:|| :|| :||
After what seemed like an eternity, he squeezed her hand and shook his head; the grim little smile still playing about his lips.
Eighteen
It had all gone very wrong. He didn’t know how exactly or why, but he knew it was out of his control. He lay, his arms wrapped about her, staring at the stars she had pasted to the ceiling: some of them clumped together, some of them all alone. No spatial awareness, she had no spatial awareness at all. The cars zoomed past the window, their headlights criss-crossing the pattern of the curtains like laser beams. He counted the space between them. On average it was thirty seconds. He saw by the alarm clock that it was a quarter to two.
The world had spun on its axis. Everything was topsy-turvy and for all he knew he might as well have been in Timbuctoo. What was life, after all, but a series of geographical locations in your head. Marly was right. There were places to be happy, to be sad, places to visit, places that existed, whether you wanted them to or not, like Manchester or the Arc de Triomphe. You might be on safari in Kenya, she had said, and suddenly find yourself marching under the Arc de Triomphe in your camouflage jacket. Or boarding a plane to Tahiti and suddenly there you are in the middle of Manchester wearing a bikini! Was this the dark tunnel she had spoken of? This feeling that life would go on and on, stretch on into the distance like a Sunday afternoon, that if you disappeared down a manhole no one would care, notice, miss you.
This feeling of dread, of shame. Was this life? Is this how life felt? Home? Where was it? Was this it? Was this how home felt? As a child it had felt like warmth, noise, safety, frustration; so safe, in fact, that he had declared his bedroom to be an independent state, much to his father’s bemusement. Those who enter, he had written on the door, do so at their own risk! Now he might as well have written on the door: Nation at War – each of them in their own place, their own geographical location, defending it for dear life. He saw by the alarm clock it was just gone two.
He got up, gently lifting her delicate arms from about his waist. She slept soundlessly, other than the occasional whimper, like a small defenceless animal. Marly! A wave of love and pain shot through him as if someone had stabbed him right in the heart. He pulled the blanket up high around her long cold neck, left her sleeping under her bottle-top stars; and went out into the kitchen. It was cold, dark, eerily silent in the flat. He helped himself to some chocolate and an apple, munching stolidly in the pokey room. He wandered through to the sitting room and stared out of the window. The cars were going past on an average of thirty-five seconds. Slowing down. A man walked by under a street lamp, holding a beer can, and he thought for a moment it was his old friend Christopher Prosser from school. Surely not! He looked again, moving quickly to the other side of the window. Of course it wasn’t! Christopher Prosser was back in Wales, never left for that matter, married with kids, had gotten very fat (according to his mother), worked in Peacocks on the managerial side. That guy was just a guy going home from the pub. Home! This was it... Christopher Prosser married with kids! Christopher Prosser who’d pissed in the hatstand at primary school and danced round the schoolyard singing:
‘Dai Bananas went bananas
When his wife went off with
Butterfly Evans!’
The rhyme jangled in his head and he pressed his hand to the glass. It was very cold. It must be very cold outside. The night was very clear with a million stars... real stars. It suddenly came to him that he would go out. He would go outside and walk about. He would march like a soldier for miles and miles right through the night. Now that the idea had come to him he knew he had to do it....
He rushed around, pulling on shoes, socks, clothes, creeping in and out of the bedroom so as not to waken Marly. He stumbled down the stairs, opening and shutting the door very quietly, until he was out in the open air. Cold? It was freezing! His breath came out of his body like smoke and he beat his hands together by the gate, wondering what on earth he was doing. A car went by, full of drunks, and tooted at him, galvanising him into some sort of action. He stepped onto the pavement, took a few purposeful steps up the hill then stopped by the railings of the cemetery. He couldn’t just go off in the middle of the night, leave her alone like that in the dark. He knew how scared she was of the dark. He turned, almost sheepishly, and went back down the hill and into the little lane that led to the garden. The gate was heavy, rusty as always and he tussled with it a while, cursing under his breath. It was very dark and quiet behind the houses, everybody tucked up in bed asleep. He sat on an old box and stared at the washing line, at the endless washing lines in the endless other back gardens. The streets were different here, the houses darker-stoned. In Wales the towns were hidden in their valleys, cut off almost from the outside world but a part of something because of that, belonging to something because of that; whereas here, here you were trapped in your own little cell, part of the outside yet trapped in your own little cell like rats in a cage. He could see the bedroom window from here: the frosted glass, the drainpipe, the clothes-horse Marly had inherited from her mother. Marly! He didn’t know it was possible to love someone the way he loved that frail tormented creature at peace, for once, in sleep. He was scarred through with loving her. Her tight, cold body and violet eyes. Her strength and vulnerability; anger and pain. He’d just wanted to take the bad stuff away and all he’d succeeded in doing was giving her another helping of it. Another helping of the bad stuff.
He clenched his fingers into his palms, soft lily-white ink-stained fingers.... His great-grandfather had been a street fighter. He wondered why the thought came to him now of his great-grandfather fighting in the streets of Cardiff, fighting for money, for life. Only a coward hit a woman. Marly was right. Only a coward and a bully hit a woman.
The sound of carols drifted up from the bottom of the hill, mixing with the jangled rhythm in his head of Dai Bananas went bananas. He laughed out loud and his laugh turned into smoke. Never get a filthy job like mine, his father had said. Don’t get a filthy job like mine son, his father had said; and the steelworks had let him go, too young to die, too old to start again, except for the endless and fruitless rounds of painting and decorating.... And now he sat, a hypochondriac, one hand on the remote, the other on his game leg. Don’t get a dirty job like mine, his father had said; and he’d listened. Here he was – a schoolteacher with lily-white ink-stained fingers. Here he was a schoolteacher ‘parcey que lay grandes vacances’! The French examiner had asked him why he wanted to be a teacher and he’d replied in execrable French: ‘Parcey que lay grandes vacances!’ The woman had given him a rather dour look and he had, inevitably, failed the French exam. Not a street fighter or a miner or a steelworker but a teacher with ink-stained lily-white fingers... only a coward hit a woman. A bully and a coward.
He’d wanted to work as a secret agent! At the age of ten he’d amused himself and his small circle of friends by proclaiming he’d grow up to be a secret agent. Not the 007 variety, but the Sherlock Holmes variety. He loved to work out how things worked: gadgets, puzzles, riddles and secret codes. He’d have worked on the Enigma machine if he’d been born in a different time. His powers of observation at that age had been truly amazing. He’d known that the horses in the picture had very human eyes and the teacher had patted him on the head and said he was a promising child. And later on the economics teacher had said he was an economist and the mathematics teacher had said he was a mathematician and his parents had come home pleased as punch! He’d even worked out at a tender age that the digits of the numbers in the nine times table always added up to nine, presented it to his father on a little slip of paper titled ‘Morrell’s Law’ and his father had stood there shaking his head in wonderment... and now he sat with his gout, hernia, diabetes, fading eyesight, one hand on the remote, the other on his game leg. Don’t get a dirty job like mine, he’d said to his son; and his son had listened.
Now they rarely spoke. Marly took up all his time: the secret code he wanted to crack, his
own Enigma machine. He’d spent the last few years of his life trying to decipher her encrypted little soul, trying to unravel her inner workings though in the process his own life had started to unravel. He knew it, felt it, resented it and a fury built up inside him, though his love for her, astonishingly, remained undiminished, clear as one of those bright white stars. The sound of drunken singing got louder in his ears, mixing with the rhythm of Good King Wenceslas went bananas... sssh, he whispered out loud at the washing line, glancing automatically at the bedroom window: she would be scared if she woke all alone in the night. Just like a child. Just like a monstrous child she was with her senseless fears, bubblegum hopes, cruel imperiousness and strange innocent love. Someone had stamped their own code on her a long time ago... a long, long time ago. Some obsequious little man with a genteel charm, encyclopaedic knowledge and a genius for making one feel ill at ease. Some obsequious little man who lived in a house full of fusty old musical scores and a collection of Purple Emperors in big glass cabinets. When they’d first met he’d said to David, with a twinkle in his eye: ‘I only use the metronome in worst-case scenarios,’ and David had thought he’s nutty as a fruitcake, I’m out of here by midnight! In truth the man was a fucking maniac. Insane. A fucking maniac. He’d given him, for so long, the benefit of the doubt... sometimes he’d wanted to go and shake the life out of the old man, leave him rotting under his piano stool but love of Marly prevented him. Love of Marly opened up everything and prevented everything. He’d thought when he first met her that his life had attained an heroic purpose. An heroic purpose at last! He would protect, cherish, defend this pale fragile monster for the rest of his life.
It was easy to love a monster, easy to become one. He’d hurt her more probably now than her father ever had. Had he come to claim the Purple Emperor’s crown? Was it something you handed around, passed from lover to lover, parent to child, from generation to generation like the shape of the nose, the colour of the eyes? Could the process ever be stopped except at the jailhouse, the padded cell; the psychiatrist’s couch? It was a good snug fit… how amazing! ‘The truly amazing expandable contractable crown.’ It had sat on the head of that obsequious little man, the pale fragile monster’s and now his. It sat on his head like he’d been born to receive it. Was this the place Marly had spoken of, the place that existed like Manchester or the Arc de Triomphe: this feeling that life was impossible, that life without hope couldn’t be lived?
He got up, suddenly realising how cold he was, and stumbled out of the garden, tussling awhile again with the gate and cursing under his breath. It was quiet behind the houses and peaceful, everybody tucked up in bed asleep. The streets were different here, the houses darker-stoned. In Wales the towns were hidden away in the mist and sweet valley rain whereas here, here you were trapped under a bright arid moon that shone inexorably down on every crack in the pavement, every little secret.... It sat on his head like he’d been born to receive it. When it got too heavy what would he do with it but pass it around, hand it down. ‘Give me my sceptre and my throne,’ he sang at the cars which were going past now on an average of sixty-five seconds. Slowing down until the morning rush... He saw by the light of a street lamp that it was a quarter past three. He crept in to the house and quietly up the stairs in the thick heavy boots she laughed at, hated; lay down on the bed beside his fragile monster and held her close until his mind went out.
Nineteen
Marly got up early the next morning and went into town. It was one of those bright, clear, cold days again and the sun shone down on the streets, paving them with gold. She did a little skip as she went down the hill, patting the change in her pocket. She had ten pounds to spend on Christmas decorations and she wanted to surprise him. She’d left him half asleep and rambling on about some dream he’d had of saving her. He was always saving her in his dreams.
‘There was an old guy and a young guy about to get you and I thought I’ll go for the young guy first cos he’ll be fastest on the draw. Bam – I splattered him!’
Once he’d been a St Bernard dog apparently, with a barrel of hot chocolate round his neck, saved her from the ice and snow. Another time a monster had come in through the window and he’d chased him out again, stopping on the way for an ice-cream soda! He was always saving her in his dreams from one thing or another and he was always slow to wake – like a cat she’d had as a child who’d gone out hunting all night.... She laughed at the ridiculousness of him, glad he wasn’t leaving.
She stepped across the little old bridge where long ago, so the saying goes, a pilgrim of a sort helped travellers over the ford. The ducks sat waiting on the reflecting water for Waltzing Matilda to come feed them or so it seemed to Marly. She pushed on down Overy Street, almost bumping into a man who was putting a little sign outside his pub which read: ‘HUNGRY PEOPLE REQUIRED. APPLY WITHIN’
‘Happy Christmas!’ he smiled at her with a wink; and she laughed and winked back, getting caught up in the spirit of the thing.
People were bustling in from all directions, carrying their great big empty bags ready to be filled with mistletoe, crackers, last-minute goodies; wearing their novelty hats, scarves and mittens. Already the market was in full swing: Silent Night was blasting out from one of the end stalls and she could hear the rise and fall cries of the market sellers. She crossed with a group of people at the pelican crossing and a little boy with pink antlers on his head zig-zagged through them on a skateboard, knocking into a little old woman with a stick.
‘Hooligum!’ she shouted after him, waving her stick and nearly causing another accident; and he zipped round on his skateboard and flicked two fingers at her.
Marly smiled a little, zig-zagging herself through the people and the market stalls. So early and so many people! The place was buzzing, humming with life, and the sun shone down like honey, in and around the stalls, on top of the stripey awnings.
Piles of red bell peppers on layers of green crêpe, purple turnips, earth-coloured pears, coral-reef cauliflowers and great shiny apples – some red as the apple in Snow White, some yellow as lemons. Suspect bargain meats sat shoulder to shoulder with odour-eaters, Hoovers, tea cloths and dishwasher parts. A dog tied up to a hot-dog van! Fish, crabsticks, trinkets and badges. Bikinis, coats. (Marly did a double take: bikinis? Bikinis in winter!) Pots and pans and home-made cakes. The smell was enticing and Marly was tempted to wolf down a jam doughnut and lick her sugary fingers in the sunshine the way a little boy in front of her was doing.
‘It’s all greasy,’ he said to his fraught-looking mother.
‘Urgh!’ she replied, pulling him along. ‘Don’t!’
The crowd barged, shuffled, speeded up, slowed down... and the sun rose up the sky like an eager alpine climber. And Marly laughed out loud again because he wasn’t leaving and she had forgotten that life could be magic, the world an enchanted place to be.
She nipped into the precinct and quickly past the indoor stalls of nuts, sweets, coffees and meringues. She wanted to get to the Christmas shop and see how much she could get for her money. She knew she could probably get a real tree for ten pounds but then she wouldn’t have anything to decorate it with and besides, there was something quite sad about a real tree. She decided she was right to go for an artificial one and her mind leapt ahead to how she would decorate the flat: silver tinsel on the banister, golden bells hanging from the doorways, the tiny artificial tree on the table in the sitting room, maybe one or two bright paper chains – and there would be money left over hopefully for a few tiny presents like stocking presents: tangerines, a tub of crisps, Wonka chocolate and loveheart sweets. She would hide them round the flat. She would hide them round the flat and – yes that was it (she almost stopped short in delight at her brainwave) – she would write little clues for David to work out. He’d love that. Like a mini treasure hunt. A Christmas treasure hunt. What fun they’d have! Silly funny little clues like ‘Oh knickers’ – and then a tangerine hidden in her socks and pants drawer. She could just
imagine his reaction:
‘Gee, thanks a bunch. Just what I always wanted – an orange in a pair of pants!’
But he’d be secretly delighted, she knew that. And feeling very pleased with herself she entered the Christmas shop.
An old pop song was playing on the shop stereo and a rather stout shop assistant dressed in a pink fairy tunic complete with silver perspex wings was lumbering about awkwardly to the rhythm. It was an extraordinary vision and Marly almost stopped dead in her tracks. One or two people were giggling surreptitiously in a corner of the shop and Marly smiled to herself, wishing David was there to share it – but she would report back in any case.... She went around, quickly and efficiently choosing the decorations she wanted and placing them in the little wicker basket, all the while trying to avoid looking at the shuffling shop fairy. A tiny electronic Jesus in a Manger scene caught her eye and the tag next to it read: A bargain at £199. She thought at first it was £1.99 and then realised it was £199; and was quite confounded. She decided after that that many of the decorations were a little garish and vulgar; and she took her place in the queue, putting the basket very firmly on the floor between her feet. She had to wait a long time in the queue but she didn’t mind. She felt quite happy and glowing this morning like a little roasting chestnut, though the tips of her toes still pinched with cold. She noticed that the shop fairy was being led off by a man in a grey suit – obviously the manager – and Marly wondered if she was going to get a telling off for shuffling about like that or a breather and a cup of tea; but no, a moment later the woman reappeared holding a wand with a cardboard star stuck to the end of it and she proceeded to dance as feverishly as before, waving the wand in the air as though dispensing magic and wishes to the good folk entering the shop. Marly struggled to keep her composure by thinking of something terribly boring like the Prime Minister but after a while she lost control and burst out laughing quite hysterically. One or two people stared at her but she didn’t mind. She didn’t mind because it was Christmas and David was staying and she had forgotten that bad things could go away like they did at the end of fairytale books. And life could be fun, life was laughter, life was a great big hoax! And on her way out she smiled at the stout perspiring fairy because it was Christmas and David was staying and she knew they were going to have the best Christmas ever!
Seahorses Are Real Page 21
