Melanie (Summer 2003)
Melanie Barber. Wants the vote for sixteen-year-olds. Doesn't do party politics. Couldn't tell you the name of the leader of the opposition. Is suspicious of motives and opinions of the over-twenty-fives. Respects her elders most of the time. Thinks Britney Spears is a pernicious role model. Wears a crop-top to show off her Britney-like stomach, aesthetically enhanced by addition of belly-button ring. Wanted to be a town and rural planner. Is now no longer sure. Hates the jargon: the mixed-use, multi-nodal, poly-centricity of it; the brown-field, large-footprint-employment, wind-fallen green wedge of it all. Two terms into her rural and urban planning degree she now wants to paint. Fallen out with Dad over this belated change of direction but doesn't give a shit because Dad's now "based" in Paris, living above a butcher's shop with his Parisian girlfriend who coos to him in French even when he's on the phone to Melanie telling her how much she fucking costs, as if she's some kind of investment or something, some kind of business venture that has started to show signs of poor returns. Anticipates missing her dog, Chelsea, and maybe her little baby brother Perry, who crashed through the ice in the lake in the park the one time it froze and had to be rescued by a defrocked priest because Mum and aunt Joan had left him (Perry) unsupervised after they'd caught sight of a fieldfare on the far side of the lake; Perry who has a fascination for earth worms, beetles, ants - which he calls "bloody little dogs." She frets over the planet. Global warming. The international plunder of human and environmental resources by global corporations. Wants to make a difference. Doesn't know how. Wears Nike with a shrug. Hates blood sports. Eats meat. Pork medallions with black pepper. Bacon sandwiches. Pastrami. Always declines anchovies which she thinks are a vegetable. Thinks America is making a bid for world domination. Hates military adventures, George Bush, cultural colonialism. Loves Hollywood films. Has fantasy sex with Joaquim Phoenix. Ben Affleck. Imagines Joaquim thrusting into her Mum's drive on a Harley. Hey Mel, hop on back. Has Coke with Macdonald's cheeseburgers. Hates dictators, state oppression, state violence. Opposed the war in Iraq. Doesn't believe everything she reads. Follows her horoscope avidly. Checks newspaper predictions against her own readings of her own charts. Declines to believe in God. Prays for events to turn out as she'd like them to. Wants to be left alone. Wants to find a little head space. Scared of loneliness. Is all for ethnic minorities, multiculturalism. Hates dealing with foreign languages. Wears factor four zillion sun-cream because she doesn't want cancer like that poor actor whose face turned black. Spends too much time in the sun, more often than not smoking a cigarette. Advocates that the Rolling Stones be shot to put them out of their old-age misery. Secretly agrees with Mum that Robert De Niro is still cute. Kind of. In an old person's sort of way. All of which is to say that Melanie is just as fucked-up, skewed and self-contradictory as the rest of us. And more power to Melanie, who, after-all, has a life to live and dreams to pursue.
And today none of the above troubles Melanie as she alights from the bus at Windy Corner - which, far from being windy, and despite its close proximity to the sea, is possessed of the same breathless, stifling air as any other point of embarkation and disembarkation on this day's journey from London. She delves into her rucksack to produce the sweaty wedge-pack sandwich (ham, no mustard) which she'd bought in the newsagents outside Paignton station. She settles on the daisy-strewn patch of grass between the shops and the road, taking stock of the day while she eats. The limp white bread curls over her finger. She doesn't usually like boys in hats but the boy on the platform at Paddington who'd smiled in at her through the train window was pretty fit. The cockiness of his working-class wink. The satisfaction of her own cool disdain. Then all the way that dirty old man (Jesus he must've been thirty-five) staring at her legs across the aisle from behind his newspaper (which he must have read at least fifty fucking times) thinking she can't see him looking. Then again it's not his fault the poor sad old thing because she is wearing her denim shorts and she has got great legs and it must be hard when you get to that age but then look at Dad with his French girlfriend who, incidentally, spends all her time fucking painting. The phone call. Out of credit on her mobile already because she really wants to make it up to Kelly for what happened last week even though she won't see Kelly until the autumn term (if she goes back at all). So she uses one of those old pay phone things. It stinks in there. Hi Mum, I'm in Paignton. Yes, I know you're going painting, you've talked about little else all summer. No Mum, Paignton. In Devon. What can you do? If you were to ask, Melanie will tell you that Mum's always waiting for a call from Paris. This is the one where Dad begs to come home. It won't happen, Melanie will say. You should see Dad's girlfriend. Even if she does coo at him all the time he's nagging Melanie on the phone. Dad's girlfriend won't be part of any nit-wit ornithological society either. Poor Mum.
She lights a cigarette, consults the map. Piece of piss. Turn right just down there. As she walks the munching English lane, her badly-packed rucksack already chafing her bare and sweat-damp lower back, she can hear cattle and sheep and the chuff-chuff and whistle of a steam train - though all she sees of it is the smoke because both sides of the lane are high stone walls grown over with heather and bramble. A buzzard cries overhead and she sees it way up there in the blue, a whispering stillness to its gliding wings. She imagines the wind in its feathers. Cool and light. Like dream sex without the messy stuff.
A car slows behind her. A toot of the horn. Melanie steps up to let it pass, precariously balanced on the steep verge between the road and the stone wall, holding a bramble gingerly between thorns with just two fingers to keep it from scratching her legs. Jesus, hurry up.
But the car - a black BMW - rather than passing, stops alongside her. The passenger window is open and techno-music batters the air for a moment before the driver kills it. Melanie lets go the bramble and stoops to peer inside the car. A smiling blonde woman in jeans and stripy T-shirt that looks like some kind of sailing-wear points to the empty seat beside her. Melanie opens the door and climbs in, awkwardly thrusting the rucksack into the foot-well.
"Hi," Melanie says.
"Little warm for a hike, isn't it?" the woman says.
Melanie feels herself colour a little. The driver is American. A child of the zeitgeist, Melanie has spent a good deal of time and verbal energy slagging off Americans for the last year or so. Except for the ones on campus of course because they're different. They're pretty cool.
"Just a bit," Melanie says nervously. "I mean a little. You're American. Cool."
The American woman smiles her response to this, sets the car in gear, and heads on down the lane. "So. Where are you headed? There's not a whole lot at the end of the lane. There's a so-so pub across the river, but you'll need to take the ferry across. From there you can board another ferry which'll take you down river to Yarlmouth. If you want that you need to look for a little red boat with a yellow cabin. Pilot smokes a pipe and doesn't say a word. There's a hotel but - " she studies Melanie for the second time, "if you'll forgive me Honey, you don't look like their typical clientele."
"Oh I'm just going to the hostel," Melanie says breezily, a little more relaxed now. "If you could just drop me there that'd be great."
"Oh Jesus," the woman says. "Not another one." She laughs, taps at the wheel lightly with the heel of her hand.
"Another what?" Melanie says, feeling herself smiling stupidly as if she's actually in on the joke.
"Another adventurer who's planned their holiday using an old Hostel Guide," the woman says. "Jesus," she adds, not unkindly, "don't you people believe in staying current? Honey - I'm Moira by the way - Honey, the hostel's closed."
"Oh shit!" Melanie says. "Are you sure? I mean-"
"I'm sure. Remember that foot'n'mouth deal? Well, they had to close. Never recovered. The reason I'm so sure? Because I own it. But don't worry, I'll see to it that the wolves don't get you tonight."
"Oh fuck!" Melanie says. "I was really looking forward to a shower."
Moira turns out to be pretty cool. Offers Melanie a job. Melanie, whose plans (which, beyond painting and hosteling were quite vague) are not immutable and whose daily horoscope advises Aquarians to seize all opportunities, accepts. The house is also pretty cool - quite literally on this hot day, with the oak-panelling of the huge lobby soaking up both heat and light - and commands an amazing view of the Yarl valley. Woods. River. Yarlmouth town out towards the estuary. The car ferry ferrying cars back and forth. Pretty fucking cool and something to paint. Light cleaning; no cooking. Maybe some secretarial stuff if Moira requests it because Moira is a writer (and how fucking cool is that?) who sometimes needs a little help. A sit-on lawnmower which Melanie thinks will be good fun. Best of all, Moira's redecorating the house herself, piecemeal, and she'd be happy for Melanie to help her with that. Wow, Melanie says when Moira shows her to the bedroom she's to use. Neat room. Freshly-painted pale yellow walls. It used to be one of the dormitories which means it's a very large room with three windows overlooking the valley. There's a double bed which looks new and a nightstand with a lamp and a bookshelf with several volumes old and new - all relating to local matters: Old Times in the Fishing Fleet; The Heart of the Yarl; Yarlmouth Poets; Ghosts and Legends of the Moors. It all looks a little lost in the big room but Melanie is a pacer so the space will be cool. Moira eyes the bookshelf. Maybe you'd like to read one of mine, she says. Okay, Melanie says. Start work next week, Moira says. Give you time to get your bearings. You can leave when you want. Stay until you want. It's up to you. Cool, Melanie says. So, do you - I mean, are you, like, married? Melanie babbles.
I'm a widow, Moira says simply. Frank died.
Oh, Melanie says.
Please don't look so stricken, Melanie. You can't do anything about it and neither can I. Maybe we'll talk about it. Maybe we won't. But right now it's bright and sun-shiny, so we'll save it. Okay?
Okay.
She unpacks her rucksack. Her meagre supply of underwear and socks. Maps. Make-up and toiletries. T-shirts. Walkman and CDs (White Stripes, Dido, Dandy Warhols). An eighth of resin which she knows will make her feel sick but which she's promised herself she'll smoke when the time is right (to help with inspiration, to help make new friends, to help in some less specified way - maybe sex). A cardboard tube full of brushes and a wooden box containing tubes of acrylic paint with a pallet built into the lid. A fold-down easel.
She walks. She follows the steep lane to the boathouse and the little beach on the river. A hard and breathless walk back up. She walks the trail through the woods and takes the ferry across to Yarlmouth where she has pizza and chips while checking out the local talent. She peruses the galleries and buys some stiff artist's paper. The walk back is hard and she sleeps for an hour on returning. She doesn't see much of Moira these first couple of days.
She's never heard anyone using one of those old typewriters before. Moira's room is above hers on the second floor. The sound of her typing rattles through the ceiling. It sounds like work. She wonders that Moira doesn't break her nails.
Melanie paints the view through the window. She wants to be out in the sunshine but she's shy about her painting (even in a private garden) and feels less inhibited indoors. The painting isn't going well. She makes coffee in the big kitchen which, like most of the house, is unchanged - décor included - since the house ceased to be a hostel. Which means the kitchen is all stainless steel and fading yellow gloss with a professional oven and a ten-burner hob.
When Melanie takes her coffee in to her, Moira is snorting cocaine from a small mirror. Oh shit, sorry, Melanie says. It's okay, Moira says, her blue eyes all a-sparkle. Want some? Moira says, offering the rolled piece of paper she's been using as a conduit. No thanks Melanie says. She's never taken cocaine before but she knows what it is. Kelly knows some guys. Don't worry about it Melanie, Moira says. I'm not a dope fiend. This damn book's exhausting me and sometimes I just need a little fix-me-up. That's all. That's cool, Melanie says. She puts the coffee next to the mirror. There's a line of coke left. Let's have dinner tonight. A bottle of wine, Moira says. Cool.
But Moira begs off dinner. Comes into Melanie's room that evening while she's painting. Touches Melanie's shoulder when she apologises. Melanie doesn't flinch like she does when Kelly touches her. She doesn't know why. She just doesn't. Sorry honey, Moira says. I have to go out. Research opportunity. It's a good day for Pisceans, Melanie informs her with a smile. Good composition Moira says, looking at the painting over Melanie's shoulder, her chin close to touching, her cheek close to Melanie's. She's wearing a perfume which Melanie likes. She offers the opinion with what seems to Melanie like more tact than honesty. The painting looks like so much mud to her own eyes. The elevated view is a disadvantage: she can't get enough sky into the picture.
I've left something in the fridge for you, Moira says. Help yourself to wine. The crab's delicious. I just adore sea-food. So do I, enthuses Melanie, who doesn't. Why don't you take a break? Moira says. Stretch your legs. Good idea, Melanie says. Okay, Moira says, I'll see you later. She executes a lingering squeeze to both shoulders and then she's gone. An hour later, walking back from the woods, Moira passes with a little wave, riding pillion on a motorcycle. Melanie had heard the deep rumble of its arrival ten minutes earlier. She thinks it might be a Harley but she's not sure. Whatever, it makes Moira look pretty cool. She wonders if the rider is her lover.
The plate of smoked salmon, crab, and something else (she's not sure what) looks pretty lonely next to the lonely salad bowl in the industrial- sized fridge. Urgh! Melanie turns up her nose. She knows there's meat in the freezer but it all seems like too much effort so it's what the hell it won't kill me as she loads the plate with salad and carries it, along with a large glass of promisingly chilled wine, out to the terrace.
It's a warm, still evening with a buzzard on a long glide over the deep woods and a rising, falling column of gulls crying over a fish-dimpled patch of the glassy green river far below. Melanie picks at the food. She drinks more than she eats and she eats mostly salad. She scratches at the flecks of acrylic paint on her nails, reminding herself to tell Moira how much she likes her blue nail varnish. Melanie tends to use black or deep reds, currently preferring the latter. Maybe she'll change. Blue looks pretty cool on Moira. That little blue stud in her nose. Then she wonders if she ought to phone Mum and then remembers that she doesn't want to because despite the fact that she (Melanie) thinks she's probably having a good time she kind of misses home already (despite being a two-term campus veteran) and she doesn't want to make things worse by talking to Mum. The sun sets and the light dims as she drinks her second large glass of wine and this time she's brought the bottle out with her. Half-way down the third glass she's feeling pleasantly drunk ("merry" mum says) as she smokes a cigarette while she watches the ferry lights cross and re-cross the river and the reflection of the boat-yard turn into the Coliseum or one of those other old buildings in the darkening water. She thinks of Moira's book - The Suzerain. It was an uncomfortable read - she wasn't sure she got all of it either - and seemed to have been written by somebody else. But then it was probably always like that with writers. Mum had met Roddy Doyle once and she said he was nowhere near as funny as his books (which Melanie had never read).
The owls cry plaintively down in the valley and a chill sets into the evening and Melanie waits for Moira to come home but Moira doesn't come home and when she's finished the bottle of wine and smoked two more cigarettes she scrapes her plate clean into the bin - over-shooting with some of it so that she has to stoop and pick lettuce and grated carrot and a slice of salmon off the floor - and then makes her way toward Blanket Town in Bedfordshire as her beautiful-French-painter-bitch-fucking-father used to say.
The lobby is gloomy. The electric candelabra hanging from the high ceiling way up there between the flanks of the open landing can't compete with all th
at dark oak panelling, the dark boards of the floors and stair-treads. Melanie hates this lobby and the creepy openness of the landing and staircase at night. There's a cold spot at the first turn of the stair which always makes her shiver as she passes through it. It's the one thing about the house which is deeply un-cool. No, there is one other part of the house which is also deeply un-cool - perhaps because it's deep and cool - a kind of basement (maybe a wine cellar), a big, white-painted room beneath the house which she'd accidentally stumbled upon. A sign on the door says DRYING ROOM, which sounds like dying room. For some reason the light had been left on, and though she hadn't entered (and this is probably why she hadn't entered), that room also had held a horrible chill. And when she let the door swing closed on its hydraulics, the hinges had squeaked with a sound very close to a woman saying (begging) please. It was fucking horrible and she had scuttled back along the corridor with more haste than dignity.
Tonight the wine proofs her against the worst of her unease but she wishes Moira was home and she wishes the lobby didn't resemble the kind of film set you'd drag a mutilated corpse through. Stop it, she thinks, otherwise you'll be too nervous to masturbate, much less sleep.
But she does sleep. Only for an hour or two because she wakes to find Moira standing over her with a glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Jesus, Melanie says, you scared the fuck out of me. In the moonlight streaming in through the windows Melanie can see, between rubbing her eyes, that Moira is wearing a bathrobe. Her hair is wet, finger-combed back from her forehead.
"Sorry," Moira says. "I thought maybe you were lonely. Want to join me for a drink?" She sips her wine.
"What time is it?" Melanie says, trying to decide if she's hung-over or still drunk.
"High tide," Moira says with a laugh. "How was your evening?"
Suzerain: a ghost story Page 12
