Remember Me

by Trezza Azzopardi

  The pictures were the worst. Some of the earlier papers had used the studio portrait, twenty-odd years before, but once they got hold of that one of me outside the court, it was that and only that, time and again. I’m in black and white and looking blank, I’m like the Russian dummy; I wasn’t thinking of anything. There was no hope, no burning pain of hope, only the reality of going back to Bethel Street, and the cool closed wing waiting to cover me. Evil, was how they described it. The face of Evil.

  There was only one picture of Alice: Reunited, said the headline, in big letters above it. She’s holding the baby in her arms, smiling but haggard, starved of that spite at last. The baby was wearing a little hat.

  There was no mention, in any of them, about the Telltale hair. It wasn’t even reported at the hearing. Alice wouldn’t want to draw attention to it. But two and two, that’s what she said, that day in the Assistance. I recognized her straight away.

  The old fella’s put two and two together, she said, nodding down at the child, He’s upped and left me with this little lot, and now Hewitt’s done a flit. Good riddance, to both of them.

  She never changed her sly ways, looking at me from the corner of her eye.

  You’re out, then? she said, leaning into me through the fog of smoke, a little grin playing on her mouth,

  How long for?

  For good, I said, trying the words.

  Must be over it by now.

  Over what, I said back.

  Our Joseph. They say it sent you round the bend, him jilting you like that.

  So nonchalant, as if I would know all of this, as if I were just another person to gossip with; tell the story of some poor woman, some poor fool. She shifted her baby from one knee to the other, grinned wider.

  Of course, he’s got a different story. Said in those days, you were anybody’s. Trying to trick him into marriage. But that’s men for you, isn’t it, love? she said, eyeing the baby on her lap,

  They’re all the same. Say anything to get out of trouble.

  thirty-two

  The time for words had come.

  I called you Daisy. That’s what we’d planned, Joseph and me, a little boy and a little girl: Daisy after his mother, and Albert after my grandfather. I brought you back here; there was nowhere else. Hewitt was gone – done a flit, Alice had said, and the key to the back door went sweet into the lock. Just me and you. I took you upstairs, through the workroom, to his office. I wanted to show you your grandmother, but all the pictures were gone.

  Once I’d settled you into the pram, I went to change. We were off to meet Joseph in half an hour, on the bridge. He was taking us to the Regent to see the Ziegfeld Follies, then to the fair for the dancing. As I washed myself, it came to me that somewhere, I’d lost my shoes. The gown in my case had a smell of Hewitt’s dead mother, but it was long, down to my ankles: it would cover my feet nicely. My mother used to say she would dance barefoot. Well, I would do the same.

  We waited all night, on the bridge, watching the sky sink over Chapelfield, the houses going yellow, grey, stone black. No lights in the windows, no grandfather in the garden below. It wasn’t a garden any more. It was a concrete square, with a pair of gates on the far side and yellow boxes painted on the ground. Joseph would have seen us. Once I’d had the thought, it wouldn’t go away. He would have seen us waiting there, he would’ve seen your hair. It was Telltale. A child should have the father’s stamp, I knew that. That’s what he used to say – we’ve all got our stamp. It’s not like a name; you can’t just change it when the fancy takes you.

  The skin on a baby’s head is so soft, isn’t it? Loose-fitting, as if the bone underneath is too small for it. It feels like a little skullcap all its own, the skin, moving like velvet under your fingers. Cut the scalp, and it bleeds forever.

  I was careful, mind. In the workroom, the whetstone was hard to turn, but I hadn’t forgotten. Many long hours I’d spent, watching Hewitt sharpening his blades, listening to the buzz of steel on stone. Hold the edge here, and watch the sparks fly off in a shower, red and white, like the light through the trees when you were made. An edge so fine, Hewitt used to say, travelling the blade along the down on my arm, it could split a hair.

  You were very still. I was careful with you, really, supremely careful. And I took it all off, every single last hair on your head. You didn’t make a sound.

  It was Telltale, you see. I had been a long time in hiding at Hewitt’s; I recognized his stamp. It had to be removed.

  ~

  Janice was staring at me. It was hard to know, with that look on her face, whether it made sense to her.

  He didn’t show up, I said, trying to get her to understand, We waited on the bridge, oh for hours. You could’ve caught pneumonia. And me. No shoes! What was I doing?

  You panicked, didn’t you? she said, in a small voice, All that blood.

  I took you to the hospital.

  You left me outside the police station. Waited until someone came along and claimed you found me on the steps. It’s all here, she said, tossing over the file with the newspaper cuttings, In black and white.

  It was just a scratch, I said, feeling Robin’s eyes on me, It was nothing much.

  She put her hands up, scraping her fringe back off her face, the skin pale and freckled in the light. To show me the long white scar, running like a frown along her hairline.

  What did you do with the hair? she asked. It had sat against my breast like a second skin. For over thirty years, I’d hidden it away. A memento of a lost child, hope in a spool of copper red, proof of life.

  It’s never left me, I said, handing it over. Janice stared at the bag with the softness inside it, drew out the ringlets and feathery wisps, stuck together, flattened by time into a solid red mat.

  She looked like she might cry, but she didn’t. She laughed, high-pitched, mocking.

  Is this it? she cried, Is this what it’s all about? A dirty bag of dirty stinking hair?

  Telltale, I said, They were all ashamed.

  Robin shifted from the window.

  I’ve had enough of this, he said, Are you coming? He bent over, put his hand out, just like Prince Charming, and she took it, pulling herself off the floor. She whispered in my ear.

  My mother always taught me to feel sorry for people like you. But I don’t. I really don’t. Here, she said, tossing the bag into my lap, Keep your telltale hair, if it means so much to you. I hope you rot in Hell.

  I will, I said, to the empty room, Thank you.

  rise

  I took my things out of the case and settled them on the floor, item by item. It was hard to see in the dimness. I’d been without my case for just two days: it felt like a lifetime. The heart-shaped locket, Joseph’s feather, the opal brooch that Aunty Ena wore, all still there. A greasy black wig, like a dead bird, which I wouldn’t be wearing again. The divine wooden foot lay in my lap, its brass plate blackened from the touching. I could feel the imprint of the words engraved: Lillian Price. My mother’s name first, and then my own. Hewitt once held her foot as he had mine, in a darkened room behind this one. All my things over the floor, where men had scuffed their feet in a long line, eager to be measured by an amazing machine; where the man who wanted to be my father had met the woman who was my mother. They looked so small, my things, and desolate: a brooch with the opal missing, a feather, a little bag of angel hair.

  Cold coming down, and a soft light. I’m waiting for the blue. They’ll all be here soon, all except Hewitt. He’s not invited to this party.

  Here she is now, standing in the doorway with her arms folded and her hair all piled up on her head, her crowning glory. My mother, looking down on me.

  Who is the fairest, she says, and before I can say, You are, my Queen, my father bows and takes her by the waist, turning her round the floor. He’s wearing his blue suit, she’s barefoot, with just her nightgown on. They don’t seem to care. He lifts a candle high in the air; their shadows fall away like silk.

  Over at
the window, Mr Stadnik is surrounded by a ring of dogs, with Aunty Ena at his side, tranquil as the Virgin in a peacock-coloured frock. He holds her hand. My grandfather is tamping his pipe, saying,

  I don’t know what to think of this, Henry, it’s all a bit sudden.

  Ena twists her long neck to face me.

  We’re waiting for a shooting star, she says, We’re going to make a wish!

  The night slides into the room, fading the colours: we are gentian, now. Outside, a last flurry of birdsong, like falling silver. Through it strolls Joseph, nonchalant, grinning. He’s come on the air. A branch of a tree making ribbons of the light; a sudden rain, a residue of scent. I can’t tell what the smell is; something warm. Earth is in it. Sleep is in it. Love, hiding in the gap.

  Hello, Beauty, he whispers, sitting close beside me, And what do you wish for?

  I wish for nothing. The bird in my chest has flown; the words are no longer needed, and I have no more accounting to do. I can be anyone I choose, now: a woman on a riverbank walking in the sunshine, an ordinary person sitting in a tearoom. Anybody, or nobody. I have all I could possibly want, here with me, at the end of this world.

  I collect the bundle of scarves, the lost gloves, the wooden foot, everything, pile it all in a heap, and put the candle to it. The flames when they catch are as boundless as the sea. We gather round them, peering through the smoke at each other, like children at a bonfire. Across the thickening room, Mr Stadnik smiles at me and shrugs,

  We live in hope, he says, turning back to look at the stars.

  remember me

  TREZZA AZZOPARDI was born in Cardiff and lives in Norwich. The Hiding Place, her first novel, was shortlisted for the Booker Prize in 2000.

  In memory of

  Francis Xavier Azzopardi

  and

  Mark Derbyshire

  Acknowledgements

  Many thanks to Derek Johns, Linda Shaughnessy and Anjali Pratap at A.P. Watt; Ursula Doyle, Candice Voysey and everyone at Picador; and Elisabeth Schmitz and everyone at Grove Atlantic.

  For advice on everything from blue rinses to rare birds, but also for their friendship: George Szirtes, Clarissa Upchurch, Benedict Keane, Clair Myhill, Graham Etherington, Andrew Smith, Marion Catlin, Penny Williams, Karen Fisk (Shovelhead), John Kemp, David Hill.

  For their love and support, and for sharing their memories and anecdotes, thanks to my mother, Pamelia Azzopardi, and to Carmen and Edward Rees. Most of all, thanks to Stephen Foster, for all that and just about everything else.

  Note

  Although Winnie is a fictional character set in a fictional Norwich, she was inspired by Nora Bridle, a resident of the streets of Cardiff. I am indebted to everyone who took the trouble to write to me with their memories of Nora.

  First published in 2004 by Picador

  This edition published 2005 by Picador

  This electronic edition published 2010 by Picador

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

  Basingstoke and Oxford

  Associated companies throughout the world

  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-0-330-52648-7 PDF

  ISBN 978-0-330-52647-0 EPUB

  Copyright © Trezza Azzopardi 2004

  The right of Trezza Azzopardi to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Visit www.picador.com to read more about all our books and to buy them. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events, and you can sign up for e-newsletters so that you’re always first to hear about our new releases.