When I climb into bed I pray my night prayers. When I put my head on the pillow one set of knots digs into my skull and the other set of knots rolls under my ribs and spine. I toss and turn and come to rest face down, breathing wetly into the sheets. Perhaps Karina is right, perhaps my hair is stealing my strength. I sleep and have dreams.
Next morning the ropes are unknotted and my hair explodes around me. I slide my fingers into the ringlets and pretend I have grown hair on my digits and that I am a werewolf.
One day I see Karina standing alone on the corner of Eliza Street, her eyes vacant and her mouth moving around what looks like a cold sausage. I cross over to the other side of the street. I hope she doesn’t see me, but she does.
three
I would like to press on now, to tell you how Karina and I came to meet Julianne Lipcott: to explain how our lives became knotted up beyond hope of severance. But if I hurry I will lose the thread; or the narrative will be like knitting done in a bad temper. The tension goes wrong; you come back later, measure your work, and find that it hasn’t grown as you imagined. Then you must unravel it, row by row, resenting each slick twist and pull that undoes, so easily, what you laboured over; and when you work again you must do it with the used wool, every kink in it reminding you of your failure.
Our autobiographies are similar, I think; I mean the unwritten volumes, the stories for an audience of one. This account we give to ourselves of our life – the shape changes moment by moment. We pick up the thread and we use it once, then we use it again, in a more complex form, in a more useful garment, one that conforms more to fashion and our current shape. I wasn’t much of a knitter, early in my life. I was perpetually doing a kettle-holder. What is a kettle-holder? you’ll ask. It is a kind name for any chewed-looking half-ravelled object of rough oblong shape, knotted up by a day-dreaming nine-year-old on the biggest size of wooden needles: made in an unlikely shade like lavender or bottle-green, in wool left over from some adult’s abandoned project: or perhaps from a garment worn and picked apart, so that the secondhand yarn snakes under your fingertips, fighting to get back to the pattern that it’s already learnt.
Karina was a good steady knitter. You would see her with her elbows pumping, hunched over a massive clotted greyness; it was as if a crusader had come by and thrown his chain-mail in her lap. I never knew whether she finished her garments or whether her mother and father wore them. All their clothes looked alike; winter and summer they were wadded in their layers, blanketed, swaying heavy and unspeaking along Curzon Street.
When Karina got home her parents were usually at work or asleep, depending which shift they were on. She had her own key, and before she took off her coat she used to put on the kettle and build up the fire and poke it, which I was not allowed to do: but I was allowed to watch her. When the kettle whistled she would swing it up – without benefit of holder – and slosh water into the vast brown teapot. I did not like tea; I did not think children liked it. Karina had a big white cup with blue hoops on it. She drank three cupfuls of tea, each with three heaped teaspoons of sugar.
Once the first cup was inside her she would take out the bread knife, which was something else that, at home, I was not allowed to touch. Karina would saw off four slices of bread and toast them in front of the fire, eating while she worked, slithering on to each slice a raft of margarine. One day she gave me a slice, but the fish smell of the margarine made my first bite come back up into my mouth and stick there. I coughed it back into my handkerchief, and asked permission to put it on the fire. Karina said, ‘You’ll never gain strength if you don’t eat.’ She ruminated a while, then said, ‘I’m going to have my tonsils out.’
I gaped at her. ‘Why?’
‘Because our doctor says.’ Her tone was virtuous, sage and elderly.
‘Why does he say?’
‘Because he’s our doctor and he knows.’
‘How do they get them out?’
‘With an operating machine.’
‘Do they put you inside it?’
She nodded. ‘I reckon.’
I imagined the operating machine. The doctor would help you through a black hatch and you would emerge into a pleasant apartment: a sitting-room with armchairs and a semi-circular rug before the fire, pink carnations in a vase, a standard lamp and a television in the corner. There would be a bedroom and a bathroom; I could not see them, but they would be equally airy and well-appointed. The lights would be on all day, because of course there would be no windows; you would put up with that for the short time of your stay.
Panic fluttered in my throat: a dull bird, a sparrow. I put a hand against it and felt the wings beat. If I had to have my tonsils out I would be put in the operating machine by myself, and I did not know how to live in a house alone. Karina said, ‘You get jelly and ice-cream, after it.’
When she had finished her toast she would take her plate into the kitchen, me trailing behind, and roll up her sleeves to peel a sinkful of potatoes. She would tell me what she was going to do later. ‘I have to make a potato pie. I have to roast a piece of meat.’
I knew she was exaggerating, if not lying altogether. No child would be allowed to do these things. I wished they were. But when I went into the kitchen at home I said, ‘Please, Mum, please, Mum, can I make a cake?’ and she’d say, ‘Stop messing there. Get from under my feet.’ Yet somehow, mysteriously, one had to absorb the domestic arts. There are lessons to be learnt early and learnt well. At the table men are served first, with the best of what’s going. It is the woman’s part to take the fatty piece of meat and the egg that broke as it slid into the pan.
It was some time around this year – the year I was nine – that I became conscious of a falsity surrounding Karina, a disjunction. My mother – other mothers too – would dote on her and hold her up as an example. Such a clean girl, always looks lovely. She helps her mother. Doesn’t have a soft life, both of them at work, had to learn to look after herself and stand on her own two feet. Fetches the potatoes uphill from the market for her mother. Not like you, young lady – everything done for you.
‘Don’t I help?’ I would bellow. ‘Don’t I dry the pots every night, every single night? Don’t I do shopping? Don’t I iron – every week, all the straight things?’
‘Karina never gives cheek.’
I tried to explain to my mother once, when I was in a reasoning mood and thought she might listen.
‘Karina, you see, she’s this way and then she’s that. She’s nice to your face, but horrible. She says horrible things to you. She envies you.’
‘I’m not surprised if she envies you. You, with everything provided for you, and nothing to do but get yourself to school and back.’
‘No, but the things you’ve got. Your library book. You think it’s nice. Karina says, I wouldn’t be reading that muck. Then you used to like it but you don’t like it any more.’
My mother looked at me stonily. She did not understand. Soon she would say something about cattle-waggons, as if I were part of the reason for them. I knew it was a waste of time trying to talk to adults; they seemed to miss three-quarters of what was going on in the world. I thought of dogs who smell and hear and never look, cats who just eat and stare at people and creep around till they fall asleep in the sun. Something vital’s left out: but with people, something vital seeps out as they age.
The next time Sister Basil asked me a stupid question, I didn’t answer her. I just folded my arms and I looked back sadly. She was a small nun, old, who looked as if a cobweb had been draped over her face. ‘Come on, come on,’ she said. ‘Either you know or you don’t know, which is it?’ I passed my eyes over her. Suddenly she came to life, spitting and dancing like a cat. Two red spots grew on her grey cheeks. She propped up the lid of her desk with one arm while with the other hand she rummaged around for her cane. She stood over me and shouted that I would be caned for dumb insolence. I looked back, sadder. There was really no chance of her caning me because I would not hold out m
y hand when she asked me; I had made a decision on this. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Karina watching me. Her big pink face had turned white.
I don’t really remember what happened next – only that Sister Basil backed off, backed down, found a pretext – and I walked out unmolested at the end of the afternoon, everyone silent around me, and Karina shadowing me with her slapping, rolling, puppy’s walk, not offering to link me until she saw which way the wind was blowing. Sister Basil’s question was this: Who invented the telephone? I was sure she had the answer at the back of her book. Why didn’t she ask questions to which she didn’t know the answers? Then she might learn something to her advantage.
I tore a piece of paper out of my rough book. I wrote on it in vast capitals:
ALEXANDER
GRAHAM
BELL
At the end of the day I left it on Sister Basil’s desk. So I knew: and she knew I knew.
Karina arrived at Tonbridge Hall two days after Julianne, and was billeted as arranged in Room C21, with a girl called Lynette Segal, who was a third-year student at the School of East European Studies. We met Lynette just after Karina’s installation, when she tapped at our door after dinner.
I liked her even before she spoke: she was pale, neat and delicate, with a brunette’s glitter and many gold rings. Her eyes were the colour of blackberries. They fell first on the skull on our bookshelf. She said simply, ‘I admire.’
Julianne, sprawled on her bed, looked up. ‘Oh, we do have taste.’
Lynette stood uncertainly, poised almost on her toes. ‘My room-mate says she knows you.’
I nodded.
‘So I said I’d ask you round for coffee.’
‘And petits fours?’ Julianne asked.
Lynette rose a little, as if poised for a balletic spring. ‘Bendicks Bittermints,’ she offered.
Julianne uncoiled her legs. ‘I admire,’ she murmured.
‘Oh, but you must do something,’ Lynette said. She gave a little sideways hop. ‘Or you would die.’
Julianne stood up. Pointed to me. ‘May the prole come too? Only half a mint for her, mind!’
Lynette said to me, ‘How very short your hair is! But it shows off your beautiful eyes.’
I could see that Julianne had also fallen in love. I think women carry this faculty into later life: the faculty for love, I mean. Men will never understand it till they stop confusing love with sex, which will be never. Even today, there are ten or twenty women I love: for a turn of phrase or wrist, for a bruised-looking ankle where the veins have blossomed out, for a squeeze of the hand or for a voice on the end of the phone. I would no more go to bed with any of them than I would drown myself; and drowning is my most feared form of death. Perhaps I love too easily; I can say Lynette has left a mark on my heart.
So: Julianne reached up and took the skull from the shelf. ‘We call her Mrs Webster,’ she said to Lynette. ‘Carmel, she will have her little joke.’ We skipped and slid along the corridor to C21, passing Mrs Webster between us as if she were a rugby ball.
This is how I came to enter a room that now no longer exists, except in my memory: bursting through the door with a skull poised between my hands. The air of C21 was fragrant with spilt talc and splashed cologne. An electric kettle was steaming into the air. The wardrobe doors stood open and I saw Julianne’s eyes pass over crushed silk and cashmere, squeezed over in one half of the wardrobe to leave room for Karina’s clothes. On the floor by one of the desks stood three pairs of beautiful boots, like sentinels whose upper part has been assumed to heaven: slim straight-sided high-heeled boots, their aroma of leather and polish blossoming into the room. One pair burgundy: one pair a deep burnished chestnut: one pair black and fluid as melting tar.
And on one of the beds, there basked a fur, a longhaired fox fur, its colours banded and streaked, strawberry blonde with platinum tips. My eyes were drawn ineluctably towards it, as fingers are drawn to marble or velvet. I stared at it; as I did so, one of its arms slid towards me, as if in languid salute. I watched. The arm flopped itself over and lolled on to the floor. I took a step towards it, genuflected, and lifted it reverently. I tucked it on to the bed, into the body of the coat, feeling as I did so not just the whisper of the fur against my hand but the sleekness of the silk that lined it. ‘I would kill for this coat,’ I said simply.
‘Oh, heavens!’ its mistress said. ‘Don’t murder me. Just borrow it. Any time.’
‘I couldn’t.’
‘Go on, try it.’ Lynette skipped across the room. The fox fur seemed to leap into her arms and nestle there. Julianne leant against the wall, amused. Lynette whisked my arms into the sleeves. Her supple hands – blue veins and ivory – swept the collar up to my throat. ‘Oh, that’s lovely!’ she said. ‘It suits you. Oh, Karina, don’t you think? Doesn’t it suit her? You’re taller, you see, you can carry it off. My father bought it for me, and I do like it, but I wonder if it makes me look like Baby Bear.’
Karina stood by the window. Though it was dark outside the curtains were not yet drawn; we filled the central pane with our shadow selves, like actors on a lit stage, like lively ghosts tossing their arms and twirling in the void. I glanced into the window and saw Karina’s broad back, her neck bent like the neck of a toiling ox. Then I looked back into the room and saw her face, its flesh self, not the shadow, and I saw – it is easy to persuade myself now, after the event – I saw her patient hatred take root.
Lynette pounced on the kettle. ‘Coffee?’
‘Black,’ said Karina. ‘Please.’
‘Who got here first?’ Jule asked.
‘Oh, I did,’ Lynette said absently, stooping into the steam.
‘She left you the best bed, Karina,’ I said. ‘The best desk.’
‘Mm,’ Lynette said. She hummed to herself, spooning out instant coffee. The obvious bit of T. S. Eliot sprang to my mind. ‘Not much to do, is it, leave someone a bed? Are you going to have your coffee in your coat, Carmel dear?’
I was staring at myself in the mirror. The fur felt alive around me; there was a faint, disturbing vibration beneath my skin, as if I had acquired another pulse.
‘A proper mannequin,’ Karina said. ‘Isn’t she?’
‘Yes, well, she has the figure for it,’ said Lynette. Her tone, very gently, rebuked Karina’s. She caught the coat as it slipped from my shoulders. ‘Modom must remember it’s here when she wants it,’ she said. She curtsied deeply, and cast a glance – abashed – at the wardrobe.
‘I told you,’ Karina said. ‘There’s no need to squash your stuff up like that. I’ve hardly got anything.’
Karina’s suitcase was still fastened, standing against the wall by her bed. It was the kind of suitcase people from Curzon Street used to take to Blackpool, once a year during the fifties, with a whole family’s clothes inside. It had a check design, like a man’s loud suit, though the pattern was faded to fawn, as if summer by summer the rain had washed the colour out; its sharp metal corners were rusty.
‘You’re entitled to your space,’ Lynette insisted. She eased off the lid of the Bittermints. The happy aroma of good chocolate joined the other perfumes in the air.
When autumn came to Curzon Street, the dead leaves blew uphill from the trees in the park, and my father coming home at half-past six brought in on his overcoat the smell of smoke and cold. Our last walk on the hills had been in September. My mother had strode ahead, her coat flapping, leaving my father to make some sort of conversation with me. I knew, though no one mentioned it, that we would not go walking next summer. Their quarrels had changed, and become quieter, more vicious. And I could not keep talking, talking and talking, poulticing the vast bleeding silence. Not without practice; not without a good deal of it.
Karina and I came uphill from school, turned at the pub on the corner; it was half-past four and the street lamps were burning, half-aglow in a wet dusk. ‘Let’s talk like grown-ups,’ I said. ‘I’ll be Lady Smith.’ There was no picture of her on the sign but I th
ought I knew what she looked like. She would have a tailored costume, like our landlady’s. ‘You can be my husband,’ I told Karina. ‘You can be . . .’ I searched my inner catalogue of painted heads, ‘. . . you can be the Prince of Connaught.’
‘I don’t want to play it,’ Karina said.
‘Why not?’
‘He has got a moustache.’
‘We can pretend that.’
‘What must I do then?’
‘It’s easy. You just talk. You say grown-up words.’
Karina had a bag with her, a string bag stretched out with three large loaves. They were stacked one on top of the other, each with its crackling U-shaped top and its fragments splitting through the tissue paper like broken slate. She carried this bag slung over her shoulder, and it made her sway from side to side on the pavement, so that she would move a half-step towards me, a half-step away. ‘Pneumonia,’ I offered. I didn’t mind giving her a word to get her going.
Karina looked sideways at me. ‘I am the Prince of Connaught. I have pneumonia.’
An Experiment in Love: A Novel Page 5
