by Kitty Wilson
An idea begins to blossom in my mind. If she has a literacy project that needs proper investment, that may solve a problem I’ve been trying to untangle all week.
There’s no art
To find the mind’s construction in the face
* * *
December Fourth.
Belle.
‘Hey, how you doing?’
‘Just heading out now.’ Chardonnay is in her uniform, her hand resting on the extended handle of her overnight case. ‘Thanks for sending that money through. I appreciate it.’
‘Not a problem,’ I say breezily. I sent the money across yesterday straight after my chat with Luisa and a weight had been lifted. ‘I’m sorry it took so long and you had to ask.’
‘We’re all good, see you in a few days.’ And that’s it, she whizzes out the front door. This isn’t a flat where we curl up together on the sofa, binging Netflix, eating ice-cream and examining each other’s manicures. We have minimum human interaction and the quiet it affords me is exactly what I want.
I pitched up here after yet another desperate quest on spareroom.com and fell in love. I love the area, love the thought of living above the mini-mart and hearing all the chatter from the street below, and I love that most of the time I have it to myself.
I like my own company – there is less pressure, I don’t have to worry so much about being a disappointment, that I’m constantly failing to meet people’s expectations. Luisa has a lot to say on this subject and I’m aware I’m feeling extra insecure today because I’ve recently spent time with my family. I am resigned that things there will never change and know I am not the only person with a tricky parental relationship, but in the couple of days after the prolonged contact of a visit, I feel the anger well up in me. It really stings, the injustice of it. The fact that I have never known what I have done wrong, other than being born a little different, that I don’t understand their codes, their behaviours, no matter how much I tried as a child before the fury and rebellion took over in adolescence.
December is always tough, with Mum’s birthday and Christmas in the one month, but I am prepared this year. I will wrap a cloak of reinforced steel around me. I am an adult, I am not going to let my insecurities drive me, I’m just not. My parents have made me feel like shit most of my life but I can take ownership of it, I can stop allowing it to upset me. I need to stop dwelling and avoid getting sucked into a spiral of self-pity and injustice. Starting right now.
Pepped up, I fill a hot water bottle and pop on some lentils – it’s a good job I like them, they need to be my primary diet for the next … um … for ever. I curl up on the sofa and grab a blanket before I lift the lid of my laptop. The temperature has dropped overnight and it really feels like December today. December without enough money in my account to whack the heating up.
The tap tap tap against the window is fast, heavy, relentless, reminding me of how cold job-hunting had been earlier. I had been buttoned up, my breath snuffling into a scarf as I wandered from pub to pub seeing if they had any spare seasonal work, the rain battering the outside of me until my very bones were ice-snap cold.
I had marched around all of Easton, most of Eastville and Greenbank too. There isn’t much work being advertised, not even seasonal. But as ever with this community I found things that couldn’t help but make me smile.
The wall scheme, for example, is one of the reasons I love this area. It’s simple enough: if you have something you no longer need you pop it on the low wall that runs outside the front of your house and someone will walk past and pick it up and take it home – a neighbourhood freecycle scheme. And today I had found a pair of winter boots in my size and a style I like. Which is great because my feet were hypothermic and I have a pair of boots for best but the ones I’m wearing now are a little leaky.
I’d been so desperate to get warm, I had snuck into the mini-mart and huddled against their old Calor Gas heater, the ceramic tiles of which always reminded me of little fox faces. It looks old enough to be condemned but, my God, it chucks the heat out. This shop has stock piled up so high you take your life in your hands every time you enter. It’s owned by Temperance, who runs it – and her son, Innocence – like a totalitarian dictator. Today, Innocence was free from maternal oversight and took the time to tell me I have the face of an angel and the ability to grant all of his prayers. His mother was out the back or his ear would have been cuffed so hard he would have flown across the store. She has Very Firm Views on flirtation and non-marital sex and these days I do too.
When Temperance did appear and heard of my job-seeking, she promised to include me in her prayers that night. That should do it. No short Gentle Jesus, meek and mild, for Temperance, no, that woman hurls up essays to heaven. With her on my side I’ll be employed by Tuesday.
I’ve sent back the money Luisa gave me to live on. I appreciate the gesture, I really do, but it doesn’t feel right taking it, it’s bad enough taking what I had for Chardonnay. It isn’t Luisa’s fault that I am a total screw-up with zero savings and an inability to prepare for rainy days. And she had given me a bigger gift than the money, she had reiterated her faith in me, in the Shakespeare project. I had bravely – foolishly – told myself I would rather starve than take advantage of her offer. Forgetting that starving may actually be a reality and it was not such a sweet thought once the money left my bank account.
Still, I wanted to make it on my own. That she had faith meant the world but I wasn’t going to take another penny from her.
Now I need to work out the best way to secure funding. I’ve been thinking about taking all the info I’ve collated, putting it into an app and making it free, raising revenue by adverts. Ads are annoying but the whole point is to make the information accessible to everyone, especially those who don’t have a privileged life. Kids brought up very differently to my gilded bubble.
I could also look into funding from places like the Arts Council – there must be charitable funding out there for literacy projects – or I can go old-school and go via a bank, but I have a feeling any money I’m given will be because of my name, my connection to my dad. And that I do not want. I know it’s precious of me and I know how lucky I am to be in a position where that is a possibility. I also know at one point I may have to cave, that maybe in this rare instance the product is more important than the process, but if I can, I’ll do this on my own. I want to prove to myself – and to them – that I can make my own path for once.
So the whole of this evening is dedicated to researching funding. My mind slips, just for a minute, from my practical plan into my fantasy dream of raising enough money to go around schools and bring the magic of Shakespeare to those who traditionally struggle to access him. I picture myself walking among groups of kids in a school hall explaining why these plays are relevant to their lives today. Why the Capulets and Montagues could easily be played out on the streets of Easton. Why Hamlet’s battles with his mental health are exactly the same as those faced by young men in the twenty-first century. Why we all need to keep an eye peeled for an Iago.
The smell of burnt lentils jolts me from my daydream. My hippy gruel bubbling on the stove is ruined and the thought of eating it for the next few days, meal after meal, makes my soul concertina in on itself.
Grrrrrrrr.
My phone rings, no caller ID. Yeah, I’m not getting that. Then I remember why my coat is still damp, why my nose may never feel warm again and why I am even contemplating burnt lentils. I take the call.
‘Hey, Belle, it’s Rory Walters here.’
‘Rory?’ Weird. It had been nice to see him yesterday, that familiarity when a face from another era pops up. But I don’t know why he’s ringing me.
‘Yeah, I thought I’d reach out. I wanted to talk to you but it’s a bit sensitive.’ Okay, he obviously wants to talk about Dad. That is shit I don’t need right now. But then, Dad is my dad, I’m going to have to. Duty and all.
‘That’s okay, I understand sensitive. How can I
help?’
‘Could we meet up?’
‘Meet up?’ Jesus, duty only goes so far. ‘I … um … I guess so.’ I close my eyes. ‘When were you thinking? Where?’
‘You still living in Bristol?’
‘Yep, I am. Are you staying here too?’
‘Nope, Bath, but right this minute I’m at my mum’s. I was about to head back but if you’re free, maybe we could catch up now?’
‘Now! Do people usually says yes to you in this situation?’ He laughs as I ask and I like it. His laugh is deeper than I remember, full-bodied.
‘Not usually no, but I was hoping you might. It won’t take long.’
‘Okay.’ I look up at the window. Tiny ice balls are now noisily hurling themselves at the panes. ‘If you’re happy to swing by here?’ I give him the address.
‘Is that the street next to the street you used to live in?’ He laughs again and the room grows warmer.
‘Yep. What can I say, once I’ve given my heart to a place, I’ve committed.’
‘You always had shocking taste. Is it still all piled-up mattresses and tyres on fire?’
‘Eh, posh boy, less of that.’
‘Ha. I don’t think so. I’m not the one who had a silver-spoon education.’
‘Just ’cos they paid for it doesn’t mean it was any better. All I learnt at that school was underage sex, not to emotionally engage and how to skin up at an age I should really have still been into horses.’
‘Were you ever into horses?’
‘Nah, not really. Look if you’re going to come over, come.’ I know girls are meant to love chatting on the phone for hours, but I do not. Thirty seconds is ideal, three minutes if I love you. Other than that, nope. Luisa and Marsha are the only exceptions to this rule. I prefer video where I can see people’s faces, decode their reactions as I speak.
‘Ha! Okay, I’m on my way. I’ll be there in thirty, Miss Wilde.’
Exactly thirty minutes later, the buzzer goes. I adjust my top as I hit the button to let him in. My tummy rumbles and I know the flat still smells of burnt saucepan. I hear his feet on the stairs and I pull down my top to cover my tummy a bit more. Then pull it back up in case I’m now showing too much cleavage. Argh. This is why I like to have my evenings to myself.
Then I remember his cry in the hospital.
Then I remember his laugh from half an hour ago.
He knocks on the door. Right by my ear. Hey, hello, come in. I practise sounding calm and together in my head and then pull the door open.
He is there. Right there. Those green eyes. Are they contact lenses? No one has eyes like that! Is he that kind of man? Possibly. Grown-up Rory is kinda suave with his beautiful clothes, his accent now hinting at his new international life Way too urbane for a screw-up like me. I step back to let him in, stumbling over my feet as I do so, disconcerted that he is going to see my flat. That I haven’t moved on that far from uni whereas he has crossed the globe.
‘Come in, come in.’ I try to cover up my embarrassment with a big smile and notice he is holding a brown paper bag, a grease stain like a small island on its side. Dear God, please don’t make me sit here looking at takeaway food whilst sniffing eau-de-pulse-brûlée.
‘I brought food, I hope that’s okay.’ That very much depends upon whether he has brought enough for me or whether I’m expected to sit and watch him eat it.
‘No, no that’s fine,’ I say a little weakly as my tummy growls again. Thanks, body.
‘Just in time.’ He smiles. That has to mean we’re sharing. I want to punch the air. ‘It’s from Thali.’ He names the restaurant around the corner and my mouth waters. ‘I love their food and this has been calling my name since I landed,’ he adds.
‘I can definitely answer a few questions about my dad in return for a Thali. Did you get their salad, oh, and their coconutty dippy thing?’
‘Ha, yes, but it’s not your dad I’m here about,’ he says as I lead him to the kitchen.
‘What?’ I spin around and, in the tight space of the kitchen, send the bag flying. He keeps it secure in his hands as it does a round 360, then swings pendulum-like for a little while. I close my mouth and look at him, my heart beating loud enough to wake the dead. He smiles.
‘I didn’t come over to talk about your dad.’
‘But everybody always wants to talk about my dad. Plus, you said it was sensitive. That can only mean him!’
‘Shall we eat?’
‘Before I successfully knock dinner out of your hands and onto the floor, you mean?’
‘Yup.’
‘I should have warned you coming into a kitchen with me qualifies you for danger pay.’
‘I think I learnt at uni that generally being in your orbit qualifies for that.’
‘Ouch.’
‘Joke, obviously. Sofa or table?’ he asks as I wave plates at him.
‘I’m a sofa person but don’t want to piss my flatmate off more than usual and we both know I’m going to spill this. Quite frankly the only safe way is to put a bib on me and make me eat on the front step.’
‘Step it is then.’ He walks over to the front door, turns, grins and then heads back to the table and starts unpacking the bag as I lay down plates and cutlery. ‘We didn’t get a chance to talk much yesterday.’ He looks at me and I carry on faffing with forks, avoiding his eye.
‘Yeah, they’re big personalities. It’s easier just to remain quiet, wait it out.’
We both sit at the table, my tummy shrieking in excitement. There is Keralan chicken, spiced potatoes, coconut rice, all manner of dips, and my favourite salad, lush!
‘Tell me about yourself, what have you been up to?’ Why does he want to know about me? His eyes are serious as he looks up from his food and catches me watching him. He doesn’t break the silence, merely looks at me assessingly, waiting for me to answer.
‘What do you want to know?’ My tone is more aggressive than I intend but he doesn’t acknowledge its harshness.
‘What are you doing these days?’
Eating a delicious curry and shying away from questions I don’t really know how to answer. What am I meant to say? I’m still being bullied by my parents at the age of thirty-one, out of work, desperate, and really grateful you bought food.
‘I’ve just finished The Winter’s Tale.’ I smile across at him, my mouth can’t help it when I say this.
‘Spinach.’ He nods at said mouth. Of course there is. I wriggle my tongue into where I think I can feel it and try to extract it as subtly as I can. ‘You’ve just read it?’
I laugh. ‘No! I mean I’ve finished all my work on it. For this project I do. Alphabetically, The Winter’s Tale is the last of the plays. I didn’t know whether to do them in date order or alphabet, but I thought date would make it tricky for those not so familiar with them whereas everybody knows the alpha— Never mind. It’s a project I do.’ Do not ramble. He is just being polite.
‘Wasn’t your dissertation on Shakespeare?’
‘Yes, my nana instilled the love when I was little. How did you remember that?’
He smiles and shrugs. That’s cute. No. No, it isn’t cute, it is Rory Walters, he is all high-powered these days, do not get carried away.
‘Actually, it was accidental but I overheard you on a call yesterday, talking about your project and I guessed it might be something about the Bard. I was interested.’
‘Really?’
‘Really. Have you got anything I could look at?’
‘Really?’
‘Really!’ He laughs again. It changes the shape of his face, opens him up, makes me want to trust him. King Duncan’s words from Macbeth come to me in that moment, a reminder I wish I had heeded many times before: You can’t read the mind by looking at the face. Rory may be all handsome these days, and when he was young he was known to be a nice guy, but now he’s working with Dad, and that speaks volumes.
Beware that handsome face, I tell myself. Resist. Is he just being polite? Peopl
e are and I can never call it for sure. But someone wanting to listen to me as I talk about this, that never happens. Never. I suppose I can indulge myself for five minutes and then stop. Definitely do it for no more than five minutes.
I pull my chair closer and open my laptop.
‘Oh my God. Are all these files ones you’ve written?’
‘Yep. All mine. I started by taking each play and writing really easy-to-follow guides.’
‘All the plays?’ he asks, eyebrows raised.
‘Yep and the sonnets too.’
‘I remember the sonnets from uni. I used to think there was no greater love letter than someone writing a sonnet.’ He looks embarrassed after he speaks. ‘Anyway, back to the plays. Show me what you’ve done.’
‘Okay, here, look.’ I glide past what he said about sonnets to save his discomfort, although it’s a pretty cute thing to say, and click open the Midsummer Night’s Dream folder. ‘Every play has scene-by-scene breakdowns, as well as summaries of the action in each act, literal modern-day translations for each line – proper translations that kids understand, not dated English-teacher waffle – and notes on themes and character, all of which can be cross-referenced. They’re not that different from Cliff notes or such…’
I watch his eyes gallop across and down, across and down. ‘I think they are. Your tone is a lot more inviting, conversational. You’re definitely not dry. I love these literal line translations. They’re funny in places, engaging…’ His eyes don’t leave the page. ‘May I?’ He reaches across to the trackpad.
‘Of course.’ As he scrolls down I find myself watching his face, his lips move at super speed as he reads. ‘This is great … Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind, … I always loved that.’
