozen large schooners of Harveys Bristol Cream, Mrs. Liebowitz—who never usually drank, apart from a glass or two of Israeli dessert wine at Passover—reached a different conclusion. A very different conclusion.

As she peeked over the banister and surveyed the scene in the lobby, she gasped, let out a couple of omigods and gasped again.

The excitement, not to mention the sudden palpitations in her chest, were too much for her to bear. She rummaged in her cardigan pocket for the spare angina pill she always kept wrapped in a piece of toilet paper. Her clumsy arthritic fingers going as fast as they could, she eventually managed to unfold the paper and place the pill under her tongue.

Dry-mouthed and breathless, she climbed back upstairs as fast as her heart and short, varicosed legs would allow.

“Harry, Harry,” she shrieked as she stood panting in the kitchen doorway, “come quick. You’ll never believe what’s going on downstairs in the lobby.”

Mr. Liebowitz, who was sitting at the blue Formica kitchen table and who had, until that moment, been reading the
Evening Standard
and peeling a Satsuma, didn’t look up.

“What now?” he sighed wearily, breaking off a Satsuma segment and popping it into his mouth. “What is it I won’t believe?”

“Look, if I tell you, you won’t believe it. You have to come and see. Harry, for God’s sake put down that orange. You have to come. Please.”

Harry Liebowitz broke off a second segment and stared at his wife over his glasses. “Ada, you look flushed. How many glasses of sherry did that Maggie O’Rourke give you?”

“A few, but I feel fine, honestly. Please. I’m begging you. Put that orange down and come with me.”

“You still haven’t told me what’s going on.”

“OK, wait for it . . .” She paused for dramatic effect. “Downstairs in the lobby there’s a pregnant woman, a man pulling a donkey—I think he might be one of those nice boys from upstairs, but I couldn’t make him out properly because I forgot my glasses.
And
three men in turbans. Carrying gifts.”

“Really,” he said flatly. “You’ll be telling me next, they couldn’t find room at the Holiday Inn.” He guffawed at the cleverness of his own joke. “Ada, you had too much to drink, you fell asleep in the chair and you’ve been dreaming.”

He went back to his newspaper. “Oh, for crying out loud,” he moaned. “Look at this—Christmas Day—films:
The Great Escape
. Every bloody year, it’s the same. What’s the matter with these TV people? Don’t they watch television?”

“Harry, please, you have to believe me. There’s a donkey. They’re trying to get a donkey in the lift.”

“Ach, why would anybody put a donkey in a lift?”

“I dunno. Maybe it can’t manage the stairs. . . . Do you want to know what I think?”

“No.”

“I think . . .” She paused for dramatic effect. “I think the Second Coming’s come.”

“The Second Coming,” he repeated.

“Yes, I’m sure of it.”

“Fine. Whatever,” he said vacantly, running his finger down the list of BBC programs for Boxing Day. “Little and bloody Large,” he muttered to himself. “That’s the best they can come up with.”

“Harry,” Mrs. Liebowitz implored, “I said I think it could be the Second Coming. Don’t you think that’s at least worth looking up from your paper for?”

“But you’re saying one of them might be one of the fellas upstairs, only you’re not sure because you didn’t have your glasses? Actually, come to think of it, this could be something, couldn’t it? If you’re right, then you’ll be in the next edition of the Bible. The Gospel according to Ada Who Forgot Her Glasses. The Book of Liebowitz the Tipsy. ‘And there did cometh to the Hill that is Muswell several strangers who the people could not quite make out, for their eyes were dim and they had forgotteneth their bifocals.’ ” He paused to break off yet another Satsuma segment. “Anyway,” he continued with a shrug. “So what if it’s the Second Coming? We’re Jewish. The First Coming meant nothing to our lot. Why should the Second?”

“But maybe that’s the whole point. Don’t you see? Maybe God was so angry that the Jews ignored the First Coming that he’s sent another one.”

“To Vayzemere Mansions, Muswell Hill?” Mr. Liebowitz chortled. “Makes perfect sense . . . my God, then there’s Cannon and sodding Ball.”

“Harry, please. This is no joke.”

“Who’s laughing?”

“Oh, please come downstairs, Harry,” Mrs. Liebowitz begged, almost in tears now.

He let out a long, lung-evacuating sigh. “All right. All right.” Gripping the tabletop, Harry Liebowitz, who was no lightweight, heaved himself slowly off the chair.

“Quick,” she cried urgently. “Quick.”

The pair creaked down the stairs.

Then they looked over the banister down to the lobby.

“See, there’s nobody there,” Mr. Liebowitz declared. “I told you, it’s the drink. Ada, accept it—you fell asleep. You’ve been dreaming.”

“For the last time, I was
not
asleep,” Mrs. Liebowitz insisted. “I didn’t dream it.”

Shrugging, Harry began to trudge back up the stairs. Desperate to find something to prove to her husband she hadn’t been dreaming, Mrs. Liebowitz continued on down. When she reached the bottom, she noticed a brown paper parcel lying in the middle of the lobby. She walked over to it. Realizing it was identical to the parcels carried by the Three Wise Men, she bent down slowly, one hand in the small of her back, and picked it up. Without stopping to see if there was an address or a label to indicate what it might contain, she ripped into the package. Had she stopped to look she would have seen it was meant for Polly, the aromatherapist who lived at number forty. (What with all the clapping and cheering as they’d finally got Demi to walk across the lobby and into the lift, Rachel had forgotten to pick it up.)

Inside she found two tiny blue glass bottles, wrapped in tissue and packed in polystyrene balls. Mrs. Liebowitz unwrapped one and then the other. Because she wasn’t wearing her glasses, she had to hold them at arm’s length to read the labels. For a moment she simply stood there openmouthed and blinking. She virtually sprinted back up the stairs.

“Harry,” she screeched as she reached her front door, “I don’t know what to do now. The Three Wise Men, they left their frankincense and myrrh downstairs.”

“Don’t worry,” Harry’s voice came from the toilet. “They’ll come back for it.”

* * * * *

Once inside, Matt led everybody, including the Singhs, who had dropped the remaining boxes of aromatherapy oils off at number forty, along the hallway toward the kitchen. Demi had stopped giving trouble and was clip-clopping along happily behind Tractor and Shelley, who were deep in conversation about babies.

Soon everybody had piled into the tiny kitchen. The washing machine was standing in the middle, covered by a blanket. Sticking out from underneath it was an enormous, black metal handle bent into a strange configuration that ended in a large U-shape with padding around it. Next to it was a large bucket of water, and next to that, what seemed to be an old, mechanical gym treadmill. A thick green hose led from under the blanket to the sink.

The Singh twins were clearly underwhelmed by all this and asked if they could go into the living room and watch TV. Mr. Singh, however, appeared genuinely intrigued as Matt explained that he was about to see a demonstration of the first washing machine designed for remote villages in the Third World.

“All right, let’s get started,” Matt said. Then, like a conjuror whisking away a tablecloth from under a pile of crockery, he tugged at the blanket. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, beaming, “I give you the Donkulator Mark One.” The other end of the mysterious handle, it turned out, disappeared into a large aluminum box bolted to the side of the shell of an old white enamel top loader, clearly dating from the sixties.

Once everybody had stopped clapping, Demi allowed Tractor to lead her onto the treadmill and put the U-shaped end of the handle round her neck as a harness.

This done, Matt opened the washing machine lid and filled the drum with water from the bucket. A moment later Tractor gave Demi a handful of the pink beaded Liquorice Allsorts, which the donkey apparently favored, and she promptly began walking at a gentle, unhurried pace.

The handle, and then the washing machine drum, immediately started turning.

“Now what you have to imagine,” Matt said above the purposeful whirring noise, “is that out in the villages, Demi here wouldn’t be on a treadmill, but walking around a pole. Yet the principle is identical. The connecting rod between her and the machine would still enter the gearbox here,” he indicated the aluminum box on the machine’s side, “and create via a patented mechanism the turning motion in the drum . . . here. It’s a high-ratio gearbox, which only requires Demi to break into a brisk walk like . . . so,” he stroked Demi’s flank and whispered to her, “to create a full, albeit relatively slow, spin cycle.”

Demi speeded up on her treadmill, and the whirring noise from the gearbox grew to a clatter, swiftly followed by the familiar sound of a washing machine drum spinning at a respectable pace.

Matt’s face broke into a broad smile. Rachel turned and hugged him.

“It’s absolutely brilliant,” she squealed excitedly. “I am so proud of you.”

“Yeah, well done, mate,” Tractor said, slapping Matt on the back.

But Rachel and Matt were now too busy kissing to notice his congratulations.

“I love you,” Rachel said when they finally pulled away.

“I love you too.” Matt smiled, giving her one last peck on the lips.

“The Donkulator is going to make you world-famous,” she said. “You’re going to get the Nobel Prize for Laundry. I just know it. I just know it.”

“Well,” Matt said over the din, “we’re going to have to see if the guys from the Burkina Faso trade mission like it first when they come to see it next week. It’s all been a bit seat-of-the-pants these last few weeks. I only got the drain cycle sorted a couple of days ago, and I still haven’t gone the full donkey with it yet.”

With that, with a massive gurgling and burping sound, the hose in the sink began gushing water.

“Oh yes,” Matt cried. “Oh yes.”

“Oh no,” Shelley cried. “Oh no.”

Everybody shot round to look at her.

Shelley cleared her throat nervously. “Sorry,” she said, looking down at the tiny puddle at her feet. “But I think my waters have broken in sympathy.”

She then screwed up her face in pain and collapsed onto a kitchen chair as another contraction arrived, followed less than a minute later by another.

* * * * *

Rachel said she thought Shelley could be about to give birth, in which case they should call an ambulance. No ordinary vehicle stood a chance of getting through the Christmas Eve traffic and getting Shelley to the hospital in time.

While Matt dialed 999, Rachel and Tractor helped Shelley into Matt’s bedroom.

“Mr. Singh,” Matt said as he picked up the phone, “look, I’m terribly sorry about all this. Maybe it would be better for you to come back after Christmas. In the meantime would you mind unharnessing Demi and taking her out onto the balcony? You’ll find some fresh hay there.”

It was a walk of no more than a dozen paces to the bedroom. On the way, Shelley had three more violent contractions that left her drained.

“Don’t worry,” Tractor told her confidently after the last one. “I know all about delivering babies. I didn’t tell you, but our mam had all six of my brothers and sisters at home. When she went into labor the last time, with our Eugene, the midwife didn’t arrive until it was all over. Me dad had taken the other kids out for the day to give her a break so I was the only one there to help her.”

“What?” Shelley said, looking at him all doe-eyed. “You delivered your baby brother, all on your own?”

He nodded.

Rachel frowned. She couldn’t work out if this was another Tractor tall story—like his fictional negotiations with the “major food conglomerate.”

“So how old were you?” Shelley asked him.

“ ’Bout thirteen. But I wasn’t quite on my own. I had the lady from the emergency services on the phone talking me through it.”

The moment Shelley sat down on the bed, another contraction came. This time she almost screamed the place down. “Rache, I think it’s coming. I think it’s coming.”

Rachel could feel panic rising inside her, not helped by Demi, who, out on the balcony, suddenly seemed to fancy herself as a contestant in the Eurovision Braying contest.

“OK, sweetheart,” Rachel said, trying to hide her panic, “just hold my hand and breathe. Christ, where is that bloody ambulance?”

Even if Tractor did know something about delivering babies, she reasoned, it couldn’t possibly be as much as the paramedics.

By now Tractor had plumped up three pillows and arranged them against the headboard.

Gingerly, Shelley lifted her feet off the floor and eased herself along the bed.

“Rachel,” Tractor said, “why don’t you go to the linen cupboard and get some towels.”

“OK,” she said, letting go of Shelley’s hand.

“Don’t worry,” she whispered, stroking her friend’s head. “I’ll only be a minute.”

“Eeeeeuuuuuurch,” Shelley groaned.

“Eyyooore, eyyoore,” came the response from the balcony.

“Omigod,” Rachel muttered. “The donkey thinks she’s found a friend.”

“All right, Shelley, mate,” Tractor said calmly. “Just breathe through it. Blow, blow, blow. That’s it. Excellent. Good girl.”

Rachel had to ask Matt where the linen cupboard was. He led her to the end of the hall.

“Ambulance is on its way,” he said. “And the Singhs have got Demi in hand.”

She nodded. “Look,” she said, taking in his pale, anxious face, “why don’t you put the kettle on?”

“Oh yeah,” he said shakily. “Boiling water. You always need boiling water when babies are being born. Why is that?”

“I’ve no idea,” she chuckled. “I was just thinking you look like you could do with a cuppa and I’m sure Mr. Singh could. He must be freezing to death out there on the balcony.”