Jigs & Reels: Stories

by Joanne Harris

  And yet, she thought, wasn’t there something rather satisfying in working with these materials? The buttery leather; the silk; the studs; the gauze? She’d always liked working with her hands, but recently she had given more time to her craft than ever before, and it wasn’t just because Jack was out of the house. No, she was enjoying the work – responding to it, somehow – far more than she ever had with knits and sweaters. And when she was working, she had begun to have the strangest thoughts – like waking dreams. In these dreams she imagined herself wearing the strange garments; feeling their fabulous textures against her skin; maybe (she blinked at the thought) – maybe even performing in them. And in these dreams her designs were not for dancewear, as Candy had told her, nor for back supports or Shakespeare or gardening, but for something else, something thrilling and mysterious and full of power. Hunched guiltily over her sewing machine, a tiny smile on her face, Christine dreamed; and in her dreams she was someone else: a tall, leather-clad someone with a purposeful stride; someone who never did as she was told; a woman of authority.

  Some chance, she thought, as she boxed up the finished clothing. She never so much as ordered a pizza without consulting Jack; never took any decision regarding the company without turning to Candy for advice. A natural follower, was Christine Jones; a disciple; a perpetual associate; a drone. There’s no harm in that, she told herself; we can’t all be movers and shakers. Still, the thought depressed her, as did the nagging certainty that somehow she was missing something; something obvious, like coming out of a bathroom with toilet paper stuck to your shoe and walking on, oblivious, while everyone laughs at you behind their hands.

  It was eight o’clock when Christine delivered the box to Big Al’s. As usual, he seemed to have been waiting for her to arrive, because he opened the door at once, his round face beaming with pleasure.

  ‘Christine! I thought you might drop round this after’. Come on in and have a cuppa.’

  She hesitated. ‘I don’t know, Al. Jack might be back any minute—’ Al’s face fell, and Christine felt sorry for him. ‘Oh, all right, then, just a quick one.’

  Big Al’s house would have been small, even for a man of normal size. For him it was tiny, and he blundered around in it like an oversized puppy in a Victorian doll’s house. He made tea for Christine in a doll-sized china cup, holding the teapot handle between finger and thumb. ‘Biscuit?’

  ‘Al, I shouldn’t.’

  ‘Never mind that, chuck. Skinny doesn’t suit you.’

  Christine smiled and took a custard cream. Al had a way of making her feel like china herself, in spite of her fourteen stone. And he wasn’t a ‘lard-bucket’, as Jack so cruelly called him; more like an overstuffed armchair, shapeless but comfortable.

  ‘I see you’ve done with that order.’ He nodded towards the box.

  ‘Yes. You can deliver it tomorrow.’

  ‘Right.’ Christine thought Al was looking slightly uncomfortable; she wondered if he had seen the patterns, and if so, what he thought of them. ‘Funny load of gear,’ she said. ‘Still, if people want to buy it—’ She noticed Al was wearing the jumper she’d knitted for him last Christmas; the green one with the snowflakes. ‘Suits you lovely,’ she said.

  He flushed a little. ‘It’s me favourite.’

  Christine laughed. ‘Jack won’t wear them. Says they’re naff.’

  ‘Jack’s a bloody fool.’

  The reply came back so quickly that Christine could hardly believe she had heard it. Big Al never used ‘language’, as he put it; and in all the time she had known him, Christine had never heard him say a bad thing about anyone.

  He was flushing very red now, as if aware of having overstepped a line. ‘Sorry, chuck,’ he said. ‘Dunno what come over me.’

  But Christine was looking at him, puzzled. ‘Is something wrong?’

  Al shook his head but would not meet her eyes.

  ‘Al?’

  Pause.

  ‘Al?’

  As he spoke, slowly at first, then with increasing confidence, Christine poured them both a second cup of tea. It was funny how it all made sense; Candy, who deserved better; Jack, who deserved better; herself, quick of fingers but desperately slow of mind, working on her sewing machine while her friend earned twenty-five per cent working on her husband. A nice living for both of them. Jack was the sleeping partner, the third owner of the business: there had never been a friend with a clothing shop, but instead, a website on the Internet, where both Jack and Candy knew Christine would never venture.

  ‘It isn’t dancewear at all, is it?’ said Christine when he had finished.

  Big Al shook his head.

  ‘Is it—’ she cast about for a suitable word. ‘Erotica? Is that what we’re selling? Sex toys? Fantasy wear?’

  Big Al did not need to reply. His face told her everything.

  Christine took another biscuit. Funny how calm she felt; she had imagined Jack’s betrayal so many times, but had expected to feel something quite different if – or more likely when – it happened. Instead she found herself thinking how nice Big Al’s eyes were; how nice, and how kind.

  ‘Where are they now?’ she said at last.

  ‘Candy’s,’ said Big Al.

  ‘All right,’ said Christine. ‘Let’s go.’

  It was almost nine when they arrived at Candy’s place. The lights were on in the top bedroom, and Christine walked straight in without ringing the bell, knowing that Candy never locked the doors. Big Al followed her, up the stairs and into the bedroom.

  The sheets were scarlet silk; the walls, mostly mirrors. Christine noticed with some surprise that Candy had cellulite on her legs, in spite of all that dieting. Jack was lying on his front, like a man with bad stomach-ache. It was so long since Christine had seen him undressed that he looked like a stranger.

  ‘Jesus, Christine—’ He tried to sit up, but the handcuffs stopped him – at least she assumed they were handcuffs, under all that furry stuff. She’d always assumed that Jack wasn’t really interested in sex. Now she realized that it was just sex with her that didn’t appeal to him; the outfit he was wearing, as well as the variety of objects lined up on the dressing table, spoke of an imaginative and adventurous sexual career. ‘Now listen to me—’ he said.

  ‘So that ’s what they’re like on,’ said Christine. ‘Thirty-two waist, was it? I think you’re more of a thirty-four.’

  It was her handiwork, all right; she would have recognized them blindfold. Black leather, decorative insert, studded seam. And the flap, of course. Candy was staring at her, open-mouthed, in lace-up boots and a pair of those ventilated panties.

  It was the cruellest kind of betrayal. Such a cliché – her husband and her best friend, feigning to dislike each other as they continued their liaison right under her nose – but given extra zest by this final act of deception. She thought of herself, sitting at her sewing machine, dreaming her little dreams – Poor stupid Christine, thinks it’s dancewear, wouldn’t know a dildo if she saw one – while Jack and Candy played their games and laughed themselves sick at the thought of their own cleverness and perversity.

  And strangely, Christine found that it was not the sexual betrayal that angered her most, but the fact that they had done it in her clothes – her clothes, upon which she had lavished such care. Imagine Christine in that! Ghost laughter from a darkened room. And how they must have laughed! Well, thought Christine; you know what they say. He who laughs last . . . And suddenly, unexpectedly, she began to smile.

  ‘Christine,’ said Jack, ‘I think we need to talk about this.’

  But Christine was already turning away. And only Big Al, still standing in the doorway, could see her tiny, dangerous smile.

  She found the second pair of marabou handcuffs among the items on the dressing table, along with a digital camera and a thick roll of black masking tape. It took Christine a few moments to figure out how to work the camera, but after that it proved absurdly easy. She shot the pair from various angles
, occasionally stopping to readjust a fold of fabric or to smooth out a crease in the soft leather. They might have been professionals, she thought happily; and they looked so right together . . .

  ‘I’m thinking I might branch out,’ she said, putting the camera carefully into her pocket. ‘My share in the company – and half of Jack’s, of course – should give me a nice little sum to start off with.’ She looked down at her husband, red-faced and struggling on the bed. It felt quite nice – for a change, she thought – though she still couldn’t entirely see the attraction of all that gear. Still, she thought, you should try anything once. ‘I’ll probably run the business from an Internet site,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘After all, it’s worked fine so far. And besides,’ she levelled her smile at Candy and Jack as she worked to remove the tape which gagged them, ‘it would be such a shame to waste all these photographs, wouldn’t it?’

  ‘You can’t do this,’ gasped Jack, outraged.

  ‘I think I can,’ said Christine.

  ‘What? Alone?’

  She looked at Big Al. ‘Not quite,’ she said.

  Big Al stared at her as if he couldn’t altogether grasp what she was saying. ‘What?’

  ‘Al and Christine’s World of Leather. How does that sound to you?’

  Al grinned and went scarlet. Then he hugged her, his eyes shining. For a minute Christine was content to be suffocated and to enjoy the luxurious sensation of being close to someone that big; someone who outweighed her. There was a sensuality to Al, in spite of – and perhaps because of – his size; a sense of texture which reminded her of nights spent in front of her patterns, but without the loneliness. It was a kind of revelation. She looked up and saw him looking down at her, his chocolate-brown eyes spangled with lights. Her heart was racing like a sewing machine. With an effort, she disentangled herself from his embrace and turned to face the dressing table, knowing that they would have time later to luxuriate in each other; conscious of one last thing, one final loose end to be definitively tied.

  ‘Are you two imbeciles going to let me go now?’ said Jack, trying unsuccessfully to look dignified in marabou and black leather.

  ‘Not just yet, dear,’ said Christine, selecting an object from the dressing table and approaching the bed with a smile. She still wasn’t quite sure what the object was, or indeed, quite how to use it, but she was sure she’d work it out somehow, now that she’d guessed what the trouser flap was for.

  Last Train to Dogtown

  People often ask me where my ideas come from. The real question, as far as I am concerned, is where they go to afterwards. I began this story on hotel notepaper, in a seedy motel room in Georgia, during my last American book tour. I finished it on a train, two weeks later. My destination was not Dogtown, but I got there anyway.

  IT HAD BEEN a busy night for Neil K. more than a thousand people at the awards ceremony, plus fifty at the press conference, and after that there had still been books to sign, hands to shake, smiles to show to cameras and fans. Bloody public, he thought as the train bumped gently to a halt. They never gave up until they had drained his every drop.

  Of course it was to be expected. He was thirty-two; photogenic; published in forty countries and with a series of awards under his belt – along with two lucrative films he claimed not to have seen. In short he was the Holy Grail of the publishing world; a genuine literary phenomenon and, at the same time, a popular hero.

  Not that he hadn’t worked for it. His novel, when at last he presented it, had startled critics with its maturity, wooed readers with its economy and charm. Checked and rechecked so that not a single extraneous word remained; every fanciful thought eliminated; every notebook burnt; every piece of juvenilia relegated to the fire; every sign of adolescent angst or awkwardness pared away. Away with adverb and adjective; away with the conceits of exclamation and hyperbole. His style was ultimately clean. Groomed. Modern. As, of course, was he.

  K. looked outside into semi-darkness. Wherever the train had stopped, he thought, it certainly wasn’t King’s Cross. A few yards ahead there was a railway signal, its light frozen at red. In the dim glow he now thought he could see a platform, trees, the vague outline of a pale wooden gable over an absurd gingerbread trim. It was completely silent; even the thrum of the engine had stopped; no vibration came to him through the floor of the carriage. Then, with a sudden and unanswerable finality, the carriage lights went out.

  His first thought was that the power had failed. There must have been a breakdown, he thought – a short-circuit, maybe, or a signal failure – at any moment the guard would come in to apologize and explain. In any case, K. would have a few cutting things to say to the guard when he finally made his appearance; his publishers had paid for first-class travel, not to have him sit in the dark like a piece of lost luggage.

  But minutes passed and no guard came. He flipped open his mobile phone; the display told him that it was now five to eleven, that his battery was fully charged, and that there was no reception in the area. At last, with growing unease, K. stood up and began to make his way to the end of the train.

  It was empty.

  They must have overlooked him, he thought. Left the loco here, in the sidings, believing all the passengers to have gone. Quite angry now, K. opened the door onto the deserted platform. There might not be a taxi rank in such an out-of-the-way place, but there would be a village – a road, at least, and somewhere he could call a cab. In any case, he did not like the idea of walking along the rails, which seemed like the only other realistic option – short of spending the night in the empty train. Maybe he would have better phone reception when he was out of the trees.

  Turning, he took a final look at the signal. It was still at red. Below it he could see a plate with the letters DT1 and, below it, a hand-lettered sign on a piece of wood which read, faintly, but legibly, DOGTOWN.

  The name seemed remotely familiar to K., but he could not quite remember why. An old movie, perhaps? Kids must have put up the sign, playing cowboys and Indians around the old buildings. The gable certainly had a Western look, and in daylight it would be a good place for kids to play – the old trains, the deserted tracks, the woods. For ordinary kids, anyway. Neil K. had been far too sophisticated to play cowboys.

  And then he remembered. Ten years before the birth of Neil K., when he still had a last name and a drawerful of notebooks, he had written a story, a Western – now what was it called? Something about trains. Big Train to— no, Last Train—

  He dismissed the thought, annoyed. What did it matter what the story was called? There were no notebooks, and in any case, Westerns were so over. For all the world knew, Neil K. had been newborn at twenty-five. He had thrown away his old life along with his surname, and everything he had written – ghost stories, poems, space-operas, fantasy – all the embarrassing clutter of adolescence. The name was a coincidence, that was all. Dogtown, for Christ’s sake. I mean, how hokey is that?

  He found a path at the far side of the platform, and followed it for a couple of hundred yards, his shadow lurching before him over the uneven ground. The trees at the back of the old station were pines, and smelt strong and bitter. Small things in the undergrowth rustled and popped. In the distance, something howled.

  K. had almost made up his mind to return to the train – at least he’d be able to sleep there, and presumably someone would collect the engine in the morning – when he saw a light shining from just behind the pines, and wooden houses built alongside a little track. He began to jog towards the light, and now he could see that the buildings were part of a village, all lined up along a single main street, with a small pond in the middle. There was a faint smell of horses; perhaps there was a farm nearby.

  As K. approached, he saw that the largest building was brightly lit. Piano music filtered thinly through an open door, and there was a sign hanging from the gable. A pub, thought K. with sudden longing. That was more like it.

  He went in. The single room was filled with people. Some played
cards at a table in one corner of the room; others talked, drank or listened to the music. A bald man with half-moon spectacles was playing the piano – very out of tune, especially at the top end. Several women, with elaborate hairstyles and low-cut dresses, were seated by the bar. One, a flashy blonde, seemed to recognize him, and smiled. Otherwise the drinkers were mostly men – and now he noticed that most of these men wore chambray shirts, leather waistcoats and cowboy boots. Western night, he thought. Line-dancing and all that. Very popular with the country crowd.

  The barman gave K. a sour look as he ordered a pint. The beer – a brand he’d never heard of called Lame Dog – was weak and faintly salty, but he drank it fast and asked for another. He was aware that people were watching him, but did not turn round; his face was well-known enough for him to be recognized even outside London, and the last thing he wanted right now was to be mobbed by fans.

  Instead he turned to the surly barman. ‘Excuse me, what’s the name of this place?’ he said, over the tinkling of the piano.

  The man shrugged and said something unintelligible.

  K. repeated the question. But the barman seemed not to hear him.

  ‘Don’t you mind Jaker,’ said a voice behind K. ‘He’s just sore because he never got his ending.’ It was the flashy blonde he’d noticed earlier: a tired-looking lady in her middle forties whom K. might have found (in other circumstances and given the right lighting) quite attractive. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘Thanks.’ She looked oddly familiar to K., but in that costume he couldn’t quite place her. A PR he’d worked with, perhaps, a waitress, a fan . . . None of those seemed quite right, and yet she was looking at him with that expression of delighted recognition he’d come to dread: the one which said; Hey Neil, it’s me! Don’t you remember? As if, of all the thousands of people he’d met over the course of the past ten years, he was supposed to remember them all.