by Gavin McCrea
—Easier? To be at each other’s throats all the time? To have a shit relationship like everyone else?
He shrugged:
—Yeah.
The theatre doors opened, and people began streaming out. Iris picked up three copies of the magazine. Turned them to face outwards and held them by the edges so that the cover was visible.
—Can I interest you in an International Times? she said. All the inside news from the underground?
Most ignored her. Those who bought a copy looked too old, or too suburban, or too stiff, or too perfumed to be interested in what else she was selling.
—Can I have a couple of those?
The voice came from behind her. She turned to see a young couple, mid-thirties. Him: a suede-silk shirt and round glasses with tinted lenses. Her: a pink headband, black eye make-up and a PVC mackintosh bunched at the waist. They were smiling and holding hands.
—Sure, said Iris. I’ll give you two for one. That way you’ll have no arguments about who gets to read it in bed tonight.
Keith, who was holding the drugs, was a hovering presence two paces behind.
—How much? said the man.
—Bob and sixpence.
While the man rummaged in his pockets, Iris folded two copies and handed them to the woman.
—I love this magazine, she said.
Iris observed the woman’s fake eyelashes fluttering, and the gloss on her lips spreading into a smile, as she scanned the cover. Iris thought of Eva, who disdained IT magazine because the only politics it had was: Smoke anything, inhale anything, inject anything, it’s your life, baby, do it.
The man gave Iris two shillings.
Iris searched her pouch for the change.
—Were you at the show?
—We were, said the woman, putting the magazines under her arm. I enjoyed it. Him, not so much.
—Not my thing, the man said. Got the tickets for free. Didn’t want to waste them.
Iris put the change into the man’s hand, which he had kept open to receive it.
—How about Alissa Thurlow? Was she any good?
The couple glanced at each other, amused.
—Well, I just love her, said the woman. I always make sure to watch her when she’s on the telly. The dramas. And the costume stuff. Personally I think she’s one of our best.
—How did she get on as MISS JULIE? said Iris.
—Well, she’s the best ever MISS JULIE, isn’t she? She’s the, what’s the word—?
—Definitive? said the man.
—Yes, the definitive MISS JULIE. No one can do MISS JULIE like Alissa Thurlow. When you think of MISS JULIE, you think of her.
—Shit, though, how old is Alissa Thurlow now? said Iris.
—I don’t know. Forties, fifties?
—Isn’t MISS JULIE supposed to be a young woman?
—Honestly, that doesn’t really matter. Alissa Thurlow is so good, she just pulls you in and takes you away, and you forget about her age and all that. That’s my opinion anyway.
The man chucked his chin at Iris:
—I’m with you on this. She’s way too old for that part.
Iris let them walk away without offering them trips.
Keith came to stand beside her again:
—No?
She shook her head:
—You’re right. We shouldn’t have come here.
—I didn’t say that.
—So I’m saying it then. We shouldn’t have.
They walked back to King’s Cross. Bought wine at an off-licence near the station.
—Your uncle won’t be happy that we haven’t sold everything.
—We’ve had a good run. He can’t complain. I won’t let him.
The streets were quiet. The after-work rush long over. In Somers Town the sitting rooms were occupied and the television sets were on: squares within squares of light. Muffled bursts of gunfire and laughter came through the glass in the windows. Making their final turn, Iris saw a white van parked at the Wherehouse entrance, and a group of figures standing nearby. She pulled Keith into a doorway.
—Is that them? he said. Your group?
She squinted into the gloom. None of the body shapes appeared familiar.
—There’s a van. But I don’t recognise the people.
One by one the figures disappeared inside the lodging house door.
—Are they breaking in? said Keith.
—They could have forced the lock.
Once the coast was clear, Iris ran up and checked the lodging house door. The lock was intact. Inside, the lodging house was empty, the only sound was The Doors’ new album, Waiting for the Sun, coming from the Indian lodgers’ rooms downstairs.
They went through to the theatre. They could hear voices coming from the auditorium.
—Hello? Iris called out before going in.
The figures were scattered around the room. Two butch-looking men were examining the half-finished lanterns on the worktables. On the stage, a pair of blond men in army jackets were talking to Per, the Swede. Nearby, an Indian in a turban was peering into the wings. The Jamaicans, Glen and Eggie, were smoking by the second exit. Álvaro was next to them. His head was wrapped in bandages, and he was obviously excited to be in the Jamaicans’ company, and he was obviously telling them how amazing Paris had been, for his voice was raised and he was gesticulating wildly.
—Álvaro? said Iris.
Everyone stopped talking and turned towards her.
Eva appeared from behind the rack of moveable seating.
—What the fuck? said Iris.
Eva ruffled her own hair:
—The fascist cut. You like?
—Who are these people? said Iris. Where is everyone?
—There’s been a change of guard. This is the collective now. Everyone, listen up. This is my sister.
The bodies shifted around and waved.
—You look well, Eva said. You’ve put on weight.
—I’ve been looking after myself.
Eva gave her a wide smile. Her face was dirty and her breath smelled, which did not suit her.
—I see you’ve let some people stay, she said.
—I didn’t know when you’d be coming back.
—It’s all right. As long as they contribute, and they’re good.
It took a moment for Iris to realise that the man emerging from the workbenches was Doris. Her head had been completely shaved. She wore an oversized black leather jacket, an old check shirt, blue jeans and flat black boots. A borrowed look. A man’s silhouette. In this guise, she was — it sickened Iris to admit — spectacular.
—Hi there, Doris said.
—So you came back, Iris said. Have you seen Papa yet? You need to phone him. He’s climbing the walls.
Doris pushed her hands deep into her pockets:
—I like your lanterns. Eva tells me you’ve been working on them with the local kids.
—Just call him. He’s your fucking husband.
—I see you bought wine, said Eva. Here let me.
She took the bottle out of Iris’s hand.
—We got rice and vegetables. I was about to cook a stir-fry. A celebratory first supper. You and your friends will join us of course.
Iris switched her gaze between Eva and Doris, then ran it along the new faces arranged in a row behind them. Perfect. A picture postcard. Eva had it all now. Her detachment of politicos. Her loyal boyfriend. Her mother’s theatre. Her father’s lover.
Eva took a step forwards:
—Also—
She lowered her voice, though not enough to be unheard by the others.
—I wanted to say that we’re sorry we left like we did. The clock was against us. You’d have hated it anyway. Definitely not your thing.
/> Iris had been playing with one of her pendants, running it along its chain so that it made a noise like a zip opening. Now she dropped it so that it fell against her chest:
—It’s not your place to decide what’s my thing and what isn’t.
—You’re right, you’re right. Can we call this a new start?
—That depends.
Iris directed her words at the men in the army jackets and Mao pins, who, like so many of their kind before, would be interpreting her appearance as a sign of weakness.
—I want to know everything that happened while you were away. Where everyone is gone. Who these people are. What your plan is now.
—We’ll tell you everything. Over dinner. But first things first. Do we have any money?
—We’re there already?
—There’s no time to waste.
—What do you need money for?
Doris touched Eva’s shoulder as a request to take over.
—Listen, Iris, she said, a lot has happened, but the long and short of it is, I’s agreed to collaborate with Wherehouse, on a—. You’s would call it a happening, I call it a performance. We’s still at the initial stages, chucking ideas around. Before we go any further, but, we need to know if there’s funds. Ain’t much point planning something if we can’t afford to do it.
Iris put a hand over her pouch:
—Money? Not a lot. Some.
—Smashing, said Eva. That’s smashing. Now the other thing. The film projector. Is it with the props in the storage room?
—I think Simon has it upstairs. What do you need it for?
—After dinner I was going to show the group the film of The Sing-Song Tribunal.
—Why?
—I was telling Doris about it, and she thinks it might be a good starting point.
—I don’t want people seeing that, Eva.
—Oh come on, Iris. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.
—I’m not ashamed. I just don’t want it dredged up again. It’s history. Over.
—The Sing-Song Tribunal? said Keith. Wasn’t that your parents’ play?
—Butt the fuck out, Keith.
Doris came forward a second time:
—It’s all right, Iris. I understand. I were there, remember? It weren’t an easy time for any of us. So how about this. Me and your sister will watch it alone. Just me and her. None of the others. Would you mind that?
—I don’t see why you want to revisit all of that.
Doris looked at an ill-defined point over Iris’s head.
—I can’t really explain why. Except that I’s got memories from that time, and I want to put them up against the evidence. To see if I can do anything useful with them.
—You’re not going to use the film in a happening, are you?
—We’s not thinking that far ahead yet. For now we just want to watch it.
Iris sighed:
—Set your world alight. I can’t stop you.
—Good, said Eva. I’ll go and ask Simon for it now.
—No, said Iris. I’ll go.
Upstairs, Simon was pacing his room, from the desk to the wall and back. The fluorescent light overhead was on and the wireless was switched off, as he needed them to be in order to obsess about something. Iris put the drugs money and the remaining trips on the desk. Normally Simon counted the takings immediately but today he paid no attention to them.
—Who are those freaks downstairs?
—Been spying?
—I saw them come in. I don’t like the look of them. Who are they?
—New friends of Eva.
—Is that Doris I saw? Got up like a bloody man? She can’t stay here.
—Relax, Simon.
—Did you hear me? She can’t stay.
—What’s got into you?
—What’s she doing here?
—I’ve just got back. I know as much as you do.
—You have to get rid of her.
—I know you don’t much like her, Simon, but I think you might be overreacting.
—No cut for you till you get her out.
—Oh piss off. What’s wrong with you?
—Today. She needs to go today.
—You never visit Papa, so when was the last time you saw her? Years, I’d say. She’ll hardly expect you to be mates all of a sudden. Just stay up here and ignore her.
—I repeat, no cut for you till she’s gone.
—Oh, look, whatever. Once I call Papa and tell him she’s here, he’ll come for her, and she’ll go with him. That’ll be the end of it.
She went to the corner cupboard and opened it.
Simon stopped pacing:
—What’re you looking for.
—The projector. She wants it.
—Who does?
She twisted round.
Simon met her eyes, then let his face drop into his hands.
III
Eva
1956
vii.
Simon came up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder. She jumped.
—Only me, he whispered.
—Jesus, Simon, she said.
She was at the rehearsal studio door, waiting to be called in for her audition.
—How you feeling? he said.
She shrugged. The nerves showed on her skin, which was pale.
—You know, Eva—
—I’m going over my lines, d’you mind?
—Sorry, yes, I’ll leave you. I just wanted to say, you don’t have to go through with this, if you don’t ww—
Her father opened the door.
—Simon, do you mind staying outside? We want to keep this strictly between—
Simon waved away her father’s explanation. Disappeared down the corridor.
Paul ushered Eva in:
—Small change of plan, darling. I know you’ve prepared a couple of pieces to present to us, and you’ll get a chance do that in a minute. But the group thought it’d be good idea if you joined a game first. To see how you cope with improvising and free work. Nothing complicated. Just imagine you’re back in the schoolyard, okay? Follow the instructions and be yourself.
A circle of actors was an aggressive thing. It trapped the tension coming inwards from all those egos and magnified it. Put a chair in the centre, as they had done today, and demand that the actors take turns to sit in that chair, and an already aggressive thing became savage. Eva felt the back of her neck tingle, and her armpits prickle, and drops of water run down her sides, as her father led her to the space in the circle beside her mother. The game, which was called The Chair of Questions, began, and the actors took their turns. When it came time for Eva to enter, she hesitated. She felt watched, and she felt they did not want to be watching her. Her name was being called, but, playing deaf, she was refusing to go to the chair.
—Eva? Eva? Eva? Eva?
Until, maybe ten seconds later, her mother put a hand on the small of her back as if to comfort her, and, unseen by the others, gave her a little push—
Iris
1968
viii.
She brought the film projector and the screen to Eva’s room. Eva and Doris had thrown the cushions from the bed onto the floor to sit on and had hung a sheet over the window to prevent the city lights from polluting the dark. While they unfurled the screen, Iris put the projector on the desk, which had been pushed against the back wall.
The projector, a Kodak, had been purchased by her father to show recordings of performances. He had taught the young Iris how to use it. That was a long time ago, machines had moved on, but she remembered what to do: open the sides of the box, attach the spools, wind the film around the sprockets, flick the switches.
Due to the expense of camera film, in all only nine minutes of The Sin
g-Song Tribunal had been recorded, divided into three spools: Act One (three minutes), Act Three (three minutes) and Act Five (three minutes). On the spool covers, written on a length of masking tape, were the words OPENING NIGHT, 6 NOV 1956, the only night the play had ever been performed.
While Eva and Doris settled onto the cushions on the floor, Iris made to leave.
—Don’t go, said Eva. Stay and watch it with us.
Iris hesitated and then, against her truer wishes, said:
—All right.
She did not know what to expect. Her parents had never prohibited her from watching the film. She had often thought about doing so, but in the end she never had. An inner guardian had always protected her from it, as from something harmful.
She turned off the light and set the projector rolling.
They were quiet in the dark, which was absolute.
Out of that then, a square of white light appeared on the screen, then silent moving images—
Jiang Qing
1974
ix.
She led the four dancers down the corridor to Apartment 118 and knocked on the door. The dancers, dressed in their costumes, were fighting off temptations to see that their shirts were sitting flat, and their pocket-flaps tucked in, and their shorts not riding up.
—Just do what we rehearsed, she told them, and you’ll be fine.
Zhang Yufeng opened the door and beckoned them to enter. Jiang Qing stepped out of the way, and they filed in, one by one, as instructed. Once they were all inside, Zhang Yufeng nodded to Jiang Qing, an officious gesture, before closing the door.
Jiang Qing put her ear to the wood a moment. Waited for the music to start up. Then made her way down the corridor and round the corner. Using a master key, she unlocked the storeroom. Inside, she turned on the fluorescent light just long enough to map out a path through the broken and unused imperial furniture.
In the dark again, she made her way to the opposite wall. Took down the scroll. Licked a finger and pushed it through the rice paper that she used to cover the peephole. Then she brought her eye to the hole, allowed her vision to adjust, and watched—
THE
INTERRUPTION