[Phoenix Court 01] - Marked for Life

by Paul Magrs

  Or they tell you, You aren’t going to get home tonight. Come and sit beneath us. Gather your legs up under an umbrella of light, rest your back against the humming trunk. You are like a parody of an old-time wayfarer, travelling the countryside without a care in the world and falling gently asleep beneath spread branches.

  No such comfort. This is the way your world ends: disenfranchisement. You’re out on the street, out on your own. It’s easy to slip from the orbit of your life. You simply stop your journey back home. You sit under a streetlamp. What else might you need to complete the effect except a cup from McDonald’s for coins?

  And if your stop is forced upon you by circumstances, then your decline seems all the easier, all the better accomplished. If you cannot move heaven and earth and get yourself back on the right track of your life, then a new career in a new and strange town is just the thing. But it’s the wrong career. A career in the wrong direction, like a car crash.

  So the snow shuffles down to trap people, to make them veer off course and wring dread out of them.

  And it begins, quite gently, this afternoon, from a sky which still looked blue when Sam led her party into the patisserie in Headingley.

  SCRAPING THE LEGS OF HIS CHAIR, MOVING AWKWARDLY FOR LACK OF space, Mark stood up. Sam had Sally crushed to her chest, as he had last night. Iris and Peggy were impatient for their turn, and to clasp him, too, in this reunion. By the café door, exchanging glances with the owner, stood the policeman.

  As Sam looked up and mutely refused to let go of her daughter, they were locked in a question: what next?

  Richard answered them by standing and catching everyone’s attention. Mark said, “This is—” and Sam bent forward and smacked Richard hard in the mouth.

  “You’re Tony, aren’t you?” she yelled. “You’re that fucking Tony?”

  He sat back down, hand over his mouth. It was loose and swelling, dripping between his fingers as his said, “No.”

  “It’s Richard,” Mark said quietly.

  “Who? Who the fuck are you, then?” she demanded, and Sally started to cry.

  “A friend, Mam,” she said. “You punched my friend.”

  “It’s all right,” Richard said, dabbing himself with a napkin. “No damage done.”

  “It might need a stitch,” Iris pushed in, squinting at the blood.

  “Look at the bloody vulture swoop,” Sam said and pulled up a metal chair, hauling Sally firmly onto her knee.

  “Shall I order some coffee?” asked Bob.

  Absently she nodded. She fixed the still-startled Richard with a glare. “I’ll apologise if you’ve got nothing to do with this.”

  “He hasn’t,” Mark told her bitterly. “Not a bit.”

  “Then I’m sorry.”

  “Richard,” Mark added.

  “What’s your problem?” she hissed. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “I think we should all calm down,” Peggy said, squeezing in between Mark and Iris. The cups and vase on the table wobbled.

  They sat in an awkward silence while Iris fumbled in her bag for a clean handkerchief for Richard. Mark made some quick introductions and Peggy went on, “Let’s just be grateful we’re all here, safe, and adult enough to talk this through like adults.”

  “But Tony isn’t here,” Sam insisted, eyes gleaming. “Don’t we need him too? Or has he just pissed off again? Where is he, Mark? Come on, tell us.”

  Bob came back from the counter with a tray full of cups, saucers and crisps. He set it down and stood behind Sam, one hand on her shoulder. Sally looked up at him unblinkingly. He smiled at her without reward and looked away again.

  “I haven’t seen Tony yet,” Mark admitted.

  “What do you mean, yet? Where is he?”

  “He’s back at the house,” Richard said, his head still lowered into the hanky.

  “No, he wasn’t,” Mark said.

  “I mean, he should be, by now.”

  “So what do we do?” asked Sam. “Mark?”

  “We’re all going back home,” Bob said suddenly. “We’ve got what we came for.”

  “Who we came for,” Iris corrected him, and grinned at Sally.

  “No,” Mark said. “We can’t yet. There’s still stuff to sort out.”

  “Such as?” Shakily, Sam lit a cigarette. “I tell you, I want to see this bloody Tony. I still want to give him a good cracking.”

  “I want to at least talk to him,” said Mark. “Find out why he did…what he did. Make sure it won’t happen again.”

  Sam looked scared. “She’s all right, isn’t she?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know.”

  “Of course she is. Christ!”

  “Look, fuckface, what am I meant to think?”

  “Anything you like, Sam, you always do. Anyway, Richard looked after her the whole time. She hardly saw Tony either.”

  Sam eyed Richard suspiciously.

  Mark continued, “I think Tony just wants to talk to me. I think that’s what this is all about. I have to sort it out. I think I know how I can see him. It has to be on his terms.”

  “I’m not listening to this,” Sam said. “I’ve had enough. We’re going back home and taking Sally. You can do what you want.”

  Peggy put in, “Sam, just listen to him.”

  “Shut up, Mam. I let you come here to see Sally. Don’t push it.”

  “You listen to me, madam. You’ve had your own way through all of this.”

  Followed by everyone else, Sam looked in astonishment at her mother.

  “You have kittens over the whole business—quite understandable—and your wishes have gone over and above everyone else’s. Including Mark’s. But now you know that Sally’s all right. She’s with you and safe. Just listen to him. It’s time you stopped treating everyone rotten. You were up in arms and being a bitch even before your daughter was snatched. Now, you’re about to make changes in your life. I can see that. But remember, Sam, these changes are not just to your life. They’re to all our lives. We all have a stake in what goes on now, and you’re not going to get all your own way.”

  They sat back. Cautiously Mark asked, “What changes is she talking about, Sam?”

  Sam blew out smoke and crushed her cigarette. “I’m taking Sally home to Bob’s house. We’re moving in with Bob.”

  She felt Bob’s grip tighten on her shoulder and took it for support, but it was shock.

  Mark stared at her. “If that’s what you want to do…”

  “There’s no ‘want’ about it. It’s just what’s going to happen.”

  “You can’t just have her.”

  “I’m her mother.”

  “You can’t just take her.”

  “I’m her mother, Mark.”

  “You can’t—”

  Sally was crying again. He stopped.

  “Listen to you!” Iris burst out.

  “Keep out, you old sow!” Sam told her.

  “Listen,” Iris snapped. “Just listen to the pair of you! You’re talking about big life changes, court decisions, right here and now when you should be glad this is sorted! And—might I add—I’m absolutely starving. Custody is for the court to decide, if it comes to that. And right now you’re scaring the life out of Sally. She’s had enough of this.”

  “She’s right,” Mark said.

  Sam glared murderously. “We’re still going home,” she said. “And taking Sally.”

  “You’re leaving me?”

  She just tutted and looked away. The owner was approaching with a menu now, as if his professional manner had expertly located a suitable lull in their proceedings. Or perhaps he had just heard Iris say ‘lunch’. When he gave the sheet to Sam, she looked past him, and saw with a shock that it had gone dark outside. The street was dim with a silent storm.

  EVENTUALLY THEY TOOK UP TWO FULL TABLES AND DOMINATED THE

  small café. The adults said very little to each other. They had passed a certain point in their dealin
gs and concentrated instead on eating. And talking to Sally, listening to her talk. The child became their focus. Radio Four played behind the counter, its voices unctuous on the leaden air. The café owner watched the family scene, attempting to work the relationships out.

  Sally chatted on brightly as they ate. She talked about Christmas, about travelling on a train, about the stories she had read during her visit, about Richard’s dog.

  The adults smiled, nodded, urged her on. But she was doing it for them. Sally knew about the times they needed a focus, the times when childish inconsequentiality was all that would stop them fighting.

  “We have to go,” Sam said at last, and Mark looked away to see the snow piled high against the door.

  Come on, he thought, snow heavier. Bring it all down. I want to keep them here a while. Let it go dark outside; fill in the canyons of the street. Smother us in and make us stay to sort this all out.

  “Mark, we’re going back home.”

  “There’s…” he began, tapping ash quickly, everyone looking. “If you go to the newsagents here…don’t be shocked when you get your change…there’s a bloke in there with two thumbs.”

  “Mark, what…?”

  “On one hand. And there’s an antique shop that does elephant feet.”

  Sam looked at him levelly.

  “Ask him,” Mark urged. “Ask Richard. They’ve got everything here.”

  Iris covered his hand with hers. “Peggy and I will stay for a while.”

  “Come on, Sal,” Sam said. “We’ve got to get back off home. That weather’s not going to let up.”

  Bob was standing. “Sam? Ready?”

  “Sally, get your things together.” Sam started fastening up her daughter’s coat. All she was carrying, though, was the kangaroo Sam had brought.

  Sally had lost her brightness, but now her eyes shone. “Aren’t we all staying together?”

  She looked at her dad.

  “I think you’d better go with your mam, pet.”

  When Bob opened the café door, the cold wind of the street slipped in. Mark gasped. It gripped him, held him, as he watched them shuffle out.

  TWENTY ONE

  “WELL, I’M GLAD WE CAME,” PEGGY SAID AT LAST. “WE NEEDED A TRIP out. To take our minds off things.”

  Iris said, “I’m amazed we could get anywhere in that weather.”

  They had caught the bus just outside the café. It had snorted and steamed towards them, a livid baked-bean orange against the fresh snow. Mark had slumped on the back seat, looking vulnerable and drawn, as he had since Sally kissed him goodbye.

  It had been Richard’s idea to come here. They had the rest of the day to fill in somehow, waiting until Tony turned up at the house. They all knew that that was the reason for staying, but Mark refused to talk about him. Iris and Peggy set themselves on being supportive, and Richard took the lead in keeping them occupied.

  As they skirted through the abandoned streets, Richard was attempting to quell his pleasure in their delay. He wanted to keep them around for a while. He was sad that Sally was gone. He thought it was wrong of Sam just to take her like that. And he could plainly see the effect of it on Mark. Right now, though, all he could do was give them a decent time while they were here and hope that, perhaps, it wasn’t only for Tony’s sake that Mark was sticking around.

  For half an hour they rode through slumbering homes on the outskirts of town, the greenery muffled by snow and losing it in showers as the bus brushed past. Outside it was a winter wonderland spoiled by the smell of fuel and vomit onboard. They were on their way to Salt’s Mill, a converted building that was, in these conditions, a foolhardy distance away. But Iris had mentioned wanting to see the Hockney exhibition there.

  Richard was a great one for salvaging situations. He would do it for this one, too. He would give them a day to remember. Richard had accepted his mostly contingent role in other people’s lives. When these people looked back on this whole event, then at least they wouldn’t remember only the bleak bits.

  They were sitting upstairs in the diner, at a stainless-steel table. Richard was playing with the cocktail sugar, waiting for Mark to come back from the toilets.

  The windows were tall and arched, giving a muted view of Bradford. From up here it all looked clean and swept; the colours that showed were brighter because of the snow. Outside it looked as pristine as it was indoors. There was a gleam similar to the laser-copied ‘local snaps’ pinned to the walls. Colours here were unnaturally bright. The two ladies were looking about with interest, occasionally dipping into narrow-stemmed blue glasses of ice cream.

  “Sally would have loved the ice cream.”

  “For God’s sake, Iris, don’t say that when Mark gets back.”

  “Hockney’s drawn the menu. Shove one in your bag.”

  “He’s taking his time,” Peggy commented.

  “He’s upset. He probably needs a moment to let it all out.”

  “Don’t be melodramatic, Iris. They’ve only gone back home.”

  “To his home—that copper’s. Sam’s put things in motion now. She’s taking Sally away from him for good. For Mark, this is the beginning of the end. That’s what he’s upset about.”

  Iris’s voice had turned hard with a kind of recrimination. Picking up on this, Peggy said, “I know all that. I said to her, didn’t I, that she was being too rash.”

  A silence dropped between them and Richard was embarrassed. He was already implicated in their lives, and wanted to be, but he was still surprised at the ease with which they allowed him to overhear their difficulties. His family had kept themselves to themselves, hissing politely at each other in private, as in public. This kind of carry-on was common, he knew, but it was also the kind of carry-on he had left home to be part of. He wanted to be in a family that yelled at each other in public when the mood took them. Despite his inbred embarrassment, he admired the frank skill of this lot’s interactions. It seemed so much less fraught with misunderstanding than what he was used to.

  Sam, especially, had intrigued Richard, even though she had smacked him one. He could see that there was something about her. He still couldn’t see why Mark had thrown everything in to be with her—as far as he was concerned, Mark was a Class One 100 per cent fruit—but he still found her impressive for lashing out and protecting her family. Mark listened to Sam; his whole life was dependant upon her decisions. Richard could never hope to exert such an influence, and he reluctantly bowed before anyone who could.

  He discovered that he was watching the group at the next table intently. Four stiff-looking men in suits were sitting awkwardly in their chairs, picking over ridiculously large sandwiches. In their midst sat a very professional-looking woman in a similarly smart suit with a short skirt. Her hair was piled up high on her head and she twiddled little bits of watercress under her nose as she laughed, a light trilling note, at her companions’ gruff jokes.

  Iris and Peggy were watching too. “Poor cow,” Peggy muttered. ”Fancy having to put up with those old farts. Look at her skirt, too.”

  “She’s got to be sexier and more brilliant than that lot,” Iris said and sighed. “You can see what’s going on. So this is what they call post-feminism?”

  “Don’t, dear,” Peggy said. “You’ll only depress me.” She crammed her mouth with chocolate ice cream, stinging her more sensitive teeth. “I Think it was working like that, in a man’s world, that made our Sam hard.”

  Iris stared. “How can you say that?”

  “Well, it’s bound to, isn’t it? You have to harden up to operate in the wider world.”

  “She works in a frock shop!”

  “It’s still a man’s world. Business.”

  Iris shook her head. “It’s neither a man’s nor a woman’s. It’s what you call patriarchal. That’s what your Sam’s been steeped in.”

  Peggy looked obscurely offended. She wasn’t quite sure what Iris was saying about her daughter.

  “I know,” Iris added, “a
bout gender. It’s been my business to know, remember.”

  Richard perked up, surprising them. “Is that because you’re gay?”

  “We never used that word in my day,” she said sniffily. “The girls wore bunches of violets on their lapels. And anyway, my being gay is not really the point. I know about gender because I’ve been a woman and a man, in the course of a terribly long life.”

  “Oh!” said Richard.

  “I’ve done a hell of a lot of field work.”

  “Don’t let her bore you,” Peggy said. “Go and see if Mark’s out of the toilets yet. See what he’s doing in there.”

  Vaguely discomforted by being dismissed, as well as by being sent to patrol the toilets, Richard complied.

  “Tell him we’ll see him downstairs,” Iris cried out, making all the business people look up from their working lunch. “We’ll be downstairs in the main gallery.”

  THEY HAD SLOWED RIGHT DOWN. IT WAS HARD TO TELL WHETHER IT WAS light or dark outside. It was simply blue, a gloom like the bottom of the sea. Every time Bob seemed about to accelerate, when a relatively snow-free empty patch of road open up, Sam would seize his arm and get him to slow. She didn’t care if it took till tomorrow morning. She wanted them to get home in one piece.

  Behind them, strapped tightly in place and clutching her new kangaroo, sat Sally. She was listening to the Top Forty from 1978 on the radio.

  “We’ll pop in somewhere and fetch fish and chips for tea,” Sam promised.

  Bob wondered bitterly how they would do that. He could see hardly anything either side of them. The day was narrowing down to the span of his twin headlights. He was starving and worn out by now. They had the kid and the day’s work was done. Strange that he didn’t feel pleased or proud, or anything. His triumph had been subordinated to Sam’s mood, which was still one of grim resolution. Since setting out from Headingley she had not mentioned Mark, Iris or Peggy once.

  “Tomorrow we’re going shopping,” she was saying now over her shoulder to the kid, who listened attentively. “We’ve got to buy things for your new room, until we get sorted out with our old stuff. You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Sally? All new things? We’ll make it all posh. You never got your Christmas presents properly, either—so we’ll make it special again and buy lots of new stuff. You could have a cassette deck in your room and play it as loud as you like. That’s important. And toys. We’ll get lots of everything. The sales will be on by now, so it’s better, really, to buy stuff now.”