A Shock

by Keith Ridgway

  — Hello Tommy very nice to meet you, and I’m, I’m, I’m Michael. And this is, well I actually don’t know, I did the same thing you did I just walked over and started talking. It’s amazing isn’t it, how something like that will get people talking to each other isn’t it? Strangers I mean. I mean an accident or a death or a fight I suppose, it’s always the same, always gets people talking who otherwise

  — I’m Maria.

  — Hi.

  He gives her a conspiratorial sort of smile, she thinks. She wonders if he has come to her rescue. Do men do that? Do they think twice? Do people like Tommy keep an eye on people like Michael? What is wrong with Michael anyway? He seems fine. Startled and worried like a child, and talkative, so talkative.

  You know Tommy. You know Tommy, and Maria, and the man they’re talking to. You know where they are. You know what’s going to happen.

  — Did you hear then Tommy about the bereavement?

  Tommy laughs.

  — Yes, I did. I did. And that seemed to make the guy in the glasses even angrier.

  — How dare you, he said, said Michael.

  — That’s right.

  — How dare you use grief as an excuse for your shitty behaviour.

  — Something like that.

  — Oh there’ll be a mood now won’t there?

  — I think they left. I mean the guy who said it. I think his friend took him. They were heading for the front door anyway. Seems calm now.

  — That’s a terrible thing to say about something like that sure love is love is what I say, that’s the way I look at it anyway, and you can never really know what brings people together, who are we to judge, and a thing like that, well, disgusting is a terrible word to use about people don’t you think?

  He drinks from a little glass.

  — Do you know either of them? Tommy asks her.

  — No, no I don’t.

  — I don’t really know the younger one but I know his boyfriend. He’s lovely. Very sweet. I mean it’s not even a big gap. You know? I know of bigger gaps. Such a stupid thing to say.

  Two talkative men. She likes them both. Michael has produced a bottle of whiskey from his pocket and is pouring himself some. So she is like him. They are like each other. Why does Stan hate him?

  — Will you have some Maria? Some whiskey? No? Tommy? Will you? Go on. I don’t have a glass though. Take a swig from the bottle ah go on sure why not a big swig of, it’ll put hairs on your chest, won’t it isn’t that what they say? There you go, oh not too much now, don’t take it all, ah I’m only joking.

  They all laugh.

  David is at home by now. Gary is asleep, in a friend’s place in Whitechapel, his camera beside him. He’s fine, he’s just tired. Harry is fine too. He’s working in The Arms. It’s busy. Ahunna is on as well. She still hasn’t taken the grill. They might come to the party after closing — Harry will call someone, find out if it’s worth it. Ronnie is at home watching TV. Anna is out. She’s having dinner with a friend in a restaurant in Brixton. They are telling each other stories. Pigeon is on a date, sort of. They’re having a drink, also in Brixton, and they might go dancing afterwards. Pigeon doesn’t really like her though. She’s not laughing at his jokes. Stan is in a corner of the front room, sitting on the sofa, sweating, trying to have a conversation with Sanjay. They’re not arguing, they’re actually getting on fine. Stan thinks that maybe it’s a breakthrough. He’s too hot though. He might head for the garden in a bit. That’s everyone. Almost everyone.

  — I bring my own because there’s never usually whiskey at a party. And I only really like the whiskey really. Wine hurts my jaw. Do you get that? I am allergic to something in wine that gives me lockjaw. No, I’m serious.

  — Lockjaw?

  — A pain anyway.

  Tommy laughs.

  — And beer just makes me. Well it’s an older man thing, I won’t bore you with it.

  — Pee, says Tommy.

  — Well, yes, says Michael. But every five minutes my god, a bladder the size of an eggcup. But I shouldn’t be talking like this it’s very vulgar.

  Maria thinks that Michael is laughing only at what is happening, at the jokes he is making, at the little scene the three of them are creating in the garden with their drinks and their voices and their unfamiliarity with each other. Things that she and Tommy are also laughing at. But she thinks too that she and Tommy, with the glances they exchange, are also laughing at Michael. At the ridiculousness of Michael, at his clothes and his voice and his whiskey pocket, and his innocence — his apparent innocence — and his mischief, his apparent mischief. And furthermore she thinks, as she looks at Tommy, at something around his eyes, she thinks that she is laughing at Tommy too, at his youth, at his fascination with Michael, at his attractiveness and his sexiness, his apparent sexiness, his apparent body. And she is slightly wrong about all of this. Maria is slightly wrong about everything that is happening, and is wrong too about the laughter, and its varied sources and causes and effects.

  Slightly.

  — The mood will be ruined now we should do something about it, have they turned off the music, oh, have they?

  — No I don’t think so.

  — No, there it is again, it went down a bit there for a second I thought. Oh! I know! Do you know what?

  He grips Tommy’s arm, but looks at Maria.

  — Do you sing?

  Maria shakes her head.

  — Sing? No. Not really.

  — Let’s sing some songs. You. Do you sing. I bet you do look at you face of a choirboy of course you do voice of an angel, you do don’t you?

  — I really don’t, says Tommy.

  — Most people can carry a tune. They just don’t have any confidence about it. It used to be at parties when I was your age there would always be songs. We need songs. It’ll get rid of the mood. Lift the mood. That’s all it takes. It’s a great thing, music, singing together, singing songs. We need songs. I’m right amn’t I right?

  — I’m not sure it’s that sort of party really, says Tommy.

  — Oh look at those butterflies aren’t they just the most beautiful thing?

  Maria turns and sees two, three, white butterflies on the wing, scattering themselves against the flowers and the fence. Above them the bricks and the rooftops. About them the city-less sky, all a deep royal blue, crossed by dots.

  — You only see white ones these days, mostly, says Michael. It used to be a famous place for butterflies, Camberwell. Crowds of them, all colours, everywhere you went. But now you get the white ones mostly.

  — They fly like they’re in a panic.

  Michael stares at Tommy for a moment, and then laughs. He thinks this is very funny.

  — I like that. That’s very good. Butterfly panic. I like that.

  The rest is simple.

  He forgets for a few minutes, Michael does, but then he remembers and he puts down his glass on the grass and in his pockets he finds pieces of paper, a pen. He has already forgotten Maria’s name, but he writes it down when she tells him, even though she insists, laughing, but also slightly worried, that she does not sing, she will not sing.

  — Oh I know I know, here, I’ll make a note of that.

  He takes Tommy’s name as well, and then he goes to others in the garden, and Tommy and Maria listen in as he tries to persuade them that what the party needs now is songs, and that if they want they can give him their name and he will get it all organised and then call them when it’s their turn.

  — He’s brave.

  — I hope people aren’t rude to him.

  — Well I hope that he doesn’t end up with only our names. Do you mind if I?

  He has produced a small joint.

  — Not at all.

  — Like some?

  — I’d love some.

 
They smoke together and watch Michael and they smile, and the butterflies panic around them and the darkness covers the ground but the sky is a bright beautiful blue. They talk about nothing, relaxed now, and Tommy tells her some secrets, and she tells him some in return, and they are becoming friends suddenly, and she was not expecting this. Michael has gone inside the house. They watch the butterflies. They try to have them land on their outstretched hands, but that doesn’t happen. Then Tommy has to go to the bathroom.

  — I’ll be back, but just in case, give me your number. I don’t want to lose you.

  And they swap numbers. And he goes.

  — Be careful on those stairs, she calls after him.

  He laughs without looking back.

  She is wondering what she should do. She takes the last beer from her bag and opens it. She moves towards the kitchen. She is fine now. Everything is fine. And then the music stops.

  She squeezes into the kitchen. There are voices coming from the living room, and she worries for a moment that it is another argument. But then she hears Michael’s voice, and laughter. And she is immediately worried that he is about to make a fool of himself. That he will be mocked and ridiculed. She hears the laughter. She goes and stands amongst people. She leans back on the kitchen counter. She can’t make out the words.

  — Is it the same guy? someone beside her asks.

  — Same guy. He’s doing the singing thing.

  — Oh god. Did people say yes?

  — I don’t know. Maybe. I think he’s going to start it off though.

  This is Katherine. Katherine and Fran. Maria listens to them. She says nothing.

  — Oh god, says Katherine again.

  And then Michael begins. He whistles first, and people laugh, and someone starts to whistle as well, but they are quickly shushed. Then Michael sings, to the same melody as the whistle. And he sings in French. And his voice is clear, and strong. It is loud. It seems to shimmer. It fills the spaces around them like a bright cool air, but serious. Serious. He has a beautiful voice. Beautiful.

  — Wow, says Katherine. He can sing.

  — I know this, says Fran.

  — What is it?

  — Old French thing. Old war song.

  — What’s it about?

  And Fran begins to quietly translate some of the words for Katherine. They lean against each other, beside Maria. She is moved by the strength of Michael’s voice. So moved. She thinks she knows the song as well, but she cannot place it. A verse, and then some whistling, and then a verse. There is silence in the house. Silence everywhere.

  J’ai changé cent fois de nom

  J’ai perdu femme et enfants

  Mais j’ai tant d’amis

  Et j’ai la France entière

  As Michael sings, Maria leans closer to Fran so that she can hear the words in English. Katherine is staring at the floor. Fran is smiling, Maria closes her eyes. Michael sings, whistles, sings. His voice is a perfect thing.

  Le vent souffle sur les tombes

  La liberté reviendra

  On nous oubliera

  Nous rentrerons dans l’ombre

  And he whistles.

  — The wind on the graves, says Fran. Freedom will come again. We will be forgotten. We will go into the shadows.

  And the song is over.

  Maria is not surprised to discover that she is crying. Just a few tears. Through her closed eyes. And no one sees. No one knows. No one but you.

  There is applause. Generous, genuine applause. She can hear Stan, she thinks, shouting, well done, well done. She cannot tell if he is sincere or not. She doesn’t know what he thinks.

  She opens her eyes, wipes her cheeks and laughs a little. Silly. Fran and Katherine have moved away, towards the door. The crowd are trying to get Michael to sing some more. It seems sincere. Maybe even Stan. Maybe people are ok, are good sometimes. Then there is silence, and she can hear his talking voice, Michael’s voice, but not what he says. Then there is laughter, and then silence again as they listen to him speak. He is addressing his crowd. She smiles.

  The kitchen is almost empty. She sighs, puts down her empty bottle, looks around. All the things she wants to know, and all the things she wants to say, are perhaps impossible. She looks at the wall opposite, over the table, where something seems to glint. She takes a step towards it, unable to understand what she is looking at. Hips to the table edge, she leans over, raises her hand as if to touch it. Perhaps it is a stain. Or an insect. Or someone has thrown a grape, and it has stuck. Her hand stops. It is an eye. There is an eye in the wall, glistening, peculiar, completely alive. It is looking at her, and it seems impossible to understand, but Maria is not frightened, she does not scream. There is no shock.

  Perhaps it should have started this way.

  Perhaps it does.

  Acknowledgements

  The line “Take off your life like trousers” is from “The Wall” by Anne Sexton, from her collection The Awful Rowing Toward God (1975).

  The words “sheep boy, idiot son of Donkey Kong” are from “Safe­surfer” by Julian Cope, from Peggy Suicide (1991).

  The song sung at the party is “La Complainte du Partisan,” written by Anna Marly and Emmanuel d’Astier de la Vigerie in 1943.

  *

  I am grateful to Barbara Epler, Philip Gwyn Jones, Laurence Laluyaux, for their support, their encouragement, and for the work they undertook to see this book published.

  I am grateful to the Arts Council of Ireland for financial assistance in the form of a bursary.

  I am grateful to Taha Hassan for everything.

  I will always be grateful to the memory of my friend David Miller.