by Terry Taylor
I couldn’t stand all that. I excused myself and went to the carzy for some fresh air. I sat down on the toilet seat and tried to make up my mind if I should cut out or not. I decided to hang on a little longer as I knew that Bunty would get all neurotic and I couldn’t have all that. I’d always wanted to turn her on to the Charge as I was sure she’d turn out a gass if I did, but I couldn’t get around to putting her wise to my scene. I don’t know why. I just couldn’t. I knew she wouldn’t look down on it; she’d treat it as a huge joke and a daring thing to do, and when I came to think of it I realised that it was all down to her in the first place that I made friends with Harry, and she’d planted the first seeds to rescue me from all that outside and I’d still be at Down & Co now if it hadn’t been for her, but somehow I resisted telling her.
I went back in again and had a good look around. Everyone was talking. They stopped for a while to let other people have a little go but they soon carried on again. I pushed my way through the crowd, stroking a few fur coats on the way, and found Bunty still with Maggie Smith and a few others. Bunty was looking like a Vogue model, with one foot forward showing the long line of her leg as far as it went. They were talking about themselves. What I mean is, when one of them spoke, the word ‘I’ was used far more than the word ‘and’. Like a line of parrots in a bird talking contest they kept up a constant cackle, with a fair sprinkling of witty remarks usually made at a member of their own sex who wasn’t in the present company.
Then I found myself chatting to this bearded cat who told me he lived for music. It was everything, he told me, and he was having a fix at the same time because a Chico Hamilton disc had found its way to the gram, quite by mistake, I can assure you. He was gone on Ravel and brought out a heap of scores from the briefcase he produced from somewhere to prove it, because there was Ravel’s name written all over them. He wanted to compose. This cat, I mean. Writing some weird symphony, he was, for symphony orchestra, Jazz band and comb and paper, or something like that. I couldn’t understand a word he was talking about but he didn’t realise this as it was obvious he was having a ball telling me all about the great composers like this cat Ravel I was talking about and another one called Bartok and he thought Johnny Hodges was the greatest horn ever. That was plain enough but he didn’t leave it at that. He went through the whole history of music every time he wanted to prove a point. I didn’t mind though. He was serious about his ideas and I like serious people. Let’s get some drama into life, for goodness sake!
I found myself alone with Bunty again. She was already on the way to being semi-stoned, because I suppose she’d taken set on the gin bottle before she came out.
“You’ve changed so much since I saw you at Dolly Diamond’s circle,” she said.
“So much has happened.”
“I don’t know if I prefer you as you are or like you were.”
“I know the person I like best and it’s certainly not that fellow six months ago.”
“He had a strange and innocent charm about him. He’s lost it now.”
“Who the hell wants to be innocent? I’m not living in a dream world any longer. Things are real now — bright and clear. The place I thought was heaven is now the place that I’m in. I’m right up there, perched next to an angel that’s relaxing on a shining white cloud. I’m even on the right hand side of God looking down on all the peasants that are slogging away in hell. And it’s great.”
“You’re sounding very dramatic tonight. It’s true what Mrs Featherstonhaugh said. You should write.”
“Maybe I will. Maybe I’ll write a book one day. But if I did they’d never believe me, if the truth had anything to do with it. But if I called it ‘The Confessions of a Cocoa Fiend’ it would be a best-seller.”
“I don’t understand a word you’re talking about.”
“No? Of course you don’t.”
I heard the bearded composer say to a bored-to-tears looking cat, “Stravinsky’s L’Histoire du Soldat is another example.” Maggie Smith was trying to hide her brandy glass behind the counter because she thought she may be left out of the next round with a full glass in her hand, and a pink poodle mis-aimed and pissed up Mrs Featherstonhaugh’s leg.
Bunty was lushing away like mad. She ordered gin and tonic, telling the barman she’d mix her own tonic, so not to pour it out for her, then she poured the tonic into a flower pot. All this was because she didn’t like to order a straight gin. “You are coming back with me tonight, aren’t you?” she asked me, her knee touching mine.
“I’m afraid not, I’m anxious about my sister. I want to be home tonight.”
“Not just for a little while? I’m forgetting what you feel like.” I told her it was impossible. When I left Liz at the station she was really upset. I wanted to go back with her but I couldn’t. We’d had a ball and I didn’t want to go and spoil it all by going back to that house with tear-stained floors. I wanted to help her but I could do nothing. Even her promising to buy only kosher chewing gum wouldn’t do any good. I made up my mind to have a talk with her that night and try to do something.
Bunty said she’d drive me home, so we cut out, leaving Mrs Featherstonhaugh wiping her dress with a damp cloth.
When we reached the corner of my street Bunty drove into the side of the kerb. Thanks for the lift,” I said.
“Don’t mention it. I’m only sorry that a lift is all that I can give you.”
I put my arms around her gently, but she grabbed me tight and directed a pair of wet lips on to my mouth. Her ginny breath nearly knocked me out. “You’re terrible,” she said. “I’d like to eat you, eat you all up, all of you, yumyum, to the last piece.”
“You’re a horrid old seducer of young boys. I’ll report you to the police,” I said teasingly. “You took my virginity, now you want to run my life. Bad, naughty old woman.”
“Don’t call me that,” she said a little seriously. “Don’t ever call me old, I’ll get annoyed.”
“I like old women,” I said. “I don’t feel embarrassed with them. And you’re the cause of it, you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Still, I enjoyed being raped by you.”
“Liar! You raped me. You did, you know you did, tell the truth, come on, you raped me!”
“All right, if you say so. Good night. I’m going. I’ll bell you.” I kissed her gently. “Good night, seducer of the young,”
As I reached the garden gate, brightly painted, and to the side of it a board telling the world that my father was a painter and decorator and he gave estimates free, I noticed that the front room light was on. To those of you who haven’t had the misfortune of knowing all about this sacred place in a suburban household, I think I ought to wise you up. The front room is somewhere that you mustn’t set foot in if you haven’t a very good reason for doing so. It is the holy of holies where all the best furniture is displayed like it was up for sale in a showroom, cleaned and polished every day although it doesn’t need it, and talked about as if it was a storehouse for the world’s most valuable art treasures. The most prized thing in the room is the piano, which although it shines with polish is never tuned, and when someone that can play comes into the household, they are immediately pushed into the front room and given the honour of playing this musical monstrosity which is regarded as a magical thing and must be talked about with pride, but when the person is playing it, nothing swinging could ever be the result even it was the Mad Monk himself pushing down the notes, as the middle C is by now the middle D. The front room is a place which is only used at Christmas or birthdays or some similar orgy, that’s why when seeing the light on in it at midnight, it really surprised me.
I quickly walked up the path, pushed the key into the lock, opened the door, and there before me was a woman I’d never laid eyes on before. I informed myself that she couldn’t be one of Liz’s friends as she wasn’t exactly in the same age group as her. She’d be a friend of my mother’s, if anything. I didn’t like the look of her eyes. They looked frightened. “Who are y
ou?” she asked me.
“That’s just what I was going to ask you,” I said, forcing a smile at the same time. “I’m the son of the house,” I added, sounding as if my dad owned a castle. “What’s happening, anyway? Are you a friend of my mother’s?”
She didn’t look good, man, in fact I thought she was going to faint or something. She was sweating like mad and her face was as red as an embarrassed virgin’s. Her mascara had run and it made black smears around her eyes and she looked as worried as a man that had won the football pools but hadn’t posted his coupon. She wore a dirty white apron that bulged in the wrong places with unwanted flesh.
“You must be her brother then?” she managed to get out. Then she said it. I’m afraid your sister isn’t very well. She...”
I didn’t wait for any more. I rushed into the front room and there was my Liz half lying on the put-u-up, looking as ill as I’d ever seen anyone look. I thought she was just about to die. Honest, I’m not exaggerating. Her face wasn’t just white, it was blue as well (yes, blue!) and she’d been crying so her eyes were red and all around them were terrible black rings and I got the horrors like I’d never had them before.
Then I dug the horrible scene around her. On the table by the put-u-up was an ugly black rubber syringe with a bulb-like thing on the end of a tube. Next to that was a bowl of soapy water tinged with the slightest shade of pink, a wad of cotton wool, a bottle of Dettol and a pair of rubber gloves.
When Liz saw me she gave out a moan and started to cry again; loud sobs and strange noises like I’d never had the misfortune to hear before. I rushed over to her and she flung her arms around me and I felt her heart beating wildly against mine and she cried out, “Help me! Please! Oh please help me!”
Then I realised what had happened, but I wouldn’t accept it, I couldn’t; but it was true.
“Why did you let her do it to you, Liz?” I said, and I felt tears in my eyes. “Whatever made you do it?”
I was still holding her close to me and I looked out of the corner of my eye and there was the woman. “You’d better leave her to me. I know what’s best in times like these,” she said, sounding very unsure of herself.
I let go of Liz and the next thing I knew I’d punched that woman’s rotten face with all the strength I could find. She went sprawling across the room and her head hit against the piano and it gave a flat, organ-like note that sounded strangely horrible. She quickly got up and went tearing out of the room before I could aim another blow at her.
Liz was bent over with pain. I never realised before that you can see pain, but there it was all over my sister’s face. It was all screwed up and her mouth was open showing her white teeth and gums. She was wearing a nightdress which was exposing one of her tiny breasts, but she didn’t care. All she cared about was pain. Shooting, stabbing, crippling, never-ending pain. I led her back to the put-u-up and laid her down on it as gently as I could, then I was out of the room to look for that shitty cunt of a woman. I found her packing away some of her murderous paraphernalia into a small suitcase.
“Have you called a doctor?” I shouted to her.
She was half afraid that I was going to kick her in the teeth, so she drew back from me. “No, not yet,” she said awkwardly. So I ran to the phone and lifted the receiver.
She didn’t like that at all. She wasn’t afraid of me now because she came right over to me with a very sorry look on her face. “Don’t call an ambulance,” she begged. They’d bring the police if you do.”
“That’s exactly what I want them to do. Nothing will give me greater pleasure than to see you carted off by the law.”
That did it. She grabbed my arm and shouted in my ear, “Please don’t call the police! I did it for your sister! She wanted me to. Please!”
Then I heard Liz calling my name, so I put the receiver down and went back in the room to her. Although she was on the verge of passing out she seemed to know what was going on. At first she begged me not to call an ambulance but I soon made it clear to her that nothing she said or did would stop me from doing so. Although I didn’t know too much about this sort of thing, and still don’t, come to that, I knew that Liz was in a bad way and would have to see a doctor sooner or later if she didn’t die beforehand. In the end she gave way on the condition that I wouldn’t tell them the truth but instead make up a story that she’d been pregnant and had fallen down the stairs. The woman was listening to all this very intently and when she realised what the score was she swallowed it and I never saw her again. I belled the ambulance, telling them what had happened (I should say told them what Liz told me to say), and then went back to Liz. “They shan’t be long now, Lizabeth. Everything’s going to be all right,” was all I could think of saying. I held her hand and wiped the perspiration off her forehead with my handkerchief, then said, “We should be at dear old muddy Canvey Island now, you know.”
“Playing Bingo and watching the open air concert party,” she managed to say.
“I wish we were there, Liz.”
“I don’t”
“Why not?”
“Because I wouldn’t have been able to go to Battersea Park with you this afternoon, and I did enjoy myself so much.”
The minutes dragged like hours and I was calling the Ambulance Service all the lousy names under the sun, but when they did arrive they were so understanding and gentle and kind I knew Liz would be all right now. The driver asked if I would go along with her and before I could get a word in she’d said, “Please come with me. I’ll feel better if you’re there,” so I followed them out to the waiting ambulance and away we went to the hospital.
Chapter Three
Circle
Canvey Island has a lonely look. Its prom, its main roads and side streets can be swallowed up by people — yet, it still looks lonely. It tries hard to look like a holiday resort, but fails. There aren’t enough buckets and spades and fat ladies on postcards in the shop windows. The people seem to be struggling to have a good holiday; they’ve got to enjoy themselves because this is the only chance they’ve got. A whole year of scrimping and scraping so that they can have their precious week. Rain or shine, they’ve got to have a good time, and if they can manage a sun-tan to show off with when they get back, then they don’t mind being chained to a machine for another twelve months.
When I think back to my childhood visits, all I can remember is panic. Panic to get ready and pack, panic to catch the train, to get to the beach, to meals, to get a seat on the roundabout, to bed, to get up. And panic to catch the train back again. They must talk about it for the next twelve months because that gives them encouragement to live another twelve months, so that they can get back there next year. When it comes around again you go back to that same bungalow that you’ve had for twenty years because the lady that owns it is so nice.
My mum’s bungalow was called ‘Seaview’, but you couldn’t view the sea because of the sea wall. It was in this bungalow that she received the telegram from the hospital informing her that they had her daughter as a patient, so, as you can guess, both her and her husband came rushing back from their holiday minus a sun-tan, but with the crack-up horrors instead.
I met them at the station to escort them to the hospital, and as I was waiting for them to arrive, I tried to imagine how they’d take it. I thought they’d be doing their nuts a bit, but they turned out surprisingly placid. My mum’s face was very white and there were cry-marks around her eyes, but she was very quiet and she didn’t even ask me any questions about Liz. My dad seemed much more polite than he usually did, and he had a strange air of authority about him: like he was telling himself that this was the time when a father can act like a father and be the strong pillar of the family.
I’m sorry, but all this seemed rather funny to me. They looked two very comical figures when they got off the train — something like Charlie Chaplin does when he’s had a bad time of it. And when we reached the hospital we all sat in the waiting-room for mum and dad to see the Matron so tha
t she could explain everything to them, and it really was a funny scene, my mum doing her knitting — one row and a look at the Matron’s door — another row and another look at the door — row, door, row — oh dear! Then a quiet sob soon followed by an ‘I-must-be-brave’ look. I would have given anything to have been able to have been in that Matron’s office with them, but they wouldn’t let me in. But it so happened that dear old Matron didn’t use that nasty word abortion at all. I don’t know if the doctors had dug the scene or not, but anyway, you know how human that clan can be. It was just a case of being up the spout and falling down the stairs.
When we reached home that evening (leaving Liz and her bed covered in fruit, sweets and mags), a fog of depression filled the house and mum gave a Shakespeare-like speech about what a silly little fool Liz was, and why hadn’t she confided in her as that’s what mothers are for, and who was this brute of a man that put her poor innocent daughter in the family way, and whatever happened we must not breathe a word about it to anyone as the neighbours might find out.
I felt like running out of the house and telling all the neighbours myself. Tell them that my sister was in love, and because she was in love she’d shown it by doing the only natural thing. But now she was in hospital, and she could have died, and if she had died it was only them to blame because it was through them that she’d hired a professional killer to do filthy things to her. My Liz was pure — they weren’t. My Liz was human — but they’d made her think like an animal. And I vowed there and then to myself that these ticket-takers must never make me think like that, because if they did I knew I wouldn’t have any more respect for myself. But it’s not as simple as all that. Nothing is simple. Everything’s so damn complicated it doesn’t bear thinking about. Everything’s ridiculous — even Liz herself — because she was the other part of that woman that had snuffed God’s life out like a candle.
