‘Nanny died when I was ten,’ I explained between puffs. ‘That was when we moved here.’
‘Was your grampy living here too?’
‘Yeah, Vivienne said we needed to take care of him.’ I paused, twisting a hoop in my ear.
Chrissie waited for a moment then spoke. ‘How was he?’
‘He used to give us sweets ... He’d always sit in his huge, green chair ... We didn’t see him that much I guess. I remember now, he always smelt funny. Gin, I think.’
‘Why do you think he killed himself?’
I leaned forwards across the table, pressing my fists into my cheeks. My shoulders and torso swayed forwards and back. The rocking motion felt comforting, familiar. I realised I hadn’t answered Chrissie’s question and sat up straight to look at her and recall what she had asked. Ahh yes, why did he kill himself? I rubbed my forehead roughly upwards, stretching the skin above my eyes, trying to retrieve the memory. It felt ironic, considering the times I had pushed memories like this one away. I needn’t have worried; the memory wasn’t really there, only the shadow of it. ‘Maybe he just couldn’t stand living with Vivienne anymore. Maybe it was because he missed Nanny.’
‘Do you remember when it happened?’
‘Not really. I think he died pretty soon after we moved in, but it’s all a blur. Maybe his death certificate will be here somewhere?’
I headed into the dining room and looked at the mountains of paperwork. Rifling aimlessly through the piles of paper, I created chaos across the table, searching without direction. Chrissie pulled me back and held me tight in her arms, rocking gently and cooing like a mother settling her upset child. My sobs were guttural, deep and uncontrolled. Rolling my head around, I started to wail. Pain radiated from me, the force of it physical. Waves of sound and energy bounced around me, crashing against the walls of the room like waves against a ship’s hull. I wanted to cut through the water. It felt too deep, like I was drowning.
Chrissie clung to me as my body shook violently. Together we sank to the floor and Chrissie’s mouth found my lips, wet and slippery with tears and mucus. Her kiss silenced me. Hair brushed against my throat, the smell of patchouli oil and fresh sweat covered me. Opening my eyes, I saw Chrissie’s blurred cheek and soft ear.
‘No!’ I screamed, pushing Chrissie away.
‘What?’
‘We can’t do this. I don’t want this.’ One step forward, two steps back.
24
Chrissie backed away, hiding her scarlet face with her hands. She scrambled to her feet and stumbled out of the door. I watched her leave, my head spinning with a thousand feelings and sat dumb. I sniffed my sweaty palms and realised I smelled of Chrissie. Closing my eyes, I felt my friend’s hands again, stroking my skin, wanting me, needing me. My stomach somersaulted and I felt queasy, empty and alone. I squeezed my eyes shut and saw Grandfather’s purple face, staring at me through milky eyes. It was too much, too vivid. I focused on the doorway, drinking in reality, the here and now, Chrissie stood before me, her face awash with tears.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
I could not answer. Instead I crouched silently, watching my friend’s face.
‘Mitch and me, we’ve been having problems.’ Her explanation pained me.
I shrugged, the old cliché “she doesn’t understand me” rose from my stomach as I tried to think of words to say, to erase the embarrassment and shame and repair the friendship, but I could find none. Chrissie knelt in front of me, offering a cigarette and a timid smile. I accepted the cigarette and left the smile unreturned.
‘It’s just that ... you need me, Crow, and I guess, at some level, I need that. Mitch doesn’t need me, she never did. I’m sorry. I really am. It wasn’t the time or the place. I’ve made a terrible mistake ...’
We looked at each other; Chrissie’s eyes seemed desperate, searching them I sighed.
‘I don’t need you, Chrissie. Having you here has been great ‘n’ all, but I don’t need you. Don’t look to me to complete you. I’m not that person.’
Chrissie cocked her head and wrinkled her nose. I turned away from her. My crouched position offered me an unobstructed view of the underside of the dining table. I saw forester’s marks on the unfinished wood, rough knots and childhood graffiti and there, just visible, I could also see a tightly folded piece of paper stuck to the bottom of the table. I felt Chrissie’s stare and forced myself to stay still rather than crawl straight over to the folded note, unwilling to investigate until Chrissie’s scene was over, but I couldn’t drag my attention away from the paper. I didn’t hear what Chrissie told me and only noticed her absence when the room had been empty for some time.
The room felt cooler now I was alone. I crawled under the table. The piece of paper was wedged firm under a support. Gripping it with my fingertips, I gently wiggled its corner, trying to work it free. The edge started to fray and the paper threatened to tear. Letting go, I crawled further under the table and studied the support, trying to see whether there was a safer way to release the paper. There was no paper protruding from the other side. As I scrambled out from under the table, I knocked my head on the wood and sat for a moment until the dizziness subsided. I lifted the edge of the table top, but I couldn’t reach the paper from that position. Chrissie. She was in the kitchen, holding a cigarette in one hand and lifting a bottle of bourbon to her lips with the other.
‘I’m sorry,’ I offered.
‘Me too. You’re right.’
‘What you gonna do?’
‘About Mitch? I dunno. Probably carry on as normal. I don’t want to be alone.’
I slid onto the chair, next to my friend and hugged her. ‘You sound like Vivienne.’
‘Do I? People do things for all sorts of reasons.’ Chrissie shrugged and looked away. ‘I’ve done things ... No-one’s perfect. But we all want to be loved.’
‘I don’t.’ Even as I said the words I wondered whether they were true.
‘Yes, you do. You just don’t believe anyone does love you, but you’re wrong, so wrong.’
I stood up. ‘I need your help with something - the table.’
‘Huh?’
‘Something’s stuck. I need you to lift the table so I can get at it.’
‘Okay.’
Chrissie lifted the table top while I worked the paper loose. When, at last, I had it in the palm of my hand I stared at it reverently, hardly daring to breathe.
‘What is it?’ Chrissie asked.
The folded paper was only an inch wide by less than two inches long, folded so tightly that it felt like a tiny paper box. Hooking my finger under the first layer, I pulled it back. The closely-packed fibres tried to cling to each other and with every movement they threatened to tear.
Chrissie bent down to look under the table, but I was as aware of my friend as I might have been of a fly buzzing against a window pane, trying to get in. Licking my lips, I pulled back another layer and another. The paper guarded its secret until the very last fold was opened outwards. Across and down the page, in tiny yet elegant, black-inked script, two words were written over and over again. “Help me, help me, help me,” was the whispered plea. I stared at the message, knowing it was not an accidental discovery. The message was meant for me. I focused on the tiny letters. Who needed my help? Folding the paper once, I passed it to Chrissie who took it eagerly. I watched her read it, shocked to see her face crumple and a flood of unsuppressed tears fall from her tightly shuttered eyes. I was unable to help, not knowing whether I should touch her arm or hug her while feeling unable to do either.
At last Chrissie passed the paper back and wiped her cheeks with both hands. Her bloodshot eyes stared at my face as if she wanted to say something, share some secret, but she didn’t say anything and I did not to ask. Minutes passed in silence, as I turned the paper over and over in the palm of my hand and Chrissie stared at the floor, absorbed in her misery.
‘It could have been me,’ she said without warning. ‘Remembe
r when we met, how lost I was? Someone here was hurt, just like I was. Someone had their childhood stolen away.’
My mouth felt dry. I balled my hands into fists, crumpling the paper, concentrating on my breath - in out, in out. I sucked in air through my nostrils and blew it out through my mouth as goose-bumps prickled my legs and arms. I didn’t know how to respond. Not only did I know that someone, probably Vivienne, had suffered deep and lasting wounds here in this house, I also felt a burden of responsibility towards Chrissie to help her make sense of everything. If I managed to put things right for Vivienne and Chrissie could I also heal myself?
‘Tell me ... what happened to you?’
‘My stepfather happened. I couldn’t stand it, the way he looked at me, the way he ... I left when I was twelve. Younger than you ... I ... No ... Not yet ...’
‘When you want to talk, I’ll listen, Chrissie,’ I said. ‘Always.’
She smiled and mouthed the words, “thank you”, then sank to the floor. I left her alone in the room, embraced by her sorrow. I switched on the kettle and placed my mobile phone on the kitchen table. Between the hissing of the kettle and Chrissie’s distress I couldn’t think. I closed the kitchen door against the sound of sobbing and picked up my phone.
‘Tomas Nightingale,’ my brother’s confident voice announced.
‘Hi, Bro.’ As I spoke I twisted the hoops in my right ear. My breath felt ragged.
‘Giz,’ he said. ‘I mean, Crow.’
I strained to understand the tone of his voice. Was it loving, excited to hear from me, or cold and distant?
‘I’ve found some stuff. I think you need to see it.’
Tomas didn’t answer.
‘Did you know you have a twin, another sister?’
‘W-w-w-hat?’
I bit my lip, forcing back my tears. ‘Did you know?’
‘What the f ...?’ I heard the mouthpiece being muffled and urgent whispering. ‘Look, Giz, I’m in work. What do you mean? What are you talking about?’
‘Can you come over? I’ve got so much to tell you.’
‘Look Giz, I’m sorry. I think I made a mistake letting you stay there.’
‘What do you mean a mistake? What’s going on? You didn’t let me stay here, you forced me ... Come over, Tom. This is important, to you as well as me ... unless you don’t want to hear anything about your precious mummy, is that it? Or ... what, do you think I’m crazy, as mad as her? No, you’re jealous, that’s it isn’t it. You wanna be here, lookin’ through her stuff, sniffin’ her panties.’ I knew I should stop, but I couldn’t. Pent up rage exploded into the mobile handset, I didn’t mean a word of it, I had no idea where the words were coming from, but they kept flowing. By the time I stopped for breath I realised the line was dead and my brother had hung up. ‘Shit!’ I growled. My tears flowed freely and I stood there sobbing wildly, an echo of the sounds nudging through the hallway.
25
(London, England - 2008)
Living with Roxie and the others was fun. I felt like part of a large and, more or less, loving family. There were arguments, of course, but bad feelings rarely lingered and people said what they meant then got over it or moved on. There wasn’t the need to read between the lines of every conversation, every glance or movement of the body. I felt, at last, that I understood what was happening around me.
The adults were great fun, Matty in particular. When he wasn’t working he would take interest in us all. Roxie and I followed him everywhere we could, to protests, meetings and even to the library. I think we both needed the respect and kindness he offered. Roxie was right. The people in that flat were good people. Nobody undressed me with their eyes and no one called me darling or gorgeous. I was another member of the team, no more and no less. I cleaned and when I needed money I begged or sold drawings. I was both useful and appreciated. I hoped it would last forever.
Then, one day, Max came home in tears. Her brother had been shot by police; they claimed he had a gun, but she insisted that was nonsense. We could feel the anger in the air around us. Our rage had a focus, those murdering bastards in black uniforms. There was only one way to get past this. We would have to make them pay.
When we arrived at the police station, me, Roxie, Matty, Max, Drago, Krim and Frank, we joined the edge of a large crowd. Some of the women wailed loudly. Some people were singing, but the atmosphere was tense, explosive. Without an apology and an explanation things would go bad. I could feel it. I realised the thought excited me.
Officers in Kevlar vests stepped outside the building. Murmurs travelled in waves, back and forth within the crowd. One of the police, the pigs as Matty called them, was making a flapping motion with his hands. I thought he looked ridiculous. He said something I couldn’t hear above the other voices.
‘What’s he saying?’
‘They want us to leave,’ Matty explained.
‘We aren’t, are we?’
Matty chuckled and patted my head. ‘No, we aren’t going to leave, my little revolutionary.’
I grinned with pride and felt twelve feet tall.
More pigs swarmed out of the building. They waved their truncheons, menacingly. From the back of the crowd it resembled a pantomime or a Punch and Judy show. The crowd didn’t move and I couldn’t see what the police could do about it other than speak to the mothers, the sisters, the brothers, the fathers, the shopkeepers and the concerned neighbours. Suddenly, I was jolted backwards and fell onto my ass with a bump.
‘Hey!’ Max shouted and lifted me to my feet.
Bodies were rushing backwards, the crowd expanding outwards. I smelled panic and heard screams, screams of pain and of fury. Glass smashed. Voices were raised in anger and defiance.
‘Come on,’ Max said and grabbed my arm, trying to pull me away from the crowd. Matty was pushing forward. I tried to shake my arm from her grip and follow him. I wanted to help, but more than that I wanted to understand what was happening.
Bodies exploded outwards from the central point, pushing, rushing past us. I moved closer to Max, so she could shield me with her bulk. I started coughing and realised others were coughing too.
Over a megaphone a voice shouted, ‘Disperse.’
From the right another magnified voice yelled, ‘This is a peaceful process. We only want the truth.’
Max yanked my arm and I stumbled back. We stood in front of a shop door as young men swarmed around us. Some had scarves tied around their faces, others peered through the shadows of hooded sweatshirts. The sound of glass smashing echoed through the street. I felt afraid yet exhilarated. I couldn’t see Matty or the others any more. It was just Max and me, sheltered under the awning of a newsagent shop, when a car exploded, a black cloud filled the sky and I screamed.
26
(Bristol, England - 2013)
Chrissie wasn’t there when I went down to breakfast the next morning. The kitchen seemed too quiet, like the feeling you get when your ears pop. Trying to compensate, I knocked cups together and tapped my feet on the stone floor as I boiled water for coffee and rolled cigarettes at the kitchen table. By three o’clock I wondered whether Chrissie had left the house before I awoke. I crept upstairs and stood outside Vivienne’s bedroom, now Chrissie’s room. Images of my mother fucking any number or manner of men, sliced through my mind and my arm jolted back from the door handle. After standing outside the room panting, I went back downstairs.
Steam enveloped me as I poured water over coffee granules. The smell was calming and with a mug of coffee in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, I grabbed a few moments of peace before facing whatever waited in Vivienne’s room. I kept looking at the clock. Time had never seemed important before. If I had to be somewhere, a rally or protest or even a party, someone would remind me. I noticed a calendar attached to the back of the kitchen door and wandered over to it. It still displayed February. Notes were scribbled all over the page, plans Mother had made. It was probably February when Tomas first wrote about Vivienne’s brea
kdown. Four months or more had passed since then. During that time I was only vaguely aware of this family; my friends in London were my life. Now I found myself, once again, stuck in this insane asylum, never knowing what might happen next, except this time Vivienne was not my gaoler, but a fellow inmate. I wondered whether this was how Vivienne had felt, whether the same ghosts had haunted her and how she had coped. Any better than me?
I unhooked the calendar, looking for a moment at the ballet dancers in the photograph, so serene yet so sad, their beautiful costumes masking the pain of each movement. I folded back the pages until I reached June. I wondered what day it was and guessed it was Monday and the latter half of the month. In the space under the 21st of June was scribbled Tomas’s birthday. I wondered whether I had missed it, or whether it would be soon. I remembered making arrangements to be somewhere, Scott’s place. Perhaps that was today? I scribbled a note for Chrissie, grabbed my rucksack and headed out of the house.
The day was hot again. Scott led me into the garden and poured a glass of minted water. I saw the tree near the wall, exactly as I had that first day when the bricks became glass.
‘What a beautiful tree. What do all the ribbons mean?’
‘They’re offerings. If I ask for something I give something back. It’s a very old oak. Full of power. Touch it.’
We wandered down the garden path and stood in front of the wide trunk. Scott’s slim hand extended towards it. I watched him, searching his expression for any trace of mockery, but found none. My palms tingled in expectation. The wide branches were full of leaves and ribbons. I reached out to touch its rough bark. It felt cool in spite of the sunshine, shaded by its leafy canopy. Scott smiled in approval and I pressed my cheek against the dragon-scales bark and felt a soft, slow heartbeat, so slow I could hardly distinguish when it began or ended, nevertheless I was convinced I could hear it. Pressing my whole body against the tree, I slow danced with nature. Tears washed my face. Beneath the salty wetness I was beaming.
The Ballerina and the Revolutionary Page 9
