by Deborah Levy
No wonder Raj’s baby brother wants to get rid of Stupid Club any way he can. He’d give away the entire contents of his dad’s shop just to get them out. They should stop taking their pills and eat more sugar and pork fat. Thing is, they’ve got relatives. The Stupid gene lives on. Raj has given his brother some advice about Stupid Club. What to do when he feels he’s losing a grip on his good upbringing. First thing is to turn all the heating in the shop up full. Try to boil ’em out. But that didn’t work because Stupid Club rallied to the challenge. Put on T-shirts and shorts every time they ventured out to the corner shop. Stood around wiping the sweat off their cheeks, sharing a bottle of water, in this together, enjoying themselves while Raj and his brother suffered the rage of their father when he got his gas bill. So Raj bought his brother a pile of comics and some earplugs. He knows what exposure to Stupid Club is like. He’s got two more suggestions to make and then he must get on with cleaning out the carburettor. One: If their lips move in your direction, just say ‘That’s only right, isn’t it?’ Say it every time. Get them used to the routine. Don’t ever say anything else. Two: He’ll ask their father to contact Amnesty.
Sometimes Billy makes him special pizzas and takes them out, sizzling hot in the baking tin. Raj has been very complimentary about his pizzas, which is good for Billy’s pizza confidence. Raj has worked out that every pizza is worth two pounds fifty. When he delivers his Merc bill to Billy, eventually, he’ll knock off all the pizzas he’s eaten – only fair and square. Could Billy just stick to cheese and tomato?
Billy’s got other plans. What about the work he’s done on Raj? As far as he’s concerned, Raj needs a few parts mending and all.
If Falstaff, a Shakespeare bloke, boasted that he could ‘turn diseases to commodity’, Billy doesn’t see why he shouldn’t use his special gifts to buy him a few things he needs. Pain is his triumph. He’s going to take Raj through the ethics of pain management, teach him how to tightrope-walk above the abyss. Thing is, Raj doesn’t think there is an abyss to tiptoe over. Okay, so Stupid Club is the peril of a small business in the English community, but it’s not like he’s raving. Why then, Billy insists, does Raj think a bloody finger, caught on a bit of metal under the Merc, is a sign of good luck? Is it pain rapture or what? Like the saints who actively seek out pain humiliations of the flesh? No, as far as Billy is concerned, Raj’s bloody finger is a dialogue with the spiritual, a damning of the material world with its vain pleasures. Isn’t that right, Raj? Eh?
Raj just says something about pasting Baywatch stickers onto the Merc when it’s ready.
Truth is, at the moment, Raj would rather chat to Girl. In fact, his father bursts into heaving fits of hilarity every time her name comes up. He recalls the time Girl asked him whether Mars Bars came from Mars.
‘She was just having you on, Dad,’ Raj insists.
‘No.’ His father shakes his head, spluttering into his handkerchief. ‘I’m going to give you some advice, son, lay off the pizzas, they’re giving you a paunch. Eat your mother’s food. Give the car wreck back to them. If you work in the shop every Sunday for a year, I’ll buy you a car with an engine. As for the girl, she’s stark raving bonkers.’ There’s no insanity in the family and he wants to keep it that way.
The English are famous for being mad. Even the beef is mentally unbalanced, hopping about the asylums (listed buildings) singing hey nonnie no. Less frivolously, and at this point his father takes his wife’s hand and squeezes it tight, if he gets wind that his eldest son is getting serious with Crazy Daisy, they’ll find him a wife.
‘But I’m English, Dad, and I’m all right?’ Raj looks a bit nervous now. Worst of all, he’s getting pizza cravings. Wakes up in the middle of the night longing for a Billy Special.
When Girl comes out to ‘help’ Raj, which means lying stretched out on her back on the bonnet while he fiddles with the clutch, his heart beats a bit faster.
He’s forgiven her the chicken-tikka joke. Every Friday something of a tradition has commenced. Girl brings him out a new cocktail, the most recent, presented to him in ‘an old-fashioned glass’. She was extra proud of this one. An Apricot Lady, three parts rum, two parts apricot brandy etc., garnished with an orange slice. It sent his head spinning under the car, his fingers went feeble and he cut his thumb, didn’t he? Hence the blood that Billy found so interesting. Raj saw it as a good-luck omen regarding his future with Girl. Couldn’t say that to the lust object’s brother, could he? Had to listen to the ‘dialogue with the spiritual’ analysis and pretend to take notes.
Girl’s gone apricot mad. Not just Fridays, every week day there’s an apricot theme. Apricot fizz, apricot shake, apricot sour, apricot sparkler. Raj has had to familiarise himself with different kinds of cocktail glasses just to please Girl. A chilled highball glass. A chilled collins glass. A chilled fucking this, a chilled fucking that. It’s a relief to grab a Pepsi from his dad’s shop fridge and glug it extra quick to halt the cocktail thirst rasping his throat, whirling his brain, whacking his thumbs into Merc tin. Raj doesn’t dare put a price on the cocktails. They are either free or priceless. A grey area. Raj is confused. Got to get his younger brother to take a swig after a hard day of Stupid Club tolerance and get his point of view.
Mind you, Billy and Girl really appreciate his work. Billy calls Raj the Michelangelo of Merc. It’s an art treasure, the pizza boy swoons. ‘I’ve lost my equilibrium, I’m scared of falling, it’s a sightseeing rapture, I want to write postcards to people I don’t know describing it. A beauty catastrophe, better than Venice, my Merc pain inheritance.’
Girl is much cooler. ‘Yeah, Raj, it’s getting there.’ Where is there? Raj wants to know. Girl brought another blonde to look at it. Give her opinion. Louise.
Louise is wonderful. Two blondes in a day. She wears these far-out orange ankle boots. Louise reckons the Merc is nearly there too. Gave him a blow job on the back seat. Aaaah. This is the life. Don’t ever tell Girl. It’s a secret for ever. He wasn’t asking for it. She just did it. Touching him in the dark with the smell of petrol between them. Made a feast of him. Not just peckish, Louise was starving. Aaah. Life is good. Next morning he wiped the seat with apricot creme cleaning fluid, to keep up with the apricot theme Girl had introduced into his lifestyle. It’s Girl he wants, but she’s not offering and he’s not pushing. Her lips. ‘Kiss me soon but not now’ lips. There to be kissed but she doesn’t know how to ask and he’s not agitating. Anyway he has to keep his Girl feelings secret from his family. Especially since they all seem to have become involved in the car, and make lame excuses to visit him while he’s working on it. Which is most of the time. Merc Madness.
His uncle has offered to re-upholster the seats with the purple velveteen reject sample from his factory. Not to be outdone, his auntie has given him a number of air fresheners in the shape of apples and pears and Christmas trees to hang from the mirror. What with the Baywatch stickers and the tastes and opinions of three owners, plus Raj’s family putting their oar in on a regular basis, it’s going to be one hell of a crowded car. If Raj can pull it off, he’s going to build a minibar in the back for Girl.
Someone else has come to see the car and Raj doesn’t know how he feels about it. His first identifiable feeling was fear. Louise’s mother came to see the car and Raj’s voice came out a bit too high when she introduced herself. She appeared the day after Louise gave him the first blow job he’d ever had. Mrs O’Reilly. Rajindra. When he uttered his name he visibly shook. Sex repercussions about to happen. He hadn’t even asked for it, Louise had made the suggestion and he thought it was quite a good one. Perhaps he should scarper into the shop on the pretext of taking over from his little brother on the till? But Mrs O’Reilly made him stay with her gentle womanly manner. Introduced herself with a little smile and looked interested when he showed her round the Merc and all his improvements. Yes, she thought purple velveteen would ‘give a lovely feeling’ to the car, thanked him politely for taking time out to show her his craf
tmanship, thank you very much and she has to rush because she’s off to fetch her daughter from work. She and Louise are going to the pictures. Yes, she wouldn’t mind a couple of pies from Raj’s father’s shop because her girl might be peckish after a hard day at work. Louise has an insatiable appetite. Raj muttering something about the weather, a bit rainy if she knows what he means, ushering her into the shop, instructing her to push through Stupid Club towards the fridge, waving goodbye.
After she left, Raj felt a sudden stabbing pain in his abdomen. It just came over him from nowhere. Mrs O’Reilly saying goodbye. It was a difficult and perplexing moment, the burden of some kind of affliction weighing her down, shining through her cheerfulness, something so sad that even Stupid Club went silent for a few seconds. That was a real first. The thing Stupid Club hates most is silence. Whenever silence seems inevitable, Stupid Club have been known to move as one unit towards a packet of Hula Hoops and read out loud all the ingredients listed on the back, provoking an intense discussion on the virtues of starch salt.
Raj suddenly wants to have access to a multiplicity of understandings. He feels that his youth has been exposed to personal anguish and transgression and that in some odd way he has grown up. He even feels sad on behalf of Stupid Club. That night he went to bed early, took a couple of aspirins and dreamt of black rain gushing from his eyes. In the morning he’d forgotten all about it, ate his cornflakes and left the house whistling.
Chapter 10
Louise made sure she scrubbed Mr England’s address off her arm before she visited him. She copied it onto a scrap of paper which she immediately lost. Big panic. Sleepless nights. Packing the FreezerWorld fridges like a robo with fear fever programmed into its inners. What if her mother finds it? Well, so what if her mother finds it? Louise has a special understanding with her mother. Never to lie to her. Louise has broken faith and she feels bad inside. The bad feeling is like a thin silver needle in her flesh, it hurts every time she moves. Yesterday she couldn’t go into work and her mother had to phone Mr Tens.
‘Is there something worrying you, Louise?’
Louise shaking her head, letting her mother, who is perched on the side of her bed, brush out the tangles in her hair, stroking her cheeks, fussing over her. It is very important to her mother that Louise is all right. The agreement is that if Louise is not all right, she’ll tell her mother, who will do everything she can to make her all right. More than all right. Everything that her mother can control in the world, to do with Louise, she will. Every detour from what she knows, every journey to the turbulent geography of her daughter’s inner life she has to make, every astonishing nightmare she has to understand as if it is her own, this is her project for whatever is left of her motherly life.
She wants the pain in Louise to settle. Her image for it is like the fake snow in those paperweights with Christmas scenes inside them. It is very important that Louise is not shaken. Louise’s body contains multiple pain pathways. It is entirely necessary for her face to appear to be impassive and emotionless. Start feeling a little at a time. That’s what her mother says to her. Eat the elephant in bite-sized mouthfuls.
Louise and her mother chewing the elephant, gargling with Tizer afterwards.
Mr England. Louise was clever, she found him with only the dimmest memory of his address. Danny drove her all the way there. Took the day off work and crawled up and down one particular street in Nottingham. Louise pointed to the door she thought was more than likely the entrance to Mr England’s castle. Despite the fear fever that had set in, she always knew she would find him. Told Danny to wait in the car, she would be about forty minutes at the most.
Danny wasn’t worried cos he had the local newspaper with him. Danny is crazy for the Lonely Hearts section of any publication. Likes to read how people describe what they want. ‘Sartre seeks De Beauvoir: a mentally elegant and clear-eyed mature woman for gentle cultural activities.’ Yeah? Not exactly. Not for him. He’s not a Lonely Heart anyway, it’s just recreation. He’s got Louise and she takes up all his time. Completely out of it. But he loves her. Most of the time. He told her mother so. ‘I love your girl, Mrs O’Reilly. What a fucking dream queen but she’s got to me.’ All of them looking after her. Mr Tens the Christian. Got God in a big way, has Mr Tens. Plays golf with the Christian Sportsman Club. All of them looking out for Louise. After Mrs O’Reilly explained to them how she found her adopted daughter. Runaway teenage grief mess. Snot and tears and a little pink lipstick hidden in her Chinese silk purse. Mrs O’Reilly loves Louise and so does Danny the dog prince. He loves fucking her and she loves fucking him.
There she is, knocking on the door dressed in her orange ankle boots and matching orange mohair miniskirt her new friend has given her. Louise is changing on a daily basis. Wears her hair up now, little heart and butterfly clips all over her blondness, even painted her fingernails orange – which Mr Tens gave her a lecture about. Mr Tens the Christian. Danny knows him because they were at school together. Titchy Tens was in the sixth form when he was just a second-year learning how to smoke in the toilets. Even then Terry Tens had started the Christian club. ‘Oh, come o-n, Ter-ry, oh, co-me o-n, Te-r-ry, if you’re a ten take down your drawers and prove it, oh, come and adore it, oh, come and adore it.’
Yeah, she’s gone in now. Some bloke in a lumberjack shirt opened the door.
Mr England. Handsome. A big man in a checked shirt. The kind of shirt healthy men wear in the cigarette ads. He still had his hair. Styled like a rocker, greased back with long sideburns. Said he was trying out a new product called Bíre d’Alsace. A full-flavoured premium-quality lager. A charmer who had to lean against walls on account of his enthusiasm for the new product. Banging into the corridor walls, smearing his hair grease over the cheery sunflower wallpaper.
What did she want? Louise felt the right side of all right because she had nothing to lose. Except the love of her mother and she had already risked that when she broke faith. Nothing left apart from that. Nothing makes you reckless. She just fucking barged in. He followed her. Walking straight into the lounge room with its TV blaring and empty bottles strewn on the immaculately hoovered carpet. Apart from the bottles the place was spotless. A tatty Elvis poster above the mantelpiece. Elvis when he was old and fat, groaning into the mike. Mr England pointing his beer bottle at the TV screen. Said he liked watching the American chat shows. Could always tell which audience member was going to do something outrageous like take their clothes off for the studio cameras.
Yep, he’s been watching a lot of TV recently. Funny how the most popular presenters put the audience down – he especially enjoys it when they put the guest celebrities ‘in a tight corner. Celebrities are just tanned targets in nice clothes, aren’t they?’
So how does Mr England identify the lone crazy in the studio then? Oh, just a little talent of his. Louise with her blue eyes. Blue for danger. ‘So what do you think I am going to do next then, Mr England?’
He opens another bottle of his d’Alsace beer and takes in her orange mohair body. The cute little clips in her hair. ‘I used to meet girls like you when I drove lorries.’ He’s trying to keep himself together, distracted but half enjoying himself, not got the strength to chuck her out. Oh, yeah? And what were the girls like? Oh, (making his voice amused) they used to admire the big teddy bear he hung on the roof of his vehicle, it was his good-luck motif, every trucker had something for luck. Some of the girls used to take the teddy bear down and cuddle it. They just wanted something to cuddle, didn’t they?
‘Oh, yeah?’ Well, she doesn’t like teddy bears, does she? Their glass eyes freak her out. Their nylon fur makes her sneeze. The little stitched-on paws make her cry for no good reason. So how else is she like the girls he gave lifts to?
The big man hides his face in his beer. Forget it. Was a long time ago. It’s history now. Would she like some cheese on toast?
Yeah, she would. That would do her fine, as it happens. Been a long journey. No, she won’t wait in the fr
ont room, she’ll talk to him in the kitchen while he makes her that little snack. By the way, her name is Louise.
That information stopped him in his tracks. Zigzag tracks of electrified wire volting through him. Sizzling him. Singeing his eyebrows. ‘Did you say Louise?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Louise.’ He straightens up a bit. Tries to say something but he can’t. Just staring into the d’Alsace label on the bottle. Stands completely still and silent. His eyes full of terror and beer tears. ‘I’ve not got any bread.’
‘Well, don’t fucking offer me cheese on toast then.’
Mr England walks back to the front room, banging his head on the door. ‘Sometimes I cook up a feast. Know what that is, Louise?’
Louise shakes her head. Glad the TV is on. Something to look at so she doesn’t have to stare at him all the time.
‘I fry myself a bit of road rat.’ He points at a gormless bloke on the TV. ‘Him, you see him, the one in the Pizza Hut T-shirt? He’s going to take off his kit any minute. I bet you a tenner he’s going to streak right in front of the cameras.’
The magnified image of the TV man. Blowing his nose into a king-sized handkerchief. Not a looker like Mr England with his hairstyle and well-pressed shirt. ‘Sometimes I cook myself a cheeseburger just like Elvis’s cook used to make him. See, Louise, every Elvis song is about loss.’ The Pizza Hut bloke jumps up and his trousers fall round his ankles.
Louise stands right in front of the television. Time for the facts.
‘I’ve come for my share of the money.’
‘What money?’
‘The money Billy and Girl gave you.’
Mr England looks amazed. ‘What’s it to do with you?’
‘They got it from my till, see. Express.’
‘Is that right?’
‘Yeah. It is fucking right, Mr England. So give me two hundred quid and I’ll go.’
