Virginia huffed and paced about the room, scowling at each of the four walls in turn as though they were her cell at the local lock-up, but the shawls pinned to them, the dark silks and soft velvets which covered the faded wallpaper were too comfortable to be convincing. In her temper she kicked out at Goomer’s cat and the cat parried, its claws ripping through her sock.
'Sod,' she said, rubbing her ankle, then overbalanced and fell onto the mattress beside Goomer. 'But I can’t just let it go,' she told him. 'Suppose someone saw what happened, suppose someone saw me in that police van. Bang goes their respect for me.'
'Stupid. What friends you have are even more disreputable than you are.'
This was unfair, and she said so. It was cruel, too, and her shoulders slumped, her head fell onto her chest and she stared at her foot, at the specks of blood which could be seen through the torn sock.
'Just look what that little bugger’s done to me,' she grumbled. 'The last clean pair I had.'
'Take it off,' said Goomer. 'I’ll darn it.'
Virginia did as he said, removing her sock and tucking her bare foot beneath her thigh. She sat like a Buddha with a broken leg, one limb stretched out before her and the other folded under her dirty jeans which blotted the blood and masked the smell of sweaty toes.
Without flinching at the odour, Goomer took the stiff stocking from her. He crossed the room to the dressing table, found a needle and a skein of wool and returned to her side. Squatting next to her, his dressing gown parting about his legs, he started to darn the hole.
Casually, Virginia rested her hand on his bared knee. 'If only I had someone like you,' she mused.
'You make it sound too sordid,' said Goomer, pricking her hand with the needle.
She yelped and pressed her hand to her mouth. 'You’re as vicious as that bloody cat.'
'Not vicious, just independent,' Goomer smiled, continuing with the repairs to the sock.
Those shy suggestions and tentative approaches would have to stop, Virginia decided; it was just that from time to time the temptation became too much, she just had to make one last token attempt. Face it, she told herself, the guy was weird, he simply would not respond to any of the advances she made.
She watched Goomer’s fingers flick the needle in and out, weaving the wool through the hole in the sock. It was the wrong colour, of course, but she made no comment; if she did, he would only persuade her that the contrast of the complementary colours was right.
'Do you want this?' she asked, picking up a glass of wine from the bedside table.
He didn’t, it was from last night, so Virginia drank it down, one sip to taste and then one gulp to swallow. Almost immediately her bladder began to ache. She got up, from what was not quite a lotus position, and went across to the washbasin in the corner of the room.
'Not there!' Goomer said, as she rose on tiptoe and fumbled with the zip of her jeans.
'But-'
'I said not there! Why can’t you use the loo downstairs?'
Virginia shuddered. 'A person is at their most vulnerable when they’re urinating,' she said. 'I need to be with someone I trust. You should be flattered.'
'I am, but you’re still not peeing in my sink.'
*
Virginia had to wait until her sock was repaired and they were outdoors before she could think of relieving herself.
'You can use the loos at the station,' Goomer told her.
'Why there?'
Goomer pointed to the sky, which was becoming clear after a spell of morning rain, a soft blue which was stretched above the rooftops like faded denim; he thought that they might take a trip across the river, to taste the salt air and perhaps steal some rope ladders.
Virginia was unenthusiastic, after her encounter with the law she was reluctant to antagonise them further, but, as Goomer pointed out, if they were determined to harass her then she may as well give them good reason.
His simple logic worked; Virginia was persuaded and they walked into the gloom of James Street station, took the lift to the platform below. Once she had used the toilets they stood side by side before the sweating, rough hewn walls.
'Face it, Virginia, it’s fate, if the police are out to get you for something they will do sooner or later. You’re a perfect victim for prosecution.'
'That’s very comforting. Thanks.'
'You’ve got the face for it, a face that people will pick on, remember seeing at the scene of a crime.'
'That’s fine encouragement for someone you’re asking to commit a felony. I’m going.'
But she could not; Goomer had the tickets.
The train grumbled into the station, sighed its doors open and shut, then laboured on again, gradually picking up momentum to thunder through the dark dank tunnels beneath the river, sparking the walls with electric blue flashes. Bouncing, humming and shaking, it emerged into the daylight, onto that strip of land which was like a blunted finger pointing to the Irish Sea, showing one way out of that sometimes sullen city. Soon glimpses were offered of sail on the sea, pocket handkerchiefs fluttering white against the blue and prompting Virginia to think that it might be a nice thing to try, to take in the briny breeze and then wash it down with a pint at the yacht club. It was a dream, though, it would need money and manners before it could be fulfilled.
Goomer broke the dream and they left the train one stop before the end of the line.
'We may as well walk a while, we’re not going to try nicking anything in broad daylight,' he said, and so they walked, along the wide promenade which was nothing but grassy plain and tarmacadamed roadway, bordered by the concrete sea-wall. The high tide slapped against the wall, keeping Goomer’s sandalled feet from the beach, and in places it spilled over, lazily trickling across the pavement and into the gutter.
Virginia imagined the sea at its most wicked, a liquid predatory thing, plucking bodies like false gods from their pedestals.
'I’m not too sure about this,' she told Goomer. “Those ladders might be needed.'
'Balls. They’re neither use nor ornament. Come on, let’s have a drink to bolster your courage. Forget your sense of decency and trust in air-sea rescue.'
Chapter Four
Awake early, with the dawn as nature intended, Virginia yawned and stretched and prepared to vacate her bed, only to realise that there was no bed beneath her; she reached out a hand but there was no wall to her side, she opened her eyes and saw that there was no ceiling above. She was on the beach, in the shadow of a concrete slipway, her toes only inches away from being kissed by the incoming tide. Scrambling to her feet she went up the slope of the slipway, dreams of an angry sea still snapping at her heels, and sat down on the sea wall. Street lights had dimmed against the morning sky, there was a whisper of light on the trees in the distance and a breeze softly stirring them. She brushed the sand from her clothes, then started to walk towards the beckoning branches.
Rope ladders! She turned to look back at the sea wall, remembering why they had come, and saw that it was noticeably lacking in rope ladders.
What had happened?
Not stopping to dwell on the matter, nor worrying over how she had come to wake on the beach -it was only one more night lost, after all, there were plenty left- she hurried on before she could be accused of any felony.
Once past the pier, on the other side of the single street which was the town, she slowed down, drifted whimsically along, following the tide towards the ferry. Waves reflected sky-blue rather than revealed the muddy grey which lay beneath the surface, and it was easy in such circumstances to forget how dirty the river actually was. With the last vestiges of intoxication still in evidence it seemed that her spirit was some distance ahead, absorbed by the daydream morning, while her carcass like some oriental bride followed a few respectful paces behind. The sensation was not a disturbing one, though, in fact it was almost welcome, for any sensation at all was preferable to the states of analgesia which sometimes affected her.
Virginia leng
thened her stride as she saw the ferry, grey smoke and white gulls in its wake, fighting its way against the tide, upstream first and then in a wide freewheeling arc to her side of the river. The cream painted girders of the landing stage strained noisily against each other and against the swell, groans and cries of ancient seamen echoing from the depths of the river where people sometimes reported seeing flashing lights and strange creatures.
Drunk, they probably were, like she sometimes was, walking home after too late a night.
She just had time to buy cigarettes and a newspaper at the kiosk before tottering down the walkway, across the gangplank and onto the vessel. The morning now becoming warm, she made her way onto the top deck. There, at the prow of the MV Mountwood, there were problems controlling the newspaper as sea breezes, bringing the taste of salt mingling with engine oil, whipped at the pages. Serrated edges lashed her face while black newsprint stained her hands. Not actually annoyed, just too lazy to persevere, she jammed the wayward tabloid between the wooden flesh-creasing slats of her seat.
Up and down with a comforting rhythm the boat made its way across the river. She watched the Liver building creep closer, the two mythical birds on top tied down for fear they might wing away to some more prosperous city. She only ever saw the birds from a distance; close to, standing in the shadow of the building, it was always impossible to look up at its height without feeling dizzy. Try it this morning and she might well keel over and crack her head, and this without having had a single drink to blame.
Made sensible by the breeze she bought a second newspaper and headed inland, first of all to the Kardomah, there to munch toast, sip coffee and watch the earliest of the morning shoppers hurry past the window, up early with a reason while she had none. The hot buttered toast was just what she needed. Crisp outside, spongy and doughy inside, it was cooked to perfection, a sign more certain than the weather forecast that the day would be a good one.
'Excuse me, but do you have the right time?' a voice asked, damning her optimism.
The question surprised her, for what would she be doing with the time? Her life was regulated, on those occasions when timetables and such things were important, by light and dark and the habits of others. Who needed the time? Certainly not Virginia. And what was it, anyway? It was only when one refrained from asking the question, as Saint Augustine suggested, only then that one could ever know.
'No,' she consequently answered, almost apologising; she was always almost apologising, because of her childhood which had been built around good mannered responses.
Being asked to commit herself so early in the morning upset her and she finished her coffee hurriedly, scalding her tongue and tasting nothing. Then, as she rose to leave, a thought took seed, a tiny germ of a notion. What if the man had actually wanted the time? What if some concrete, non-abstract entity given the name ‘time’ was reported to be in Virginia’s possession? Ridiculously she patted the pockets of her jacket, instinctive responses in control, then moved her hands behind her to check on the pockets of her trousers. There was nothing unexpected there, of course, and she felt foolish as she stepped out onto the street, naked and conspicuous, acting out her alien ceremony. Quickly she lost herself in the crowd, not sure whether to curse or bless the bobbing heads which milled about her.
Once she had forgotten her embarrassment, and grown accustomed to the people about her, she turned her attention back to the previous night. She would have to ask Goomer what had happened.
After trying a couple of less obvious places she found him in the ‘Marlborough’. He was with an old Filipino sailor named Gus, telling him lies of how he had come by a collection of rope ladders and quizzing him as to how they could best be fastened together. Encouraged to accept a drink or two, the old man was talking ten to the dozen of ‘timber hitches’ and ‘rolling hitches’ and ‘single Matthew Walkers’.
'Of course, hitches undo too easily for your purposes,' he was saying, as Virginia entered the bar. 'You just pull the ropes in opposite directions and they come free, so you’d be better splicing or making a seizing knot.' He looked up from the length of string with which he was demonstrating and grinned. 'I’m not getting too technical, am I?'
Goomer turned on his smile, too obvious for Virginia but perfectly pleasing Gus. 'Well, it does sound a bit complicated,' he said, his voice trailing away and his smile becoming broader.
'I could do it for you, I suppose,' Gus offered. 'If only the things aren’t too heavy for me to carry home.'
'Oh, that’s okay, Virginia can bring them round for you. Can’t you, Virginia?'
So he had them, after all.
Goomer said to Gus, 'Would you? Would you really?'
Gus nodded, his gnarled arthritic fingers itching to get started. 'Of course. There’s nothing to it.'
'We’d pay you, of course.'
'You’ll do no such thing,' he said, stubbornly independent.
'Buy you a drink, then. What’ll it be?'
He declined the offer for the moment -’some other time, perhaps’- and got shakily to his feet. They both thanked him in advance for his favour and he waved over his shoulder as he left.
'Canny,' said Peter, from his side of the bar. 'Is that what they call guile?'
'No, Peter, that’s what they call making an old man feel wanted. He can’t wait to get started, he’s delighted to think that he’s still of some use to people.'
'A likely excuse to ease your conscience,' said Peter, and went to serve someone at the far end of the bar.
Left in privacy, Virginia asked Goomer about the night at the seaside.
'Worried?' he grinned.
'No. Just curious.'
'Then I won’t tell you anything about it. Curiosity is not constructive.'
'But how did the ladders get back over here? And why wasn’t I with them?'
'You are worried.'
'I’m not!'
Peter brought empty glasses to the sink at their end of the bar and swilled them in water. 'What’s wrong?' he asked them.
'Amnesia,' Goomer told him. 'Virginia can’t remember what she did last night and she’s worried.'
'Curious,' she corrected.
'Ah, Virginia, if you want to drink with the men you’ve got to act like the men, learn to take it.'
The favourite aphorism rankled Virginia. 'Go away, Peter.'
'See?' said Peter to Goomer, smiling as though the response had proved some point.
Virginia made a slow exaggerated pirouette, looking around the room as though she found it and its occupants distasteful; after she had made a complete turn she drank down what beer was left in her glass.
'Come on, let’s get out of this place,' she said to Goomer.
His reaction was to suggest that Peter get out the backgammon set, ignoring Virginia, perhaps resenting being told what to do.
'Well I’m going,' Virginia announced, and walked away.
'You’ll be back!' Peter shouted after her. 'And don’t forget to tell your friends! The ‘Marlborough’, Seel Street, that’s where it’s all happening!'
*
Like a stickleback floundering in the hand of a mischievous child Virginia stood on the steps of the pub. Clouds whispered as they dispersed, dun grey burdens becoming feathers of misty white, and she looked up at their hallowed canopy as she wondered where she should go.
For food, this was the sensible answer, so she turned right, then right again into Bold Street.
People passed by, handsome men, women and girls with their limbs made white and lustrous by the lambent sun, created for kisses and caresses, their knickers nearly reflected topsy-turvy in the pools which were the last of an afternoon shower of rain. Frilly, spotted, warm and silky, they fired Virginia’s dreams as she walked past the bombed shell of Saint Luke’s church and entered the perimeters of the district she knew best of all. Restaurants were plentiful here -Greek, Chinese, Indian, Italian- necessitating another decision which made Virginia grieve, for the need to make decisio
ns seemed to dot the way of her calm progression like so many stuttering punctuation marks.
She settled for the ‘Kebab House’, since this seemed to be the quietest, walked down the aisle between the Formica topped tables and sat in the shade of a synthetic rubber plant so that she might eat unnoticed.
Young waitresses dressed casually seemed to be students, every one, and she remembered those days fondly as one approached her, her notebook held before her like a route map. Flicking away the menu which was offered Virginia told the girl that she would like afelia with salad, some hot bread and a dish of tahini sauce; she thought that the waitress might be impressed by this comfortable self-assured poise. The way in which the girl masked her admiration was commendable, she must have been a drama student Virginia supposed, her features remained impassive as she scribbled down the order. Watching her buttocks bounce beneath the short skirt, Virginia thought of rump steak; she wished she had ordered rump steak; too late, though, so she sat back and smoked a cigarette while she waited.
She ate her food slowly and late afternoon came conveniently close. A brief stroll around the city passed away accumulating minutes but offered no revelations other than the observation that the streets were emptying. The twilight period, it was, which marked the end of another day’s commerce and the start of another evening’s entertainment, the police changing shifts and priorities, forgetting the shoplifters in favour of the drunk and disorderly. Virginia vowed to keep out of their way, sidestepped any she saw as she retraced her steps up Leece Street, to the ‘Philharmonic’ where she thought she might again find Goomer.
*
Liverpool Philharmonic. It seemed to her that she had lived her life in that place, a thousand times over like some doctrine of eternal recurrence. True, there were other places of significance in her life, but the ‘Phil’ was one which she would forever hold dear, for all that the quality of the beer was steadily deteriorating and the bar was being taken over by students. In the middle of its tiled floor she paused, assuming a pose which suggested even more decisions to reach; the stance made a mockery of her already predetermined course, however, and with a drink in her hand she made her way into the small room on her right, a holy sepulchre of a place, where she laid claim to the seat nearest the door, giving her easy access to all exits and saving her the inconvenience of fighting her way across what would later be a crowded room. With just a hint of the lemming in her blood she had returned.
The Art School Dance Page 36