Puccini's Ghosts

by Morag Joss

  Fleur and Raymond’s laughter was brittle, but for a few moments they were absorbed in this flattering picture of themselves. Just for an instant they were lovers on a cinema poster, propelled by fate towards their final destiny, romantic combustion in each other’s arms. George tipped the last of the wine into their glasses.

  He said, ‘If you ask me, it’s Missy here we need to keep an eye on.’

  ‘You mean Lizzie? Och, she’s young yet,’ Raymond said.

  ‘But she’s her mother’s daughter,’ George said. ‘I hope the gilded youth of Caledonia are preparing to fight over her,’ he added.

  Lila was too busy trying not to blush to notice that he had just rendered her as helpless as her parents.

  After tea Uncle George sent Fleur upstairs to take a long bath, producing some bath salts that he said were specially for frayed nerves. Raymond washed up, George dried and Lila put away. Then Raymond took George outside to show him how he was progressing with burning the letters off the garage door; afterwards they stood at the edge of the vegetable garden, hands in pockets, talking in low voices. When they came back in Raymond looked exhausted. He accepted George’s suggestion that he take himself off to bed.

  ‘Come on, you,’ Uncle George said to Lila as soon as he had gone. ‘The night is young! Come and show me the sunset. Sun’s just going down.’

  They walked along the road without talking. A gusting wind had blown the rain out of the sky but more clouds were massing in wads over the sea. When the low sun broke through from time to time, their elongated shadows cut sharply across the black road. Lila could think of nothing to say, tongue-tied because she was only her ordinary, unembellished self. She so longed to be amusing she did not dare open her mouth, and she looked all wrong with her hair blowing into knots, her eyes screwed up against the wind and sun. When they got as far as the Pow Burn they stopped and watched the slow slide of the water under the bridge.

  On the Burnhead side, in front of each of the bridge posts sat a concrete bin. Litter fluttered around them, although they had not been litter bins originally; they had appeared a year or two before as part of ‘a drive’ to boost Burnhead’s chances in the West of Scotland Floral Borough Competition. After a short wet summer when a few flowers struggled and died and their leaves turned yellow in the salt wind, nobody came to plant anything else or take the bins away. It seemed that, by its failure, the effort of communal cheerfulness had left everyone exhausted, and now the bins were used for target practice by any passing motorist who had a bottle, cigarette packet or dog end. Lila’s mother complained about it from time to time. They were, according to her, typical.

  Lila picked up a wooden lolly stick from the ground and leaned against one of the bins, staring down and prodding into it. She turned over a waxed bread wrapper and uncovered a grey lump, mould coating it like fleece. George wandered across the road, brushed the edge of the other bin with his hand and perched on it. He lit a cigarette and dropped the match behind him.

  He called over, ‘So—Lizzie or Eliza?’

  Lila looked up.

  ‘Which is it these days?’

  Lila shrugged. Once she would have claimed to prefer Eliza, seeking to like what her mother liked, but now she was less inclined to; the ground under her feelings for her mother was shifting too much. But if not Eliza then not Lizzie either, in case that amounted to saying she admired her father. She looked down and concentrated on stirring the contents of the bin. It was all going wrong; she wanted to be chatting to Uncle George with dancing eyes and smooth hair and clothes like Enid’s. They were meant to be laughing, delighting in quick and clever conversation. There was meant to be light music in the background.

  ‘You know, your face really is very funny when you’re cross,’ he called. She looked up and he burst out laughing. ‘It’s not designed for it.’

  She carried on stirring. ‘Enid chucks lolly sticks in here, you know,’ she said.

  ‘Enid?’

  ‘Enid. My friend. She comes on her bike and times it so she’s finishing it just when she gets to the bridge so she can chuck the stick in without stopping. My friend, so called.’

  There was a long pause while Lila tried not to cry. ‘I hate her,’ she said vehemently.

  ‘Oh, so she’s that sort of friend,’ Uncle George said. ‘I see. Of course, certain friends—’

  ‘She makes me feel like screaming,’ she said. This wasn’t true but she had to account for the shake in her voice and the noises coming from her throat.

  ‘Ah well, now, that I can help with. Go ahead. Go on, scream. Scream your head off. Give me a minute, I’ll just go and warn the neighbours.’

  At that Lila burst out laughing, or something between laughing and crying. She could imagine Mrs McBray at 1 Seaview Villas with her mealy face and pinhead eyes, wiping her hands and saying, uh-huh, screaming, is it?

  ‘Don’t be stupid.’ Her nose had started to run. She wiped her sleeve across her face.

  George tossed his cigarette in the bin, crossed the road and pulled her away.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘we’re going down to the beach.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘What for? So you can have a proper scream, of course. You can frighten the fish if you like. And you can tell me all about the ghastly Enid.’

  ‘There aren’t any,’ Lila gasped. ‘There’s no fish. It’s not a proper beach. It’s horrible. There’s nothing down there.’

  ‘Oh, there’s never nothing,’ George said, lightly. ‘Never ever. Come on.’

  ‘I hate it. There’s just seaweed and dead birds and rubbish.’

  ‘There you are then. Something after all. Proves my point.’

  Lila did not know what to do with Uncle George’s refusal to agree that life was awful. She followed him down towards the sea, and the shadows of their walking legs criss-crossed behind them on the scrubland like clashing silent swords. A straight band of steel-coloured light gleamed between sea and sky. Clouds collided and merged above the water and the sun came and went, shifting veils of pink and orange around itself.

  ‘Beautiful,’ Uncle George said, and Lila wiped her eyes and said she supposed so. She could not explain that it was just another thing put there to diminish her, another thing to feel separated from.

  They made their way over the dunes to the start of the beach, kicking up from the sand its usual smell of briny rot. Now the marram grass broke off in clumps, revealing small bunkers of pebbles edged with reeds. They crossed the broken line of seaweed that marked the high tide and walked along in silence but for the cracking of dried weed and shells under their feet. The tide was miles out and the wheeze of the waves did not reach this far. George sat down on a tussock of grass and shifted over to make room for Lila.

  ‘I don’t suppose,’ he said, ‘that it’s really all about Enid, is it? If I were you, I think I’d be screaming for other reasons.’

  Lila was silent.

  ‘Suppose we start with Enid, then,’ he said. ‘What’s Enid done?’

  ‘She saw the garage door,’ Lila said. ‘She saw the garage door and she kept on about it, what the letters were for. I had to tell her something, I made something up. I just made up this thing and she’ll find out it isn’t true. Then it’ll be awful, she’ll go on and on. She’s always going on.’

  ‘So? Does that matter?’

  ‘Of course it matters! She’ll tell Senga! She’ll tell Senga and everybody. You don’t know what it’s like!’

  ‘And what exactly will she tell them? What did you say?’

  ‘I had to say something! She kept asking, she was going on about Senga and her—Senga’s always getting people ganged up on me, I hate Senga. So I told her it was about singing Turandot. I said it was a sort of club. The Burnhead Association for Singing Turandot.’

  ‘A club?’

  ‘For singing Turandot. BAST.’

  ‘My God. Did she believe you?’

  ‘I don’t know! Oh, I hate it! All the stupid, the whole
stupid…’ Lila burst into tears. ‘I hate it! I hate this place!’

  Uncle George stared straight ahead and let her sob.

  ‘Oh, dear,’ he said after a while, turning to her, ‘you’re so like your mother.’

  ‘I am not!’

  He laughed and shook his head. ‘But that was clever.’

  ‘What was?’ She was still upset but the hint of a compliment at once opened up the possibility that she might be brought round. ‘What?’

  ‘Your whatsit. B A S T—your Burnhead Association for Singing Turandot.’ Speaking the words himself, Uncle George seemed to find them hilarious. He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Bet it shut her up. What did she say?’

  ‘Nothing much.’

  George fished in his pockets and lit another cigarette. The fumes from the match drifted Lila’s way, reminding her of railway smoke.

  ‘So what about this Premium Bond? What do you think it should go on? What would you do with it, if it was up to you?’

  The novelty of being consulted made Lila’s eyes fill with tears again and this time she wept for a long time. ‘I wish it’d never come,’ she said eventually, gulping. ‘They can spend it how they like. As long they stop arguing. As long as she starts being normal.’

  George placed an arm across her shoulder.

  ‘I hate it here,’ she whispered. ‘I want to come to London. Can’t I come to London with you? You wouldn’t have to pay for me. I’d get a job and pay you rent and everything.’

  Uncle George tugged at her shoulder and gave a light laugh. ‘Oh come on, nil desperandum, eh? Can’t be as bad as all that, can it?’

  ‘It’s getting worse. She’s never been this bad before. I have to get away. Can’t I come to London?’

  Uncle George snorted. ‘I can promise you she’s been every bit as bad as this. You were just too young to know.’ He made a wry face and raised one eyebrow. ‘Quite funny in retrospect, most of it. You think this is bad…’

  ‘What could be worse?’

  ‘Oh, there’s worse. If I tell you a funny story would it cheer you up?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Okay, well. This is true, remember. This was one time not long after they got the house. You were just a baby. She ate the housekeeping.’

  ‘What? She what?’ Lila clapped her hands over her mouth. ‘She what?’

  Uncle George nodded solemnly, and they both burst out laughing.

  ‘A week’s housekeeping. Your dad had just given it to her. They were having a row about money, I gather she was going through it a bit fast. She tore it up, stuffed it in her mouth and swallowed it. To show him how fast she could go through it. By the time he rang me she’d been retching for three hours.’

  ‘So what happened? Was she really ill?’

  ‘You mean how fast did it go through her? Oh, nature ran its course. Eventually. She got herself in a real state.’ Uncle George grinned. ‘Mind you, it was only the notes. Not even your mother went as far as eating the coins.’

  When their laughter died away, Lila said, ‘I still hate it. I want to go back with you and live in London.’

  ‘Look, these things pass. They always do.’

  ‘This won’t. I hate it. It’s their fault. I do want to scream.’

  ‘Well, scream, then. Go on, there’s nobody about. Scream for all you’re worth,’ Uncle George said jovially, waving an arm towards the beach and the faraway sea. ‘Scream at them. Scream at Enid. Shatter their eardrums.’

  He was laughing again. To show him she minded, she filled her lungs and tried to scream, but managed only a couple of stifled, breathy yelps. She sounded like a tired kitten. Her mouth was full of gluey, salt liquid; she swallowed a couple of times and tried again.

  ‘Call that screaming? Oh, you are so funny!’ He slapped his leg, snorting with laughter. ‘Go on! Scream!’

  Lila stood up, walked away a few steps and turned from him, took a breath, and screamed. It came out flickering at first, like a guttering light, and then strengthened to a bright blast that cut the air. She stopped, suddenly light-headed, took a deeper breath and screamed again; after a few seconds the sound changed, grew long, high-pitched, sailing. On it went, one steady note with a slight, fluting vibrato, heartless and clear. She knew what she was doing. She was singing, and she intended it as a warning. When she came to the end of her breath she stopped abruptly. She walked back and sat down again, folded her arms and looked calmly out to sea.

  ‘Congratulations,’ Uncle George said. ‘That was a B flat. I see I’m right. I thought you might have the voice to go with the temperament. How long have you been able to do that?’

  ‘Since forever,’ she said carelessly. ‘There’s not much to it, you know.’

  She didn’t quite believe this but saying it made her feel superior. Uncle George stifled another laugh.

  ‘Shut up! You’re as bad as her. She goes on,’ she said in an angry whisper, ‘like it’s something special, like you should get sympathy for being able to sing or something!’

  Uncle George nodded, not needing to be told that Lila was now talking about Fleur rather than Enid.

  ‘Just because she was a singer once. It’s stupid.’

  ‘Does she know you can sing?’

  Lila had no clear idea of what her mother knew, about her or anything else. Fleur displaced simple knowing—about everyday, ordinary things—with irritation or loathing.

  ‘She doesn’t care, anyway. She’s not really interested in it, except for singing along to her records.’

  ‘What about at school? Don’t they make you sing at school?’

  Lila scowled. ‘They try. I can’t be bothered. I’d only get teased anyway, it’s bad enough they all know she sings.’

  ‘Senga again?’

  Lila nodded. ‘And Linda McCall. And Enid, some of the time.’

  ‘But isn’t it difficult not to sing? Don’t you ever just want to, don’t you want to take a deep breath like you did just now and just do it?’

  Lila was taken aback by how instantly Uncle George had hit upon it. More and more often when she opened her mouth in assembly for some dreary compulsory hymn, she thought that to let the sound burst out of her would be, at the very least, interesting, and probably wonderful. The idea filled her with a sense of danger but also with an intense premonition of safety; she predicted that there might be a kind of sanctuary in the very letting go. She had been glad when the end of term had freed her from the temptation. But now, one long top B flat sung out towards the sea had left her elated. She stared at the beach, poking in the stones with the toe of her plimsoll, and tried to quell a bubbling feeling in her throat.

  ‘Your mum doesn’t really mean it, you know,’ Uncle George said. ‘She’s just—’

  ‘—having a nervous breakdown.’

  He searched for a way to deny this truthfully and couldn’t. ‘It’s just hard for her…The thing is, she wanted to have more of a career, and when people are disappointed, they sometimes…’

  ‘Oh, I know! I know! They’re allowed to shout and scream and go on and start fires and paint letters on doors! They’re allowed to upset everyone around them!’

  She got up and marched down the beach. ‘He’s just as bad, she wouldn’t be like that if he was any use! I hate them!’

  Her disloyalty felt magnificent and risky, as if something with strong wings were trying to flap its way out of her chest. Uncle George watched her stride around, kicking through seaweed and soaking her shoes.

  ‘Oh, come on,’ he called out to her, ‘she’s not as bad as all that. Your dad does his best. There are reasons.’

  ‘I know! You all think I’m too stupid to notice! I’m not stupid, I’ve worked it out, I’m not a child!’

  ‘Worked what out?’

  Lila returned up the beach and stood in front of him.

  She said, ‘I know what happened!’

  George looked at her while he took the last drag of his cigarette and threw the butt away. ‘You do?’ he
said, shading his eyes. ‘Really? Who told you?’

  The mildness in his voice perplexed her. She was telling him she hated her parents and knew their dirty secret and he did not seem to mind.

  ‘You know what I’m talking about.’ Was he going to make her say the words aloud?

  ‘Well, I think I do, but maybe you’d better tell me and see if I’m right.’

  ‘Well. It’s no secret, she met him when she was twenty, she tells everybody that much,’ she said, dropping down onto the tussock again. ‘Before she had a chance to get famous. He came to hear her sing and fell madly in love with her and promised to look after her forever.’ She pushed the words out sourly. ‘And he told her he was going to be a lawyer, and they got married straight away, a fortnight after they met, and he misled her. He lied to her. He’s not a lawyer, he’s only a lawyer’s clerk.’

  She sensed Uncle George was about to interrupt. Quickly she said, ‘Look, I worked out ages ago what happened!’

  She leaned forward and cupped her face in her hands to hide how red it was. ‘I do know the facts of life, you know,’ she said, trying to sound adult and breezy. She did know them, but having to associate them with her own parents nauseated her.

  ‘Not sure I’m quite with you.’

  ‘You know! August 1944, and my birthday’s May 1945. It’s obvious! They must’ve, you know. I must have been a…a honeymoon baby.’

  George was staring into the sand and appeared not to hear.

  ‘Right? And so that was that,’ she said. ‘Wasn’t it? They didn’t even want me. She couldn’t be a singer, not with a baby, and he never did what you’ve got to do to be a proper lawyer because they got stuck with me.’

  ‘You were a bit unexpected,’ Uncle George said.

  Lila said more quietly, ‘It’s not as if I could help it.’

  They said nothing for a while.

  ‘Look,’ George said, ‘that’s not the whole story.’ He turned to Lila and scanned her face. ‘Listen, if I tell you this, it’s because you’re old enough now, okay? It’s not fair you don’t know, I think you’re entitled to know.’

  ‘Know what? I’m not adopted, am I?’

  ‘Of course not! No. It’s more…unusual than that. And if I tell you, you mustn’t let on you know, to them or anybody, all right? It’s not to spread around. It doesn’t change anything, only it might stop you thinking the wrong things about them.’