The Ballerina and the Revolutionary

by Voiez, Carmilla

  ‘Beautiful isn’t it?’ Scott said. ‘I’m glad you feel it too.’

  I moved away from the tree, unsteady on my legs. ‘I’ve never heard anything like that before.’

  ‘All of nature has a rhythm, a heartbeat if you like. With trees it’s simply slower. Rocks are slower still, but they are just as alive as you and me.’

  My face twitched involuntarily in a smirk then I nodded in earnest. His words echoed through the cells of my body, whispering the wisdom of his beliefs. I wondered whether he was mad, but dismissed the thought as lazy. I always wondered whether people were mad, like some strange defence mechanism against things I didn’t wish to understand or accept. Of course, if Chrissie, or anyone, asked me later how I could feel something and know the opposite to be true, I would never have been able to explain it yet at that moment both truths felt comfortable juxtaposing within me.

  ‘Are you hungry,’ he asked.

  ‘Thanks, food would be great.’ I lit a cigarette then apologised, fanning the smoke away.

  Scott shook his head. ‘It’s fine, go ahead.’

  As Scott disappeared inside the house I sat on a carved wooden chair. The warm orange wood glowed with the patina of use. I stretched my feet out in front of me and reached over with my free hand to remove my boots and socks. The breeze tickled between my wrinkled toes as I fell asleep.

  I awoke to the sound of cutlery and crockery chiming against each other. The simple lunch of steamed vegetables and rice was perfect. The vegetables were full of flavour and probably home-grown. I complimented him on the food and guzzled two glasses of water. Finished, I sat silently, full of questions and thoughts, but unable to decide where to start. I wanted to tell him about the ghosts, my mother and my newly discovered sister. I also wanted to ask him more about the tree and about what he took from it before he tied each ribbon. Finally, I wanted to share with him my confusion about Chrissie and Tomas, but I couldn’t frame the first sentence.

  He remained silent and together we sat in the garden, smelling the herbs and flowers, sharing each other’s time and space but not each other’s thoughts.

  When a woman joined us I found myself unsure as to whether she was real or just another ghost.

  ‘Mum,’ Scott said. ‘This is Crow.’

  ‘Crow!’ The woman hurried over and took my hand. ‘Vivienne’s kid. Wow, it's good to finally meet yer. How's it goin' over at the Nigh'ingale place? Scott just don't shut up about yer.’

  ‘Would you like some tea, Mum?’

  ‘Ooo lovely. Ta, dear.’ The woman settled into the wooden chair next to me and smiled awkwardly. ‘Ahh, that’s perfect. I loves the hot weather, don’t yer? Course we won’t never wanna get back off our asses.’

  I smiled and looked out over the garden, nodding. I felt the woman’s eyes on me, but was loath to face her and invite any form of conversation. She continued talking anyway. ‘The Nigh’ingale.’

  ‘Huh?’ I replied.

  She sniggered. It was a rich and dirty laugh. ‘That’s what we used to call yer ma. Never met anyone as lush as Vivienne. Like a movie star. Bet she was a devil t’live with though ...’

  I nodded. ‘She’s in a secure mental unit now.’

  ‘Noooo!’ She gasped. ‘Why?’

  I shook my head and blushed. ‘I don’t know.’

  She patted my hand. Her smile looked both sympathetic and confused. ‘Oh, by the way I’m Dorothy, but call me Dot or Dottie if you like. Most people think I’m dotty these days ... Oh sorry. That was ...’ A harsh cackle bent her in two for a moment and she punched her chest. ‘Just can’t seem to shake this summer cold.’

  ‘Did you know Vivienne? When she was a girl, I mean.’

  ‘Not well, she’s a decade younger than me. Everyone knew of ’er, though. She were just that kinda girl, if you know what I mean. Such a pretty face. She were always doin’ stuff: school plays and the like. Me younger sister woulda known ’er better, of course. She always wore a smile, Viv I means, but I could tell she weren’t too ’appy. All airs and graces, mind you and too finely polished for the likes of us council estate kids. She got into this fancy bally school in Londin and we only saw her in the holidays affer that.’

  ‘Did she have any friends here? People she’d talk too.’

  ‘Well there’s that there Clive at the New Age shop. He'd be her best friend, been thick as thieves for years. Scott knows Clive.’

  I nodded. ‘I’ve met him. He seems ...’

  ‘Loud, camp ... but his heart's in the right place.’

  Dorothy’s shoulders rose and fell with each breath. When Scott arrived with the tea I saw a complete change in the woman. She sat straighter, her eyes sparkled and her face widened into a smile. ‘Thank you, me lover,’ she said, taking the mug of steaming liquid and sniffing it. ‘Gert lush after a long, hard day.’

  ‘How was work, Mum?

  ‘Same ole same ole,’ she said dismissively.

  ‘What do you do, Dottie?’ I asked.

  ‘Nurse.’

  Dorothy sipped her tea and relaxed into the chair. Scott passed me a black coffee and sat, cross legged, on the grass. I sighed as I felt my eyelids grow heavy again. I thought of Chrissie and my heart raced, my shoulders shook and I stared at the blades of grass, trying to control the adrenaline rush.

  ‘Look, sorry. I’d better run. Chrissie might be worried.’

  ‘You can use our phone,’ Dorothy offered.

  ‘Thanks, but I’d better go.’

  ‘Okay then. Come back for tea. Scott’s a great cook, though I may be biased. How’s about Thursday?’

  ‘I, I, I don’t know.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Dorothy asked, staring at me.

  I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’ I grinned. ‘I’m crap at making arrangements to do stuff.’

  She laughed and nodded.

  ‘I’ll walk you to the door,’ Scott said.

  ‘Thank you.’ I stood up, smiled at Dorothy and glanced at the tree. Its branches seemed to open out as if expecting a hug. ‘Actually, you know what? Thursday would be great,’ I said, still facing the tree.

  ‘Do you want to bring Chrissie?’ Scott asked.

  It took a moment for me to answer. Did I want to bring Chrissie? Chrissie would take the focus off me – always the centre of attention and some time away from ... all that would be a relief. Time to think. ‘No ... thank you,’ I said. My eyes met his and he seemed to understand.

  27

  The moment I woke up it dawned on me Tuesday was going to be an awful day, and I was tempted to spend it in bed. It had been awkward, coming home to Chrissie. She had a haunted look in her eyes and kept walking away when I tried to speak to her. I decided it would be best to stay out of my friend’s way as much as possible, give her time to process whatever mix of emotions she was feeling.

  I grabbed my book and flicked listlessly through the pages. Outside my door, I heard a soft movement, Chrissie. I pushed my body deeper into my mattress and started to read.

  Hunger and nicotine cravings gnawed at me, calling me to rise from the bed and by half-eleven I knew I needed to feed them both. The corridor was empty when I opened my bedroom door. Tiptoeing downstairs I heard papers rustling and headed towards the dining room. Chrissie stood beside the table, shedding tears and pulling apart Vivienne’s diaries and letters, throwing scraps into a black bin bag.

  ‘Stop it!’ I ran towards Chrissie and span her around. ‘We need those.’

  She shook her head. Her eyes were rimmed with crimson, and she looked as though she hadn’t slept in weeks. ‘No we don’t. They’re just bad memories. Let them go.’

  I hugged her and it felt like the most natural thing in the world. ‘I’m sorry.’

  Her body shuddered and I felt my shoulder grow wet with her tears. Clinging to her I cried without restraint.

  ‘Let’s go home,’ Chrissie said.

  I shook my head, still holding her tightly. ‘You were right. I have to stay, but maybe you should, Ch
rissie. Go home and sort things out with Mitch while I stay here.’

  ‘You want rid of me?’ Her eyes shone with tears.

  ‘No. Of course not. It’s just ... I know it’s not easy ... to be here. You should be with your lover, not trying to take care of me. I don’t need to be taken care of, but I think ... perhaps ... right now ... you might.’

  Chrissie dropped the bundle of letters and hugged me back.

  Together we gathered the torn and crumpled papers, flattening each one carefully and matching fragments. Restoring the documents, this evidence of my mother’s life, felt cathartic. With every piece stuck back in place I felt more complete. I glanced up and saw Chrissie smiling apologetically. “It’s okay,” I mouthed and returned to my labour. It consumed me, this act of putting things back together, mending rather than destroying. I was unaware of the passage of time, but when I looked towards the doorway again Chrissie had gone.

  At eight o’clock, when Chrissie called me to dinner, I was still surrounded by ripped sheets and balls of paper. We sat down to our last shared meal in this city and ate silently, each of us absorbed in our individual thoughts and hopes. When the food had been consumed I cleared the table. I didn’t hear Chrissie leave the room. Her footsteps and movements had taken on a ghostlike hush as if they were already somewhere beyond the limits of my perception. Only when the plates were all clean and draining next to the sink did I turn and find the kitchen empty.

  I didn’t try to find her. I embraced the solitude. Lying in bed, I thought about the day’s events: my rejection of Chrissie and her deep, inexplicable sadness. The sound of creaking stairs roused me from my thoughts. Relaxing again, I smiled at the melody of the old house – ghosts or water pipes. The bedroom was dark, but flashes inside my mind kept me awake. After a while I gave up on the idea of slumber and turned on the lamp. Soft light flooded the room, illuminating a small, twisted figure at the end of my bed.

  ‘Nanny?’

  ‘Hurry child.’ Nanny’s ghost pointed towards the door.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I jumped out of bed and followed the spectre. The glowing figure glided towards the attic door and waited at the foot of the steps, watching me. Her eyes fell from my face to my feet as I shook my head. My rejection made her appear crestfallen and my heart ached to make it better, apologise, but I was afraid to see my grandfather again. I did not want to climb those terrible stairs. Chrissie, the word hissed in my mind as Nanny pointed up the stairs, her eyes imploring me to action. I raced up the attic stairs, two at a time and reached the top just as my friend kicked the chair from under her.

  ‘No,’ I screamed.

  Chrissie jerked at the end of a rope. The manic movements turned her around until she faced me, her face ashen. I ran across the creaking floorboards and held her legs while using my foot to right the fallen chair. I heard her sobs, loud and unrestrained. I cried too, soaking her pyjama bottoms. Moving up her body I loosened the noose, and Chrissie collapsed in my arms. I lowered her awkwardly to the floor. Rocking her shivering body in my arms, I looked up at the egg-shaped loop in the rope, a featureless face mocking me, still jolting with vicious laughter.

  I stroked Chrissie’s hair until I felt her body relax. Without thinking I found myself humming a tune Nanny used to sing to me. I felt the old woman beside me, taking care of both of us. My love for her filled my soul and I wished she had been my mother instead of Vivienne. I might have turned out very differently under her loving guidance.

  I pulled Chrissie to her feet and, supporting her weight, guided her back down the stairs. In the dark Vivienne’s bed looked even larger than normal. I led Chrissie towards it. Its turned back covers looked like a gaping mouth ready to swallow us both. As the back of Chrissie’s head fell gently onto the pillow she fixed her eyes on me.

  ‘Don’t leave me alone,’ she pleaded.

  ‘Shh, it’s okay. I’ll stay with you.’ I slipped under the covers beside her. The heat choked me, but I stayed, hand resting on my friend’s shoulder as she fell into a troubled sleep.

  Memories flooded my own mind as I lay in bed, awake. I remembered the times Vivienne claimed Nanny had told her something, like the time I left home all those years before. A heavy realisation settled inside me, either Vivienne hadn’t been hallucinating, or I was just as crazy as my mother. The usual panic did not rise within me at this thought. That hallucination, if indeed that was what it had been, saved my friend’s life. I figured I could live with such visions.

  28

  I woke in my mother’s bed with my arms wrapped around Chrissie. I slipped out from under the covers to fetch my knife. At the attic door I stood, heart pounding, sweat pouring down my face, wondering what I might see. I pushed the door open, climbed the stairs and stepped into the empty attic. The noose still hung from the rafters, an empty space waiting to be filled. Cutting through the rope was hard work but the knife was sharp and I was strong. As the rope fell to the floor I breathed a sigh of relief, gathered up the remnants and threw them behind some boxes. One of the boxes was slightly open and a hard backed book poked out between the flaps. I leaned across and pulled out a diary, opening the box I found a dozen or more diaries inside, resting on top of a pile of fur coats. The softness of the fur as it brushed my hand made me feel strange. The last time I touched dead fur mother had been wearing it. The sensation made me sad, angry and happy all at once. I gathered the diaries in my arms and left.

  I stuffed the diaries into my bottom drawer before checking on my friend. Chrissie was still sleeping soundly, her forehead wrinkled with some unknown dream. I decided to make coffee before she awoke. The aroma of the two steaming cups filled the bedroom when I returned to Chrissie’s side and I placed one on the table next to Chrissie and nursed the other cup, entranced by my friend’s sleeping face. It was impossible to believe this peaceful woman had tried to kill herself less than eight hours before. Why had she done it? Asleep she looked confident, better able to face the world than I had ever felt. It made me wonder for a moment why I had never been tempted to commit suicide, what spark had kept me going through all the pain and rejection?

  Vivienne had tried many times: pills usually, but sometimes slicing her wrists. Covered in vomit or blood mother would scream for help then the ambulance would come and Vivienne would get better again. Her near-deaths were a theme throughout my childhood and while other girls were learning about their periods, I’d be cleaning Vivienne’s arterial blood off our bathroom floor.

  I rubbed Chrissie’s shoulder, gently, to wake her. Her eyes were swollen and looked unfocused and distant when she opened them. I shuddered. Now the peace of her sleep had been broken, Chrissie’s turmoil was apparent.

  ‘Do you wanna talk ‘bout it?’ I asked.

  Chrissie shook her head slowly and carefully as if each movement was carefully choreographed and could only be achieved with complete concentration.

  ‘What do you want to do, now?’ I asked, afraid I would be left to decide for her. I didn’t want to make that call; how could I decide whether Chrissie was a danger to herself?

  She closed her eyes.

  ‘You can’t give up, Chrissie,’ I said. ‘People need you. Mitch needs you ... so do I.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Chrissie whispered in a voice so quiet I had to strain to hear it.

  ‘No need. It’s an odd house. It fucks with your head. I know that. Did you see someone or something? Or was it my fault? Is it because I pushed you away? Look, I was just angry yesterday. I still love you. You gotta get past this. Go back to London. Live even if you feel like giving up.’

  ‘I’m so ashamed.’ Chrissie covered her face with her hands. Deep and thick sobs pushed their way through her fingers.

  I held her in my arms and kissed her cheek. Her smile looked thin, but her eyes seemed to focus on me at last. ‘You’ll be okay.’

  Chrissie nodded. ‘I suppose I’m a big disappointment to you.’

  I shook my head, but Chrissie frowned and carried on.

&nb
sp; ‘You came here in search of your mum and I don’t know what I thought, but I was wrong. You’re strong, Crow. Stronger than me. Will you keep looking? Can you forgive Vivienne?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Will you go and see her again?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  I sighed. ‘That’s the question, isn’t it? Days have passed and I’ve seen no one. Well except you of course ... you and ghosts. I reckon I’ve been here for what ... a week, is that right? And I’ve seen Mum twice in that time. And what about Tomas? Has he been hiding from me? Have I been hiding from Vivienne? No, no, not from her, from me I reckon. I’ve been hiding from myself. One step forward, two steps back. You know what it’s like ... or maybe you don’t. Growing up you hear all these stories: fairy tales and legends, except mine were about us, about our family, and I thought they were the truth. Yet I’m still here ... figuring I can learn all about her from these second hand stories, but I know less than I thought I did when I arrived. Mum’s life is a confused blur, full of children, ghosts, violence. It’s the house, Chrissie or at least part of it is. It’s full of memories, buried and repressed. You need to leave here. You need to go home and I need to find myself.’

  ‘Will you stay here alone?’ Chrissie asked, worried.

  ‘Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘I, I don’t know what to do or where to go,’ Chrissie said. ‘What would you do?’

  I searched my thoughts for the right answer. It was the first time I had been asked for advice and I wanted to get it right. What would I do? Return to the squat, find my family, start afresh somewhere new or stay and help? ‘Go back to Mitch. I’ll be home soon.’

  Chrissie picked up her cup and took a sip, her movements slow and thoughtful. At last she nodded. ‘Okay. Will you come back?’

  ‘Great,’ I said, although I wasn’t sure my voice was convincing. ‘And yes ... of course I will. I can’t walk away from all the fun. Umm, can you wait here a minute? I’m gonna phone Tom.’