by Isla Dewar
‘Calamity,’ said George.
Anna lifted her stick and pointed to George’s car. ‘Ah, the yellowmobile. I’ll get a seat at last.’
‘You should walk more. It’s a fact. Walking is good for you.’
‘Well, I almost enjoyed the small trek from the coffee shop to here. But now I will sit and I’ll absolutely enjoy that. How old is that car anyway?’
‘Fifteen, I think.’
‘It’s ancient. No sat-nav. You play cassettes, for God’s sake. The seats are worn with years of bums landing on them. It’s a dilapidated wreck.’
‘Like us. It’s on the road legally. It gets me where I want to go. The thing about it being old and not glamorous is nobody looks at it. It slips through life unnoticed.’
George zapped the car unlocked. Anna opened the door, sat and sighed. ‘Like us. Unnoticed is good, I have come to believe.’
George slipped into the driver’s seat, wiggled the gear stick, started the car and said, ‘Why?’
Anna said, ‘You can do stuff. Be outrageous and nobody really thinks to stop you. They don’t see you. We should resurrect the Two Yellows.’
‘Wear our pants over our tights? Punch the air and hope to fly? Perhaps not.’
‘Enjoy our new invisibility. Have fun.’
George said, ‘Ah yes, fun. I remember it well.’
3
Not a Bird . . . Not a Plane . . . Not Even Lois Lane
Anna’s poem about waiting for Superman appeared in a pamphlet called Stand Aside, Untrousered, Ragged Woman Coming Through Shouting Out Loud that she produced herself. She’d written all of the twelve poems it featured. She had it photocopied in a small print shop and piled the thin booklets on the bar of the Black Lion, the pub she frequented. There were a hundred copies and she sold twenty. She was so thrilled at this success she forgot to collect her takings.
The pamphlet’s first poem was ‘Not a Bird . . . Not a Plane . . . Not Even Lois Lane’. It was about her stupidity when it came to men. ‘Sixty floors up and dangling/God, my wrists are sore/My life scuds by every two minutes/Down there the crowd’s beginning to bore.’ This, Anna explained to the other five members at a meeting of her writing group, was about her dismay at women who, finding themselves in a bit of a pickle, do nothing but complain about their wrists being sore rather than find a solution to their situation. The group agreed heartily.
‘See,’ said Anna, ‘that’s the trouble with us women. Instead of hauling ourselves to safety, clambering onto the balcony or in through a window, we just dangle waiting for a man to come along and save us.’
At that she sat down and said no more. She’d read and re-read her poem ‘Not a Bird . . . Not a Plane . . . Not Even Lois Lane’ and was beginning to doubt herself. Every time she set about writing a poem she’d raise her right arm, pen in hand, and say out loud, ‘This is it. This is the one.’ And every time the poem was finished she’d look at it, feel the disappointment and say, ‘No, it isn’t.’ Her writing was trivial. She was no Byron or Keats or Allen Ginsberg or Sylvia Plath or Dylan Thomas. She was simply a rhymester. She longed to be deep, complex and misunderstood. She was at university in Dundee at the time and felt she should be starving in Paris.
She confessed this to Colin, her flatmate and boyfriend. ‘You may not have the depth you long for but you make people smile. You have what they call reach – people will buy your stuff,’ he told her. She was almost grateful. It wasn’t what she wanted to hear, though.
Their flat was on the third floor of a tenement, had two rooms, a small toilet and tiny kitchen. The living room Anna had painted white with one wall a striking midnight blue. The carpet was the colour of overused Plasticine. There was a bashed grey sofa which was badly sprung and, once sat upon, difficult to get out of, one armchair and three dining chairs round a small table. Here the writers – female, thin, prone to feel the cold except for one middle-aged man who’d bring biscuits – would gather to drink tea and passionately discuss their work. Colin went to the pub.
At least that was where Anna assumed he was going. She didn’t know and didn’t ask. She was obsessed with her poetry. Every night that wasn’t a writing group meeting she sat at the small table and worked at her Olivetti Lettera 22 portable typewriter. She drank mugs of tea, listened to Joan Baez and Bob Dylan and stared into space muttering rhymes. All the while her dreams of being profound and insightful slipped away from her.
Colin would come home from wherever he’d been and find her sleeping slumped over her typewriter. He’d wake her, manoeuvre her into bed then undress and slip under the sheets beside her.
Lying next to him on a cruel January night Anna worked up the courage to ask why he never made love to her. ‘You hardly even kiss me these days. You used to. You don’t touch me. Don’t you even fancy me?’ She was wearing a flimsy black silk, extremely short, nightdress that she’d removed (‘liberated’, she called it) from Marks & Spencer without paying and was hoping this garment would arouse his passion. For a while, before she noticed the lack of bodily contact, bedtime had been her favourite part of the day. They’d huddle under the blankets, tell stories, sing silly songs, make one another laugh and exchange dreams and ambitions. The realisation that other people did a lot more than this, that they hugged, touched and made love, had come slowly to Anna.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘You’re beautiful. I love you. But not like that. I’m gay.’ His voice was flat, matter-of-fact. He lay on his back looking at the ceiling.
‘You’re gay?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re homosexual? You prefer men?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s just how I am.’
She couldn’t believe it. ‘What about me? I thought you were my boyfriend.’
‘I am your friend who is a boy.’
She threw back the covers, got out of bed, picked up her pillow and whacked him with it. Confused and furious she stormed out of the room, slamming the door. Shivering in the hallway between the bedroom and living room she was covered with goosebumps and crying. She was howling, stamping her foot, yelling, ‘Bastard.’ She shouted till her throat turned raw. Hands covering her face, she crumpled to the floor. She had been used, duped. The only one who had not known the truth about the man she loved.
It was cold out there. A fierce draught scudded under the front door and froze her bare feet. She wrapped her arms round her body, swamped by misery and chilled to the bone. She had a full five minutes of agony – she was useless, unlovable. She deserved to be alone. She deserved to be numb with cold. She was ugly. Nobody liked her. She wallowed in grief and self-loathing. But slowly, slowly it came to her that she was in her flat. She should be in her bed. Colin should be out here weeping. Instead he was comfortable, cosy as toast and probably sound asleep under the blankets. She charged back into the bedroom.
‘So what are you doing in my bed? In my life?’ She threw back the blankets and yanked him onto the floor. ‘My bed. My life. Get out.’
He lay, arms spread, looking thin and pale and helpless. The sudden furious removal from mattress to linoleum had hurt. He rubbed the back of his head and swore. He wore black silk boxers. She thought, Oh God, he’s beautiful. He’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. What the hell is he doing with me?
‘Why me?’ she said.
‘I like you. You make me laugh.’
‘Why don’t you live with a bloke? What are you doing in my bed?’
‘There’s only one bed in this flat and there’s room for two. It’s cosier with two. I mean, this is a really cold flat. And I don’t live with a bloke because I can’t tell my family about me. My mum likes you.’
She said, ‘Jesus.’
He smiled a weak smile. He had thick dark hair, huge brown eyes, long lashes and cheekbones. Unfair, she thought. I want cheekbones. She pulled off her stolen sexy nightdress and pulled on an old T-shirt. It was warmer. ‘No point in trying to seduce you.’ He agreed.
Pretending to sleep, she momentarily saw the scene she was living through as an outsider might. There was a selfish, swollen-eyed woman lying in bed, covers hauled round her, and standing shivering pained with chill was the beautiful pale homosexual who’d promised to make the selfish lump famous. A tiny flash of guilt slid through her. ‘Oh, get in,’ she said, ‘but keep your effing freezin’ feet off me.’
He clambered back into bed, tugged at the blankets and mumbled thanks. Anna wondered what her mother might think of this situation. She was in bed with a homosexual. Actually, she supposed her mother wouldn’t know what a homosexual was. Such things were never discussed at home. This made her feel suddenly sophisticated and worldly. Though she knew she wasn’t. For surely if she was sophisticated and worldly, there wouldn’t be hot fat tears running down her face and onto the pillow.
The next morning she finished her poem.
Sixty floors up and dangling,
God my wrists are sore.
My life scuds by every two minutes,
Down there the crowd’s beginning to bore.
Oh, save me, Mr Superman, please.
Sorry I can’t get down on my knees.
But I’m hanging here, I’m on the brink,
I’ve been here most of my life, I think.
Superman, if you judge me,
How I’ve behaved,
Why, you’ll wonder should I be saved.
I’ve howled and screamed, I’ve cussed and raved,
And you’ll see my armpits haven’t been shaved.
But I’m a lady and I did mean
To be serene,
And lithe and delicate, shy and sweet.
I drink whisky, slug it neat.
Oh, I’ve been naughty, I’ll confess,
I’ve said yes when I meant YES.
I’ve ruined my ears with rock ’n’ roll.
Too much bass has taken its toll.
The music’s gone, the music’s gone.
The roar in my ears goes on, goes on.
I’ve smoked weed, sent daydreams creeping
Into night folds. In my living room I am weeping.
In upstairs darkness my babes are sleeping.
I’ve stooped to fashion, grovelled to fads,
Please let me be one of the lads.
Decisions bring me out in a sweat.
If I take this what won’t I get.
I snivel and moan, complain and whine,
I want bread and I want wine.
Gimme gimme, mine mine mine.
Can’t you hear it in my wailing?
I drag behind me, childhood trailing.
I’m up here struggling with my truth.
Are you down there in a telephone booth?
In a crumpled head your old Clark Kent’s
No longer a man, but a supergent,
Apollo bronzed, strong, clean, astute,
Cute in your salvation suit.
Oh, save me, Mr Superman, please.
Sorry, I can’t get down on my knees,
But I’m hanging here, I’m on the brink,
I’ve been here most of my life, I think.
Sweet Superman, you’ve come at last
Sailing through sky, sailing right past.
You won’t make me cry, won’t get the better of me.
Mama said men are plenty, fish in the sea.
This is my life, hold tight I can win it.
There’ll be another superhero along in a minute.
It didn’t voice her anger. It wasn’t going to make the world tremble. But it made her smile. And that helped.
*
‘Did you know Colin was gay?’ she asked George, as the yellow car rattled and bumped down the road where Anna lived.
‘Yes. Everyone knew.’
‘I loved him. I was besotted.’
George stopped outside an old tenement. ‘So you married him.’
‘I know. Sometimes my foolishness takes my breath away. What was I thinking?’
‘Did you and Colin ever, you know? Do it?’
‘No. Of course we didn’t. He was gay and I was obsessed with writing poetry.’
‘Poetry is no excuse for celibacy. I was obsessed with sex when I was twenty. I could think of little else. It was like I was permanently in heat.’
‘Really? I never knew that about you.’ Anna opened the car door and heaved herself onto the pavement. She turned. ‘That’s probably too much information.’
George said, ‘No. Too much information is if I told you what I got up to.’
‘Sounds like my kind of information. Subject for discussion at our next meeting.’
‘Probably not. Too shameful.’
Anna started down the path to her building’s main door. Slow progress, but she was getting more expert with her stick every day. Good leg followed by stick and sore leg and then good leg again. She figured by the time she mastered it she’d no longer need the stick. ‘Would your children blush?’ she shouted.
‘Yes. They’d be very surprised.’
‘Then be proud. No doubt they’ve done a lot that would shock you.’
She reached the door. Looked approvingly at the areas of scrubby grass and weeds either side of the path and smiled. The neglect reminded her that her neighbours were as poor as she was. ‘I do not embrace wealth,’ she said. She moved painfully down the hallway and tackled the stairs, cursing with every step. ‘Bloody stairs, bloody stick, bloody new hip, bloody me.’
Once inside her flat she went to the living-room window and gave George a small flicker of her fingers. ‘I’m here,’ she said. ‘Safe and well and you really don’t have to bother about me.’
George tooted her horn and drove off. This was their routine. Anna found it a little patronising. But it was good to know there was one person in the world who cared. In the kitchen she made a cup of tea and took it back to her sofa. It was four-thirty in the afternoon. Time to wonder if she should do something about the books. There were so many of them. They lined five bookshelves. There were books on the kitchen table, books on this sofa and books in the spare bedroom. Sometimes she filled bags and took some books to the local charity shops. Home again, she’d think about them. She missed them. What if nobody bought them and they stayed unread, unloved, in that shop for ever? She’d then go back to each shop, find her books and buy them back along with a few new ones.
She sipped her tea and hoped there’d be no phone calls. She wanted to think. She wanted to sink into golden memories. But she thought instead about Colin, and her stupidity at marrying him and denying herself proper love. And when she thought about that absurdity, more absurdities followed.
Superman, if you judge me,
How I’ve behaved,
Why, you’ll wonder should I be saved.
I’ve howled and screamed, I’ve cussed and raved,
And you’ll see my armpits haven’t been shaved.
That was what she’d written in her guiltiest moments. It hadn’t expressed the hollowness, the loneliness she’d felt. Sometimes she’d be standing in the supermarket queue holding a basket filled with digestive biscuits, firelighters and potatoes, and these stupidities would
come to her and tears would flood down her cheeks. Well, what else was there to do?
4
Don’t Be Daft
George put her handbag at the foot of the stairs and draped her coat on one of the hooks by the front door. ‘I’m home.’ She went into the kitchen where her husband, Matthew, was sitting at the table reading a newspaper. She kissed the top of his head. Not a lot of hair there.
‘I know,’ he said, ‘I heard you coming. You’re noisy.’
‘It’s a gift, my noisiness. What did you do today?’
‘I worked in the garden. Pulled out some things that may or may not be weeds. Then I came in and heated a tin of soup for lunch. After that I went into the living room and stood looking vacant, wondering why I’d gone in there. So I came back in here and here I still am. What did you do?’
‘Walked with Anna. Couple of trips along Princes Street Gardens exercising her new hip. Then coffee and a sandwich. Then drove her home and spoke about her daft marriage to Colin. He told her he’d make her a famous poet and she believed him.’ She sat down across from Matthew, made a face. ‘Can you credit that? She wasted her young life pursuing a poet’s existence. If she’d been wild and stupid like me she’d have had a lot more to write poetry about.’
Matthew gave her his famous look. Oh God, it said, I am jealous of your past. It hurts to hear it. And yet, he couldn’t stop loving hearing it. He wished he’d known her back then, in her silly days.
‘Oh yes,’ said George. ‘I did it all. I sulked. I drank. I smoked. I bellowed teenage angst.’
‘You were obnoxious.’
‘Oh yes. I couldn’t forgive my mum and dad for calling me George. I yelled that I wanted to be Mary. I stormed out of the house and didn’t go back for six years. I’m ashamed of myself.’
‘You? Ashamed? That’s a first.’
‘I’m mellowing. But you have to admit I was a teenage queen. Five foot three inches of raging hormones and vile pink lipstick.’
*
Standing in her parents’ living room – a pleasant bookish place – she’d allowed her blistering anger to flow. ‘I hate you! I hate you, I hate you. Boys laugh at me, do you know that? They chant when I walk past. “Georgie, Georgie,” they call.’