The Pink Cage

by Derbhile Dromey

  The second time was after I smashed the cake. This time, I didn’t play with the wooden board; I sat on one of the chairs. My feet poked over the edge and dangled in the air. I was hungry; my stomach made growling noises. The grey lady sat at her desk, far away. Her words were far away too. Don’t you like it here? Aren’t you well looked-after? I didn’t tell her about the weight that sat on my chest, the orange drink taste which was in my mouth all the time. She used more words. There were too many of them: your father... grateful... rest of the year. I wanted to ask her about Matthew, but I didn’t. This was a place that didn’t like the word ‘why’. Her voice didn’t go up and down; it was low and heavy. I pulled my legs towards me and sank down into a cool, silent place. After a while, the words disappeared.

  This time, the bus took us in a different direction. A constant whispering current flowed around me, but the roaring in my ears blocked it out. Jazz’s words of reproach accompanied my journey, mingling with the sound of the engine.

  When the bus jerked to a halt, I dashed out and gulped lungfuls of cold air. We were surrounded by gleaming white buildings. A humming noise emanated from the buildings; it pounded through my head. I moved away from the others and leaned against the walls of one of the buildings to put on my boots. Martin came over to me as I was fastening the Velcro.

  “Fancy a gondola ride?” he asked. “Best offer you’ll get all year.”

  “Don’t you need water for those?”

  “Not these ones. Come on, I’ll show you. You’ll like this, I promise.”

  We passed through turnstiles similar to the ones on the other lifts. As we approached, the humming nose grew louder and long wires appeared above our head. Attached to them were capsules with seats inside, rather like carriages at a fairground ride. They were the source of the humming noise.

  “Them’s the gondolas,” Martin said. “Cable cars.”

  One of the cable cars came to a halt in front of us. Martin took my skis and slotted them into mystery pouches at the side.

  “Hop in,” he said.

  I squeezed myself through the mouth of the cable car. Two seats faced each other. I collapsed onto one of them and stretched my legs out.

  “Told you. Easy peasy. Much more civilised than them other lifts.”

  The door clicked shut, there was a hiss and we were off, sailing above the snow-covered tops of fir trees.

  “So what’ve you got against jazz then?” Martin said. “I’m quite partial to a bit of Sinatra myself.”

  His voice bounced around the confined space in the gondola. My head tightened again.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You were blabbing on about jazz last night. Cursing it to high hell, you were. Suppose it hasn’t got enough bleep-bleep in it for ya.”

  Think you’ve had enough. The voice was Martin’s.

  “It’s not music.”

  I muttered the words, to ensure they were audible only to myself. But Martin was able to pick them up.

  “Well, what is it then? It better be good.”

  “A person.”

  The words were heavy weights in my mouth; saying them took a supreme effort of will.

  “A fella?”

  He was a skilled interrogator, capable of unmasking me. Just like Jazz.

  “Yes. My—”

  I was no longer sure where brother ended and lover began.

  “That why you made a play for Johno?”

  Johno. A shadow now. Jazz’s lips superimposed themselves on Johno’s, crushed them into oblivion with their white-hot touch.

  “Johno’s not right for you anyway. You need a fella who’s up for handling a moody mare like you. We’re not worth it, most of us, honest.”

  This one is. The words hovered, but I didn’t say them. There was another hiss and the doors opened.

  “Come on, we’ve got a slope to conquer.”

  I followed him out of the cable car, holding the door tight to prop up my shaking legs.

  As we came out of the hall where the gondola stopped, we stepped into a white world. The clouds touched the top of the slope and obliterated even the trees.

  “You can’t expect me to ski that,” I said.

  “Yes I am as a matter of fact,” said Martin. “Don’t wuss out on me now, girlie.”

  “What is this? Punishment?”

  “Course not. You’re up for it.”

  I inched forward and my skis began to slide. The steepness of the slope pulled at my legs, drove the oxygen from my body. The turns came fast, one on top of the other. My skis scrunched on the soft snow. Short, shallow gasps of breath echoed in my ears. I surrendered to the speed, let myself fly. The wind whistled past my ears. My skis moulded themselves to the slope. I was blanketed by trees, soft snow, the distant tinkling of bells. Though I couldn’t see the mountains, I knew they were there, a benevolent force. Martin’s voice guided me through the fog. I was grateful for the speed; it wiped my mind clean.

  The runs blurred into each other. Time and again, Martin asked me if I wanted to take a break, but stopping meant thinking, so I shook my head. Halfway down one of the runs, my legs began to protest and I wobbled to a halt. Martin pulled up beside me. My head was clear now, my stomach raw but calmed. I swallowed, trying to banish the last lingering traces of metal from my mouth.

  “Here, we’ll sit by this rock, have a bit of a breather.”

  There was a small overhang behind us. I lowered myself down and rested my body against the rock’s smooth surface. The snow blended with the sky; silence formed a cloak around us.

  “Thirsty?” Martin asked.

  I nodded.

  “I know what’ll cure that. Some snow. Mind you, it’s a bit yellow, we need a fresh fall.”

  “Matches my hair.”

  He laughed.

  “Try some then. You’ll be colour coordinated.”

  I scooped up a handful and crammed it into my mouth. Its fresh, clean taste banished the previous night from my mouth. It tasted of life.

  “By the way, you heard the others talk about Franzi’s?”

  “Huh?”

  “The local nightclub?”

  My ears pricked up. I scanned my internal database for mentions of nightclubs in the village.

  “Well, it’s a hall really, but the locals have a disco there every week. We always go on the last night. Only thing is, the local Johnny’s cried off. How d’you fancy spinning a few records?”

  My stomach lurched. The orange drink taste returned.

  “That’s what you call it, isn’t it? Spinning?”

  “Told you I don’t do discos.”

  “Well, if I were you, I’d do this one.”

  Once again, his words found their target, pierced my Achilles heel.

  “You’ve got ground to make up after your performance last night. You were pretty free with your insults.”

  I shrugged.

  “You do remember what you said, don’t you?”

  My mind was too clogged with other conversations, other memories.

  “Don’t you even give a stuff?”

  “I have no interest in ingratiating myself with them.”

  Martin stroked his beard.

  “You said you didn’t know why you’d come. But you do. Your other trip went skew-whiff, cos of your eyes?”

  I drew my legs up to my chest, trying to deflect the blows.

  “Because your sight isn’t as good as you think it is. You’re more like rest of ’em than you know.”

  You pretty much are one of them. The rock was starting to press into my back. I stood up and stretched, moved towards my skis to put them on. Martin began a new line of attack.

  “So how come you don’t do discos? Give DJ Ice
White a chance to strut her stuff.”

  “Tried it once. Didn’t work out. Stylistic clashes.”

  “Well we’re a bit easier to please. Suppose we’ll have to get in a vat of vodka for you.”

  I shook my head. My stomach revolted at the thought.

  “We got a deal then?”

  He held out his hand. I capitulated. Reached over and shook it.

  “Right then, let’s get a move on,” he said. “My bum’s getting cold.”

  For the rest of the day, a curious peace descended on me. We made only a brief stop for lunch; when we did it was late and none of the others were there. Now I was certain of where I was going, my skis sliced through the snow. The watchful fir trees and the small wooden huts blurred as I passed them. The swishing sound my skis made filled me with quiet pleasure. On the wide, flat part near the bottom, Martin let me turn on my own, but I didn’t feel the rush of liberation I expected. The absence of his voice created a vacuum.

  The rest of our gondola rides passed in blissful silence; Martin suspended the interrogation. The only interruption came from his phone, which jangled in his pocket.

  “All right, mate... yeah, it’s going good... nearly over now... got one of them looking at me right now, in a manner of speaking.”

  It took a moment for my fuddled brain to grasp the import of what he was saying. A wave of laughter caught me off guard. I didn’t make a sound, but my body shook.

  “Good,” said Martin. “I was wondering if you knew how to laugh.”

  On a day when the sun was high in a blue sky, they took us for a walk. It was almost warm. I had to wear my sunglasses, because there were no clouds to block the sun. They called it a nature walk.

  The other girls walked in clumps, holding on to each other to stop themselves from falling down. I walked on my own. The other girls stretched their hands out towards me, but I walked too fast and their hands went away.

  The nature walk was in the forest behind the school. The trees were tall and the sunbeams slanted through the branches. They said we were going to play there. I lost myself among the trees. My shadow followed me; it copied everything I did. Dead leaves squelched under my feet. I wanted to send them to Matthew with the correct labels on them, to show him that I remembered. But when I picked them up, they were too wet. The squeals of the other girls came from far away.

  At the end of the forest, there was a stream with stones in it. I put my hand into the water and picked up a fistful. They were smooth and round. All of them were the same colour brown. I plopped them back into the water and ripples spun out.

  Then I took off my shoes and socks and edged my feet over the low stone wall that surrounded the stream. The stones slipped away from me and I landed in the water with a splash. The water was so cold that it cut into my skin, but I didn’t care. I made little fountains with my feet.

  When I got out, blood hit my feet in a fierce rush. I jumped around in the mud and they tingled. They came for me and said Now now, Astrid, because my skirt and blouse were covered with brown stains, but I didn’t care. My skin tasted of sun.

  I didn’t go back on the bus with the others after skiing. Instead, Martin took me to Franzi’s hall to look at the equipment. His sturdy red jeep turned out to be the ideal vehicle for negotiating the unending stream of sharp bends that led to Franzi’s. The road cut a swathe through the mountain. We travelled so high that even the trees fell away. Driving to Franzi’s reminded me of the go-kart track Jazz took me to once a year. He never partook himself, just waited while I quenched my thirst for speed on the rutted paths.

  “You’re going to have quite an audience tomorrow night, girlie,” Martin said, turning towards me.

  “Shouldn’t you be watching the road?”

  “S’alright. Know it like the back of my hand.”

  “At least one of us is.”

  “What?”

  “Watching the road. In a manner of speaking.”

  A small smile played on my lips.

  “I declare. Was that a joke? Wonders’ll never cease.”

  He roared with laughter.

  “You ever try any of this driving malarkey?”

  The smile left my face. I looked at my lap. There was a small stain on my ski suit, near my knee, a trace of red sauce from my lunchtime schnitzel.

  “Might have done.”

  “Who came off worse, you or the other bloke?”

  “Neither.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  Staring at the endless fir trees made my eyes heavy. I closed them and let my head rest against the window.

  His name escapes me now. All I remember is his car. I first heard its siren-call on a damp, empty summer day. I was sixteen, a no-man’s land of an age. Nothing satisfied me: not the reading lists Matthew set, not the household jobs Ora fabricated for me, not even field trips. Matthew was away a lot, at conferences and meetings. Tagging along with him no longer held the same appeal. And Jazz was in London, gaining valuable work experience at a recording studio as part of his sound-engineering course. I was filled with restlessness, which was fuelled by the dull, aching awareness that I was being left behind. Long walks and beats stilled it, but their effects soon wore off.

  I was pounding along the beach on one of my endless walks when I first heard the car. As I approached the carpark overlooking the beach, the noise grew louder. Cars spun in circles, sending gravel flying. Beats pounded from the cars, faster and more aggressive than anything Jazz played. One of the cars stopped right beside me. The driver rolled down the tinted window and rested an arm on the door. It bulged with thick veins. A tattoo poked out from under his T-shirt.

  “Howya,” he said.

  I nurtured a violent wish to be wearing garments that were more alluring than frayed shorts and a faded navy jumper.

  “Hi,” I said. “How do you do that? It’s cool.”

  “Hop in and I’ll show you.”

  I got in and he took off. The engine buzzed in my ears. We spun in concentric circles; flying without leaving the ground.

  Every night, I sped down the cliff path to the carpark, where he waited for me. Ora and Matthew were deep sleepers, so I was never caught. I plundered the stash of clothes at the bottom of the wardrobe which I was saving for when I was old enough to be admitted to nightclubs. Sophisticated clothes, similar to those worn by the girls who attended Jazz’s discos.

  We drove along country roads, sometimes taking corners on two wheels. He put his hand on my thigh as he drove, his fingers working their way under the material of my skirt. We drove to different carparks, or raced along beaches. When he wasn’t driving, we drank vodka out of paper bags. He gave me rough, hot kisses which left me aching for more. His moustache tickled and he smelled of petrol and sweat. As time went on, being a passenger failed to deliver the same thrill. I began to dream of gripping the wheel, feeling the car leap forward at the slightest touch of my foot.

  Some weeks into my new regime, Jazz’s work experience came to an end. He turned up for a visit in a beat-up white car, bought with money from DJ sessions in London. On his second day home, I lay in wait for him outside the house.

  “Teach me to drive it,” I pleaded, as he unlocked the car.

  “Are you nuts?”

  “Never mind. I know other people who can teach me.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  His mouth was set in a grim line.

  “Heard you’ve been running around with boy racers all summer.”

  “Who told you that? One of your apple farm cronies?”

  “Yeah. I met Tom when I was getting petrol. He thought I should know. Stay away from them, Astrid. They’re bad news.”

  “Like you care,” I said, turning back towards the house. “You’ve been away all summer.”

  A plan crystallised in my mind.
I was due to meet him in the carpark, as usual. And Jazz was meeting Tom for a drink, so the coast was clear.

  That night, I selected a black crop top and a faux-leather skirt, also black. I opted for strappy sandals; low-heeled shoes were a better option. The occasion merited an outing for my first-ever pair of designer shades: Guccis, bought with birthday money. They were black too.

  Tonight, we were going to a big carpark twenty miles away which served as a regular meeting point for boy racers. When we got there, he passed me the brown paper bag. I shook my head.

  “You’re not sick, are ya?” he said.

  “Far from it.”

  I moved my hand up his thigh. His jeans were streaked with oil. I paused at his bulge, testing the power of his gear stick.

  “I want you to teach me to drive.”

  He shook my hand away.

  “I’m not lettin’ you wreck my car.”

  I leaned over and flicked my tongue across his lips.

  “I’ll make it worth your while.”

  “All right babe. Anything you say. Just one spin though.”

  The others did donuts while he showed me where to position my feet and how to change gears.

  “Let’s go,” he said after an eternity.

  I pushed the clutch downwards, four to the floor. The buzz of the engine drowned everything else out. The car was moving forward. It was happening at last. Power surged through me. It was happening. I was driving.