by Paula Byrne
Edward, who had been working late as usual, called out, ‘Lisa, I’m going up to bed, are you coming?’
‘Yes, I’m on my way.’
She deleted the tweet.
And then, as if in anticipation of a new resolution, she tweeted a quotation from the book she was reading. Until she got her proof one way or the other, she would tweet quotations instead of photographs and comments about her own life. Just enough of a Twitter presence to keep the troll nosing about her, but nothing that could be turned against her.
Lisa Blaize @Lisa_Blaize
But the rain is your ghost tonight. #EdnaStVincentMillay.
CHAPTER 30
The Mystery of the Missing Author
Irwin Schrodinger lived in the school with his black cat. There was no Mrs Schrodinger. Prior to the arrival of Queenie, Schrodinger’s cat would sit all day on one of Lisa’s garden chairs. This drove her mad. It stared at her like a green-eyed monster and left behind long black hairs, which made her eyes stream. She was allergic to cats, though fortunately not to dogs. One of the many improvements that Queenie brought to their lives was the exclusion of Schrodinger’s cat from the White Garden.
Schrodinger himself was always polite to Lisa’s face, but she knew that he was no friend. He was extremely clever and charming, but the chip on his shoulder was the size of the Rock of Gibraltar. Was it because he was Glaswegian, or because he was Jewish, or because he was working class? All three, probably. So what was he doing in a school full of braying public-school boys? In some respects, he reminded Lisa of Chuck. He was the kind of honest, blunt, plain speaker that was really anything but. Schrodinger seemed as out of place at Blagsford as American Chuck had at St Joseph’s – Chuck had followed his heart when he had married Liverpudlian Milly, though it wasn’t clear why he had chosen to stay there after they divorced. What, then, was the explanation for Socialist Schrodinger’s presence at Blagsford?
Lisa guessed that he was there partly because it gave him a chance to moan about inequality while drawing a good salary, but also because he genuinely loved teaching physics to a higher level than GCSE science, and there were more opportunities for that in a private school. There was no doubting his ability as a classroom teacher, or that the pupils adored him. Once he was on a roll, whether with the boys in the lab or at a staff meeting, everyone was mesmerized by his cruel wit, rendered all the more effective by the soft lilt of his Scottish accent, long since softened by his move away from the Glasgow tenements.
Unusually for a physics teacher, he was also the master who directed the Michaelmas Theatricals. The boys would do anything for him. It was a long-standing Blagsford tradition that a select group of boys moving up to the Lower Sixth would return to school a week early and begin rehearsals for a play, performed at the end of the second week of term.
He normally put on a comedy. The previous year, Entertaining Mr Sloane had been a huge hit. But he also loved his Shakespeare. For the new headmaster’s first anniversary, he announced that it would be Othello. An extremely risky choice. Eyebrows were raised in the staffroom. But Schrodinger pulled it off. It was a very simple production. All the cast were dressed in black, except for Othello, who wore white. In between scenes, a punk song was played very loudly: ‘I am the fly in the ointment.’ It was an outstanding success. It was generally agreed to be Schrodinger’s best show. Lisa loved it. It was the first school drama production that she had seen. She was disappointed that Schrodinger had not asked for her help in the wardrobe department. Even if they clashed, she still would have loved to offer help.
Still, she had work to do. She was finally making progress with her second book. Lipstick and Lies had been quite academic, and, though very well received, not exactly a bestseller. ‘It’s quite niche,’ she had often found herself saying, defensively, at dinner parties (on the rare occasions when Edward’s guests, the ‘important parents’ and ‘influential Old Blaggers’, deigned to ask her what she did). But the second book was going to be more middlebrow. This was her chance for a breakthrough to a much bigger audience.
Father Misty was determined to help her along. He knew that she needed the spur of a deadline to get some material into shape. So he arranged for her to present work-in-progress at a bookshop in his Leicester parish. ‘To be honest, Blaize, they can’t get any real authors to Leicester, so I offered them you,’ he teased her.
The husband and wife team who ran the little independent bookshop were lovely. They had remortgaged their house to fund the business, and Father Misty was devoted to them.
She was to stay with Misty in the vicarage (seventies, redbrick, not exactly a perk of the job). Though the plan was for her to talk about her new book, they also hoped to sell a few copies of Lipstick and Lies. The talk was advertised as being about Alexander McQueen. There was a lot more interest in him following his death by closet. Misty met her at the station, happy as ever to see her.
‘Blaize, how the hell are you? If you think I’m going to call you Lady Chamberlain, you can fuck off. Are all those Blagsford fuckers curtseying to you yet?’
‘As if. Gorgeous to see you. How’s my godson?’
‘Can’t wait to see you. Hoping you have presents. But first, we’ll pop into the bookshop, I’ve got something to show you. You’ll think it’s hilarious.’
On the way from the station, Misty filled her in with the fortunes of the bookshop. The owners, Eliza and Benedict, had persuaded a local businessman to sponsor their literary evenings. So Benedict had splashed out on a huge banner listing all the authors who were to be doing talks that autumn.
‘Cost him a fortune, but he’s over the moon with it. It’s outside Sainsbury’s, so let’s have a look.’
They drove up to the supermarket, and there was Benedict’s banner. It was huge, with ten author pictures and their names listed underneath.
‘Fantastic author pic, Blaize. You look really good for fifty.’
‘Very funny. Remind me not to invite you to my fortieth.’
Father John Misty was on a roll.
‘The only trouble with that as a piece of publicity is that the names are all together at the bottom. You can’t tell who’s who. A lot of people tonight are going to be disappointed that you’re not that old bat.’ He pointed to a picture of another author, who had the look of being well past her prime.
‘Thank you, dear sexist pig.’
‘Ha ha. It’s so good of you to come. I know how busy you are. Thanks, sweetie.’
‘I wouldn’t miss this gig for the world. Has Benedict got the salt and vinegar crisps in?’
‘Yeah, and the crappy wine. Have I told you how much I love you?’
‘Yes. You always do.’
Lisa’s talk went down a storm, though she only sold six copies of Lipstick. Still, the evening was a boost, and she went home the next day determined to spend as much time as she could in her shepherd’s hut, finishing the second book.
It was the first time she had left Queenie overnight. She couldn’t believe how much she missed her. Her coal-black eyes and white fur. That ‘I want a walk’ look with her head cocked on one side. It was like leaving a baby behind.
As soon as she approached the door, Queenie began yelping. She threw herself onto Lisa, licking and jumping and rolling over to be tickled. The children ran down and laughed at Queenie’s crazed jumping about. They told her how Queenie had slept on the Chaise of Expectation all night, waiting for her to come home. They had all missed her. George especially, who hugged her tightly.
‘If Daddy snores, you can come into my bed tonight,’ he whispered.
‘OK, that’s a deal.’
Lisa heard a loud pop as a champagne cork was upended. Crikey, I should go away more often if I get this sort of homecoming, she thought. Edward handed her a cold glass of fizz.
‘I frosted your glass in the freezer, just the way you like it.’
‘Thanks, lovey. I had a great time, but it’s good to be home.’
Lisa’s mobile p
hone rang. It was Misty.
‘I’ve just walked through the door. What’s up? You missing me, already?’
Edward couldn’t hear Misty, but he saw Lisa’s face whiten.
‘God, you must be joking. How weird. What does Benedict think? OK, yes, send me the article when it comes out. Or I could look it up online. Thanks for letting me know.’
‘What is it, darling?’
Lisa took a large gulp of her fizz.
‘Bit of a long story, but the bookshop man had this enormous banner with all the author photos on, advertising the season’s talks. It was hanging on a fence outside Sainsbury’s. Huge great thing, made of plastic. Well, Misty just told me that someone has cut me out. My face isn’t there. Just a huge hole. It’s going to make the local news. How strange.’
Edward was already at his laptop.
‘My God, look at this. “Mystery of the Missing Author”: you’ve hit the big time, Lady Chamberlain. Breaking News on the Home page of the Leicester Mercury.’
‘Apparently Benedict the lovely bookshop man is very upset about it. Mind you, he spent a lot of money on that banner. Who on earth would cut me out, and why? Do I have enemies in Leicester too?’
‘Well, unless John Misty is playing a double game and is really your frenemy, I’d say it’s some lad who couldn’t resist a picture of a gorgeous girl. I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s quite amusing, really. It will be on his bedroom wall. And it’ll give your man’s author talks some great publicity – he probably cut it out himself just to get the story in the news.’
‘It’s very kind of you to say so, but I’m not some teenager’s fantasy of a gorgeous girl – I’m a mother of two in my late thirties.’
‘You don’t look it.’
‘Bit weird though, given everything else that has been happening lately. You don’t think it’s related to the troll, do you?’
‘No, I don’t. It’s all gone really quiet on that front. No more letters, and I checked before you came home – nothing new on your fake blog. I think they’ve given up. It’s what I told you: ignore and they’ll move on to someone else.’
‘We’ll see. And all quiet on the school front?’
‘Yup. Things have really settled down. People don’t like change, but they’re getting used to us. It’s all working out fine. The only complaint was that Queenie is chasing Schrodinger’s precious cat. I had to apologize. I’ve got to be nice to him since the play was such a success. It’s made up for last year’s sulk when I made him stand down as head of sixth form.’
Lisa took the dog for a walk to show that she wasn’t going to apologize for the new member of their family. The fresh autumnal evening air and the dog trotting behind her, then veering off to chase a squirrel or a bird, helped her to erase from her mind the image of a man cutting around her face with enormous blunt scissors.
She posted her ritual tweet before bed. All through the first half of the year, it had been something for Sean. Now it was just a quotation.
Lisa Blaize @Lisa_Blaize
You know, we can all be discarded quite easily. #McQueen.
CHAPTER 31
The Evening Shift
Dicky and Belinda were having one of their talks, while Lisa was pretending to work. Belinda was discussing a dance colleague’s recent breakdown as she sorted the bookshelves with Dicky.
‘Polly’s a divided self, Dicky. She gave up ballroom dancing, and her body and mind collapsed. Someone saw her in the antiques market clutching a disco glitterball.’
‘I never liked her. You invested far too much in her. And it didn’t work. You ought to try to look after yourself, Belinda. Can you stick Heart of Darkness next to The Manly Art of Knitting?’
‘Dicky, where’s the logic in that?’
‘That’s the point. I like mixing things up a bit. It adds a degree of the unexpected, the bizarre. And it keeps me from dying of boredom. Imagine Onions’ face when he spots the knitting book with the camp cowboy on the jacket cover snuggled up to Conrad. He’s bound to make a complaint.’
Belinda giggled. Peter Onions was the cleverest man in Blagsford. He had a love/hate relationship with Dicky, who loved to wind him up.
‘Anyway, back to poor Polly. You have to be embodied, otherwise you turn in on yourself. She always craved male attention; the male gaze. All those sequins turned her mad. Oh how people suffer! Dicky, I’ve just finished Walpole’s Vanessa, and thought: Why are you torturing yourself you silly girl?! I’m just so exhausted by this autistic culture. It’s such nonsense.’
‘You see, Belinda, whenever I feel sad I just go and buy myself some more china.’
Lisa was really loving their banter, but she forced herself to concentrate on her work. She had to admit that her heart was no longer in her long-planned book about the art of dressmaking as a route to freedom for downtrodden women. Inspired as she had been by the Venetian women prisoners and their tailor’s workshop, the seed sewn on her honeymoon now seemed as far away as the honeymoon itself. She was hatching a new idea – something more commercial, less self-righteous. But it was early days for that. For now, it was heaven to eavesdrop on Bee and Dicky. She’d pay good money to listen to these two in conversation.
Belinda executed a perfect pirouette as she whirled down to Modern Fiction, but she spotted a malingerer hovering over Classics and came to a halt, feet at First Position.
‘Please may I help you, sir? Cash only. Hole in the Wall outside the Co-op.’
‘Just browsing’, he replied sheepishly.
‘Browsing,’ she echoed in her best Mary Poppins’ voice.
With a despairing backward glance at Lisa, he bolted out of the Albion, leaving Belinda and Lisa helpless with laughter.
‘Oi, Sharon and Tracey, what are you two laughing at?’ Dicky loved to tease Lisa, especially since she had become Lady Chamberlain.
‘It’s Bee, she’s outrageous. You’re not going to have any customers if you keep leaving her in charge.’
‘Well maybe I’ll leave you holding the keys, and see if you have more success. By the way, that man was staring at you Lisa, I think you’d be great for business. Especially if you keep wearing those high heels.’
Belinda glared at Dicky. She did not approve of that sort of talk. Lisa, conversely, rather liked a man who noticed a woman’s shoes. She crossed her slim legs, revealing just an inch of stocking top, whilst Dicky smiled appreciatively. It was true about Dicky; he really did have very attractive nostrils.
‘I’ll mind the shop for you if you’re stuck. You know I would. But not during the day, as that’s when I work best. I could do a couple of evening shifts for you.’
*
The Albion was hosting a poetry evening for three local writers. Lisa and Belinda were helping out. They laid out the chairs, moved the tables back, and poured the wine. A handful of people turned up, the lights were lowered, and the programme began. The first poet, a young, blonde woman with a beautiful sonorous voice, began reading. There was not a sound. She held everyone in the room spellbound as she read a poem that turned a memory of trauma into a thing of beauty.
This is it, Lisa thought. This is what is real. This is happiness. Words always had the power to soothe, to console, to inspire. Poetry had always been her favourite genre. She loved the intensity and the concentration of the language, the way that a word or a phrase could unexpectedly resonate – touch something deep inside. Keats, Donne, George Herbert, Katherine Phillips were her favourites. Lisa always kept stacks of poetry books beside her bed, so that if she were stressed about Emma or work, she could take succour. Now here was this brave girl, standing in front of her, baring her soul, sharing her stories and her grace.
Lisa had offered to lock up the shop. Dicky was racing off to see an old friend for a pint, and Belinda had left early to feed Onions’ cat. Onions had taken off to the country for half-term, so, once again, Lisa had missed her opportunity to meet him. He always supported the Albion poetry evenings. Yet another of his legendary ta
lents was that he was himself a published poet of distinction. It was such a shame that she kept missing him.
Once everyone had finally left, Lisa began clearing the wine glasses. The tables could be left until the morning. She turned off all the lights, including the switch for the twinkly fairy lights that lined the ceiling squares. In the darkened room, she was even more aware of the smell of the books, musty, mildewed, and the stench of red wine. It was deathly quiet. So dark. She tiptoed over to the old piano that Dicky had just had re-tuned, and played a few bars of ‘Moonlight Sonata’ just to break the eerie silence. My God, it was a pre-war Bechstein. On the top of the piano were piles of shabby paperbacks, and a stack of jazz CDs. She hadn’t played for a while, and she was definitely rusty, her fingers not stretching as well as they should. It felt strange playing to an empty, now cold, shop, very strange. Was she trying to prove to herself that she wasn’t frightened? She closed the lid of the piano and slid the stool underneath.
Maybe she should just check the loo, before she locked up? Lisa crept towards the back of the shop. What a shame that she had left her mobile at home, and couldn’t use the torch app. The loo was on the left and the kitchen on the right. The kitchen was plunged in darkness, but she could see a hazy light coming from the direction of the loo. It was probably the glow from an outdoor lamppost, but she felt that she should double-check, just in case.
Her high heels clicked against the wooden floorboards. They gave her confidence. The tip-tap tip-tap of heel against wood. She should treat herself to piano lessons. She had been a promising student, but only had a cheap Argos keyboard with which to practise. So little time when she had children and a home to run. Her thoughts meandered to her family. Dearest Edward, her sweet children, her little dog.
Her meditations were suddenly interrupted by the creak of a door. It must be coming from outside. Then, as she made her way to the back of the shop, she saw that the loo door was closed, and there was a dull, yellowish light shining from underneath it … was there someone in there? There couldn’t be. Why didn’t they make a noise, or make themselves heard when she was playing the piano? Should she knock, or wait for the loo to flush, or should she run? She gave it a few seconds and then pushed the door gently to see whether it was locked. No, it was giving way. It was OK. No one was there. Someone had left the light on. She loved Dicky’s loo, the walls embellished with different literary quotations. She smiled, switched off the light, felt for the keys, and turned.
