by Gavin McCrea
—What have you got?
It was Eva this time.
—Hmm? Simon glanced up. Oh, nothing astonishing. Talks at Number 10. A thing on what the Jews believe. You?
—How to make an asset of your shortcomings.
—And?
Eva shook her head.
Simon yawned an artificial yawn. Folded up the Pictorial. Threw it on an unoccupied chair. Waved at the woman behind the counter to fill up his cup. Tilted another swig of brandy in. Opened up the Observer.
—Do you know something, Uncle Simon? said Iris.
—What?
She looked distastefully at his coffee cup:
—Alcohol contains no proteins or vitamins. All it provides to the body is heat energy. And calories.
—Did you get that from your magazine?
—Miss Fletcher. She gave me a book.
—On fermentation?
—On intoxication. The problem drinker is a sick person who needs a hospital. Medical science can cure him. There were diagrams.
—Your parents’ll be glad they’re getting their money’s worth.
—My parents? Not their money, is it? Grandma pays the tutor.
—Who told you that?
—Grandma did. She says I’d be illiterate if it weren’t for her.
—That’s enough of that.
—What?
—Talking about money.
—Why?
—You’re a child. Children shouldn’t.
Simon put his elbow on the table and supported the side of his face against the palm of his good hand. Iris watched him read the Observer headline. And reread it. Again. And again. His eyes moving across it, until:
—May I drop on this spot.
With a sudden focus, he scanned down through the article.
—May I get run over and smashed.
—What? said Iris.
—Finish up, we’ve to get back.
—So it’s home now, all of a sudden? said Eva. We’ve half our chips left.
—Move now!
Back at the theatre — a rush to the Tube, and a rush from it — Simon opened the rehearsal studio door only a crack, and passed soundlessly in. The sisters, heeding his order for quiet, crept after him. In the centre of the room, their mother was sitting behind a table, dressed in a judge’s scarlet gown. Sitting in a line in front of her were four actors in Chinese masks. Their father mouthed something to Doris — Iris could not make out what — and Doris jumped up and gently herded the newcomers back outside.
—Sorry, Doris said, softly closing the door behind her. You’s have come at the bad moment.
—I need to speak with Paul, said Simon. Urgent.
—Ain’t a good time.
Doris ushered Iris and Eva further away from the doorway.
—We’s in the middle of something tricky, and you know your brother when he’s stressed. Can’t it wait till tonight?
Doris touched the crook of Simon’s elbow, as if to herd him off. Iris watched her uncle look down at Doris’s hand. If he wanted to, with just a twitch of an arm, he could have swatted her aside. A flutter, a jerk, a bark and she would be out of his way and disposed of.
—You’re right, Doris, he said. I do know my brother. And I know he’ll want to see this.
From where he had it, pressed against the side of his thigh, he raised up the Observer, held it out to the side so that he could look at it too; displayed it as a barrister might a damning piece of evidence to a jury.
—Oh that, said Doris.
—So you’ve already seen it?
She dove her hands into her pockets and pouted:
—Ain’t exactly a surprise. We’s been hearing about it for a while. We knew it’d be published sooner or later.
—And now here it is. In all its beauty. Not just gossip any more. The whole thing, printed out, start to finish. Worse than any of your lot would’ve imagined, I’d say.
Doris withdrew her hands from her pockets in order, self-protectively, to fold her arms:
—A difficult development. But nothing we can’t get over.
Iris could not take her eyes off the line of fine dark hair above Doris’s lip, where there was dampness caught.
—A difficult development? Simon said. That’s all you’re going to say? You’re a communist now, aren’t you? Like the rest of them? You must have a proper opinion about it.
Doris turned to the sisters:
—Girls, d’you mind going to your rooms? Me and your uncle need a minute for some grown-up talk.
Iris did not move, Eva neither, and Simon did not order them away.
—They’re not doing any harm and have as much right as you to be here.
—Ahuhn, Eva said. That’s right.
This made Simon laugh.
Doris’s eyelids shivered as his breath hit her.
—I’m ending this, she said and made to walk away.
He caught her wrist.
She tugged herself free.
—He hasn’t seen it yet, has he? I think we should get him out here so we can show it to him. I’m sure he wouldn’t like to be kept in the dark.
Doris did not move:
—Don’t show him that paper.
—Hmm?
—Don’t, Simon. Keep it away from him for now. Rehearsals are already tense enough. That article is the last thing he needs to see. Word’ll reach him soon enough, and we’ll deal with it then.
Doris held her hand out.
—Can I have it?
Her mouth was open, her cheeks were aflame. She grasped the edge of the paper:
—Simon? Can I have it please?
—Chat-a-nooga-choo-choo, Simon began to sing (which was something he learned to do while charging towards the enemy; it helped to block out the mind, he said. There’s very little difference as to the sensations in the body before pulling a trigger and before stealing a kiss).
—What’s the matter with you? said Doris. Let go.
She began to pull on her side of the paper. He did not resist her totally, rather just enough to keep a handle on his side, and to have her pull him towards her.
—For fuck sake, Simon, this is getting—
He let go of the paper, knowing that her own force would propel her backwards, and that, thus positioned against the wall, all he would have to do in order to fondle her breasts, and to rub his groin against her V, and to have the taste of her neck in his mouth, was to feign a trip and to stumble forwards.
—ahh!
She pushed him away. Gave him a furious glare. Then rushed back into the studio.
The newspaper lay on the floor at Iris’s feet. She reached down and picked it up.
—Here, said Eva, give me that.
Iris clasped her arms around it:
—No, I got it first.
—Uncle Simon, tell Iris to give me the paper.
But Simon was already on his way down the stairs.
—What are we supposed to do with it? Eva called after him.
—It’s a newspaper, he said. Read it.
—Which part?
—You’re a smart girl. Figure it out.
—What’s it about?
—It’s about Russia. Your parents’ god. And how it has failed.
—Shall I give it to Papa? said Iris.
—You want him to see sense, don’t you?
They were outside the London Carlton on St Martin’s Lane waiting for the evening performance to end. The plan was to try and sell paper trips to the theatregoers as they came out.
—So? said Keith. I don’t see the point of the story. What did you do wrong?
—The point, said Iris, is what I did next. I knew I shouldn’t have. Even Eva warned me, Don’t dare show that paper to P
apa. But I didn’t listen. That same evening I went and gave it to him.
—And?
—All hell broke loose. The beginning of the end.
—End of what?
—The theatre. My parents’ marriage.
—Over a thing in a newspaper?
—It was the first domino. I knocked it over.
The path outside the London Carlton was illuminated by the lights on the building’s façade. The theatre’s name was written in red neon. The sign board and the posters for the current production were framed with yellow bulbs. Standing in it, the light felt unnaturally bright: daytime forced into the night.
—The article must’ve been important, then, said Keith. What was it about?
—Oh God. Believe it not, I can remember the headline exactly. KHRUSHCHEV’S EXPOSURE OF STALIN IN FULL. RUSSIA’S 20 YEARS OF TERROR.
—What? That’s all it was? I thought you were going to say it was about your family. Like, dirt someone had dug up.
—Nah, spade, you’ve got things the wrong way around. For my parents the state of the world was more important than anything else. Family dirt would have been nothing. And actually, now that you mention it, the article was about family. It was our dirt. My parents had been Party members for more than twenty years. They’d joined when they were students and had stayed in through all the bad years. Even when every week there was a new report going around about the abuses in the Soviet Union, they’d stayed in.
—So this article finally made them leave?
—No, not even then. You have to understand, my parents’ dream had always been to open London’s first communist theatre ensemble, and they were on the verge of realising it. They couldn’t bring themselves to leave the Party just a couple of months before opening night. Instead, they called this big meeting and told the actors that they’d read the article and had decided, despite everything, to stay in. Then, typical of my parents, they gave the actors an ultimatum. Anyone who wanted to continue working at The East Wind had to stay in as well.
—What happened? Did they?
—Half of them did. The other half tore up their Party membership cards and refused to continue to work with anyone who didn’t do the same. They gave my parents an ultimatum of their own: if they didn’t leave the Party immediately, they’d walk. My parents probably thought they were bluffing. What actor would walk away from a steady paying job? But that’s exactly what they did, leaving my parents with only half an ensemble.
It was now half past nine. The woman in the London Carlton box office had said the play would finish at thirty-five minutes past. Keith dropped his load of IT magazines onto the ground by the theatre’s left-hand corner. Their idea was to set themselves up as sellers of the magazine. Size up the people who bought a copy and, if they judged them to be genuinely tuned in, offer them a trip as well. Iris, tired of standing, sat down on the stack.
—You know, she said, I’ve thought about it a lot, and really there’s no getting away from it. It was me who showed my parents that article, so it was my fault those actors left.
—You blame yourself? said Keith. Your parents would’ve seen the article sooner or later, right?
—Yeah, but timing is everything, isn’t it? Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered so much if they’d seen it later. After opening night. What actor would leave a successful production?
—Ah, that’s some mystical shit there. A load of what ifs. You’ll drive yourself crazy with that shit.
—Part of me thinks that, subconsciously, I planned it. That I wanted to destroy my parents’ theatre.
—That doesn’t make any sense. You told me you enjoyed living in the theatre. You said you was proud your parents was theatre people. That you liked being around the actors.
—But I was never allowed to be fully part of it, was I? I was always kept on the sidelines. The spastic child.
—Could’ve been much worse.
—It wasn’t that bad, you’re right.
She had been happy enough while she had everyone, her parents and the actors, all to herself. But then Eva came home from boarding school, and from the moment she walked in the door, she started getting in on the act. Ingratiating herself with everybody and making it obvious she wanted to be part of the theatre. And Iris could not let that happen. She had to stop her.
—If I couldn’t be part of the theatre, then I wanted no one else to be. So I got what I wanted, I suppose. But it didn’t look like that at first. When the actors left, the theatre didn’t just close right then and there. My parents didn’t give up on it so easily. They tried to salvage it. Did this frantic search for new members. Ran last-minute auditions. And guess who got a part.
—Your sister?
She nodded.
—So, hang on, said Keith. You wanted to stop Eva getting a part, but instead you ended up getting her one? Fuck, girl, you was stung.
—We were all stung, we just didn’t know it yet. The truth is, the moment my parents gave Eva that part, they kissed their theatre, and their marriage, goodbye.
Keith arranged his face in a confused expression:
—It’s all fucked up. But you know something? Somewhere I understand why you did what you did. And why your parents did what they did. It’s Simon I can’t figure out. Why was he so eager to show your parents the article? Wasn’t he living in the theatre and drawing a wage there? What would he have gained from blowing everything up?
—Simon? He’s the simplest part of the puzzle. First off, he hated communists. Still does. He’d do anything to prove them wrong. Second, he only has one thing on his mind. Money. He has this idea, you see, of leaving England and going to live in Italy. He says he wants to buy a house in this little village he passed through during the war. Maybe he met a girl there or something. The point is, he’s short on prospects, so he got it into his head that because my mother’s family is rich, my mother must know how to make money, and that, if my parents were raking it in, he’d benefit from that somehow. He knew, though, that a communist theatre wasn’t going to make anything. He thought my parents should be putting on popular shows that’d bring lots of punters. For that to happen, he needed to turn my parents into capitalists, which first meant convincing them to leave the Party.
—Easier just to get a job.
—And it’s same with Wherehouse. He doesn’t care about what we do. For him, we’re just a means to an end. A place where he can live rent-free and save all the takings for his big move.
—Will he ever go, do you think?
—To Italy? Who fucking knows. I’d be surprised if he hadn’t saved enough money by now. Don’t know what’s stopping him.
Iris got up and went to the line of black-and-white rehearsal photographs on the theatre wall. Pressed her finger against the glass behind which the photograph was mounted.
—If you ask me, she said, the really tough one to figure out is her.
—Who?
Keith bent forward and brought his nose close to the photograph.
—Is that—
—The one and only. Why did she allow Doris to work in the theatre? None of Papa’s other girls were ever given a job like that. And why did she let Papa give Eva a role in the play? What sort of mother does that? Do you know what the role was? A fucking prostitute. Her own daughter.
Keith listened with narrowed eyes:
—Iris, what are you up to? Is there some other reason we’re here?
—We’re here to sell the International Times to London’s hip and happening theatregoers.
—Don’t bullshit me.
—All right, maybe I wanted to show you.
—Show me what?
—Where the demon woman works.
Keith walked out to the kerb. Looked up at the sign board.
—Miss Julie?
—That’s the play.
—I
know that’s the play. Alissa Thurlow. Is that her? The name sounds made up.
—It’s not. It’s hers. Ours.
—You use your mother’s name?
—It’s what happened after the divorce.
—Ah, right. Money. Your mother’s the rich one. It’s always about that. You hate her, as well, for having money?
Iris sucked in her lips: yes.
Keith came back to stand beside Iris.
—So let me get this straight, Miss Thurlow. First you take me to meet your Holy Joe father. Now you want me to meet your famous mother who you hate and don’t even talk to?
—We’re not going to meet her. I just brought you here to show you what she does.
—Why?
—You’re right, who cares.
—You care. That’s my point. I’ve seen the scrapbook you keep with all her reviews and interviews. You hate her because you care. It’d be easier, you know, just to talk to her.