by Terry Taylor
“I don’t think you’ve met Dusty,” I said to her. “Dusty, this is my sister Liz.”
She looked over to him but didn’t even smile. He got up from his chair and said, “I’m very pleased to meet you, doll. Your brother’s told me a lot about you.”
She gave me a filthy look and I could tell that she thought I’d told Dusty about her being up the spout. Then she said, “If mum came back now she’d kill you. I think you’ve got a damn cheek smoking that stuff here as soon as her back’s turned. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
She didn’t raise her voice when saying this so it drove home all the more. If she’d have shouted it out to me I could have shouted back, so I had to play it cool.
“Don’t be silly, Liz,” I said laughing. “It’s not Charge you smell. It’s Dusty’s special asthma cigarettes. He has to take them for his bad chest.”
Dusty didn’t like the idea of putting it all on to him, but he coughed all the same. “Yes,” he said confidently, “it’s the weather. It seems to affect me more than the cold does.” Then he overdid things with a noisy fit of coughing that must have lasted a full minute.
This didn’t impress Liz at all. She raised her voice this time and the deadly serious look on her face frightened me in a way. “Why don’t you grow up? You all think you’re very sharp and hep or hip or whatever you call it, but you’re nothing more than a couple of overgrown schoolkids. All this stupid Jazz talk which you force yourself to say, you can’t kid me it comes naturally, and to smoke these reefers is very clever, isn’t it? To waste your money on that rubbish so that everyone thinks you’re real cool cats is enough for you in the tiny world that you live in. But don’t you realise the seriousness of it all? I couldn’t care less about the harm it might do to you, but don’t you ever think about mum? What would happen if you were caught with this stuff by the police? You’d probably get away with probation, but what about mum? Think of all the trouble you’d cause her when she thought that her son, her only son, that she idolises and loves more than anything else in the world, was nothing but a drug addict!”
“Don’t give me all this drug addict nonsense, Liz, for Christ’s sake,” I snapped back at her.
“All right, so you’re not drug addicts,” she went on, “but mum wouldn’t realise that. Don’t you understand what she’d think if something did happen? It would finish her, you know the type of person she is. She gets worked up over nothing so I dread to think what would happen if she found out about this. She’d be lucky if she came out of it alive. You’re nothing but a stupid, ungrateful selfish little bastard!”
As you can imagine I wasn’t very pleased about this. She was showing me up in front of my best friend, someone who had some respect for me and whose respect I wanted to keep. But deep inside I could see that there was some truth in what she was saying. Not all this bollocks about drug addicts and acting sharp, but the bit about my mother. So as it often happens when someone is told the unwanted truth, I did my nut.
“You’re the one to talk about bringing worry to mum. That’s very funny, very funny indeed,” I shouted back at her. “I don’t suppose you stop and think about yourself for a moment. Elizabeth, the good and quiet girl of the family, the one that’s always preaching to me and telling me what a naughty little boy I am. How about when mum finds out about you? Haven’t you stopped to think of the worry that you’re going to cause her? And don’t call me a bastard, either. You can save that title for the child you’re going to have!”
Her face all twisted up, she started to cry but couldn’t and she looked really pathetic and a bit horrible. She stood in the middle of the room, her shoulders forward like a hunchback’s, and she took big breaths of air in, or I should say, tried to, and I thought she’d stopped breathing or something. Her hands went up to her poor untidy hair, and man, I really got the horrors.
I looked over to Dusty just for a second and he was transfixed to his chair, staring at her as if he was getting sadistic pleasure at seeing her in the state she was in.
“I’m sorry, Liz. I really am,” I said, going towards her.
She gave me a look of hate, yes, man, hate! I’m sure it was hate, and she managed to get out, “Don’t come near me... you can’t be my brother... You’re horrible...” Then she was away out of the room before I knew what had happened.
The M.J.Q. were still playing busily away on the gram. I even remember that it was Concorde they were giving out.
“Make another spliff, Dusty,” I said. “For Christ’s sake, make another spliff.”
It was raining like mad when we left the house to meet the girls. The weather had lasted out for two weeks but now it was pissing down. The sort of rain that challenges you to put on your most rainproof raincoat but always wins in the end. We hung on at home waiting for it to stop, but when it got to quarter past seven and we saw there was no chance of it giving over, we decided to brave it. Dusty hadn’t brought a mac so I gave him an old plastic one of my dad’s to borrow; he also collared one of his paint-smeared caps to keep the wet off his hair-do that had cost him three half crowns that morning. The evening promised to be swinging but I was far from that way in spite of the fact that we’d knocked out a tola’s worth of Charge that afternoon which should have brightened up anyone’s day.
Liz had cleared out shortly after the drama and when I heard the front door close I felt like rushing out after her to pull her back and get on my bended knees if necessary. You see, a little bit of excitement like that perhaps wouldn’t affect you or I too much, but Liz is different. I knew she’d take it badly and wouldn’t forget it in a hurry. The trouble with her is that she takes things far too seriously and she won’t fight back, that’s another thing. Even when we were kids and I nicked a toy of hers or pulled her hair or something, she’d go straight to our mum and make a great issue out of it and treat it as something that I meant. It got me in such a state I was frightened to do anything in case she took it too seriously. And because of this you felt sorry for her but dare not show it because that would make her a bloody sight worse. She’s not got out of that way yet, but now and again when she’s relaxed, and that isn’t often, I can assure you, she’d open up just a little and let you into her world. Take this Salad Days lark for instance. When we did have a talk, you know what I mean, a real talk, and I’d tell her, or try to anyway, about Jazz and what an exciting healthy thing it was, she’d rave about this musical play that she’d seen seven times (yes, I did say seven!), and in her way I could tell that this show, or the idea behind it, wigged her as much as Miles on form does me. She’d rabbit away like mad and get really excited like a little girl telling another little girl about a fairy story she’d just been told, about this crazy piano that made all these cats dance like mad when they heard it play. It was great to see her show so much enthusiasm, and no one could say that I took the mickey out of her, in fact I tried my best to get her at it because it was great to see her get worked up over something as she’s so couldn’t-care-less. She must be really gone in her own way to get carried away with something which you must admit is nothing more than a glorified version of The Pied Piper of Hamlin, or wherever the cat came from. If she’d been the biggest square on earth, which she wasn’t really, you couldn’t blame her for it. After all we were brought up in the suburbs and if anyone gets away with that without turning into a zombie then they must consider themselves a very lucky person indeed. I knew that Liz hated the suburban scene as much as I did, but she wouldn’t revolt; the disease had its roots firmly planted in her, and although there were corners of her mind that yelled out for help against it all, she couldn’t fight. I suppose she didn’t have the guts. Although she was having a go at me all the time, I’m sure she envied me because I was doing something about it and she couldn’t. When we were having those talks I was telling you about, I got to know more about her than she wanted me to, and if I managed to get her down to the Black Horse and get a few Babychams down her, then it would be easier still. I’d have a
smoke before we went in, then sip a glass of cider while I lushed her up. Believe it or not she’d soon be on a level with me, and start smiling and everything and even get a bit affectionate. The people in the bar that didn’t know us stared like mad because I’m sure they thought that she was a girlfriend that I was trying to get plastered so I could snatch a bit in her doorway when I said good night. But anyway, deep down Liz is real good. Truth. You’d say the same if you met her.
The rain slashed down on us as we made our way to the tube. Dusty’s high was in a better state than mine so he was raving about how great the rain was and wasn’t it marvellous sensation when it hit against your face? Sort of woke you up, it did. “Come on, rain,” he shouted to it, “splash against my face. Oh lovely, marvellous, splash rain, splash!” But it made him annoyed to think I wasn’t as high as him — that didn’t help him at all. He wanted me to be with him, to pool conversation so as to help each other’s highness, but I wasn’t having any, and he didn’t like it.
“Lovely weather for ducks,” the ticket clerk at the station said. I felt like telling him to shut his bloody filthy mouth up and think of something a bit more original to say.
Baron’s Court! Thank God for that. Thank God also for letting us get away from back there for a short while. I wondered if mum and dad was missing it all yet and perhaps getting a tiny bit homesick. You bet they would be. Dad would be missing his sports programme that’s on the tele tonight, he never misses it, mustn’t miss it, spoil his whole week if he did. I expect mum is missing that same old routine that she’s always grumbling about. Yes, she grumbles about it all right, but you just try and keep her away from it for a couple of weeks and then see what happens. What’s Liz doing? At home in bed trying to cry herself off to sleep, or at her lover’s house begging him to marry her, or in church asking for forgiveness? And where’s Bunty? At a seance getting her kicks seeing hip squares having a ball, or seducing some poor unfortunate teenager who’s a virgin and can’t cope with her? We went through a terrible performance changing trains. Dusty got really involved with the porter asking him which train to take for Bayswater, and as usual when you’ve had a smoke, things became a bit vague to him, so in the end I had to go to the rescue because we’d have been all night getting directions. Then he drew my attention to one of those very swinging posters you see on tube stations. This one was a huge flower covering the whole of the giant poster, except for a few words at the bottom advertising something, but you couldn’t see the words as you were hypnotised by the flower. Dusty said: “Isn’t it a gass? The flower comes right out of the poster as if it’s coming to get you. Man, it eats you. It draws you closer and closer, then eats you!” He suddenly laughed out aloud, then started to sing to the tune of an old time music hall song:
“I was eaten by that flower on the wall,
I was eaten by that flower on the wall,
I know I’m not too fat,
But that flower don’t mind that,
I was eaten by that flower on the wall.”
“Shut up, you drug fiend,” I said to him.
Miss Roach lives in a basement in a something or other terrace in Bayswater. It’s a thoroughly respectable street so they say, with an old ladies’ home in it, so it must be. In fact they’re all proper houses with proper people living in them. Even Spades live in it. No, there’s no colour bar here — as long as the Spade is a student and carries a rolled umbrella, a badge on his blazer and a briefcase to prove it. When you stand outside the house that Miss Roach lives in you’ll say to yourself, this is a very respectable house, that is until you look down into the basement. Then you can’t believe you’re in the same street; you must be in a different part of London, you think. Then you realise that Miss Roach lives there, so you need no further explanation. We fought past the rusty pram, crates of beer bottles, half finished piece of sculpture and dozens of empty wine and spirit bottles that were cluttered up outside the door, and knocked.
She greeted Dusty with a giggle, and myself with a giggle and a kiss.
“Come in,” she said huskily. “I’ve got loads to show you.” After saying hello to Ruby and taking our dripping wet coats off, she showed us her latest artistic efforts. This is the one,” she said, taking off the piece of sacking that was around it. “‘Viper’s Dream’ I call it. Didn’t know I’d painted it till I woke up this morning. What do you think of it?”
“I can’t actually understand what exactly it’s supposed to be,” I said.
“It’s not supposed to be anything physical, it’s a feeling, a mood.”
“What mood?” Dusty asked sarcastically.
“The eternal torment of the junkie. The longing that never ends. The completeness that’s never there. Can’t you feel it? Can’t you see it?” Miss Roach said, getting all worked up.
“I’m afraid not,” I said. “But then I’m only a square as far as art’s concerned.”
“Don’t say that. You have it here,” she said, pointing to her head. “It’s only got to wake up and it will, too, one day. Suddenly it’ll all come to you in a flash and you’ll see things that you’ve never seen before. It happens to everyone like that.”
“At least I’ve got something to look forward to,” I said, sitting myself down in a chair that didn’t have too much rubbish on it.
The room was a replica of the basement outside except that it looked lived in. It wasn’t dirty, but everything was lying about the place as if it had legs and could get up and find another place for itself when it wanted to. But the important things were in the right places, so it balanced somehow.
“See, I’m not block-up either. I’ve been on a fast for your benefit. Aren’t I a good girl? I can even walk a straight line, look,” Miss R said, getting up and performing. She walked her imaginary straight line perfectly. She’d made herself look younger than I’d seen her for a long time, but then I expect the reason for this was that it had been two or three months since I’d seen her as sober as this. Her famous large block-up eyes were wide open for a change, and her new blonde hair (it was dark last week) was unusually tidy.
Ruby was puffing nervously away at a cigarette till the lipstick was thick at the end of it, and her brown, beady eyes were shifting from one of us to the other, determined not to miss anything. The nicest thing about her was her hair; gingery-red it was — natural, too. She wasn’t much older than myself but had certainly got around owing to the fact that she’d been carted about by a musician who was nearly twice her age; a very good musician who played at the Katz Kradle regularly, and had initiated her into the hip circles. He’d got tired of her now and dropped her, but she didn’t seem to worry about this as she could find her own way around now. But she’d never let you forget that she’d been his chick, and she’d always talk about him by his Christian name, and she got this crazy idea in her head that she must be very hip indeed just because this musician cat had chosen her to go to bed with. Her face was whiter, her shoes more pointed, her skirts a little tighter, than most of the other chicks.
“Do you know Ayo?” I asked her.
“Yes, I’ve known him for ages. A great friend of Ronnie’s he was. He used to come around my pad regular. I remember he once came with a couple of other Spades when my mother was there, and when they’d gone she said what a nice friendly race they must be to share their last cigarette like they did.”
“What have you been doing with yourself lately?” Dusty asked Miss Roach.
“Gardening,” she answered. “Gardening’s my latest and greatest hobby. Come and look,” she said, pushing up the window. “I’m confined to window boxes at present, but when I become famous and rich I’ll buy a farm miles from anywhere and grow things to my heart’s content. There, what do you think of them?”
There were two long, thinnish window boxes on the sill and in each of them were three plants that looked something like the tomato ones my dad grows in his garden. They were about eighteen inches tall.
“Whatever they are they’re near
ly dead,” Ruby said.
“What are they? An exotic flower from the east?” Dusty asked.
“No, my friends, they aren’t. They’re Cannibus Indica, alias Indian Hemp. The home-grown variety, grown from a few seeds that I had left over one morning about six months ago. Aren’t they beauties? They’ll be ready for smoking in a month’s time, then I’ll hold a party and invite my special friends only. We’ll try the harvest, and, I pray, get high as kites.”
“I hope I’ll be invited,” I said.
“You’ll be invited to anything special I have up my sleeve,” said Miss Roach, squeezing my arm.
“I bet they took some growing,” Dusty said, showing some interest now.
Miss Roach sounded like a middle-aged lecturer. “They did indeed. But I persevered. Watered them every day — never a minute late — cared for them, felt for them. I practically worshipped them because I could see the whole operation growing before me. They were alive — Hemp growing on my window sill — getting bigger every day. What a happy thought!”
Then she gave us something from a milk bottle that certainly wasn’t milk. When we asked what it was she told us it was something special she’d mixed that morning but couldn’t remember what she’d put in it. Whatever it was it tasted alcoholic.
“I’ve got something else to show you. A new member to my family,” Miss Roach said, bringing out a box that had been hidden by a million things in the corner. In the box was nothing less than a guinea pig.
“What’s that for?” Ruby asked, with a ‘I-hate-guineapigs’ look on her face.
“He’s my guinea pig. I call him Weep because he makes a noise that sounds like that all the time. He’s company for my cat Wardell Gray, too. And guess what? He eats paper. He’s absolutely crazy about it. So anytime it’s Sunday or something special or I want to please him, I give him a whole magazine all to himself, and he has a ball. He likes the shiny covers best, don’t you, Weep?” Miss Roach said all in one breath.
