by Galaxy Craze
“Oh, purple for passion,” someone said to me. It was the woman who looked like a witch, the one I had overheard talking about me in front of Barbara Whitmore’s mother. My face went cold and I put the bra back.
Annabel walked towards me with a brown jug in one hand and a green sweater tucked under her arm.
“One hundred per cent pure cashmere, darling! Guess how much?” I had seen her pull it out from underneath another woman’s pile on the clothes table. I shrugged; my fingers shook.
“Fifty pence! Can you believe it? I could have probably got it for less.” She held it up. It was a green cardigan with embroidered yellow flowers around the neck and wrists.
“I’ll give it to your mother for Christmas, she likes this kind of thing. The country look, the ‘I have just come from the vegetable patch’ look.”
…
When we got home there was a red car parked in front of the house, a small zippy bright-red car. Annabel drove towards it slowly, peering through the front window.
“What is that?” she said, as she stepped out of the car.
“Someone must be here,” I said.
“That is naff,” she said. We stood side by side looking at the car. “He’s probably French and likes very young girls. He might even like you.”
It was the brightest thing around; none of the summer guests drove cars like it. It looked as though there was only room for one man and a thin woman next to him, with a purse on her lap.
“How do you know it’s a man’s car?”
Annabel looked at me blank-faced. “I know.”
The kind of man who would wear a short fur jacket, who would take a step back if a cat or dog came too near his trousers: that kind of man.
“At least we know one good thing about him,” Annabel said.
“What?”
“He’s rich,” she said, and ran up the stairs to wash the Vaseline off, which she told me takes a very long time but is worth it. “It’s a poor man’s face-lift.”
There was a square brown suitcase by the front door, I bent down to read the tag but there was nothing written on it. I smelled something, wood and soap. It reminded me of something; I had smelled it before on a man’s neck. I have secretly searched for it in other people’s houses, locking the bathroom door, smelling all the soaps and things in bottles.
It made me hungry, and I walked upstairs to the kitchen. I could hear my mother talking to someone; the door was open. She was talking to a man, I could see the back of his head. A long neck, thin for a man, dark hair, wavy and brushed back. A cup of tea on a saucer next to him, he leaned on his elbow and stirred and stirred with a small spoon. I could hear the tinkling sound it made against the side of the cup.
My mother was wiping the long pepper grinder with a yellow cloth. I thought, I know him! When my mother lifted her head, to ask if he wanted sugar or honey, she saw me standing by the side of the door and stared at me. He noticed and turned around to look.
It was him. His green eyes, like my green eyes. It was my father.
“May, look who’s here. Come and say hello.” Her voice was high and strained. I thought I should jump up and shout “Dad!” but I was too surprised. I didn’t have time to act the way I had always planned to when this happened.
My father sat at the table with his cup of tea. I thought he would stand up, pick me up and kiss me, swing me around, but he just sat there stirring his tea.
I stepped into the kitchen like a prisoner, my arms at my sides. My hands felt hot and itchy. I walked over and kissed him on the cheek. He brought one hand up around the back of my neck and the other around my waist and pulled me onto his lap, like a baby. I tried to laugh and act ticklish, but the sound that came out sounded more like a squeak and made me blush.
“You’ve got bigger,” he said. His hand rested on my stomach. I held it in. My mother always told me he liked thin girls.
…
The last time I saw him was three years ago at my birthday party in London. I was turning nine and had paper plates with flower fairies on them. I saved a place for him next to me and put the party hat with the real blue feather on his chair. It was the best one. I watched the clock on the wall, and every sound near the door made me start. When he finally showed up the party was almost over, but he had a beautifully wrapped box under his arm, store-wrapped, with even folds and clear tape. It was from the ballet store where everything is the colour of roses and made with thick stitches. Inside the box were soft pink slippers, shiny and new, with that square rounded toe I loved.
I wanted to put them on right away, but when my mother saw them something in her face fell. She whispered to me to try them on later because the other girls might get jealous. Annabel and Suzy were there, and a friend of Eden’s so they could play together. Later, when I tried, I couldn’t get my heel into the slippers. They were too small. When we went to return them that weekend, the thin saleswoman in a tartan skirt held them up and looked them over, inspecting. Finally, she handed them back to us and said, “We haven’t carried this brand in a year or two. They’re old stock.”
…
“Are you hungry?” my mother asked. Her voice was tight. I could tell she needed me.
“No.” I was before but now it was gone. The warmth from my father’s neck and the smell was turning my face red. Suddenly he was bored and made a sound like a yawn. He put his hand between my shoulders and slowly pushed me off his lap. I got stuck between him and the table and wasn’t sure whether I was supposed to sit on his lap again or if he had meant me to move away. I walked towards the sink. I needed to put cold water on my face.
Eden was sitting under the table. He had his legs pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped around them.
“What’s he doing?” I asked my mother. It was strange to speak in front of my father. My voice sounded like it was hardly there.
“I don’t know.” She looked tired, the way people do when they’re trying to walk quickly down a crowded street. “You all right under there?”
She bent over and gave him a little poke in the back. He dropped his head down between his knees, like a hopeless dog.
“What did I do wrong?” She was talking about Eden. It made him squirm and bang his hand down on the floor. She looked at my father and raised her eyebrows as if to say: Tell me something. Do you know why my son is sitting under the table with his arms wrapped around his knees? But he only shrugged and pulled out a cigarette from a wide blue box. There were matches on the table, red-tipped safety matches; he ignored them, stood up, and walked out of the kitchen. He took a few steps down the hall to the coat rack, looked in his pockets, and reappeared holding a thin gold lighter.
I watched him walk across the room. He was handsome, that was the first thing anyone ever said about him. My grandmother has a friend named Lady Willoughby de Brook whose voice is so high and pink it’s like a song. We had lemon tea in her garden once, and she tried to explain to my grandmother. “You know what he’s got? Sex appeal.”
I heard slow footsteps in the hall. I looked out and saw Annabel checking herself in the mirror. She walked in with her head high, then stopped stiff when she saw him.
“Don’t tell me! It’s not!” She had her hand on her chest and her mouth open in an exaggerated gasp. She was the funniest person I knew.
“Hello, darling,” he said, getting up to hug her. He looked alive at last. They had the same voice. They were both from the East End but had moved into the Chelsea crowd, so now there was a higher ring to it. My grandmother called it raffinée.
“To what do we owe this visit?” she asked, with her hands on her hips.
“You’re all dressed up, darling, got a date with a farmer?” Her hair was blown straight with an under curl, a classic look but also chic; that’s what she told me.
“Believe me, if I’d known it was just you I wouldn’t have bothered. Did you bring us any goodies?”
“He did bring up some kippers,” my mother said. She was more relaxed now
that everyone was in the room.
“So we can cook for him, thank you very much. I hope they’re from Harrods’ food hall,” Annabel said. She loved visitors, especially men.
…
The beach here is not wide or as long as ribbons, like the one on the postcards my grandmother sends from Rhode Island, America. There are large rocks that stretch into the sea like lions’ claws, and in between are patches of sand. So to walk on the beach you have to climb, with one leg up and a bent back, hands on the rocks. There was my father in his trousers and slippery black shoes. He’d asked me in the kitchen if I wanted to take a walk with him. We hadn’t gone very far when he sat down for a cigarette, the end of our walk. Before he sat down he asked for my jacket to sit on so he wouldn’t mark his trousers. I was warm and had tied it around my waist. It was my favourite electric-blue corduroy. Annabel said it brought out the colour in my eyes; that’s why I’d worn it. I handed it to him as though I didn’t care, but when he sat on it I felt like I was being squashed.
It had been a bright morning, but now the clouds were coming in. My father sat with his knees up, staring at the sea. “It’s quite nice here, you know.”
I was standing behind him. “It’s nice.” I kicked the top of my plimsoll against the rock.
“Come and sit over here, I’m not going to bite,” he said. I sat down cross-legged. Underneath me felt like a cold metal swing. I left a space between us, big enough for another person to sit. My stomach was making noises.
“Your car is nice,” I said.
“Thanks,” he said, looking out, smoking his cigarette.
Beneath us the waves splashed against the rocks. I retied my shoelace, to have something to do. It was beginning to get cold, and I was hungry. But nothing mattered at that moment. I would have sat through the rain, through the night. I only wanted one thing: for him to like me.
“So there’s not much business in the winter then?” he asked.
“Hardly anyone comes, but there are two people here right now.”
“Two people.” He made a puffing sound like it was nothing, pathetic. “See, I’ll tell you something. I’ve found this great little piece of property in south London”—he was gesturing with his hands—“an old building, like a house.” He made a house with his hands. “I’m going to turn it into a food and wine bar.”
“Yeah,” I said, so he knew I was listening.
“It’s a good idea, if I do say so myself. You could move back to London. We could see more of each other. I mean, it’s such a schlep up here . . . .”
“Are you staying for Christmas?” This happens; I get ahead of myself, excited. But he had started it; he said it first. He said we could get to see more of each other.
He nodded, looking out. “I might,” he said slowly, still nodding. Then he turned and looked back towards the house. “It’s a little bleak here. Not a very cheerful place, is it?”
In the kitchen when he’d asked me to go on a walk, I thought he was going to tell me something, a secret about me. I thought, This will be an important moment on the rocks, alone with my father. More than anything else, I was flattered.
“I fancy a cup of tea,” he said, getting up, handing me back my damp, briny jacket.
We walked back together side by side, the sea so quiet and constant it was like the air. The only sound was the gravel under our shoes. This will be a real memory, I thought.
When we were nearer the house I saw something: the end of someone disappeared around the side of the house. I looked at my father to see if he’d seen it too, but he was looking at the roof, inspecting, sizing it up, in the way that he did. The way you look at something you might buy.
Then he stopped suddenly. “Come here a minute, will you?” I walked over to where he stood, and he placed his hand on my shoulder. I stood very still. I couldn’t breathe all the way. I could hear something, like a horse’s trot, coming towards us.
“I’ve got something caught in my shoe,” he said. He leaned his weight on me and stood on one foot. He pulled his shoe off. His sock was thin, a silvery colour. No holes. He held his shoe carefully in his hand, like the glass slipper. Then he turned it upside down and something fell out—there was a clink—a small stone, a piece of gravel.
The sound was louder, the trotting sound coming towards us. I looked to where it was coming from. Then I saw what it was: Patricia, doing her jog around the house. She ran towards us in her pink leotard, her short hair flopping up and down.
“Hi!” she yelled to us.
My father stopped and looked at her, running towards us, waving with one hand. Then she stopped right in front of us but kept moving up and down, jogging in place.
“Hi, May,” she said again. Her cheeks were pink. She seemed happy, like when you get ready for something.
“This is my father,” I said loudly, so she would know. Now she would see I had a handsome father from London. Now she would know we didn’t care about Rufus or what he said about us. I wished he were holding my hand.
“You’re May’s father?” Her leotard was a thin pale pink, almost see-through, the colour of skin.
“I’m Simon.” He put out his hand.
“Patricia.” She smiled at him. “May’s told me about you.” Something inside me stopped. I thought, Don’t say that, don’t tell him. I felt as though those words were being carved inside me. I twisted the button on my coat.
When I looked up, Patricia was smiling at me.
“She is a very sweet girl.”
“She’ll be pretty when she gets those teeth fixed,” my father said, laughing. My hand went up to my mouth, quickly; it hit me on the lips. I’d forgotten about my teeth until just now; they were a little crooked on the side.
“Don’t worry, I had to wear braces for years when I was young,” Patricia said.
“There’s hope,” my father said, and patted me on the head. But it hurt; his hand was heavy. Then they both laughed.
“Are you staying for a while?” she asked, kicking her legs up high behind her.
“Yeah, I might do.”
“Are you still going to do my hair for Barbara’s party?” I wanted him to know we were friends.
“Of course I will, May,” she said, and ran off on her jog again.
He stood there, we both did, looking after her.
“Great legs,” he said.
“She’s here with her boyfriend,” I told him.
“So?” he said, looking at me like he didn’t understand. “She’s still got great legs.”
We walked together, towards the house.
…
“Make me a cup a tea, will you?” my father said, as he walked into the living room and switched on the telly.
“Do you want me to put sugar or honey in it?” He was moving the aerial around, adjusting it to the perfect position.
On the telly, men in tight shorts ran around kicking a ball.
“Two,” he said, staring at the telly.
He must have meant sugar. I knew he meant sugar, but I wanted to make sure.
“Two sugars?” I asked. He was leaning forward with his hands on his knees, his nose almost touching the screen.
There was a note on the kitchen table. It read:
Dear Simon and May,
I’m taking a bath. May, Jolene phoned. She said you were
supposed to be at her house to go Christmas shopping.
I looked up at the clock on the wall. It was past two. I had forgotten we were going Christmas shopping today. I looked back at the note on the table, at my father’s name next to mine. He’s really here, I thought. I folded the note in squares and put it in my pocket.
I made the tea twice; the first time it didn’t look dark enough. I measured the sugar, flattening my finger over the spoon so it was exactly a teaspoonful, then stirred it in. I took a tiny sip, testing it, and afterward I wiped the place where my mouth had been with a napkin. I brought it to him on a saucer, walking slowly, making sure the tea didn’t sway over
the edge.
He was lying down on the sofa with his feet on the armrest. I handed him his tea.
“Just leave it on the table,” he said. My hands shook as I bent over and set it down; it clinked and wobbled but nothing spilled. His shoes were tucked neatly together under the table. He started pushing his hand through the air, the way you try to get a fly, a mosquito, away from you. Finally, he said in a loud voice, “Move!” Then I realized it was me; I was in the way, standing between him and the telly.
I can be slow like that sometimes. Things will happen around me and I won’t notice them. I took a ballet class once, and we were all lined up on the floor doing our stretches. But the next time I looked up, everyone was at the bar doing plies and I was still sitting on the floor.
Loud music and cheers came from the television; a checkered ball flew across the field. There was no room on the sofa; he lay right across it, his head resting on one arm and his feet up on the other. The chair I sat on was peach-coloured with butterflies embroidered on it. They were all different. I traced their wings with my finger, trying to find my favourite, which one I would want to be.
The sound of the telly was hurting my head. I pressed the palm of my hand against my forehead. It felt hot. I remembered that I had to phone Jolene. My father sat up and I thought, Good, we’ll do something else now. I’ll show him my room.
“Hand me my coat, will you, babes?” He put his hand in the coat pocket and pulled out a small box. It was an old throat lozenge tin. My grandmother always had them in her handbag; they were gummy and tasted of black currants. From the box he took out rolling papers and matches. He lit a match and held what looked like a dark brown stone up to the flame, warming it; then he crumbled it over the tobacco, wrapped it tightly in the paper, licked the edge and smoothed it closed. He stared at the telly, leaning forward, and lit it with his gold lighter. Thick white smoke went all around him.
When the game was over, he said, “I told your mum that I’d take you two out for a really nice meal tonight. So dress up a little, look smart.”
