The Mistressclass

by Michèle Roberts

  Beyond the tideline was the tumbling river. Adam, a dark silhouette, launched out over the water, had paused in the middle of the bridge to look at the view, to gaze down at the swirling tide.

  Vinny’s boots scuffed the squidgy sand. She picked her way back and forth among the mounds of anonymous waste as delicately as a wading bird. Stink of rot, whiffs of salty freshness, engine oil. The smell of the Thames as it ebbed strongly away. The north and eastern horizons prickled with tower blocks and church spires, glittering in the clear golden light. Above her the enormous spring sky leaped up and out, a dome of blue enclosing the smaller white dome of St Paul’s.

  The wind ruffled the surface of the river, scoured her cheeks, and a sudden cloud obscured the sun, darkening the water. Her neck felt cold. She fished in the pocket of her padded pink silk jacket and pulled out a red woollen scarf. She folded it in half lengthwise, wound it around herself, flipped the ends through the loop, pulled it tight. The sun dashed back out again, and she blinked.

  She glanced over at the Millennium Bridge. The effigy lurched in the water there. She peered across at it.

  Adam caught the gesture, the blur of pink as Vinny turned, the streak of red whipping out below him on the strip of beach. Robert had taught him, while he was still a child, to look at paintings as patterns, to let a figurative landscape dissolve towards abstraction, gestures of colour, that slithering-squeaking train clanking into Cannon Street behind him the excuse for a long, exuberant run of silver, the dancing water below the piers of the bridge an exercise in violet shadows. Robert would have been intrigued by this woman beachcombing among the rubbish far below. He would have appreciated her good clash of red and pink, the abandoned oar lying just behind her, the cairn of greasy-looking stones she kicked at with one booted foot. Her tufted hair was dyed henna-red. Twisted into cornrows, it stuck up brightly, the tiny plaits and knots sparkling above her velvet collar. Urban fox on the prowl.

  He turned to look at the frieze of seagulls lining the parapet to his left. How big they were close up, and how sharp their beaks. Scavengers hungry for food. All of a sudden they flapped and rose, screaming, winged off over his head to hunt upstream.

  He leaned over the parapet. The woman was trying to attract his attention. She looked just like Vinny. It was Vinny. She was waving at him. She was pointing at the shining arc of the Millennium Bridge, then at the raft beneath. The white-overalled engineers had clustered together, scrutinising the waves chuckling around them. The log floated close by. Half sunken. Matted with seaweed at one end. Hair. Human hair. One man took out a mobile phone, punched in a number. He shouted something. His words were carried away like gulls on the back of the wind.

  * * *

  The hand smoothed her forehead. The little rubber hose directed a flow of warm water over her temples. At the first touch of wetness Catherine closed her eyes.

  —Not too hot, is it?

  —No, it’s just right.

  Next came a cold handful of shampoo smelling of strawberries, tart and clean. Soapiness rubbed on. Nothing to do but abandon herself. Like being a child again, sitting in the bath opposite Vinny, having their tangled curls washed by their mother. Concentrated; eyes shut and knees up; not wanting it to end. To please her daughters Mum gave them a big soapy spike each on top. Jenny’s fingertips, brisk and gentle as Mum’s, began to knead her scalp, massage away the tiredness and tension of the working week.

  Catherine’s hair felt light, frothed up into a mousse of fruit. Feet planted on the floor, body swathed in smooth nylon gown, cool water hosing her scalp, swishing over her forehead and rinsing her ears, china edge of the wash-basin hard against the back of her neck, she was in someone else’s hands. Forced to be passive for once; to let go of all responsibility. Basking. Arching her neck so that the sweet-smelling shampoo didn’t get into her eyes, she laced her hands together over her stomach under her black tent, soothed by the burble of the radio and the women’s chatter humming all around. Sometimes a squawk or a burst of laughter. They were screeching at each other’s jokes. The jokes were about being single mothers and having no time for sex. About men who fucked and ran. About a girl they all knew who was fucking too many men at once. At first Catherine strained to listen. Then she gave up. A box of perfumes, this shop, stuffy and warm; you could just drift off and fall asleep.

  Sharper pleasures that tickled you awake arrived once you’d been swaddled in towels on top of your enveloping black gown, hair rubbed half dry; you’d been placed in the black leather chair solemnly looking at your reflection in the big mirror, feet tucked up on the metal rung. You closed your eyes once more. The comb glided through your damp rat-tails, flicking them to sleekness over and over again, and the cold metal of the scissors stroked the back of your neck. Shivering all over your skin, warmth building inside, all up and down your spine, fizzing, runny and sweet. Jenny just carried on clipping and trimming, intent on the ends of your hair she’d raised, gripped between her first two fingers, peered at as she approached them with her shining blades. Eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

  Catherine smiled the same smile as all the other comforted clients in the salon and Jenny was pleased and handed her the mirror so she could check the sides. She’d had her long locks coloured back to the original red-gold, so that all the grey was gone. Adam always teased her about how much her hairdressing cost, what with the highlights and the special conditioner and the manicure she had while waiting for the tints to take. He said he liked her grey hair so why hide it? He teased her about her face lotions too. What was wrong with a few laughter-lines? Catherine took no notice and went on spending her money on small, pricy pots of anti-wrinkle cream packed with miracle ingredients. Each pale unguent promised transformation. She tried them out, one after another. She was not ready to accept middle-age. She noted the freshness of young girls’ skin with a pang. Whereas Vinny hooted at spending so much money on cosmetics and just slapped on Nivea Creme. She said it was like pasting plaster into cracks. But she’d always had oilier skin, and was now quite plump, which meant fewer wrinkles as she aged. She looked somewhat younger than fifty-two. But Catherine, at fifty-three, had better legs and hair, a better figure. These days you didn’t have to give up, decline into blue rinses, middle-age spread. Catherine exercised. She dieted. She drank very little alcohol. She tried to get plenty of sleep.

  —Your boys all right, are they? Jenny asked.

  —They’ve gone travelling together, Catherine said: one’s in his gap year and the other’s taking a year out. They went off and got jobs and now they’ve gone to India.

  —Oh, very nice, Jenny said: bet you miss them, though, don’t you?

  —It breaks my heart, Catherine said: but of course I don’t let them know.

  —I’m lucky, Jenny said: I’ve got my mum living just round the corner.

  Reluctantly Catherine left cosseting behind and stepped out of the salon into the narrow street. She fastened the snappers on her lean white puffa coat. The neck and wrists were fringed with white fur. The coat was Italian. Very expensive. She had written an extra novella to pay for it. Porn, really, but aimed at women and so called erotica. All she had to do was keep on thinking up new ways of combining fucking with being hurt. Crown of Spikes had paid for her haircut. Madame Punishment had bought her shoes. The wind whipped her hair into her eyes and she put up her hands to catch it back. She jiggled from foot to foot to keep warm.

  The little tunnel of shops cut east-west. The dome of St Paul’s glimmered, fat and white, at one end. The hubbub of traffic rose up from the invisible main thoroughfares, the rumble of Cheapside to the north beyond St Mary-le-Bow, and, to the south, the surge of buses and cars at Mansion House just behind the tall buildings towering over her. There was a grind and clatter of roadworks. From a coffee-shop at the corner billowed the warm scent of baking bread.

  Catherine hovered on the narrow pavement. She touched the mobile in her pocket. Where was Adam? Should she ring him? She was blocking the way. Passers-by s
cowled, stepped round her impatiently. Motorbikes were parked all along the kerb, and a couple of white vans, half on and half off. She was hemmed in by vehicles.

  Here he came, loping towards her from the direction of Bow Lane, turning to glance at someone behind him. She was in a hurry, whoever it was. Turning her face away. A redhead in a pink jacket. She darted back the way they’d come, swerved aside into an alley. Seen from behind she looked uncannily like Catherine’s sister, Vinny. But Vinny was in France visiting her farmer friends Jeanne and Lucien, taking a break after finishing her job at the hospice. At this very minute she’d most likely be clumping around their vegetable garden in her wellingtons, deciding what to pick for lunch. Or, knowing Vinny, opening a bottle of wine and pouring herself an aperitif.

  Adam stepped forward, blocking Catherine’s view. He kissed her cheek.

  —Sorry I’m late. You look lovely. Right, let’s go.

  He seized her arm, drew her forward, began to steer her across the street. She shook off his hand.

  —Don’t push me.

  He marched ahead. Catherine increased her pace. This was just like being a child again, stumbling along on short legs: wait for me!

  They reached the end of the street and turned south, towards the river. Catherine, trying to keep up with Adam, bumped awkwardly at his side. It was difficult to walk abreast on the crowded pavement. She dodged on and off the kerb, around parked cars, bollards.

  —Let’s have a drink in that pub in Borough Market, Adam said: the Wheatsheaf. Then I’ll go to the gallery afterwards.

  —You mean you haven’t been to the gallery yet? Catherine asked: what have you been doing all morning, for heaven’s sake?

  Adam increased his speed. She put her hand on his sleeve to slow him down. He turned his face towards her. He shouted above the din of the traffic.

  —Watching a corpse being fished up out of the river, if you must know.

  * * *

  The story took up a paragraph in the paper the following morning, tucked away at the bottom of a column on the inside page, a space reserved each Saturday for whimsical items of arts news. A foolish joke, the journalist opined, probably linked to the community arts festival on the South Bank that had opened that morning. A crude and meaningless rag: a ringleted effigy of the poet Shelley, costumed in trademark frilled shirt and pantaloons, launched from the shoreside at Waterloo.

  Catherine folded the paper open and passed it to Adam as they sat in the yellow-walled kitchen eating breakfast. He read it, half smiling and half shrugging.

  —What’s so funny? Catherine asked.

  —It stopped me getting to work on time, that’s for sure, Adam said.

  He swilled down his coffee.

  —I promised Charlie to come in this morning, finish putting up the plasterboard. Then I’ll be ready to start building the storage cabinets on Monday.

  —You haven’t forgotten the party tonight, have you? Catherine asked.

  —I wish you’d never thought of it, Adam said: I’m not in the mood for a housewarming.

  —Too late now, Catherine said.

  He pushed aside the scrambled eggs she had made for him, pulled out a packet of cigarettes, and lit one.

  —I know, I know, he said: I’m supposed to be stopping smoking. You don’t have to tell me.

  —So why are you smoking, then? Catherine asked: is something the matter?

  —No, he said: I’ll see you later.

  He got up, kissed her cheek, and went out. She heard the front door slam. She looked at the congealed yellowy bulk of scrambled eggs on his plate, the crispbread crumbs on her own. She seized his dish, swapped it for hers, shovelled up his cold, grainy curds while finishing reading the paper. The arts festival promised world music from live bands, dancing, African and Caribbean food, an art competition, outdoor sculptures and theatre, an exhibition of banners, craft stalls. I’ll go tomorrow, Catherine thought.

  Her teaching notes, books and laptop occupied one end of the kitchen table. She scrabbled for pen and paper and wrote a shopping list. Taramasalata, olives, salami, crisps, peanuts, hummus, breadsticks, cheese. She cleared away the breakfast things, put dirty laundry into the washing-machine, swept the kitchen floor, hoovered and tidied the sitting-room. Then she went upstairs to sort through Robert’s shoes and clothes. These were still in one of the cupboards in what had been his bedroom, which she now shared with Adam. The room in which they had slept at first had become Adam’s study. Robert’s house was small. No space for the boys when they returned from India. If they wanted to stay the night they’d have to sleep on the sitting-room floor. Catherine had redecorated the house from top to bottom after Robert’s death. Now it gleamed—salmon and yellow and white and pale green.

  She and Adam had brought Robert’s suitcase back from the hospice. Adam had unpacked it and stored the contents away as though his father were coming home. A gesture of deference that Catherine understood. It was like keeping someone’s name and telephone number in your address-book for a while longer. Too brutal to cross them out straight away. A betrayal of love. Cancelled. Gone. But three months had passed. A decent interval. Adam was not going to want his father’s underwear, pyjamas, shaving-tackle. Nor his shirts. She threw all these things into a black plastic bin-liner. She added in the two good suits from the cupboard. She found herself sniffing as she worked. Stuffing a pile of vests into the sack, she whispered: sorry. The empty cupboard growled back at her. She slammed shut the gaping door.

  She found, on leaving the house with her bulky bag, that someone had stolen some branches of lilac out of the front garden, just tearing them off and leaving the bush all ragged. She had been meaning to pick the lilac herself; they needed some flowers for the party that evening; and now there were hardly any blossoms left. So that sent her off, after her trip to the charity shop, to the florist’s on Holloway Road.

  She hesitated between the dark blue, almost indigo petals of anemones, flaring open around their fat, stubby hearts of black fur, and the paler blue clusters of hyacinths, their waxy curls. The packed bunches of flowers thrust up from silvery buckets set on metal stands jostled together on the wet concrete floor. The hyacinths’ stems were so juicy and thick that the florist had tied them together in threes to stop them toppling.

  Prodigal to buy cut hyacinths, rather than plant them at home yourself in pots, but she had done no planting of bulbs last autumn. The world had shrunk like a collapsed balloon, air hissing out; it had shrivelled down to one small house, tired out; then to one upstairs room; finally to one bed in the local hospice. Flat, because Adam’s father was so wasted and thin at the end that he hardly disturbed the blankets. Army-neat. His marigold pyjamas were too gay. He endured mostly in silence. Catherine thought the morphine dose too low but he wouldn’t say. Remained as gallant as ever. When she and the nurse turned him, or lifted him higher up in bed from where he’d slipped down, light as a withered leaf, he would whisper: thanks, darlings. Such a big man become so little. Such a loud man become so soft.

  The gang of artists attended the cremation at Golders Green. Old, faithful friends who had known Robert for forty years or more. Creased, battered faces. Paunches. Thinning hair. They all wore black; their habitual colour. Robert’s was an atheist’s funeral, with rock music and poetry. Nobody cried; as though atheists had managed to do away with grief as well as God. Catherine, who had retained some of the beliefs of her Catholic childhood, said secret prayers under her breath. The mourners held small white candles during the service, and afterwards left them, standing upright, still burning, on the stone floor of the little yard outside. White wands massed in a corner, stuck into puddles of wax to keep them steady. The candles did the weeping for the stiff, dry-eyed mourners. Solid grease softened into tears, pooled down, wet and translucent, then opaque. Mid-February. Snow whirled from the grey sky, drifted against the cellophane-wrapped bouquets laid out in rows on the crematorium’s redbrick patio. Forced narcissi and daffodils sparkled amid snow crystals.
Now it was May, and today it was not raining, and the florist’s shop brimmed with feathery greenery, spilled over with sweet-smelling blooms, and she had an excuse to buy some. Thanks to the lilac thief.

  Catherine glimpsed a face. Outside the shop; peeping in. Fleeting image, like a snowflake. Precise, then melting. Framed by flowers, behind the glass. Like that image in Orlando: the beautiful dead woman preserved in winter as though in springtime freshness; haloed in blossoms; glimmering under the ice of the frozen Thames. Like that effigy Adam had seen yesterday; that he and the engineers had been convinced, for some moments, was a dead body. You were thinking of Robert, darling, weren’t you? Catherine had said. Adam had downed his pint and begun talking of something else.

  Catherine became aware of the face because the light changed. The shop flushed with warmth, as the sun skidded from behind a cloud and struck through the wide front window. The scent of the hyacinths gushed up like honey. The hyacinth as cosh, taking you by surprise. Clenched fists of colour and smell, that knocked you out. The face hung at the edge of her vision. She didn’t notice it at first because she was concentrating on the flowers.

  Niggers, anemones used to be called, Adam had told her once. Because, in mixed bunches, their black centres were surrounded by scarlet and purple and pink petals, the colours of the striped breeches worn by black slaves. A white person’s term. The old boy who kept the flower shop near Brixton tube would holler to his assistant: fetch some more niggers from out the back! Some of the boys’ white friends at school had insisted nigger was an ironic label and therefore cool. Vinny used to argue with them about it.