by Paul Magrs
‘Quite a woman, your mam,’ he breathed. ‘I’ve only seen her briefly, and not to talk to.’
‘You mightn’t get the chance to now.’ Penny had brought coffee and cigarettes for breakfast. ‘I’m surrounded by trannies!’
‘Oh, I’m not,’ he said. ‘I was just trying it on…’ He looked at himself in the mirror. ‘Looks all right on me, doesn’t it?’ She sat on the bed and lit a cigarette. It seemed almost sacrilege to smoke in Liz’s tasteful boudoir, but Penny didn’t care. There was time yet for the air to clear. ‘Yeah. It hangs off you just right.’
‘Hm.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Would your mam mind if I tried on some more things?’
She shrugged. ‘Probably. But she’s not here, is she?’
Andy asked, ‘So what happens now?’
‘You’re welcome to stay while she’s gone. It might be a while.’
‘That would be wonderful. We’d be company for each other.’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re really pissed off with her, aren’t you?’
‘I don’t know, Andy. It would serve her right if I filled this house with all the waifs and strays of Aydiffe.’
He went mock-indignant. ‘So I’m a waif and stray!’
‘I want to turn the house into a squat,’ she said. ‘I’d love that. A big shared house.’
‘Will she be away that long?’
‘Who can tell?’ She watched Andy wriggle back out of the blue dress. He was unabashed, standing there in his pants and looking at the rest of the clothes. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘If you’re going to live here a while, I want you to make your peace with Vince.’
He sighed. ‘It wasn’t even a proper argument. He was just cross. There was us two, on about bloody Narnia and those little creatures and everything… and Vince couldn’t really give a shit. He’s not that sort of a person.’ Now Andy had found the hats and the wigs. ‘Vince is a realist.’
‘Get him to come round here.’ Penny lay back on bedclothes rumpled overnight by Andy. She felt quite comfortable with him now. ‘We’ll throw a party. Yeah, a house-warming. This is going to be my house for a while. I could levitate some objects for everyone’s entertainment… and we could invite those creature things round to perform a miniature circus and prove that they exist. I really want to throw a party.’
There were two policemen by his gate. Three next door in Jane’s garden. Two by the phone box. There were two marksmen, two dogs across the road, hiding behind the rosehip bushes.
‘Shit!’ Fran hissed through her blinds. ‘I hope I haven’t made a horrible mistake.’
Jane came to join her. ‘Better to be safe…’
Behind them Detective Inspector Collins was on her walkie-talkie. She switched it off. ‘They’re all set up. There’s no sign of life inside. I’m going to go and knock on the door myself.’
Fran nodded. Hand on the doorknob, she glanced around the kitchen at her familiar accoutrements, in these circumstances all of them banal. Frank had a can on the go, slurping worriedly. ‘Right,’ she said, and opened the door.
Vince’s dad strapped him into the passenger seat. As he drove them through town he noticed that the people out in the sunshine were watching. So he put a road atlas over his son to cover him up.
They drove over the Burn, across the big bridge, through the wet, healthy trees, then into the council estates. It was the fastest way on to the main road to Darlington, to the hospital. Now he wished he’d phoned an ambulance. He was wobbling all over the road.
Vince was coming to, groaning. His head tipped forward and he vomited on the road atlas. It splashed with a stench of animal. His dad put his foot down.
Down the main road. Down here.
No answer. Detective Inspector Collins gave the nod and stepped away from the door. Big John Burns, the biggest copper in the town, came forward. He took a long look at Gary’s door, though it was the same as any other council house’s door. Everyone held their breath as he gathered his concentration in.
Big John Burns took a few steps down the path and launched himself at the door. The lock cracked.
John followed the door as it crashed inwards, into the dark hallway. Collins found herself dropping backwards, startled, as a huge shape lumbered past Burns. She looked up from the garden path to see a great soundless dog bounding past her. Even the marksmen and the police Alsatians were silent in awe as it burst out of the garden and bolted for freedom.
Detective Inspector Collins stood up and was joined by Big John Burns. ‘What the fuck was that?’ she cried and tore out of the garden to see.
The marksmen followed her, ripping through the rosehip bushes, falling over themselves as they hurried out of patrol cars, coming at last to stand by the main road.
The unnaturally bulky dog was halfway across the road. He was also in the path of a screaming, gleaming Triumph Herald. Before screams could be exchanged, the dog was underneath and the Triumph skidding sideways to a halt.
Everybody froze.
The dog’s head had rolled into a gutter. Its other head, its real head, was still on the body, but the body was mangled. The real head was Gary’s, the army man’s, knocked senseless on the front bumper.
Collins heard sharp footsteps behind, running towards her. A fat woman in a black PVC mac, bleached hair, fishnets and suspenders, furious.
‘You’ve killed him! You’ve killed the Dog Man!’
Nesta stood clutching a leash.
And behind her: Fran at a run, her family and neighbours running with her. The kids all coming to see the accident, see all the blood.
‘Mam!’ one of them screamed at Nesta, seeing through her disguise.
SIXTEEN
It was the wrong time of year for a holiday. But it was a beautiful time of year. It was nearly Christmas.
A fine mist was rising in the valley, forming a wreath sprinkled by the fairy lights of the village. Getting dark, frost setting in.
Liz was standing at the very top, on a rock, gazing up and then down. She was proud at having conquered vertigo. She wore a heavy anorak, thick trousers, hiking boots. Her toes were cold.
She heard Cliff scrabbling behind her. He thought she must be in a mood. ‘What did Penny have to say?’ he called.
‘We missed a good wedding, apparently. We were invited, as a couple, even though we’ve never met the bride or the groom.’ She watched her breath crystallise. Cliff came to join her at the top. ‘God, I feel like Heathcliff,’ she said.
‘But where is he when you want him?’ asked Cliff. By now he knew nearly all her jokes.
‘The council let them use the two boating lakes in the park. Can you believe that? They used the park in November for the reception. Penny said that the bride sat in a yellow canoe to throw her bouquet ashore. She said it was a scream; two pensioners in bridal dress paddling round and round the lake while everyone clapped. We should have been there.’
‘We should get married.’
‘Now, Cliff,’ she admonished, smiling. ‘You know we can’t.’
‘You,’ he grinned, ‘can fool anyone.’
‘I think we should be getting back.’
He was shivering. ‘You’re right. Before it gets pitch black.’
‘No. I mean home.’
‘Oh.’
‘Although it sounds as if everyone’s moved in with Penny. That Andy and Vince and God knows who else. Oh, well.’ She turned to see the way they had walked up. Cliff persisted.
‘I was serious. About us getting married. It’s all in the eye of the beholder.’
‘Like that dog thing. Mm. They’d all think I was a woman till I was knocked down in the street and they saw up my dress. Why can’t we just stay sinful?’
‘So long as we do.’
‘Fuck the beholder, dear. Look at me. What am I?’
‘Wonderful.’
‘We know that, love. I mean, look at me now. Am I a man or a woman?’
Cliff opened his mouth to speak. Liz was dressed f
or hiking, in his clothes. The hood was over her face, over her hair. She nodded.
‘Imagine I’m by myself. This isn’t our town. With no one here to see me I’m neither a man nor a woman. Up this mountain nothing is imposed on me. I like it like that. I get to choose. I get to choose when there’s no one else here.’
She stepped off the pinnacle and led the way back to the rocky path. ‘I’m an exhibitionist. I’m a tart. I need to be looked at. But I needed to be here, to be not looked at, too.’
‘But I’m looking at you,’ Cliff said.
‘So you are.’ They walked on down the hill in silence. ‘But I’m still not marrying you.
SEVENTEEN
On Christmas Eve the council sends a van round every street in town. The back is twined in fairy lights, daubed in red paint and stuck with cotton wool. One of the bin men is dressed up and seated on the top and he is driven around to say Merry Christmas to all the kids. The kids are let out in their dressing gowns to tell him what they want the next morning.
Vince and Andy and Penny remember this ritual. From Penny’s window they watch the kids in their street being taken out. Fran and Frank with their lot, Jane and Peter, Nesta and Tony with Vicki and the baby. Vince and Andy and Penny will never have kids.
Just afterwards, another van pulls up. This is their van. A furniture removal van. They rush out, locking the door behind them.
Ethan is seated in the cab, married now for less than a month, happy to see them, glad of their help. They sit with him in the cab and laugh at themselves. They are off on an adventure.
Ethan parks on the wasteground near the Burn. Near, Penny slyly points out, Narnia. They have a lot of work ahead of them. They realise this when Ethan opens the back of the van and they peer inside by moonlight. The van is crammed. They take a deep breath and start work. It takes till after midnight.
When the van is empty and it begins to snow, they all troop down to the magical dell and, with secret, shared smiles, discover their completed handiwork.
The magical dell is full of animals, little and not so little. They are dusted off and, in the brightness of the moon, scabby no longer. No longer shopsoiled and rotting. And all of them are facing away from Narnia. Vince starts to laugh and the others follow.
Ethan, poised on the brink of the dell, ushers them all down. They wander through the maze of little creatures, laughing. Real little creatures are coming out to see the display, glaring wonderingly at the owls, the squirrels, the leopard and snakes. These are false. These shouldn’t be here. But they are immovable.
The animals will stay here. The snow that is falling gives them a certain grace; meant to be here. Daubed by the same brush, painted into the same scene.
And the ash tree in the centre of the glade is growing apples. Perversely they grow in threes.
Vince and Andy and Penny start to pick apples, laughing and crunching at the crisp red flesh.
Liz was the perfect passenger. she never drove, though once she could. She left it all to Cliff and made no suggestions, no criticisms. When he passed her the map, the day they came to the mountains, she looked at it and it was a different language. He was expecting her to tease out their route, but she looked blank. Liz didn’t care.
Just go, she said, drive north.
This was two months after leaving home. They still had no aim but getting away. Liz concentrated on not looking back, passing the mints, lighting the cigarettes, and turning the tape over. Forty-one, she thought, and still running away from home.
In a car park between mountains she took advantage of the pause to touch up her make-up. Dabbing grey on to her evelids in the rearview mirror, she caught sight of the valley they had driven through. It was like she could see all the way back to Avcliffe, the yellow council house and the teenage daughter she had left behind.
She saw her lover Cliff at the edge of the car park, pitching stones into a crevasse. His black hair whipping about in the wind, his shirt sleeves rolled. She hoped no one was down there. Sometimes he was heedless. It was he who had begged her to come away like this. Over dinner in the Around-the-world restaurant under the translucent dome of the Metro Centre, she had at first laughed in his face. “I can’t run away with a bus driver!”
"Why not?”
“I have a child to look after!”
“She’s seventeen. She'll look after herself.” He reached across the table and grasped her hands in his. She felt his legs nudging aside the heaped carrier bags under the table. His knees pressed into hers. "I need you to come away with me,” said the bus driver earnestly, and he was so ridiculous Liz had to give in. She was tempted to see if she really could just walk away from her life. And here she was. Up a mountain in January with mist all around the same dove grey as her eyelashes.
But look at Cliff there. He had stolen a bus for her. The bus he usually drove in pointless, intricate loops around Aycliffe and Darlington. One day in November he’d shook both himself and his lover free.
I didn’t ask him if this was the highest we’d been up. I thought it must have been. He pointed out the moon, how we could see it coming up in the east and I said this was the blackest I had ever seen the skv. Look at the lochs, he said. We’d driven this long way especially to see them and now it was too dark. They had even smaller islands afloat on them, just tussocks of grass clumped in their middles. I said they look like bowls of stew and dumplings, that’s what they look like in the night. Cliff didn’t laugh. I think he’s a real country boy at heart. He comes from Yorkshire and takes nature very seriously. Me and nature…I can take it or leave it. Coming over the glens I just wanted to sleep. You can only look at the yellow moon for so long.
Beside a black cut-out of a perfectly triangular mountain we found a hotel. Cliff had been here before, when he skied. He’s sporty, too. I can’t, abide anything sporty. This would do us for the night, he said. We could have a proper dinner in the bar. I pulled a face, knowing this meant scampi in a basket with the locals. Probably karaoke. We could take the bridal suite, he added, as we got out of the car. It’s right above the bar and quite sumptuous. Bridal suite indeed. As we hurried into the porch of the hotel, I said, don’t push it, sunshine.
But I like him sorting things out like this. Though I feel old enough to be his mother, Cliff’s taken charge of everything, this trip, my life. Funny I let him.
The foyer was empty and smelled musty. Stuffed Otters. They had those glass cases on the walls, the ones everyone's got up these days, full of dried flowers, fruit and shells. They do them in Ikea. Before I ran away I was thinking of getting some for our hallway, and putting things in them.
Dinner last night was in the car, watching mist come over the sea, or a loch or something. I don’t know what it was, or how open to the sea we were. I’ve lost all sense of direction.
We got ourselves a takeaway from the only Indian in Oban. Cliff’s been flash with his money. “I’ll get this,” he always says. Buying this old car in Kendal for cash. And we’re eating out every night. This place wasn’t cheap. A restaurant with two tables. Two very young couples having an anniversary. “This must be a busy night,” Cliff whispered.
Waiting for our food we crossed the main street and walked into the waterlogged grass that fronted the town and met the sea. I was in my heels and soon I was sinking. Mud smarmed between my toes. Cliff laughed at me and I was yelling. I only had about three pairs of tights with me. Back on the road, three or four lads were laughing too, as we traipsed back from the quagmire. That must be all the youth round here had to do, I thought. Stand along the roadside, looking for strangers. It was worse than Aycliffe. "What are you lot staring at?” I cackled as we went back to the Indian. They looked at each other like I was foreign.
I was so hungry by then, I didn’t care about mucky feet. I’d make Cliff clean my shoes later. It was his fault.
We got the food and drove off to a picturesque spot across the bay, as twilight came on. We’re always seeing sights in the dark.
I used his book of maps as a table mat. That caused a row later. It was too dim in the car to tell, but the brown grease from my Rogan Josh was spilling slowly over a lip in the tin foil tray. It bled into maps, page after page, orange and blotting out the north worst of all. But it was a tricky business eating with a plastic spoon and still managing to appreciate the view. The tinsel of the towns across the bay. Lit-up bed and breakfasts. It was like I had to admire everything Cliff stopped the car to look at. He had his camera with him. He would always say, come on, Liz. Let’s get you in, standing next to this view. As if when he had a whole film with me on, it proved we were together. When he finished a roll he went to the first Boots we saw and got it printed in an hour. Me after me after me, in breathtaking locations.
“But I’m not dressed,’’ I would say each time, unklunking and unclicking my seatbelt.
"Oh, you are,” he’d assure me, testing the light.
And of course I was dressed for my photo. I always am.
So they look taken aback when I walk in the hotel bar on the moors. I make an entrance; gold head to foot and shining. That’s when I’m at my happiest, when I’m at my least reluctant to face the public. Roped in theatrical jewellery, with golden-heeled slippers and I’m…sheathed, I suppose is the word for it, throat to ankle in gold lame. Out to dinner in a dress I shouldn’t be able to sit down in.
I perch half-on, half-off a red barstool. I light black Sobranies for Cliff and myself as he orders our vodkas. The regulars go back to their darts, the other barman to his cable and satellite magazine.
Cliff tells me it’s all right; they don’t just do meals in a basket. We can go through and have dinner properly. Sometimes he talks to me like I'm Princess Anne.
In the bridal suite above the hotel barroom. Burgundy flock wallpaper and a baby chandelier. “Like being in a western,’ said Liz, twisting her back so he could find the zipper. “Like Destry Rides Again." She imagined herself all corseted up with a feather boa laid across her shoulders.