by Gavin McCrea
She took it from him and swigged from it and did not say thanks.
Simon had been against allowing someone from outside the family in on the job, and a Negro at that, but once he saw how well Iris and Keith worked as a team, how much they were selling, and how quickly, he ceased his objections.
—Your Man Friday can come in on this one, but then he has to fuck off, that clear? As soon as the backlog is moved, we’re going back to the old way, just you and me.
—All right.
—Just tell me you’re not fucking him.
—I’m not.
—Didn’t think so. You’re too smart. Come to me if he tries to touch you, and I’ll sort him out. All right? I mean it.
Sober, or close to it, Iris joined Keith in his natural habitat: on the margins of the parties. From there, she scrutinised. Noticed what she had not noticed before. Understood what one had to be lucid to understand.
—Tell you what though, she said to him, it’s better when you’ve dropped.
—Reality isn’t enough?
—Or maybe it’s too much. That might be why.
She was being drawn into friendship with Keith by swift, imperceptible stages. Because she had warned him not to ask her about her personal affairs, and because he had the irritating habit of respecting her wishes, they shared quite a lot of silence at first. She did her best to welcome this: the global sum of evil would be diminished if people learned to sit together quietly. But, over a stretch of days, the quiet became harder to sustain.
They began to talk, and she learned a few facts about his life. His father had been an American GI stationed in Portsmouth during the war. His mother was a local girl, a waitress. They met at a dance and walked out for a year before he was transferred to France, where he was killed. When Keith was born, his mother resisted the pressure to send him to a children’s home and raised him on her own. It was from her that Keith got his love for Simon and Garfunkel. (Don’t worry, said Iris, we can change that.) He telephoned her every week and sent her cards and, whenever he came by it, money.
—Are you going to send her some of your earnings from this job?
—Probably.
—Are you guilty? Is that why you do it?
—Do what?
—Send your mother money. Phone her.
—Don’t know. Don’t think so. Anyway, what do I have to be guilty about?
—D’you love her? I mean really love her, exactly as she is?
—She’s me mam, so yeah.
—Then you’re not like most people. Most people can’t accept their mothers for who they are. Not really.
—It’s sad you don’t love your own mother.
—Sad? No. The best day of my life was when I learned that love isn’t a duty, that I didn’t have to love anyone, including my mother. Loving only who you want to love, that’s freedom, man.
—You think you’re free?
—In that sense, yeah I am.
—Not sure about that. You’re still busy with your mam in your mind, i’nt ya? It’s natural you still have feelings for her. They never go away.
—I have feelings all right. I won’t deny that.
—What did she do, anyway, to make you hate her so much?
—I don’t hate her. I just don’t want anything to do with her, for my own personal reasons.
—The divorce?
—Cliché, right? But, yeah, that’s part of it.
—Was it your mam’s fault?
—Suppose so. Partly. Papa wasn’t innocent either.
—But you don’t hate him.
—I know what that sounds like. It’s not easy to explain.
—All right.
—What do you mean all right? I don’t like how you said that.
—I just said all right.
—Look, it’s like this. They both made mistakes. But Mama was the one who walked away, you know? They could have worked it out.
—She might’ve had her reasons.
—Their theatre failed. That was her reason. She liked working with Papa more than she liked being his wife. Their collaboration was what kept her with him. Her the actress, him the director, you know? A double act thing. They’d still be together if their theatre had taken off. That’s my reading, anyway.
—Why did it fail?
—The East Wind?
—Yeah. Was that your Mam’s fault?
—No. To be honest, if anyone’s to blame for that, it’s—
She turned to face into the flashing lights and the music, where everything was simple and stable, where the people — the seekers and the heads and the hippies and the junkies and the tourists — existed for sensation, and that alone was what united them.
—It’s all right, Keith said, his breath on her ear. We don’t have to talk about it any more.
The bomb site beside The East Wind theatre had changed little since the day soon after the war’s end when a lorry came to take away the larger pieces of debris. After that, once the advertising hoardings went up, the site was left to harden into its current form, and to settle into the environment as a permanent ruin. Its central area, where four terraced houses had collapsed in their entirety, was a wasteground of interconnecting mounds of earth. Folded into these mounds, like raisins into a cake, were bits of masonry and glass and metal and wood. Telegraph poles, snapped in the middle like matches, stuck out and lay around. Rough grass pushed through the cracks. Dock and nettle insisted on a life, undeterred by dog shit, littered packets and old ashes. At different places ivy, privet, elder, and rosebay willowherb had taken hold.
Marking the limits of the site were the side walls of the surviving terraces, onto which the remnants of the neighbouring houses still clung. Visible against the brick were the outlines of a staircase and parts of the internal floors and walls. On the patches of plaster that had not fallen away, one could just about make out where wallpaper might have been or a picture might have hung. To Iris, from her vantage point on top of the highest mound, it was reminiscent of a doll’s house that had been opened out, the fourth wall removed.
Beside her, Simon kicked the mound with the toe of his boot. Struck it with the sharp end of his shovel.
—Don’t look promising, he said. I doubt we’ll find much that’ll be of use to us. But seeing as we’re here, we might as well have a root round, see what turns up.
Now that the refurbishment of the theatre was all but done, Simon had let the building team go. He would do the last jobs himself. From time to time, he brought Iris and Eva to the wasteland to help find materials for the stage set of the theatre’s first play, The Sing-Song Tribunal.
—Any loose bricks you find, pile them there.
He used the shovel to point to a flat circle of ground by the hoarding.
—Metal, put it there. Wood there. Any junk or bric-a-brac, anything intact, anything shiny, bring to me, and I’ll make a call on it.
In the area where the second of the four houses had fallen, the ground had sunk to form a crater. This was the sisters’ favourite spot, to which they ran now and into which they slid on their arses. They began to rummage and dig. Iris was the first to find something interesting, a bit of a window frame, which she took back to Simon to inspect.
Up the side of the mound, she ran, and took hold of the back of Simon’s shirt in order to keep her balance on the uneven summit.
Dropping the stub of his cigarette, Simon trod the embers underfoot. Stood the shovel so that it rested against his chest. Wrapped his right arm around the handle to free his good hand. Then took the window frame from her.
—Hmm, he said, throwing the frame into his wheelbarrow. Maybe.
From the pocket of his overalls, he took out Max’s drawing of the set. Holding a corner of the page, he unfolded it with his teeth. As he examined the sketch, he was careful to keep his fingers off the pen
cil to avoid smudging it further.
—Can I see? said Iris.
Her cheek brushed against his arm as she leaned in to get a look.
—Hang on, he said. I’m thinking.
She made an attempt to handle the drawing.
Simon lifted it out of her reach.
—It’s the only copy. I can’t get it mucked up.
She filled her cheeks with air and released it through her lips.
—Where’s Eva? said Simon.
—Over there. She’s cut herself.
—Blinkin Mavis, that didn’t take long.
Simon slung the shovel over his shoulder and went down the side of the mound, allowing gravity to pull him into a run.
Iris chased behind him:
—Don’t tell her I told you.
Locally the bomb site was called the Patch. The children of the area were warned by their mothers not to go playing in the Patch — I’ll belt you if I see you in the Patch, they’ll have you up if they catch you in the Patch — even though there was nothing especially dangerous about it; the Patch posed less risk to a roaming child than the gang-infested streets surrounding it. These warnings were the consequence of a superstition people had that when the past returned, it would come in the same form, to the same place, which was a stupid thing to believe, Iris thought. How could people be afraid of what has happened? It was not possible to tell the future from the past like that. The things that were going to happen would not be anything like the things that had happened, and, if her parents were to be believed, would be much worse. After the next war, it would not be just a terrace but London itself, the whole of Europe, that the children would name the Patch.
Approaching, Iris could see that Eva had her right hand pressed under her left forearm.
—You all right, toots? said Simon. Let me see your hand.
Eva glared at Iris.
—What? Iris said. I didn’t say anything.
Simon knelt down beside Eva.
—Show it me here, he said. Come on. Give.
Eva released her hand and held it out. Simon took her wrist: an open cut on her finger, blood rubbed over her skin, stains on her sleeve and down the side of her dress.
—You’ve got it all over yourself. Your folks’ll have me guts.
He whipped out his handkerchief. Flicked it in the air to unfold it. Wrapped it around the cut.
—Ugh, said Eva.
—Ugh nothing, he said. Just out of the wash.
He held the wrapping in place with this thumb.
—Iris, I’ll press here and you tie the knot.
As she did so, Iris avoided Eva’s glare.
—How’s that, Eva? said Simon. Better?
Eva nodded.
—I should get you both out of here before you do yourselves a real injury.
—No! said Iris.
Simon stood up from kneeling:
—Come on. I’ve got a thirst anyway.
—What, the pub again? said Eva.
—We’ll get some grub at a caff, what d’you say? Aren’t you hungry?
—I’m covered in blood, said Eva. I can’t go about like this. We shouldn’t even be out here. Why can’t we go back in and watch the rehearsals?
—You need to learn to know, child, when and where you’re not welcome.
The Tube took them to Notting Hill Gate, then they walked south towards Kensington High Street.
—Where we off to? said Eva.
—What’re you in the mood for? Egg and chips?
—Long way to come for egg and chips.
—I’ve a message to run as well.
—Thought so. You see, Iris? We’re never just brought to a place. It’s never, I’m taking you here because I think you’ll like it. There’s always another reason. An ulterior motive.
—Don’t be clever, Eva.
Kensington, according to Simon, was a sordid and miserable place. Drab and patched and tired out. Not old like Italy was old; just old-fashioned. He knew a few men who had ended up in these desolate bedsitters, with their indoor dustbins and their dry rot. He claimed not to be surprised by the frequent news of their suicides.
—In fact I’d say the real number is higher. The families hide it, you see.
On the High Street, near the corner with Allen Street, was a newspaper shop. An advertising board outside showed a headline from the News of the World. In the window were sweet bottles gone sticky and packets of Players faded by the sun. On the wall by the door someone had pasted a poster, which Iris read aloud:
—PEOPLE OF KENSINGTON ACT NOW
And underneath:
—NIGGER LEAVE OUR GIRLS ALONE
Inside was gloomy and smelled of stale tobacco smoke and glue and liquorice allsorts.
—Can we have chewing gum? said Iris.
—No. Pick out something to read.
The only good light was provided by a bare fluorescent bulb above the register. The shopkeeper, Arthur, sat illuminated there, his pale skin turned near to green. When he saw Simon coming in, Arthur got up and went through a curtain of red-white-and-blue ribbons. Simon waited for him at the counter.
—Can I have this? said Iris.
She was holding up a Woman’s Own.
—No, said Simon. Something else.
—Exactly, said Eva. You’re ten.
Arthur came back in with two items. A magazine concealed in black plastic. And a block of something, the size of a book, wrapped in green paper and string. Only years later would Iris understand that her uncle was buying a girly mag and a kilo of hashish.
—One and two, said Arthur. Anything else?
Arthur had a soft voice and in everyday conduct was kind and gentle. When Simon first met him, soon after landing in Salerno, he had said to himself, This one won’t last. It’s blokes like him that get popped. But then one night, under long bombardment, Simon saw Arthur’s other side.
—What was his other side like? Iris once asked Simon.
—Dark. Like the bit of the moon you don’t see.
—Simon, mate, Arthur said now. Anything else?
—Eh yeah sorry, Arthur.
Iris had chosen an edition of Amazing Stories. Eva an out-of-date Everywoman discounted to half price. From the rack, Simon snatched a Sunday Pictorial and an Observer.
—These as well. And a packet of Du Mauriers.
Simon tried paying with money crunched up in his fist. But Arthur did not care for that, and counted it out in the open, flattening each note on the counter. And it was a lot.
—Uncle Simon? said Iris, wide-eyed.
—Shh.
Arthur did not open the register but put the cash straight into his pocket.
—All there? Simon said.
—All there, Arthur said. Let me know how you get on.
For food, as promised, Simon took the girls to a caff near Kensington Station. There were motorcycles parked at angles on the path outside, and a group of Teddy Boys was standing about. One of them — drape jacket, drainpipe trousers, Tony Curtis quiff with plenty on the front — stepped in to block the door.
—Scuse us, said Simon.
—Scuse you, said the Teddy without moving.
Instinctively Simon pushed the sisters back so that they were behind him. He had put the girly mag and the hashish, too big for any of his pockets, inside his jacket and zipped it up. To stop them falling through the hem, he was holding them in place with his good hand.
The Teddy took a step forward:
—You gonna show what you have there, geezer, or’ll I have to make you?
Gaze locked to his adversary’s, Simon breathed.
Iris could hear his breath in her ears: in, out, in—
Feigning to check on the sisters, Simon turned his head so that the scars o
n his neck would be visible. Then he folded back his cuff to reveal the smooth head of his stump.
The Teddy flinched.
Simon met his eyes again.
The Teddy stepped aside.
Inside the caff, Simon guided the girls to a table and went to order at the counter. Silent, suspicious, Iris watched him unload the plates and cups from the tray to the tabletop. He pulled a second table over and joined it to theirs. Went round and sat on the same side as the girls, facing out.
—Iris, you come here and sit beside me.
She dragged her chair closer, and Simon put his bad arm around her shoulder.
—Eva, you go sit over there, he said, nodding at the empty chair on the opposite side of the table.
Back in the war, it was the calm and quiet ones, the undistinguished people who withstood the pressures and could be relied upon, whereas the extroverts, the people who showed great bravado — My God I can’t wait to get at those Jerries! — crumbled in an instant; the moment they were fired on, they froze or ran away or exploded in a puff of smoke. It was for this reason, Simon once told Iris, that he could not love the sisters equally.
—Eat up, he said now. And you know the rule, no noises.
While Iris played with her chips, dipping them into the eggs and watching the yolks spill over, afraid to scrape her knife on the plate, Simon slurped from his coffee, which, while paying, he had surreptitiously dashed with some brandy from his flask. She could smell it.
Simon laid out his newspapers on the empty bit of table.
—Uncle Simon?
—Ahuhn?
—What is it anyway?
—What?
She prodded the bulge in his jacket:
—That.
—Shh. Enough talking. Read your magazine.
He went through the Sunday Pictorial without stopping to read below any of the photographs. Thinking back on this, Iris supposed that he was probably distracted, now that he had the hashish on his person, by the numbers in his mind. The calculations. He would have learned the economics of it from Arthur, and it would have boggled him. In The East Wind he had access, Arthur would have told him, to a ready market. He was sitting on a goldmine. Actors, you see, when they were not working, had lives so monotonous, so painful that the urge to escape themselves led them beyond the everyday staples of coffee and drink into the darker realm of powder and pills. And when they were working it was even worse: during a long run especially, longing each night to beat the heights of the previous performance, they chewed all kinds of stuff, mostly Benzedrine, to get themselves through it. Half of The East Wind were probably already addicts. And how did addicts, brought to be so alert, get to sleep at night? How did they calm down and switch off? More and more it was to hashish they were turning. Haven’t tried it myself, Arthur would have said, but this is what the freaks are after these days, and it’s supposed to work a dream. If Simon played his cards right, he could clear this kilo-block in a couple of weeks, which would bring in more than a bank clerk earned in six months. The numbers would have looked wrong to him, they were so high, but once he had gone over them and over them, and made sure there was no catch, he would have begun to believe that, actually, contrary to what was popularly said, there was nothing easier to get than money, nor was there anything in the world more important. Once he had realised this, there would have come to churn constantly in his mind the thoughts of saving and accumulating, saving and accumulating. Cash, brass, wonga, swift dinero: he was panting for it, all the time. And, you bet you, it had to be swift. For, in fifteen years maximum, the H-bomb would have disposed of them all, and there were things he wanted to do first. Get away from England, for starters.