The Joyce Girl

by Annabel Abbs

  “Language has failed us,” Beckett said suddenly, as if he knew exactly what I was experiencing. “A piece of music can move you in an instant. To tears even. A painting too. Look at what can be conveyed with a single brush stroke. But not words. Words have failed us.”

  I nodded in agreement and tried to check the alignment of his feet and hands. Everything seemed to be blurring and meandering around me.

  “Dancing, movement – they speak to us directly. Like a painting. Like music.”

  While the whiskey rendered me mute, it had the opposite effect on Beckett. He had shed his cloak of brooding shyness. His hands fluttered in the air. His cigarette burned unnoticed between his fingers. His left foot began beating out the rhythm of the music. “Most words are lies, Lucia. How can we understand human existence with words? How can we understand human existence at all?”

  And with that peculiar question, my voice returned to me and the room stopped tilting.

  “We dance of course.”

  “Perhaps we do. Dancing is more honest than words.” He moved towards the piano and I thought he was after the empty whiskey bottle. Instead he picked up Giorgio’s metronome and put it squarely in the centre of the empty floor. I felt anticipation fluttering in the pit of my stomach. While I had become light-headed and vague with alcohol, he had become bold and purposeful.

  “What’s that for?” I enunciated my words very carefully to disguise any slurring and to mask the excitement that was growing inside me.

  “To help with the rhythm. I thought we could start without music.” He was rolling up his sleeves now.

  “You want to dance to a metronome?” I blinked, baffled.

  “Yes.” He went to the gramophone and lifted the arm. The room fell silent. “If we dance without music we’ll hear other sounds too.”

  “Other sounds?”

  “The sliding of our feet on the floor, the creaking of my bones. I’ve a bone in my ankle that cracks in certain positions.” His voice petered out as he crouched and fiddled with the metronome.

  He’ll hear my breath, I thought. He’ll hear my heart. And I will hear his. Was that his intention? How beguiling he was! I stared down at the curve and knots of his spine beneath his shirt, at the soft hairs on the back of his neck, at the freckles on his forearms. I was about to reach out and touch him, when he looked up at me and asked “Can you teach me without music?”

  “Yes, yes, of course.” I dragged my eyes from his crouching body. Damn the whiskey! Where were all those lines I’d practised for so long?

  Beckett stood up. The metronome was ticking loudly. “I think that’s the right time. How should I start?”

  “With the hands.” I held mine up in front of my shoulders, palms facing out. Concentrate! I must teach Beckett to dance! Babbo was waiting to see him Charleston. “Good. Now swing them like this, up and down, making sure your shoulders swing too.” I could feel the whiskey and the music running through me, making every bone in my body seem as supple and curling as ribbon.

  He swung his arms and grinned.

  “Still too stiff in the shoulders.” I brushed at his shoulders, felt the arc of them melting into the moist heat of my hands. “Looser. Breath out.” He exhaled and I felt his shoulders drop. “That’s good. Now try swinging them again.”

  “You see what I mean, Lucia. About words. How inadequate they are. I know your father believes in the absolute power of words. But this … dancing … this is true … trustworthy.” His soft Irish brogue was more marked now. I felt it fold around me. Folding itself over and around me until I heard nothing else. Not the metronome, not the heels of our shoes against the floor, not the beating of my heart.

  Beckett stopped swinging his hands and began fumbling with the top button of his shirt. “It’s a bit warm. Would you mind if I undid a few buttons?”

  I tried to speak, to tell him of course I didn’t mind, but for some reason words fled me again. So I shook my head instead.

  The metronome ticked away while his fingers fumbled at his buttons. And then the most peculiar thing happened. My fingers, the very fingers that had just brushed his shoulders with professional nonchalance, crept towards his throat. Beckett had managed to work the first button free of its button hole and was now wrestling with the second button. His clavicles protruded sharply from the frayed collar of his shirt. Between them was a small hollow like a freckled sea shell. My fingers drifted to that dip, that hollow at the base of his throat. First the tip of my index finger stole into the hollow and stroked its sunburnt centre. Then my middle finger followed. Then my wedding finger. Then my little finger. Until each fingertip had drawn a small curve through the curl between his collar bones.

  I watched my disembodied fingers as though they belonged to someone else. In the silence all I could hear was Beckett’s breath and the relentless ticking of the metronome. And then, quite suddenly, the button with which he’d been struggling flew across the room and rolled across the bare floorboards and under the sofa.

  It was as if a hypnotist had clicked his fingers. I stepped away awkwardly and tried to resume a more instructional pose. My cheeks burned. Beckett shifted and I wondered if he was going to try and reclaim his shirt button from beneath the sofa. But he didn’t. He just stood there, blushing.

  “I’ll get it later.” His voice had an odd scratched quality. And something about it made my brain disconnect from my body again. I felt the thread that seemed to run between us. I felt it tug at me, drawing me towards him. He stood in exactly the same place, blinking and appearing to search for words.

  “You think this is more honest?” I put my hands on his forearms. Turned him to me. Tilted my face towards his. Waited to be kissed.

  “The metronome …” We heard the metronome skim over the floor as our feet knocked it.

  “Forget it.” I lifted my face higher. Pushed myself onto my toes.

  “Your parents …”

  “Out for hours.” I put my hands on either side of his face. Felt the rasp of his stubble. Pulled his face towards me. Touched my lips to his. Smelled the whiskey and tobacco on his breath. Felt the thrill of liberation.

  Beckett pulled back. “What time is your father home?” His arms shook uncertainly at his side as if he wanted to clasp me to him, but could not.

  “Out for hours and hours.” I wrapped my arms around his waist. Brazenly pulled him back to me. Felt the bony slightness of him. Pressed my ear to his chest. Heard his heart thudding. Raised my face. Let my lips skim over his. Warm. Soft. Not quite yielding.

  I pressed my mouth more firmly against his. Felt the flutter of his lips. The gradual opening of his mouth. And suddenly he was kissing me. Pushing his mouth hard against mine. As if his concern about the metronome and his anxiety about Babbo returning had slipped away. His lips moved from my mouth to my neck, to behind my ear. Back to my mouth.

  But then he pulled away. “Your mother?” His breath kept catching in his throat. He gestured jerkily at the door.

  “Everyone’s out,” I whispered.

  “I think … perhaps … the dance … they will want to see me Charleston …” His eyes flickered to the wall of Babbo’s ancestral portraits.

  “If the portraits are bothering you we can go to my bedroom.” I took his hand and tried to draw him towards the door.

  “If they find me in your bedroom …” Beckett held back and in the silence of the parlour I heard the beating of his heart and it seemed to me our hearts beat in unison.

  I turned towards him. “No one’s here. No one at all.” A second later our mouths were clinging together, his tongue searching my mouth, my throat. I felt the sharpness of his hips, ran my fingers down the plunge of his back, felt the lines and points of his bones, the long stretch of his limbs.

  Beckett’s mouth moved back to my neck. Crooned into my ear. I strained to hear his words over the heaviness of our breath. “… beautiful … your body more perfect than … but I … the whiskey …” I couldn’t catch all his words. Our breat
hing and sighing were too fulsome. And the empty room seemed to echo with it.

  I began undoing the buttons of his shirt. Tugging at his belt. Urging him towards the floor. Towards that block of sunlight that beckoned so enticingly. We would make love right there. Our own golden bed of light.

  I peeled off a stocking. Tossed it away. Hurled Beckett’s belt with such wild abandon its buckle clattered against the metronome. Pressed myself to him. Felt the press of him against my hips, my ribs, my stomach. Felt his hands seeking out my breasts. Felt my nipples spring up at the brush of his fingertips. All the while encouraging him to the floor, to that slice of light that called so urgently to me.

  * * *

  We were on the floor when it happened. I had eased Beckett deftly into that oblong of syrupy afternoon light that lay across the parlour floor. I thought of it later as our wedding bed. But that was much later. Our arms were twined around each other, our fingers exploring and searching and fumbling. His shirt and my dance tunic lay puddled on the floor beside us. His belt and one of my stockings twisted like slumbering snakes across the sofa. He was still whispering in my ear, concerned about my honour and my parents. Even in the throes of passion he was gallant and gentlemanly.

  Beckett heard it first. I felt him stiffen. Then he leapt to his feet, pulling up his trousers, groping for his shirt, searching his pockets for his spectacles.

  “Quick! Your dress!” He grabbed at my dance tunic and threw it at me.

  My ears pricked. And then I heard it too. The heavy tread on the stairs. Her voice, vinegary and plaintive. The tap, tap, tap of a cane on the hall floor. And then Babbo’s voice, as clear as a bell.

  “Are you here, Beckett? Have you mastered the art of Charlestoning yet? I told you any old Charlie can Charleston. Where are they, Nora?”

  Beckett was shaking so badly he couldn’t do up his buttons or thread his belt. His face was hot and glistening. A tic had taken hold in the lid of his left eye.

  “If she’s fiddled with me best parlour, I’ll be having words with her. Now give me your cane, Jim. Before I trip over it meself.”

  Part of me wanted to stay there, on that rug of sunlight, my thighs and stomach exposed, my hair tangled, my clothes littering Mama’s precious parlour. Part of me wanted to be seen, almost naked, in Beckett’s arms. And in that moment, for no reason I can explain, I thought of all those nights sharing a bedroom with Mama and Babbo. My hands over my ears, night after night, hating the sound of their bones grinding beneath the sheet, their muzzled panting, the grunting of the bed springs.

  But Beckett’s terror was so palpable I had no choice. I leapt up, yanked my tunic over my head and reached for my stocking. And then I heard the door squeaking on its hinges.

  Mama stood there, a look of weary distaste on her face. She threw up her hands and turned her head towards the hall. “Jim, go and put the kettle on! I’ll be right down. Mr Beckett’s not here!”

  We heard Babbo’s voice, thin with disappointment. “Is there to be no entertainment then? Have I returned replete with words of approbation and adulation to no effect?” And then the fading rap of his cane as he moved towards the kitchen.

  Mama shut the parlour door. Her eyes sharpened to points. She crossed her arms and stood very straight. “I never much liked you, Mr Beckett. I always thought you were secretive. And a Holy Joe at that, looking down your protestant nose at me.” Her voice hissed like water on hot coals.

  I closed my jaws tight and carried on rolling up my stocking and adjusting my garter. Beckett said nothing. He had managed to do up his belt but his unbuttoned shirt hung from his shoulders.

  “With your fancy Foxrock airs, all high and mighty, thinking me nothing more than a Dublin chambermaid. Only for Jim, I’d throw you out. But Jim needs you and he likes you well enough, so we’ll say no more.”

  I looked at Beckett, waiting for him to reassure Mama of his honourable intentions, to placate her with his declarations of love for me. But he said nothing. Just stood there with an expression as blank and inaccessible as stone.

  So I spoke up, unabashedly shaking out my tunic as I did so. “We were just dancing, Mama. There’s no need to be so rude to Mr Beckett. I should remind you that Babbo relies entirely on Mr Beckett now.”

  Mama’s eyes blazed. She snorted with outrage. “Dancing – my foot! Don’t think I don’t know mischief when I see it. And in me best parlour!”

  I turned to Beckett again, searching his face for some sign of emotion. Why didn’t he say something? Why didn’t he tell her we were lovers now? Or if he wasn’t ready to admit it, why didn’t he deny her allegations of mischief? She might believe him. Possibly.

  But Beckett didn’t look at me. He gaped at Mama, his left eyelid twitching feverishly, his fingers still scrabbling at his shirt buttons.

  I decided to be bold, to confess all. “Mama, Mr Beckett and I are –”

  “Sweet Jesus! I don’t want to hear another word. Mr Beckett, get down the stairs while Jim’s making tea. Don’t let him hear you. Lucia, I want me best parlour put back like it was. Now. And for God’s sake put some proper clothes on!”

  She opened the door and flapped her hands at Beckett. “Well get on with it, Mr Beckett. He won’t be all day making tea. Or would you rather be doing the Charleston for him?” She narrowed her eyes. “I thought not.”

  And with that Beckett slunk out. I waited for him to turn back, to shoot me a final look of tenderness, but he didn’t. He sloped out, wordless and hunched.

  I didn’t care. I could still feel the burn of him on me, the press of him, the taste of him. My fingers still tingled with the touch of his skin, the peaks and hollows of him, the sharp precipices of his hips against mine, the freckled dip at the base of his throat. I put my fingertips to my mouth. Sucked hard. Smiled to myself.

  “Mother o’ Mary – what sort o’ trollop are you? I told you to stop moonin’ at him! I told you to stop leadin’ him on! Now, put me parlour back. This instant. ’Tis lucky Jim is as blind as a bat.” She turned to go. I started heaving the sofa back into place, hoping I’d find Beckett’s missing button. It would be my keepsake, my trophy. But then Mama turned her head sharply. “You didn’t let him go all the way, for sure?”

  “What’s it to you?” I feigned an indifferent shrug.

  “He wouldn’t have done that. Not an Irish boy from Foxrock. Not with you. Tell me he didn’t.” And her eyes pooled with tears. “Oh Lucia, tell me he didn’t.”

  I shook my head. “He didn’t do anything. There’ll be no bastard in the family, so don’t worry, Mama.” I knew she couldn’t bear the taint of scandal. Not in the family. She’d never seen anything disgraceful in Babbo’s writing, even when Ulysses was banned for obscenity. Of course, there’d been no scandal in Paris. Ulysses sat proudly in the windows of all the best bookshops, making Mama glow with pleasure. And that was all she saw. But a scandal in the family – that was different.

  She exhaled loudly. “’Tis a good thing. Now don’t let him touch you again. Marriage first and mischief later. And no more dancing with him. I don’t trust that Mr Beckett. Always lounging, he is. Never looks me in the eye. Shifty and sly, for sure.”

  I felt a quiver of rage and indignation. “He’s not sly. He does look people in the eye! That’s not fair –”

  “Oh I know he’s looking in your eyes whenever he gets the chance. If only Mr McGreevy were still here. He never looked down his nose at me. He knows I’m Mrs Joyce who dines out every night. A proper Catholic gentleman is Mr McGreevy. He would never have laid a finger on you. Never!”

  “I think you should know.” I paused, took a long breath. I would tell her the truth about Beckett and me. I would take her into my confidence. “We feel things for each other.”

  “And so do mating pigs. I can’t be listening to another word of this.” She walked towards the door, her chin jutting furiously in the air. But then her head snapped sharply towards the piano. I felt my insides cringing. I knew she’d seen it. I busied mys
elf with the curtains. Pulling them half-shut. Fussing with the folds.

  “Mother o’ Mary! Is that your father’s secret whiskey? The bottle he thinks I’m knowing nothing about. Is it now?”

  Babbo’s peevish voice floated through the open door. “Nora? Nora? The kettle has boiled. Where are you?”

  “If you didn’t steal this from behind the Norway dictionary, I’m a dead dog.” Two red spots flared in Mama’s cheeks as she moved towards the piano and picked up the empty bottle. “Was it your idea – to steal your father’s whiskey? Did you lead Mr Beckett on with a wee drop?”

  I shook my head. My mouth suddenly tasted dry and rusty. My temples were starting to throb. All my energy had drained away.

  “Now get this room in order and change out o’ that strumpet’s outfit. We’ll keep this quiet, the two of us. But promise me you’ll leave Mr Beckett to your father? Promise me that?”

  “Yes, Mama.” I could feel my humiliation congealing around me. I wanted my mother to go. Something about her anger, my shame, the heat of the room, the way it all bled together, sickened me. My stomach rolled and churned as her accusations thrummed in the air. Leading him on. Mating pigs. Strumpet. Trollop. I felt the floor sucking at my feet, as though I was mired in something foul and noxious. And when I looked for the golden block of sunlight where Beckett and I had experienced such passion, it was gone.

  I picked up a fern in its brass pot and hoisted it onto the coffee table. And when I heard the door close I put my hand on its stem and snapped the furled leaves clean from the root.

  * * *

  “I said this would be hard, Lucia. I said you must be committed.” Madame Egorova drummed her nails on the lid of the piano.

  I lowered my eyes as I mumbled an apology.