Relatively Strange

by Marilyn Messik

  From my throne vantage point I could see, all too clearly what was happening and my head filled with a keening, increasingly searing note of panic as awareness swept the rest of the audience. If that pole snapped and crashed, injuries would be inevitable but the warning shouts of the running adults couldn’t be heard above the cacophony of a band now well into its discordant stride. I concentrated, reaching out, but the thick smoothly dark wood was as slippery to grasp mentally as it would have been physically; I closed my eyes, envisaging myself, feet spread wide for balance, arms wrapped tightly around it and held on.

  I held it as long as I could and then when I could hold it no longer the slippery pole, ribbons now forlornly hanging, crashed with a gravel-raising thwump, to the asphalt. But by that time, all the children had been herded out of danger. I had a right royal headache under my crown and could feel the familiar surge of sickness. Only vanity saved me. I really didn’t want to go down in school history, as the only May Queen who’d thrown up on the throne.

  It was then that Nigel Lawrence, next to me, started making a very peculiar noise. I thought at first he was laughing but the rusty sound he was making didn’t sound happy. As I turned, reaching out with automatic curiosity, I realised he wasn’t laughing and why. There was no air where air should have been and my eyes must have mirrored the panic in his as my throat too, sought to stay open. This had happened to him before, though not as badly. He knew it was an assmattack. His mother, full of fear, nevertheless always told him it was nothing to worry about, just a nuisance and uncomfortable, breathe slow and regular and it would pass. Nigel was doing his level best to follow instruction, but it wasn’t passing.

  I’d gone in with curiosity and had simply been unable to find the way out. I wondered afterwards what we must have looked like, the two of us, seated still on our ceremonial chairs, gasping and clawing. It can’t have been for very long though. I was briefly aware he’d fallen off the chair and into a dark black place and then I was hurtling down there too.

  I don’t remember anything else, until I woke up in Edgware General Hospital with some kind of a mask over my nose and mouth. When I tried to take it off, a nurse firmly slapped my hand, tucked it back under the taut covers and made a finger to lip, shushing. My parents must have been waiting outside because the next moment they were there, bright-eyed with anxiety, while a doctor listened to my chest with a stethoscope and made me blow, hard as I could into a tube. He made some notes and shook his head, as the nurse moved to replace the mask,

  “It’s OK, she doesn’t need that anymore.” And then to my parents. “Clear as a bell now, no trace of wheeziness. Odd. She wasn’t good when she came in. My guess?” And he turned his back to me, dropping his voice, “Bit of a panic, when her friend went down, seen it once or twice before. Mind you, never quite as serious as this.” He turned back to me with a louder, jollier tone, “Better now young lady? Gave mum and dad, bit of a scare. Remember what happened?”

  “Nigel was making a funny noise and he was so scared, I thought …” I trailed off as I caught my mother’s eye.

  “Well, you got yourself in a proper pickle, didn’t you?” He turned to my parents. “I’d like to keep her in overnight, she really was very poorly, they both were and her young friend’ll be with us for a good few days, but I can’t see too much wrong with this one now.”

  My parents were, as ever, on a sticky wicket. Clearly, this time I’d saved school mates from injury, but sticking my nose into Nigel’s affairs had obviously been extremely dangerous and was something I must never ever repeat. Once again, they were treading that fine line, condoning one thing whilst concurrently discouraging others.

  *

  I did try to abide by the rules but when it came to flying perhaps, deep down, I was aware the knack wouldn’t always be with me, that as I got older it would change and the release from gravity’s hold would not be so easily achieved. I knew full well however that when I did do it, it was dangerous, both of itself and because of the risk of being spotted. But I ask you, in all honesty, how could I not?

  I opted for brief night-time excursions, not often, just every few weeks, and tried always to stay more or less over the back garden. I wrapped up warmly, I knew my mother would be livid if she caught me flying but to catch me flying without a coat wasn’t going to pour oil over anybody’s troubled waters.

  How to describe it? Rising, incongruously if sensibly kitted out in quilted, fur-collared anorak and pink knitted scarf; nevertheless, suddenly graceful, hair blown down against my head, eyes narrowed against the wind-rush. Moving through the air as smooth and sure as a dolphin slicing the water, and at a certain height the wind catching and holding me. Gliding, swooping, soaring, no clumsiness but a complex fluidity of movement, unimaginable when grounded and unbelievable, even as it was experienced. I would yell aloud in exultation and then, filling my lungs to bursting with clean, clear, sharply cold air, shout again. Too high to be heard, certainly too high to care. And at those times, I couldn’t help but be consumed by an overwhelming delight in the fluke of nature that was me.

  But it goes without saying, because life’s like that, it wasn’t always wonderful. I remember one winter’s outing, circling slowly, rising and falling, allowing the wind to move me where it would, when it started to rain. Great ovoid drops bombarding me – a real euphoria buster which swiftly wiped the smile off my face. Soaked through almost immediately and no, I hadn’t brought an umbrella – who was I, Mary Poppins? I headed back brought down to earth long before I reached it. Unfortunately, preoccupied with all that swooping, soaring stuff and in the cold rain I rather lost my bearings. Icy cold and shivering in wind that had suddenly turned spiteful, I spent an uncomfortable few minutes, hovering at second floor level, peering into windows trying to find ours. I counted myself lucky I was able to locate the right house and no one happened to be looking out of the wrong ones at the time I was peering in.

  Chapter Eight

  My childhood on the whole was surprisingly ordinary and not just a series of one extracurricular activity after another. And as we all adjusted, and I learnt a certain amount of caution, things settled down far more. My parents, whilst cherishing the hope I might simply ‘grow out of it’, were obviously not able to conceal their periodic and extremely natural angst. They nevertheless put a huge amount of effort into ensuring that angst didn’t damage me. It was clear I was different, but I was brought up to believe it was only that. Not better, not worse, just not exactly the same. And over the years, peculiarities were adjusted to and accepted – after all you can’t go on being amazed indefinitely. Some kids are musical, some maths prodigies, my talents just lay in an odder direction.

  The way I handled things, evolved naturally, like all skills and I found a myriad of ways to shield myself from the constant cacophony of other people’s thoughts. Most of the time, I only listened when I wanted to, although strong emotion usually managed to blast through. I’d also learned an early lesson via Nigel and his asthma and certainly wasn’t going to go down that route again. I lived comfortably by a code of natural caution when I was out, but at home, things were naturally more relaxed. Bidden to pass the salt I’d do so whilst still wielding my knife and fork and no-one batted an eyelid. It was just something that was a part of our lives. My sister, Dawn, of course, had it drummed into her from babyhood that she wasn’t, under any circumstances, allowed to mention my oddities. Truth to tell, I think much of the time, the whole thing just slipped our minds and I’m very certain, there were families with darker secrets than ours.

  But from time to time some fresh incident would again bring up the question as to whether or not I should ‘see’ someone. But if so, who and to what end? After all, I wasn’t physically ill. Psychiatrist then? But I wasn’t imagining things, neither were they and there was the genuine fear and risk that officialdom might want to take me in somewhere and find out exactly what was what. And, as it transpired, whether governed by logic or coloured by conspiracy theories,
the decision to keep things to ourselves was certainly the right one. It was just a shame it couldn’t have been kept that way.

  *

  The passing seasons of my growing up, continued to be marked by large family gatherings on the various holidays, Jewish and otherwise. Spring, when we celebrated Passover, meant the whole kit and caboodle would troop over to Auntie Edna and Uncle Monty. Here, the Pesach service was traditionally conducted, with a certain degree of belligerence, by an uncle, Little Jack. I believe he was known as such, as much to annoy him, as to distinguish him from his father-in-law of the same name. On these special evenings, a riotous crowd of about twenty-five would settle themselves noisily round a table, extended to its fullest length for the event with the judicious addition at either end of two card-tables. Men were seated at the top end with piety diminishing the further down the table you were. We children would be placed amidships whilst the women were at the far end. This enabled them to make necessary forays kitchenward, from whence a continuous buzz of conversation emerged which stern shushes from the business-end of the table failed consistently to quell.

  The security of extended family life was reflected and encapsulated in unchanging routine, the reading of the Pesach service in incomprehensibly rapid sing-song Hebrew. The annual familiarity of story and ritual, the same jokes, small witticisms provoking more laughter than they deserved in the unacknowledged relief that someone was still there to say it and we were still there to hear. A family miraculously un-decimated, though not untouched, by the horrors of the Holocaust, there was not a one of us unmoved, however briefly, around that table on successive Seders by the thought that all over the world, Jewish families were following the same ritual.

  At a certain point in the service, a child would be despatched to the front door to ‘let in’ the angel Elijah. Tradition held he had to sip from the silver goblet of sweet kosher wine set out for him on the table by every family, with the annually aired mock concerns as to his sobriety at this stage of the evening.

  “Nissed as a pewt.” Auntie Yetta had once unforgettably and carefully enunciated, having had her own wine glass sneakily refilled once too often, by an errant grandson, while she wasn’t looking.

  My mother, at this stage in the evening always managed to find her way to my side to keep a firm, albeit unobtrusive grip on my arm, ready to squeeze sharply if I transgressed. One year I’d thought it would be helpful to add a little drama to the event. Still a bit shaky in those early days, I’d lifted the silver goblet a good couple of inches off the table to universal gasps, before losing my mental grip and upending it. Afterwards, everybody had a different but equally firm take on what had happened, that good old judicious rationalisation – someone kicked the table leg; there was a ruck in the tablecloth; the goblet had been over-filled. The family talked about it every year and I always felt it added an extra frisson to the evening’s events. My parents thought otherwise.

  *

  Alcohol is always bad news for me. Even a tiny amount has consequences which can best be described as unfortunate. At the age of ten I was one of six bridesmaids at the wedding of my cousin Susan, Auntie Edna’s older daughter. I think we were chosen as much for height regimentation as familial fondness. I know for a fact, Auntie Edna had her doubts about my participation; she never could quite get the soap incident out of her mind. Kitting us out, involved several trips to a redoubtable lady called Sonia Lyman in Swiss Cottage. She ran, with a rod of iron and a row of dressmakers pins clamped between her lips, a children’s clothes shop from whence it would seem, all bridesmaids’ dresses this side of the Thames originated.

  It was thus, in pink, full-length, befrilled, beflowered and belaced numbers, over petticoats so starched they stood on their own, that we followed Susan stiffly down the aisle carefully balancing atop our bouffanted hair, densely flowered coronets skewered firmly in place with a multitude of fiercely administered hair grips. The bride needn’t have worried about us fidgeting on duty, we were so firmly pinned, tied and lacquered that even walking at a stately pace was an effort.

  Sitting down for dinner later was tough too. As soon as your bottom got anywhere near the chair, the rigid front of the petticoat became correspondingly elevated. Having once managed to get seated, the only way to get food within striking distance of its destination was with a sideways approach around the petticoat. Going to the loo – complicated at the best of times by the inflexible toilet-paper-on-the-seat rule which, as all well brought up North London girls know, requires certain deftness – bridesmaid garbed, became well-nigh impossible. As you hoisted the skirt, such was the rigidity of the structure that it pushed shoulders to ear lobes. Simply reaching your underwear was an achievement in itself, let alone doing anything constructive with it.

  There was wine on the table at the wedding dinner and despite the problems of the dress, I must have knocked back nearly a whole glass. It was at this point that the band hurled itself into the traditional Hora. Guests flowed into the familiar enthusiastic circles, moving faster and faster to the beat. Hands sweatily linked, feet stamping, bodies – old, young, fat, thin, chiffoned, beaded, black-tied – turning left, right, dipping and stamping to the rhythm of the dance. It was around this time the alcohol started to hit home. I loved dancing and standing up, the dress wasn’t so much of a hindrance, more a support really.

  I’d let down my usual mental barriers a little, and was warmly and pleasantly engulfed in everyone else’s enjoyment. I felt light and floaty and discovered, with mild astonishment that in fact I was light and floaty. About six inches off the floor to be exact. Fortunately, in the general melee my enhanced status seemed to go unremarked. Unfortunately, the exact mechanics of getting down again, temporarily eluded me. Whilst I’d never encountered this problem before, in the overall haze, it didn’t seem to matter all that much. Way above me, decorating the ceiling of the hall, were multitudes of multi-coloured balloons. I was lazily contemplating drifting up to bring some down, when an urgent hand grabbed mine.

  “What are you doing?” hissed my mother, tugging downwards, beaded bosom heaving in consternation.

  “Just hanging around.” Well, laugh? I doubled up. My mother, evening bag clamped firmly under one arm, my hand tightly under the other, steered me rapidly off the dance floor and reinforcements in the agitated shape of my father arrived. Not before time either. My mother wasn’t a heavy woman and to my astonishment and delight, was rising now to join me.

  “Hello,” I said, pleased.

  “Put me down.”

  “’Snot me,” I murmured virtuously, “’Syou.” My father meanwhile, from my other side, was exerting firm pressure on his errant air-borne first born, but I couldn’t imagine why. It had simply never occurred to me I could take passengers and the idea held immense charm and endless possibilities. I think I might have started to try and explain this, but all of a sudden, I didn’t feel quite right. Somewhere, under all that pink lace, something ominously uncomfortable was stirring.

  “Uh oh, storm brewing skipper.” I muttered and came, very abruptly, down to earth. My mother, touching thankfully down with me, took one look at my face and with a quick grasp of the situation and an impressive turn of speed, bundled me towards the Ladies just in time to avoid undue unpleasantness. I don’t recall much else about that particular wedding.

  Chapter Nine

  Miss Peacock came into and went out of my life very briefly, around 10.00 o’clock on a bitterly cold, late November evening. I was ten, just turning eleven and perhaps only with the chill wind of her passing, came my first inkling of just how thin was the curtain that separated my almost too comfortable daily existence, from a completely different and far more dangerous arena.

  I was returning from a friend’s house, a journey permitted only because the 113 bus stopped outside her front door and deposited me practically in front of mine. Downstairs – where the conductor can keep an eye, was the rule, but climbing the stairs and installing myself in that nice little bit at t
he back, was what I usually did. On this particular occasion, there were just two other passengers up there, a woman about halfway down, middle-aged I thought, thin, even in a thick camel-coloured winter coat. Narrow shoulders, iron grey hair chopped uncompromisingly short and wispily showing below the type of unflattering, knitted, chocolate-brown pull-on hat, equally at home on teapot or toilet roll. She was knitting, not another hat I hoped. A few rows nearer the front and on the opposite side sat a bowler hatted florid-faced man, nose buried in an Evening Standard.

  At the next stop, a group of youths boarded; eighteen or nineteen years old, creating the racket that boys in a crowd find obligatory. There were only half a dozen of them but they stormed the stairs like an army, laughing, shouting, swearing and filling the hitherto quiet space with noise and something else. Skin-tight jeans, creaking leather jackets, aggressively side-burned and fancying themselves something rotten. I wasn’t nervous, despite all my mother’s fears I was more than capable of looking after myself, but this lot had been drinking, the smell was tangible and that made me uneasy.