The kitchen door stood open. I heard Chrissie explain to Tomas and Catherine, how delicate I was; they shouldn't push me too hard. Furious, I strode across the hallway.
Tomas turned to face me. ‘G’morning, Sis. Sleep well?’
‘Sure,’ I lied, not wishing to be cross-examined about the night’s events.
‘We’re going to the hospital again today. Would you like to come with?’
Chrissie passed me a cup of steaming black coffee and a rolled cigarette. I squeezed the roll-up between tight lips and leaned forward so Chrissie could light it. Everyone was watching me.
I inhaled then exhaled. ‘Sure.’
20
Vivienne’s soft, grey eyes opened as I approached the bed. I offered her a friendly smile that made my skin feel cold.
‘Hello, Vivienne,’ I whispered.
Tomas nudged my arm. ‘Hi, Mum.’ His bright smile lit up the room and Vivienne’s eyes twinkled in response. ‘How are you feeling today?’
‘All the better for seeing you, my dear.’ A dry cackle escaped her lips. She reached for a plastic beaker beside her bed.
Tomas leaned across me and passed it to her. I shrank back. He tapped my arm and nodded.
‘It’s okay.’
‘Mum, Cathy and Melissa are here.’
‘Little Missie. How is my beautiful granddaughter?’
‘Getting bigger and brighter every day.’
Vivienne nodded. ‘Of course she is. She’s a Nightingale.’ Vivienne stared at me. Her pupils grew and shrank as she tried to focus on my face. ‘I’m sorry, dear. Who are you again?’
‘Crow,’ I croaked.
Another nudge from Tomas. ‘It’s Giz, Mum. Giselle.’
Her smile wavered and she nodded. ‘You look different.’
‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘I cut my hair.’
‘Shaved it, more like. How are you? How long has it been?’
‘Six years, Mum.’
Vivienne nodded again. I couldn’t read any expression on her face. She turned to Tomas and grinned. ‘So what about a cuddle with my granddaughter?’
Tomas passed the pink bundle of flesh bound in cream lace frills and navy velvet across to Vivienne’s eager arms. She kissed the top of Melissa’s head and breathed deeply. Melissa reached up and tugged her grandmother’s nose.
‘You are so pretty, Little Missie, and such dainty toes. You’ll be a dancer like Nanny one day, won’t you?’
I sighed, loudly. Vivienne lifted her eyes to my face. A chill ran through me as I waited for her anger to strike. I turned away and glanced at Tomas and Catherine. Catherine gripped Tomas’s arm so tightly I saw red crescents rise across his flesh. Both of them watched woman and baby cuddling on the bed. I looked back at Vivienne. Her eyes belonged to Melissa as she kissed the baby’s fingers. I wondered whether she had ever kissed mine.
‘Here, Tomas dear. My arms are getting tired. Could you take her?’
‘I will,’ Catherine said, picking her way across the narrow space to Vivienne’s bed and sweeping her daughter up in her arms. ‘We’ll get a cup of tea from the café. I think Melissa will be hungry soon. Come for us when you’re finished, darling?’ She kissed Tomas’s cheek.
Tomas placed his hand on my shoulder. The feeling reminded me of my drawings and I suddenly felt claustrophobic. I sat down on the edge of the bed and he released his grip.
‘Giz is here, Mum,’ he said.
‘I know, I know ... Ask her what she wants this time.’
Tears stung my eyes.
‘You asked for her, remember?’ Tomas stroked my cheek in what I assumed was supposed to be a comforting gesture, but made my skin crawl.
I felt more awkward than ever. ‘This was a mistake.’
‘Giselle ...’ Vivienne reached across and placed her hand on mine. Her skin felt dry and thin.
I wondered why.
‘Mum,’ I said. I couldn’t force any warmth into my voice.
‘Oh, Giselle ... Thank God you’ve come. So you forgive me, darling? Tell me you forgive me.’
I shook my head. ‘What?’
‘I should have protected you, all of you. I’m sorry.’
‘Mum?’ My voice lost all strength. It reminded me of a cornered mouse, trying to calculate the cat’s next move. ‘Mum. What are you talking about?’
‘You ran away, but now you’re home.’
‘It’s been six years, Mum. I’m a grown-up now. My home is in London.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Giselle. You belong with your family - with me. I’ll protect you this time. Keep you safe. Do you forgive me? I only wanted to keep you safe.’
I backed away. ‘Safe from what? Forgive you for what?’ My voice sounded unnaturally shrill. Blood pounded in my ears. I struggled to catch my breath. I heard the soft pad of tennis shoes hurry towards me from behind.
‘Is everything okay?’ A female voice enquired.
‘Nurse. It’s my daughter. It’s Giselle. She’s come back to me.’
‘That’s wonderful, Vivienne. I knew she would.’
Vivienne grinned at me. Her teeth looked darker than I remembered. She reminded me of death. How old was she? She could only be forty-something at most, surely. I couldn’t understand her transformation. It was as though the fairies had replaced my mother’s shell with one that mirrored the evil within.
‘I need a coffee, Tom. Which way is the café?’
He nodded. It was a kind nod and his half smile was full of sympathy. He mouthed the words “I’m sorry”. ‘If you go through these sets of doors and turn right at the main corridor, you’ll see signs for it. Let Cathy know I’ll be about ten minutes, okay?’
I stood up and he took my place on the bed. He wrapped his fingers around Vivienne’s tiny hand.
‘Okay then,’ I said.
‘Goodbye, Giselle,’ Vivienne called. ‘See you soon.’
It sounded like a threat, but logic told me I was being stupid. I ran away towards the café.
The nurse nodded to me as I hurried past.
Chrissie was waiting for me at Vivienne’s house. I grabbed a cup of coffee and a pre-rolled cigarette from the counter. I considered searching for alcohol, but decided against it.
‘I don’t know what they want from me, Chrissie.’
She didn’t answer, but simply hugged me. My spine stiffened with the contact then relaxed as I allowed myself to cry.
‘None of it makes any sense. They’re all mad.’
I felt her lips against my brow. I shivered, involuntarily and she pulled away.
‘Sorry,’ she said.
I shrugged. ‘It isn’t you.’
She nodded. ‘I know, but I’m still sorry.’
‘Everyone’s sorry,’ I sighed. ‘Even her. And Tom, I just don’t understand him at all. Does he want me here or not? He didn’t even speak on the ride home. How am I supposed to know how he feels if he won’t talk to me? It’s like a fucking puzzle box, Chrissie. Really, it is!’
I walked away from her and peered out of the kitchen window. The glare of sunlight reflecting on the glass almost blinded me. Beyond it I saw a white shape. I stared, ignoring the sound of Chrissie’s voice. The shape became defined and I saw a white haired lady hobbling through the garden.
‘Nanny?’ Without moving I found myself beside her.
‘Hello, darling,’ came the unexpected reply.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘I came to check on my garden. It’s been so neglected recently.’
‘Let me help you, Nanny.’ I headed to the shed to grab a spade. When I returned Nanny had vanished, but I started weeding the garden anyway.
I felt Chrissie approach me. ‘Whatcha up to, Crow?’
‘Weeding,’ I panted, digging the soil of the vegetable patch. ‘Nanny was here. She doesn’t like it when things get neglected.’
Chrissie’s shadow stained the earth as she hovered behind me for a moment. Her silence didn’t cover the sound of her thoughts whirli
ng within the machinery of her brilliant mind. I knew she worried about me and I was glad when, instead of shooting her concerns at me like arrows of accusation, she grabbed a trowel and started work on a flower bed. Her expression revealed the thoughts still grinding together like cogs needing oil, but she kept them to herself.
‘Wonderful weather!’ Chrissie said. ‘Just right for tending to the garden.’
I nodded. ‘It’s looking better, huh?’
‘Definitely, but can I ask you something?’
‘Sure,’ I said.
‘Why?’
My clouded eyes must have revealed my confusion.
‘Why are we weeding?’
‘I don’t know. I guess I felt it was what Nanny would have wanted. Look, I’ve finished the veggie patch for now. I’ll grab the lawn-mower.’
As I pulled open the greyed wood door I noticed how different it seemed inside. The neat rows of tools and the red lawn-mower I saw earlier were missing and in their place were an ancient shiny-green giant of a mower and two kids’ bicycles. Smiling nostalgically at my childhood bike with its bright, blue frame, I noticed a shadow move across the toys. I turned towards the movement and saw a grey man in a beige cardigan crouching in the corner, his hands held over his head as if he was trying to protect himself. The sharp sounds of his sobs filled the tiny space.
Another shadow grew behind him. I tried to warn him, but he didn’t seem to hear.
‘Granddad!’ I cried, but the words were lost in time. The second shadow became more solid until, above my cowering grandfather, stood a young woman with black hair, pulled back into a long braid. Even though the woman faced away from me, I recognised her. It was Vivienne.
In her hand Vivienne held a spade. Lifting it, she screamed. ‘You evil, twisted man. Leave us alone!’
Muscles tensed, she slammed the metal head of the spade downwards, hitting the man on the crown of his head.
He looked dazed for a moment then he howled. ‘Please.’
My body shook. I searched my memory for traces of this scene and could find none. I touched my mother’s shoulder and the figure spun around to face me. At first she looked demonic - red eyes burned at the centre of a grey void then Vivienne’s beautiful face established itself in the true glory of her late twenties. The face showed confusion. Vivienne took a step forward, towards me. I couldn’t swallow. I couldn’t breathe. I could only watch.
I looked from her to him, my grandfather, his hair stained with blood. I shook my head. Her eyes followed mine and her grip on the spade tightened.
‘Don’t hit him,’ I yelled. My volume startled me. It seemed unreal, less real even than the scene before me.
Vivienne turned to face me again. The spade fell from her hands and clattered on the floor. I reached out to her. Her lips curled into a gentle smile, but her eyes glistened with tears. I opened my mouth, but before I could utter a sound she vanished.
The cobwebs, tools and red mower reasserted their presence around me. I stood there, eyes straining to penetrate the darkest shadows in the shed, but my grandfather and mother were no longer there. My legs felt weak and I let myself fall to my knees, panting, every breath an effort. Was that a memory? However hard I tried I was unable to find its root in my mind. Were they ghosts? Could a ghost have heard me? Anyway Vivienne was alive, albeit scarcely, and even if ghosts were real, surely you could only see ghosts of dead people. I stared into a void. Pain brought me back when I slapped my cheek.
I retreated from the shadows to the sunshine. My face must have frightened Chrissie, she wrapped an arm around my shoulders and helped me towards the sun-bleached garden bench.
I touched the crispy surface and sighed. ‘I should probably stain this too.’
Chrissie held her cool palm against my forehead. ‘What happened?’
‘I dunno. Ghosts?’ I described my vision to Chrissie.
‘She turned towards you?’
I nodded.
‘Does that mean she wasn’t just a memory?’
‘And she listened to me,’ I laughed, sardonically. ‘Vivienne never listened.’
‘Weird.’ Chrissie shook her head, at a loss for words.
We stared at each other as though the answers we sought might be read on each other’s skin. Chrissie chuckled, breaking the tension. Her mirth was infectious and we both began laughing hysterically, uncontrollably. Deep bellows of unrestrained laughter bubbled up out of us until our sides ached and we started to weep.
‘So, do you think I’m crazy yet?’ I asked.
She laughed harder. ‘Fraid not.’
I shook my head. ‘Why are we laughing?’
‘I don’t know, Crow! Look, let’s clear this up and have a rest. My body aches and my head is spinning.’
We left our tools where they lay. I couldn’t bear to open the door to the shed and she didn’t seem any less reluctant. Still giggling, we wandered back inside the house, holding on to each other for support. I lowered myself onto a kitchen chair and used my hand to fan my face.
Chrissie suggested we pool our funds together and pop out for a pint. I agreed, eagerly, anything to spend some time away from the house. I showered and dressed quickly, another t-shirt over a chest wrapped in bandages and the same pair of combats I had worn for a week already and we were out of the house by six o’clock.
One woman and, well umm, me, drinking ale in a suburban pub, seemed to generate a magnetic pull. Men approached us incessantly, in pairs, like a strange and unwelcome parody of Noah’s Ark. After repeating increasingly less gentle rejections a dozen times or more, we decided to give up and leave. A powder-blue sky with salmon-edged clouds hung above us.
Chrissie’s hand moved to my elbow and I heard her sigh.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Oh, nothing,’ she replied, moving her hand away.
As I opened the door to the dark, old house I realised I didn’t feel afraid. Chrissie crossed the hallway ahead of me and settled at the kitchen table. She opened her well-thumbed notebook and started writing. I decided to prepare a simple dinner. We ate without discussing the garden shed, Vivienne or the unwanted male attention. In fact we said very little. The gentle evening evaporated, silently, into night, and another day ended.
21
On Sunday morning, I woke up late. Chrissie, singing in the shower, made me smile as I passed the bathroom door.
Her voice was deep and melodious and the revolutionary lyrics warmed me. It reminded me of home - my real home, if I had such a thing. I descended the stairs, nodding at the pictures of my mother. I smirked, wondering how Vivienne would cope with Chrissie’s energy, excitement and defiant non-conformity. For some reason the idea whirled around inside my head and tickled my ribs, making me laugh out loud. I imagined the portraits were frowning at my mirth, but that only made me laugh harder.
Still wheezing and spluttering, trying to expel the laugh caught in my throat, I sat at the kitchen table. The kettle filled the corner of the kitchen with steam. I made myself a cup of black coffee and held it in one hand. In the other I fiddled with a hand-rolled cigarette as I considered the strange events of the previous days. I still believed I knew Scott from sometime and some place, but I couldn’t remember where. I refused to believe my dreams of the blue eyed man were a spooky coincidence. The ghosts or memories, or whatever they really were, troubled me more. My mother as a teenager, that couldn’t be a memory, but I’d spent the past decade denying the existence of ghosts. I just couldn’t throw those convictions away so lightly. There must be some rational explanation, but I was damned if I knew what it was. When Chrissie came into the kitchen, her skin pink and gleaming, I made her a coffee.
‘What’s your take?’ I asked her as she took her first sip.
‘Huh?’
‘On ghosts and shit ... what do you think I’ve been seeing?’
‘Dunno. Stress, imagination, memories or maybe your mum and you have some weird psychic connection?’
‘Do you believe t
hat?’
‘Dunno.’
I shrugged and sighed. ‘Whatcha gonna do today, Chriskins?’
She grinned at me. ‘Chriskins?’
I poked my tongue out at her and chuckled.
‘I’d like to keep looking through Viv’s diaries and stuff. Is that okay with you?’
‘Sure. What shall I do?’
‘Are you asking me or wondering aloud?’
I shrugged. ‘Everything here makes me crazy. Mind if I pop out?’
‘Not at all. We could do with more food. No tins of baked beans though, okay?’
I nodded and finished my coffee. ‘See you soon.’
I wandered around shopping aisles aimlessly. I felt lethargic, listless almost, as though I hadn’t slept properly in weeks. I put bags of lentils and vegetables in a basket and breathed in the aroma of freshly baked bread. My thoughts wouldn’t settle, they jumped from Scott and his bright blue eyes and quick, but gentle smile to Vivienne, first grey and frail on her hospital bed then strong, dark and foreboding, towering over granddad in the garden shed and, finally, terrified and powerless, drowning beneath the water of her bathtub. It was a puzzle I should be able to solve if only I had a few more pieces.
Back at Vivienne’s house, I rushed around the kitchen hurriedly putting things away then ran up the grand staircase. Chrissie was sat cross-legged in the centre of Vivienne’s bed, surrounded by papers.
‘Can I help?’ I asked, biting my lip.
‘Of course,’ Chrissie answered, beaming. ‘Come with me.’
She took me to the dining room. The walnut table was covered with papers and notebooks.
‘Wow,’ I whispered, wandering around the table, touching leather bound notebooks and waxy sheets of paper. ‘There is so much stuff. Which ones haven’t been read yet?’
Chrissie grinned and swept her arms outwards in an arc over the table. ‘None of them.’
‘There’s so many.’
The Ballerina and the Revolutionary Page 7
