Dark Dance

by Lee, Tanith

  Over the Beethoven concerto, the door was knocked upon.

  Rachaela lay in the chair, listening to the echo.

  Why should she go?

  It was no one. Some mistake. When she had been here three days a man had trailed up the stairs, let in by another tenant, hammering on her door. ‘Do the Chambers live here?’ She had told him they did not. He was disbelieving and finally she shut the door in his face.

  The door was knocked upon again. A muffled woman’s voice. ‘It’s only me. Downstairs, Flat Five.’

  Rachaela lifted herself from the chair.

  Was this too some part of the Scarabae plot? For yes, there was a plot. Of course there was.

  She opened the door. It was the fair, greying woman from below.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you. An absolutely ridiculous request. You couldn’t let me have a little milk? I’ve been so chilled all day, made myself cup after cup of coffee and tea, and I’ve run out. The milkman delivers tomorrow. I can let you have it back quite quickly.’

  Rachaela said, ‘There’s only carton milk.’

  ‘Oh that’s perfect, if you can spare it.’

  Rachaela went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. She took out her three-quarters-full carton.

  The woman stood on the grey carpet. ‘How attractive you’ve made it,’ she said, ‘and no clutter. I truly admire that. I’m afraid mine’s a cross between a library and a curiosity shop.’

  Rachaela thought of all her books left behind.

  The Beethoven played on, oblivious.

  ‘Can you spare all this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, thank you so much. As I say—’

  Don’t bother. I’ve another carton,’ Rachaela lied.

  ‘But I must.’

  The woman paused. ‘That’s Number Three isn’t it? I’m a fan of Beethoven. I love his fury. Why shouldn’t the poor thing get angry, going deaf as he did?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d better introduce myself.’ Rachaela only looked at her. Undaunted, apparently, the woman said, ‘Emma Watt. Mrs. Not that that counts any more. My poor old love died two years ago. I sold the house and took the flat. Tried to squeeze myself really small.

  We all have our own funny ways of trying to deal with pain.’

  And the pain. Christ...

  ‘Anyway,’ said Mrs Emma Watt quickly after all, ‘I expect you’re busy. Thanks again for the milk. I’ll pop up and put a bottle outside your door tomorrow.’

  ‘There’s no need.’

  ‘But I must.’

  She went into the hall and brightly down the stairs with a brave self-sufficient smile, for Rachaela’s benefit.

  What would it be like to be Emma Watt, fifty years old, sad and alone and brightly squeezed into her too-small flat?

  What would it be like to be the purple girl, frigid from anxiety, and child-bearing behind her?

  There was no escape. She was Rachaela, here and now.

  In her belly the thing lay, embedded, coiled.

  The Pizza Eater took on Rachaela, gave her a red dress and a pale green apron, and asked her to put up her hair. She plaited it, which seemed to satisfy them.

  She worked from ten in the morning until six, or from three until eleven-thirty. Some of the late customers were drunk, but normally well-behaved. Often, delayed by the clearing up, she did not leave the premises until midnight. In addition to serving the wood-plastic tables, she cut sandwiches, grilled steaks, scooped out ice-cream, piled pizzas in boxes for a take-away service, and now and then washed up.

  She grew accustomed, as she had before, to her feet hurting and burning, to the rudeness and tiplessness of many customers, and the matey chatter of her fellow workers of both sexes. She received lunch or dinner free from the restaurant, but the food did not really appeal to her. Sometimes she managed a rare steak or else ate salad and ice-cream. It saved her efforts at the flat.

  She came to terms with the computerized till, which often she had to deal with. One afternoon she gave a pound short on the change which had showed up in emerald numerals before her face. The customer did not notice; and by the time she realized, he had gone. On her own at the till, Rachaela removed the extra pound and kept it.

  The Pizza Eater was only twenty minutes walk away from the flat.

  For the first seven weeks she was meticulously on time. Then, when she was late, it was never more than ten or fifteen minutes, which the other employees frequently bettered, coming in half an hour over the odds due to tube delays or traffic jams.

  Rachaela thought of the job as temporary. Something more soothing would present itself. Meanwhile the money was not bad, and forgetting the occasional pound in change proved a useful means of saving. Only once had the customer checked his money and informed her she had short-changed him. Rachaela looked flustered, apologized, and fished the extra note out of the till. ‘That’s all right,’ he said blithely. ‘Anyone can make a misnnetake.’

  The other mistake she ignored.

  At the time when most women, so a solitary book from the library had informed her, began to experience sickness, Rachaela stopped. She had no symptoms, except that no monthly showing of blood took place. Her waist widened a little, her hips. She took care of that by moving the buttons on her skirts, then buying a larger size. She bought loose T-shirts. So far the red dress, always too large, fitted.

  The weather verged through a blustery spring into a rainy May. The trees in the distance of the windows flowered into mop-heads of shining green. The grey and stormy skies made them if anything greener. Chickweed pushed through the pavements. The city was all cracks and crevices wetly fruiting, burgeoning. The weather lied. It was nearly summer.

  She did not think about the thing inside her now. She put it out of her mind.

  As if to compound her plan, it gave no real evidence that it was there.

  Perhaps her greatest defiance, the extravagant music centre she had ordered from the junk mail, arrived when she was out at the restaurant.

  Arriving home at half past twelve at night, Rachaela found it in the downstairs hall, another tenant had obviously taken it in.

  Rachaela proceeded to lug the boxes upstairs three flights.

  On her last journey, as she was passing Number Five, the door opened and Emma Watt looked out.

  ‘Good heavens, I thought it was the broker’s men! Oh goodness, you shouldn’t be carrying that, let me help you. No I insist.’

  And so, aided by Emma Watt, Rachaela carried the last box up to her flat.

  ‘Do you mean you brought all those up too? And some of them look quite heavy. These firms nowadays, they’re so bad. Couldn’t the man have brought them up? In your condition—oh, I’m sorry,’ said Emma Watt, blushing. ‘That sounds so nosy. I mean you hardly show, but I couldn’t help seeing, you’re so slight—and well, I had three myself, and I’ve seen my daughters through it. I hope you don’t mind that I said anything.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You must be careful,’ said Emma Watt. ‘I’m sure it’s all right this time, but you shouldn’t carry anything heavier than a handbag—that’s what my old love used to say. He used to add that my handbags would make a strong man blench.’

  Rachaela, as if by suggestion, felt suddenly weak. She sat on the bed.

  ‘There you see. You’ve overdone it. Can I make you a cup of tea?’

  ‘I’m quite all right.’

  ‘I will any way. Don’t worry, I won’t stop, just a quick cup of tea. Your kitchen’s through here, isn’t it, like mine? You just relax. Put your feet up.’ From the kitchen the sound of water and a surprised, ‘You don’t have a pot—just use the bag then. They’re so convenient, aren’t they.’

  Rachaela stared at the boxes. Would she ever have the strength to undo them.

  ‘What’s in those?’ asked Emma, coming back out. ‘Is it a music centre? Can you put it together yourself? I’m hopeless at anything like that. If you have any trouble try the little man in Horsley
Street, the electricals place. He’s splendid. He wired all my lamps for me and fixed my washing machine.’

  ‘I’ll remember.’

  ‘Kettle won’t be a moment. Oh you must be so tired. You work late, don’t you. I often hear you come in—please don’t think you disturb me, you’re very quiet, and I’m always up till one or two. Terrible sleeper. I’ve got some pills but they make me feel like a rag in the mornings. And I love the mornings. I get up at seven. Always have. Oh, please don’t think I’m prying, but I’d love to know. When is your baby due?’

  Rachaela reeled off a book-established fact.

  ‘December.’

  ‘A Capricorn. They’re lovely. But good lord, you’re in your fourth month. You’re very small. My middle daughter was like that, tall and slim and you could hardly tell. It used to annoy her the way everybody took no notice. She said she wanted to ‘sail upon the land’ like Titania’s handmaiden. My oldest daughter, poor girl, swelled up like an elephant. What does your chap say at the hospital?’

  Rachaela said, ‘Apparently everything’s the way it should be.’

  ‘Yes, of course. And you’re so young too. It’s exactly the right age.’ Emma Watt blushed again. ‘All the same, it’s rotten for you, having to manage on your own.’

  ‘That was my decision.’

  ‘Yes, but it’s courageous of you. And so wise to go ahead and have the baby, if you want it.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Rachaela said, ‘I don’t.’

  And wished she had not spoken.

  Emma Watt did not look shocked, but only tremendously sad.

  ‘But that’s terrible. Why—’

  ‘I went to the wrong doctor.’

  ‘You poor girl. But couldn’t you—no, I suppose not. And you’re resigned to it now. I still think it’s best. When your baby’s born—they’re so rewarding. I loved it. When they’re little, watching them grow. And I love them, I love my children. It’s such a pity they’re so far away. I hardly ever see them. They phone me up, of course, but it isn’t much good. They’re always so scared I can’t cope after their father died. I have to keep proving to them that I can.’ Emma smiled valorously, proud of her façade. Her eyes were moist. ‘I’ve missed all the grandchildren, too. It’s awful. I just love babies, children. They fascinate me. These tiny helpless little things that just come to life day by day, until they’re people. Oh, I’m sure you’ll be glad.’ She raised her head. ‘There’s the kettle.’

  She went to make Rachaela the unwanted tea.

  She made none for herself, but left Rachaela at once with the mug in her hand.

  The room darkened oddly, perhaps a trick of the electricity.

  The summer came at the beginning of August.

  The city baked, the trees turned coppery. Ochre dust rose from the blazing pavements.

  A blue sky of cobalt made a lid for every stink and fume. Everything smelled and tasted of asphalt, petrol, car exhaust and sweet ice-cream.

  Rachaela’s back ached continually. She could put this down to her job. The red dress was firm but the apron hid it. One of the girls made a crack that Rachaela had put on weight due to the food.

  One day she amassed ten pounds from those careless customers who did not count their change.

  The man from Horsley Road had fixed the music centre. The radio was not very good but the tape and record players were excellent.

  She bought books and lined the shelves of her bookcase.

  Emma found excuses to appear, but not very often. Emma still did not know her first name.

  September was a tawny month, tanned, cooked skin on the streets, brown crispness on the leaves.

  October yellowed, banana sunsets cut with gilt, lemon first-light as Rachaela, cramped and sleepless, saw the dawn begin, and the trees in the park like topaz flags.

  Storms at night. Downpours of hot rain.

  Sibelius, Mozart, Shostakovich.

  No need to think. So sluggish. She would have to give up the Pizza Eater. Her back shrieked, and when she bent to serve the late-night customers with their breath of beer and Cinzano, her head swam. Nobody had noticed she was pregnant. They thought she had got fat, a good advert, on the succulent nosh.

  The summer ended on the first night of October. Hail thrashed the roofs and glass windows.

  Rachaela had called in sick and sat at her window and watched it, her back packed with cushions and pillows.

  She had an hallucination of a tall dark man on the street, striding through the hail. Adamus in a cloak of thunder, come to claim her again for the Scarabae.

  But all that was over. It was a dream. She had conceived immaculately and here she was, the slave of this molten tumour in her womb, and it was real.

  Chapter Eleven

  From the larger stores along the high street, carols wailed and jingle bells jingled, compulsory joy.

  It rained heavily. There was a lot of flu about.

  Rachaela had given in her notice at the Pizza Eater and left just as the free balloons began to be given out and Christmas pudding appeared on the menu. Children had knocked over the tree of green and red glitz, and everyone was picking it up; that was her last image of the restaurant.

  Emma Watt came out of her door like a cuckoo from a clock.

  ‘I’ve bought a bottle of really nice sherry, and some wine. Will you come down and have a drink with me? To toast my little tree. I always have one. One must. Christmas is so important, it’s important to salute it, even if, well even if you’re on your own. Are you going anywhere for Christmas?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘just quiet by yourself. Yes, you must get all the rest you can. Anyway, do pop down. About six?’

  ‘All right,’ said Rachaela, to shut her up.

  Rachaela had never bothered with Christmas. It had only meant one more day of privacy. She heard distant bells ringing and the strange silence of the streets. The radio had Christmas music which often she did not like, huge oratorios and quasi-religious peculiar plays. Once she had listened to a Christmas service out of curiosity. She knew the hymns from school days, the tunes at least.

  Her mother had believed in celebrating Christmas too. There had been a dinner cooked, turkey or chicken with sausages, roast potatoes and stuffing. It had entailed much the same fuss and anger as the now-and-then Sunday dinners: Rachaela recruited to peel vegetables, make crosses on the thousands of sprouts. One Christmas her mother had scalded herself on the turkey fat.

  Neighbours would come in for a drink and boxes of chocolates and handkerchiefs would be exchanged.

  After the neighbours and the dinner and the Queen’s speech, depression would set in from the rich food and the gins and tonics.

  Her mother gave Rachaela sensible presents, a new blouse or shoes that pinched. Once there had been a fairy costume from a neighbour. Rachaela had played in it for hours, she was six, it had been oddly magical. But somehow the wings got torn, like a symbol. Her mother scolded her and made her ashamed.

  Rachaela did not mean to go down to toast Emma Watt’s tree. So far she had avoided the interior of Emma Watt’s flat.

  Rachaela sat in comfortable misery before her electric fire, her back wedged with cushions, sipping a glass of her own wine. Her back was excruciating and she had also taken three paracetamol. Despite the pain she began to go to sleep.

  She was woken by bright little squirrel knocks on the door: Emma Watt.

  ‘Damn her.’

  Best go to the door and tell her she was not feeling well, could not come down, an early night and so on. Left unanswered, Emma Watt grew anxious and knocked and called; it had happened before.

  As Rachaela got up something seemed to tear inside her all the way down, between her spine and stomach. In puzzlement she stood there, waiting for some sequel, but nothing happened.

  She reached the door and opened it.

  ‘Are you all right?’ asked Emma Watt. ‘Oh my dear, you look dreadful.’

  ‘Yes. I’d better not come down,’ said
Rachaela.

  A pain like the worst toothache clutched her vitals. She felt herself wither.

  ‘What is it?’ said Emma.

  ‘Just a pain.’

  ‘What sort of a pain?’

  Dazed, Rachaela told her. She had to hold the frame of the door. For the first time in months she felt very sick again.

  ‘Excuse me, I have to go to the bathroom.’

  She made it. Her body emptied itself in all its chambers. She came out shaking, and Emma Watt was still there of course, standing in the middle of the room.

  ‘My dear,’ she said, ‘I think you’ve started.’

  ‘Started what?’

  ‘Your baby’s coming. Oh don’t be frightened. This will soon be over, and then the marvellous part begins.’

  Rachaela sat down. The pain came again, griping her hollow guts, twisting her body like a cloth.

  ‘Must you be so stupid?’ she said.

  Emma brushed this aside.

  ‘Say anything you like,’ she said, ‘call me names. I know this bit isn’t particularly nice. I’ll phone for you. The hospital—is it St Mary’s? What’s your doctor’s name?’

  ‘Oh, that,’ said Rachaela. ‘No doctor, no hospital.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I haven’t been seeing anyone. That was just your happy little fantasy, Emma. Nobody knows.’

  ‘But my God, my God,’ said Emma. Panic took her all apart, and then she gripped herself together again. ‘Never mind. I’ll get an ambulance.’

  Rachaela watched her, smiling. She took a mouthful of wine, but it came straight back up. This time she did not make the bathroom.

  ‘Don’t drink that,’ said Emma through a white blur. ‘Take my hand. That’s it. They won’t be long.‘The pain came and crushed her away. ‘My God,’ said Emma, ‘they’d better be quick. Just hold on. Hold on, darling. It’s going to be all right.’

  ‘Now push,’ said someone, some mad woman. ‘That’s it. Push. Good girl.’

  Were they speaking to her, these lunatics?

  She lay on a scarlet beach and Uncle Camillo bent over her. He hauled the crimson obstacle from her womb. She felt it go as if her body had been disembowelled.