by Gavin McCrea
—I actually think Iris’s idea has a lot of potential, said Doris. Does it really matter if it ain’t the result of fixed political opinions? It’s the result that counts. The impact it has. A struggle session against Alissa Thurlow? That can’t be ignored.
Flushed, Eva searched for an empty place into which to pour her gaze:
—We’re supposed to be a political performance group. In my book, being political means setting out your tent and saying, This is the issue we want to address, and this is where we stand on it. Involving our own mother muddies the waters. Makes things too individual, too messy.
—You know, said Doris, in the past I made the mistake of thinking that art had to be one-dimensional. It had to contain an unambiguous message. But that ain’t how it goes any more. What does being political mean in nineteen-sixty-eight? It ain’t just one thing, or one-sided.
—It might look like Iris is taking a stand, said Eva, but she isn’t. Getting back at our mother is the same old shit. She’s afraid of taking a real stand against the system because she’s frightened of the consequences. She’s frightened of being responsible for it. Struggling against Mama won’t get her into trouble. It’s safe. Easy.
As she listened, Iris stared into the flame of her lighter. Now she extinguished it by shutting the lid over it.
—Oh Eva, she said. Such discernment. Such discipline. How about cultivating some emotion while you’re at it? A little emotional misconduct? Maybe my idea is wrong. But I’m not interested in being right all the time. I’m only interested in expression. Perspectives. I refuse to have a predetermined programme. I want to go on saying exactly what I think when I think it.
Doris raised a hand and undulated it, as if to smooth a crinkle in the atmosphere.
—Listen, she said. Maybe you’s both right. Or maybe, as Iris says, you don’t even have to be right. Maybe this conflict you have is what’ll make the happening interesting. Who knows, maybe by working together you could put things back together in the family. Make things right again. Ain’t nothing stopping our work being political and personal at the same time.
Standing separate, Eva looked like she was peering out from behind a fog.
Iris, so as not to see her and feel pity for her, lit the lighter again and put her focus there.
—If we truly want to be free in the free world, said Doris, we’s to break some laws. To be individuals, we’s to stand up to other individuals we’s supposed to be indebted to. The more I think about it, the more sense Iris’s idea makes. When I look back on my career so far, what strikes me is, I’s always sought permission to do what I do. To perform where I do. I fill out the forms. Inform the relevant people. I make sure it’s all above board, so that the authority’s feathers won’t be ruffled. I get fucking permission, don’t I? Why’s I so cautious all the time? Why do I need Big Daddy’s say-so before proceeding?
Iris blew out the flame at the precise moment that Doris smashed her right fist into her left palm.
—If we don’t go beyond the limits imposed on us, whatever the law says, if we don’t trespass, we can’t be free. To free ourselves is to trespass. All of you, are you listening? To trespass is to exist.
In the headshrinker’s office where her mother took her twice a week — because maybe they can do something for you — a question Dr Kellendonk liked to ask her was:
—Can you remember a recent time when you were happy?
At first Iris did not answer, she was too terrified, but when given another chance, and then another, she finally did. Slowly, over the course of several sessions, she told Kellendonk about Doris.
—Does Doris make you happy, Iris? Is that what you’re telling me?
She told Kellendonk — not all at once but in fragments, for in their talks he would return to it often — about the day when Doris took her in her Messerschmitt to Bethnal Green. That day, yes. That day Iris had been happy.
—Do you want to tell me more about that day? You don’t have to worry, it’ll just be between you and me.
It was towards the end of the rehearsals for The Sing-Song Tribunal. The ensemble had moved from the rehearsal studio to the auditorium. Time was running out and everyone was stressed. Her father was being a despot, her mother was overshadowing everyone else, Max was depressed, Eva appeared always to be on the point of tears — and Iris, who was forced to sit in the corner of the auditorium and sew her dolls, was miserable.
Then, at one point, Doris, who was photographing the rehearsals for the brochure, accidentally walked into her father’s sightline, and he began to shout at her:
—Do you mind, Doris? You’re in the way! Get out of the acting space! That’s it, I’ve had enough of you. Fuck off and find something worthwhile to put your mind to. No, Doris, don’t say anything. I’m sick to death of your pathetic, fat-arsed excuses for your own inadequacy.
At this, Doris dropped the camera on the stage floor and stormed out of the room, the first time she had ever done such a thing.
Iris dropped her sewing and chased after her.
In the bar, Simon was on a stepladder fixing the Chinese lanterns to the wall.
—What the hell’s wrong with you? he said to Doris as she rushed past.
Doris headed straight for the passage to the storeroom.
Simon came down the ladder and followed her, and Iris followed him.
In the storeroom, Doris had opened the top of the Messerschmitt.
—What’s cooking? said Simon
Doris threw her bag and cardigan onto the back seat.
—Doris? Did you hear me?
—I heard you, Simon, she said, climbing into the front. Leave me alone.
Over the course of the summer Simon’s face had turned brown from taking sun baths on the roof. When he smiled — as he now did at Iris who had come to his side — his teeth were especially white. He kept the smile on when he turned back to Doris:
—Where you off to? he said to her.
—Mind your own fizzing business.
—You all right? You-know-who giving you a hard time?
He meant Iris’s mother.
—No, Doris said.
Which was the truth. Iris had been watching, and lately her mother was making a special effort with Doris. It was Eva, actually, who was the getting the brunt of their mother’s moods.
Doris pulled the car lid over.
Simon grabbed the edge of the lid, preventing her from closing it.
—You want some company?
—I’m going home to see me dad, Simon. You hardly want to go there.
—Why not?
Iris jigged from one foot to another:
—Yeah, can we come?
Simon raised his brows: Well?
—Sorry, Iris, Doris said. Not this time.
—You don’t want your father to know us, Simon said, is that it?
Thinking back on this in later years, Iris would judge this a cruel thing for Simon to say, for he knew that Doris wanted nothing better than to introduce her first love, Paul, to her own father, but Paul had always refused. That was not part of the deal.
Simon put his good hand on Iris’s head.
—You ever been to Bethnal Green, Iris?
—Dunno, she said. Have I?
—No, you haven’t, he said.
And now to Doris:
—You don’t want to show Iris where you’re from?
Iris clutched the car at the precise place where her fingers would be cut off if Doris and Simon let go of the lid.
—God, all right, Doris sighed. But you’s will be bored out of your senses, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
She let go of the lid, and Simon threw it open.
—Come on, tots, he said, helping Iris into the back seat.
—She’ll have to sit on your lap, said Doris.
—I wouldn’t mind having a go at driving it, said Simon.
—You don’t know where the line is, do you?
Doris got out of the car and, as a kind of revenge against Paul, handed Simon the key.
—There’s some tricks to it, I’ll have to show you. And you mustn’t overwork it. It’ll only go so fast.
On the drive to Bethnal Green, Iris felt lightheaded. Opening night was next week. She had seen a lot of the rehearsals. Without even wanting to, she had learned some of the lines. Sometimes she was able to tell when the actors forgot a passage or fell to improvising. Without having to check the script, she could feed a corpsing actor — Eva mostly — her line. She was capable of seeing from a distance if someone’s costume was not sitting correctly, or if a prop had been improperly placed. The Sing-Song Tribunal had become her universe. The totality of her experience. So this sudden escape, this act of unmooring, did not feel quite real; moving through the outside world was disorientating.
She felt Doris, on whose lap she was sitting, put her arms around her and squeeze hard.
—Ow, she said.
—Your father is something else, Doris said. What’ll we do with him?
Simon took risks with the Messerschmitt. At difficult junctions. With cars much bigger than this one. All with only one hand on the steering bar. Iris understood that Simon wanted those around him to be a bit afraid, but she refused to be.
On Voss Street, he pushed the car backwards into the garage. Then they crossed Weavers Fields to Doris’s tower block. Took the lift to the seventh floor. Though Doris had a key, she rang the doorbell to give her father some warning.
—Oh hello, love, Mr Lever said, opening. I weren’t expecting you. I’s got the rabbits out.
He left the front door open and went back inside, scooping rabbits off the floor as he went. Iris, enthralled, ran straight in, wanting to pet one, but Doris pulled her back.
—They’ll piss on you if you scare them. I’ll take you to their hutch in a minute.
Doris took her hand and led her down the hall. Simon followed. They loitered at the sitting room door while Mr Lever put the rabbits back in their hutch on the balcony.
Coming back in, he said:
—I’ll make some tea.
—Don’t bother yourself, Dad, said Doris. We ain’t staying long. I’m just dropping by in case you needed the car.
—You want it, you have it, as long as you’s looking after it?
—Not a scratch on it, Dad.
—All right, then, I’ll put kettle on.
Iris jigged her leg, both excited to be here and impatient to go and see the rabbits.
They arranged themselves around the table and waited. Simon sat in a sort of religious stillness, his good hand resting on top of his stump, a look of serene contentment on his face.
—Does it talk? Iris said, pointing at the budgerigar in the cage.
Doris called into the kitchen:
—Dad, can you get the budgie to talk?
—What, love?
—The budgie. Can you make it talk?
—He’s in a huff today. Won’t say a word. Temperamental little bastard.
Doris winked at Iris, but her attention was already elsewhere.
—Who’s that? she said, this time pointing at the large silver-framed photo of the Queen on the wall.
Simon burst out laughing.
—Shh, Iris, said Doris.
Mr Lever came back in with a tray of tea things, sliced pan, butter and jam.
—D’you see the view? he said.
—Fantastic, said Simon.
—South-facing. Sun all day. On a day like today, you can see the whole way to the City. Go out and have a look if you want.
—Can we? said Iris.
—In a minute, said Doris.
—They wanted to put me down on second, said Mr Lever. Or was it third?
—I think it was the second, Dad.
—I insisted on going up here.
—You’re better off, said Simon.
—There’s noise comes in from the neighbours, but at this point—
He put the tray down and took a seat himself.
—at this point I’s past getting involved.
The tea was poured out, and Doris buttered a slice of bread for Iris.
It was the best tasting slice of bread she had ever eaten.
—The place needs a clean, Dad, Doris said, looking around. I’ll come by again a day this week and do a runaround with the cloth.
—As you like, love.
Mr Lever was spreading jam but his attention was on Simon.
—Once upon a time people lived in a house full of family and friends, di’nt they, sir?
—That’s right, said Simon. They did.
—These days, though, you’d lie on the staircase, your hip broken, and they’d step over you. Kuckers and shiksas, the lot of them.
—All right, Dad, said Doris. There’s a child here.
—I can see that.
Keeping his gaze on Simon, Mr Lever cocked his head at Iris.
—She yours?
—Ahunh, said Simon, she is.
Iris glanced at her uncle but did not contradict him. Rarely was she allowed entrance into grown-up games, so she was not going to give up this chance. This was already her best day.
—Where’s her mother? Mr Lever said.
—Dad, said Doris.
—It’s all right, said Simon. Her mother, unfortunately, is unable to care for her. So it’s left to me.
—Hmm, Mr Lever said, stirring his fourth spoon of sugar into his tea. Like meself. Except mine died. Sounds like yours doesn’t have the same excuse.
—Afraid she doesn’t.
—Some women are just born wanton, i’nt they? They’d be the man and defeat you without paying for it.
—We know how women are supposed to act. They themselves don’t have a clue. Not any more.
Iris could see what Simon was doing: he was pretending to be her father by playing himself with total accuracy. She was so thrilled by this that she began to receive warnings of a fit. She noticed bad smells like charred meat and burning rubber, and became dreamy and saw bright auras around objects, but then all of this receded and she was back here, in the midst of things.
Mr Lever produced a gurgling sound in his throat: his approval.
—A child needs a mother.
—Aye, Mr Lever, said Simon, that’s true in an ideal world.
—Is the mother what you want my Doris to be?
—If she’ll have us, said Simon.
—Not sure how she’d be, said Mr Lever. You’re sort of throwing her into the deep end there, i’nt ya?
—Dad.
—The situation is as it is, Mr Lever, said Simon. I can’t do nought to change it. It’s up to Doris to decide if she wants to be part of us. We’re not forcing her. It’d only be if she said yes.
Doris burned red:
—All right, that’s enough now of that.
—Ain’t sure how good she’d be at it, honest to God, said Mr Lever. She’s the last in the litter herself and never had anyone younger to look after. She ain’t had much practice.
—She’s good with Iris. And Iris loves her. Don’t you, Iris?
—Ahuhn, said Iris.
Iris caught Simon’s eyes, which did not show any suggestion that he ought not to be doing what he was doing. She looked away again in case she might laugh. Buried her nose in her cup.
Mr Lever drank some tea to wash down the bread he was still chewing:
—Doris said you was a Yorkshire man. I can hear it when you talk.
—Oh, aye. What else did she say about me?
—Not much. She’s played it close. I know you’re a commie, though. She told me t
hat much. You didn’t get her into it, that’s her own doing, so I ain’t going to blame you. But I do hope you see sense and get out of it soon.
—We’ll see. The times are all change.
—And not getting any better, far as I can see.
Mr Lever glanced at Simon’s injury.
—That, though, is an important thing she didn’t tell me.
—Oh aye, said Simon, rubbing the end of the stump.
—Where did you fight?
—Italy.
—Well, look, I’m sorry for you.
—No need, Mr Lever.
—No man should have such a period of his life interrupted. Or have to live with the consequences, as you do. It can’t be easy, it can’t. But you did what you had to, di’nt ya?
—Dad, said Doris, I’m sure Paul don’t want to talk about—
Iris giggled again. Her father had spent the war in a camp for conscientious objectors. The lies were piling one onto the other and getting more elaborate, and it was fantastic.
—What’s up with her? said Mr Lever.
—Nothing, Doris said. Come on, Iris, let’s go feed the rabbits.
Although a sunny day, there was a bracing wind on the balcony. Doris gave Iris a carrot and a leaf of lettuce from the box of old vegetables and opened the door of the hutch. Iris knelt down and tried to entice the rabbits out.
—Can I hold it? she said.
A rabbit had come out of the hutch to nibble on the lettuce leaf. Doris picked the animal up by the scruff and put it into Iris’s arms.
—Bring it inside, Doris said. It’s nippy out here.
Back in the sitting room, Simon was saying:
—All I’ll say about that, Mr Lever, is that it takes a long time to understand a war.
Mr Lever had pushed his chair back from the table and was sitting with his legs spread wide and his hands gripping his knees.
—It ain’t that hard to understand, he said. There’s only one way to look at it. Nazism is a natural expression of the German character.
—I don’t know, said Simon. There was some good in the Nazi regime. If we’re to learn anything, that has to be admitted. Nothing in the world is entirely bad.