The Manner of the Mourning

by Robert Ward

  Miranda linked arms with him as they were leaving the tent.

  “What did she tell you?” she asked.

  When they had gone, Madame Esmeralda pushed her head through the blind and spoke to the old woman who was counting the money in the cash box.

  “Put the kettle on, Gran. I’m gasping,” she said. “Put the sign out for ten minutes, I need a break.”

  Madame Esmeralda and her grandmother sat at the red beize table with mugs of tea and had a smoke.

  “Those last two were hard work,” she said. “Especially him. He wouldn’t give me any info, you know the type. He knew about the name game as well. I knew if I mentioned names he’d keep count. He stopped me after the third letter. I did get something for them though, both of them. His was strongest.”

  “You do have the gift,” the old woman said, between slurps of tea through toothless gums. “As I had, and my mother before me.”

  “Something made me tell them the dark side. I felt I should and that they could take it.”

  “Shouldn’t speak of the dark side to them,” her grandmother said, her voice rough and deep and vibrating. “I’ve told you often enough. People only want to hear the light. This tea needs sweetening.”

  She went to a drawer in a side cupboard, shuffling slowly on thick legs, and took out a half-bottle of whisky and poured a measure into both their mugs.

  “I didn’t even ask them for more money, to tell them more.”

  “Cross my palm with silver. Must always ask,” the old woman said. “We even asked the guards in the camp. But then it was for bread. Grandmother Critchalee saved me by telling a fortune when I was ten. He had his pistol to my head. Would have done it too, but Grandmother said she could see his future in his eyes. He spared me. After, he only took me from behind. A big brute he was, covered in black hair, like an ape. Always ask.”

  Madame Esmeralda looked at the lined face of her grandmother and then into her failing, almost black eyes. She looked even older than she was.

  “How have we done today?” she asked.

  “Fair,” her grandmother said. “By dark we should have done fair.”

  “Take down the sign then,” her granddaughter said and drained her mug. “There was something about those last two though. Especially him. I don’t know if I saw what I said, but I felt something that made me speak.”

  “You never know if it’s outside or inside,” the old woman said. “But it’s best not to tell the dark, however it comes.”

  Richard and Miranda emerged from the fortune-telling tent into the bright sunlight of the baking hot afternoon and shaded their eyes with their hands like sailors looking out to sea.

  “Nothing at all really,” he said. “She’d obviously latched onto something you’d said about, the drama, as she put it. Apart from that there were vague ramblings about love and life. You know. She probably gives the same spiel to everyone who goes in there. What did she say to you?”

  “About the same,” she said.

  They walked through the park which was now even more crowded than before, as the hot afternoon had drawn more people out into its light, and it was difficult to walk for more than a few paces without dodging and side-stepping people moving in a different direction, or at a slower pace.

  “People say we’re violent or aggressive towards each other you know, but we’re not really,” she said. “Look how we mingle and press together. Violence is unusual.”

  “They say that people in crowds of other people think of them as trees,” he said.

  “How do you mean?”

  “When you move through a crowd you remain passive by regarding other people as trees. You move to avoid hitting an immovable object. That way you don’t provoke conflict. It’s when you try to occupy another person’s space that it results in aggression. It’s like how you would feel if someone, someone you didn’t know, took food from your plate.”

  “Interesting,” she said, meaning it.

  “Speaking of food,” he said. “I’m quite hungry now. I suppose you’re feeling sick after what you’ve eaten today?”

  “No, not at all. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it seems I am to be spared punishment for my gluttony.”

  “Good,” he said. “So you could eat something now?”

  “Yes. I almost always can. It was just last night with the heat and the flies and the drums,” she said.

  “Shall we go now then?” he asked.

  “Yes, okay.”

  “Have you enjoyed your day at the fair?”

  “Yes. Have you?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “It’s a pity there were no freaks though,” she said.

  They stopped off on their way home at the Olympic take away restaurant and bought huge kebabs with mountains of salad and whole red hot chillies and half a sheep on each of them and ate them as they walked up from the main road towards the square.

  The little park was full of people, with children playing, and couples reclining on blankets or tablecloths taken out to avoid contact with the grass, and the litter bins were filled with wrapping from the fish and chip shop or the kebab house and cans from the sweet shop. The sound of so many people was somehow gentle though, and pleasant to hear, and they both felt what could be called happiness as they climbed the few steps up to the entrance to their flat. It was a happiness brought on simply by being alive and part of all those alive. They both tried not to think about it too much.

  Richard opened the window and breathed deeply as the warm air blew against his face.

  “The hideous insects will get in,” she said.

  “I’ll close it before it gets dark.”

  “Do you want a beer?” she asked.

  “Please,” he said, turning to watch her as she bent down to reach into the fridge.

  Her black and white polka dot dress hid her lovely form as she did so and made her seem even more attractive, and he moved over to her and put his arms around her from behind. She stood up straight with cans in both her hands and he kissed the top of her head and felt her stomach and her breasts.

  “Mmn, that’s nice,” she said. “I love it when you feel me.”

  “I don’t do it often enough, do I?” he said.

  “You’re not the most demonstrative of people. But when you are it was worth the wait.”

  He turned her around and kissed her on the lips and then all over her face, squeezing bunches of her glorious hair in his hands. She dropped the cans and put her hands on his waist and looked up at him, and for a moment their eyes met, and he saw that hers were unfocused in that kind of absorbed love of feeling, or of being felt way. He realised then, perhaps really for the first time, just how beautiful she was.

  On impulse he picked her up with one arm under the bend of her knees and the other around her back and carried her into the bedroom. She was very light and easy to carry. For an instant, he thought how ridiculously clichéd this would look to someone seeing them, but it was only for an instant. He then lay her down gently on the bed and lay down next to her and stroked her again, feeling her through the thin material of her dress.

  She sat up and took off her dress cross handed over her head and then slipped off her knickers, manoeuvring them downwards until they became entangled with her feet.

  “Let me,” he said as he removed them and then took off her little white pumps, throwing them to the floor.

  He kissed her from her foot to her head and then let her unbutton his shirt and his trousers and take all of his clothes off so that they lay naked together on top of the bed in the hot afternoon. They then made love together with a kind of frantic passion that left them both satisfied and astonished that so much pleasure could be gained from being with another person, and then they fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  For a brief moment, Richard woke in the night, and he saw the face, next to his, of this lovely, beautiful, wonderful girl as she breathed softly and held him trustingly, and he realised that for the first time in his
life he had made love to someone without thinking of someone else.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Rich,

  I simply cannot believe it. Nobody gets married any more. And who is this Miranda sort anyway? I’m not coming to the wedding. I couldn’t bear it. I’d probably go for her and rip her dress off and scratch her eyes out. I hope you haven’t been doing disgusting things with her, a horrid dirty smelly girl?

  Whatever possessed you to agree to such a thing? I bet it was her idea, wasn’t it? She’s not one of those stupid girls whose sole ambition is to get married is she? I suppose she’s been dreaming about it since the day she got her first acne spot. You may send me a photo of the dreadful day. I hope it rains.

  Anyway, I’m an absolute wreck at the moment. I’ve been doing a lot of heroin. There seems to be tons of the stuff around lately. I think it’s the in-drug at the moment. Coke is out of favour for some reason. I’ll have to lay off it though, but it’s so seductive. I just love the feel of it. It’s sort of like having a continuous orgasm. The house looks like a tinfoil factory. Charles thinks I’m terribly decadent, but I like that, as you will know. The poor thing was even a little shocked when I took a fortnight off pretending to be ill and just stayed in bed and festered. He said that if it wasn’t for the cleaning woman I’d drown in my own filth. He’s a real sweetie though really. He adores me, the poor thing.

  This marriage business though! It’s really knocked me sideways. Why won’t it be at the Abbey? And why aren’t Katherine Church or Charlotte Jenkins singing? I don’t suppose it’s being televised either. And it won’t last you know? These things never do. An actress and a writer? It’s doomed from the start and will all end in tears. You’ll end up having a messy, bitter divorce, and you’ll be fighting over custody of the hamster. Please tell me there won’t be any children. The notion is simply too monstrous.

  Do I sound like a bitter and twisted old spinster? I suppose it’s because that’s what I am. I expect I’ll start writing-in complaining about sex on the television. I think I’m happy for you really though, if you’re sure that it’s really what you want. Is she lovely? I suppose she must be. But she isn’t good enough for you, you know? What do your parents think? Have they met her? They’re probably delighted.

  Enough for now I think. I’ve got to get ready for a dinner party at Charles’s house. Yawn, yawn. Write soon.

  Liz.

  Elizabeth cut her tongue on the edge of the envelope and thought about suing the stationery company. She disinfected it with bourbon instead. It was six o’clock and she was due at Charles’s for seven thirty. In a moment of madness she had offered to cook for him but happily he had declined, preferring to do it himself. He was something of a dabbler in the culinary arts, but she thought it might be because he didn’t trust her not to burn the soup.

  She had a bath and put on her maroon evening dress and her lilac stiletto shoes. As she sat in front of her dressing table mirror to apply her make-up she noticed with horror what she thought was the beginning of a laugh line. On closer inspection she convinced herself that it was simply a result of sleeping too long and too late and would fade. For the moment her foundation covered the obscenity.

  She would be staying with Charles and so chose not to drive and called a taxi. He’d offered to call and pick her up but she thought he might have other things to do, like not burning the soup. There were going to be six other people there, from the university in some capacity, and their partners. She was not quite dreading it. The taxi arrived outside and the driver honked the horn and she sprayed herself lightly with Chanel Nineteen.

  It was the reading week of the autumn term and so the nights were dark quite early but it was warm in a wet heavy way and the roadside was littered with heaps of sodden brown leaves. Elizabeth saw that there was a, ‘No Smoking’ sticker on the side window of the cab and thought about challenging the driver and telling him that he had no right to intimidate his passengers in such a manner, even if it was the law, but as the journey was so short she decided not to. She gave him a supercilious smile instead as she saw him looking at her in the mirror.

  “You off somewhere nice?” he asked.

  She hated talkative cab drivers.

  “I’m going to an orgy,” she said. “But I think I might be out of place. I’ll be the oldest girl there by at least fifteen years. My boyfriend, he’s a professor of dermatology, he’s seventy two, and he likes little girls to wear gymnastics leotards and tickle the soles of their bare feet with birch twigs. It’s going to be a bitch of a night.”

  The driver looked at her in the mirror again and smiled.

  “Okay, I’ll shut up,” he said.

  “I’m sorry,” she then said. “I’m in a foul mood and I need a fag.”

  “Here, have one of mine,” he said, reaching back over his shoulder with the packet in his hand.

  “Thanks,” she said, taking one. “But what about the sticker?”

  “We have to have them, and I share the cab,” he said. “His daughter died of leukaemia. He’s got a thing about cancer, naturally.”

  “I see,” she said.

  He stopped outside Charles’s house and she paid him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again.

  “That’s okay. I hope your boyfriend doesn’t get too excited and die of a heart attack.”

  She let herself in and entered the kitchen. Charles was presiding over various dishes laid out on the table and anxiously looking at pots on the cooker.

  “Well, this is all very impressive,” she said before kissing him. “I don’t know how you can be bothered. Aren’t there catering companies that do this kind of thing? And why did you decide on a dinner party anyway?”

  “I like mixing with people socially,” he said. “Even if I do work with them.”

  “But they’re all such crashing bores.”

  “Not all of them.”

  “Who’s coming tonight then?” she asked, taking a celery stick from a salad bowl and dipping it in salmon mayonnaise.

  “Johnny Spencer, the head of the history department, and his lovely wife, Dolores.”

  “Dolores?”

  “Yes, Dolores. And then there’s Lucy Peacock and her girlfriend, whose name I don’t know.”

  “Lucy Peacock, the big butch dyke combat commando with the crew cut?”

  “Yes, that’s her.”

  “And who else?”

  “Daniel Smith, he’s in the new African studies department.”

  “And who’s he bringing?”

  “His wife, I think. I think it’s his wife. I’m not sure.”

  “What’s her name?” she asked.

  “Cathy. She’s from Liverpool. She’s a poet.”

  “It sounds like it might almost be interesting,” she said. “Maybe I’ll stay sober, at least for a while.”

  “I would appreciate it,” Charles said. “I want to show you off to them.”

  “Why? Are you proud of me, darling?”

  “You know I am,” he said, pulling her close to him and clutching her bottom.

  “Hmn, you smell nice,” she said. “What is it you’re wearing?”

  “Aramis.”

  “Really? I thought Aramis was a bit passé these days, but I like it. You’ve got some razor burn though, on your neck, on the right side. Your beard is very full and dark and prickly though, isn’t it?”

  “How would you know?” he asked.

  “From kissing you and feeling you of course.”

  Charles pressed her closer to him so that he could feel her breasts against his chest and kissed her forehead.

  “So why won’t you let me make love to you?” he said. “How long have we been together now?”

  “But we do make love. We’re making it now. And what does it matter how long? And what do you mean by, being together? I told you from the beginning that we weren’t going to be together in that way. That first night at the hotel, you had your chance and you blew it. You’ll have to live with tha
t now, faint heart. Sex is boring anyway. You can make love in so many other ways. I don’t want something inside me that you piss out of, and pump those horrid little sperms that have tails into me.”

  “You’re just being cruel for the sake of it. Vindictive,” he said. “I know you enjoy sex and have had many lovers. Why not me?”

  “Because you can’t explain why you want to. I let you do everything else to me. You’ve felt every inch of my body, kissed it and licked it even, and I’ve felt you all over and we’ve slept together and woken in the night and felt each other, that lovely feeling of skin against skin, and known the trust of being asleep together. What more do you want?”

  “You tantalise me,” he said.

  “You just want that male thing about conquest,” she said. “Until you pump your seed into me you won’t feel that you own me. And that is how it’s going to stay. And you have much more interesting parts to you than your dick. Your eyes are beautiful for instance, because if anyone asked me to describe their colour I couldn’t. They’re like kaleidoscopes with blue and grey and green and hazel and brown in them and your neck and jawline are lean and clean and angular and you have a lovely smile. Oh, and your bum is lovely too, though you could be taller.”

  “I try to be,” he said.

  “You love films too, don’t you. That’s another thing I love about you.”

  Charles released her and she stepped back and leaned against the table where all of the prepared dishes were laid out.

  “You’ve got enough here to feed Ethiopia,” she said.

  “I didn’t know how much to make,” he said. “I’m hardly experienced in these matters. I thought it was better to make too much than too little.”

  “What’s the main course?” she asked. “The one that’s about to bubble over the pan?”

  “It’s goulash,” he said. “I bought some cubed prime scotch beef and followed the recipe in the cook book. I think it’ll be all right. You need sour cream though and I haven’t got any. It was the one thing I forgot to get from the supermarket.”

  “I don’t suppose they’ll notice,” she said. “They should be here soon, shouldn’t they? What time did you say?”