Between

by Barbara Gaskell Denvil

  “But I can’t comfort her. Even my touch hurts her.”

  Norwen smiled. “When I took your hand in mine, you enjoyed a sensation you considered alien. You called it an electrical pulse, although naturally it has nothing to do with electricity. This is what your mother feels when you touch her, for the difference in your vibrations is strong. It does not actually hurt her, but because of her expectations and defiant aversion to the higher planes, she believes the pulse she feels is painful. Prove your friendship. She does not believe your words. So think. There are other ways of proving good intentions.”

  Georgia slumped, partially collapsed, and sat on the cold floor beside her mother’s chair and thought. Rita’s crying subsided. She looked down on her daughter with deep suspicion.

  It was, Georgia thought, quite strange to be physically uncomfortable again. She smiled at herself. “It may seem odd,” she said at last, gazing earnestly at her mother’s rigid defensiveness, “that I don’t hate you or blame you or even feel anger about the way you behaved to me when perhaps I was once – when I was – you know – alive. But not anymore. And I can explain why.” She leaned behind her to the little coffee table and its paraphernalia of teapot, cups and milk jug. She picked up Rita’s half empty cup and patiently refilled it. The tea had gone cold. The spout of the teapot dripped. With an effort of will, Georgia made the liquid piping hot again and handed the brimming cup to her mother. “This is very nice tea. It was nice of you to make it for me, especially considering you thought I’d come to shout at you.”

  Rita took the cup and sipped. “Everything’s better with a good cup of tea to calm the nerves. I knew you’d come for me one day. I was ready. I tried to handle it the best way I knew how. Until you started spoiling it all, that is.”

  Georgia wasn’t listening. With less effort than she had expected, she was happily producing biscuits, thick covered in chocolate, and then a cake. With a sudden effort of creative sentimentality, her mind iced the cake with pink frosting and added the sculpted words To My Dear Mother. Two tiers high and filled with cream, the thing sat like a tiara on a frilly china plate. Georgia knelt, cut the cake, handed a piece to Rita, and added a couple of biscuits onto the plate. “Is there anything else you’d particularly like? I can try and make it, if you tell me whatever it is.”

  Rita stared and hiccupped. “Well now,” she said, accepting the cake. “Now there’s a wonder, if there ever was one.”

  “A genius daughter,” Georgia hiccupped with a giggle. “But actually, you could do the same sort of thing yourself if you tried. It’s quite easy once you get the knack. I could never bake a thing – alive. My pastry went soggy and my cakes went flat. Now look how well I can bake. I could help show you how.”

  “Well, you seem mighty clever. Can you do other things too?”

  Georgia had always believed in blatant bribery. It had always worked with her own daughter when young. Come to think of it, it had always worked with her husband too. “Fix the house up you mean? Make it light and bright and bigger? New furniture? New clothes?”

  “Clothes? Oh, I can manage them,” Rita waved a dismissive hand. “They just come and I can do some alterations if I don’t like what arrives. I made this coat red. Trouble is, some of the time I can’t get it off again.” She was still wearing her coat, tightly buttoned to the neck.

  “Well, furniture then.” Georgia ate some of the cake. It was too sweet and she ate a biscuit instead. “A garden? More rooms? Do you have a bedroom?” She smiled encouragingly, though she wondered as she spoke whether she was promising a good deal more than she could deliver. If houses were the symbolic representations of the state of the soul, then altering Rita’s might certainly be beyond her power.

  Georgia’s mother was now bright-eyed. “No, and I’d like one,” she said. “But don’t tell me you came all this way just to do some redecorating. So say what you have to first, and get it over with.” She was eating her way through the cake.

  “Well,” admitted Georgia, “my father brought me up to the best of his ability after you left. He really tried. But he never explained anything to me. I suppose he was cross and confused, so anyway he just kept telling me you’d gone. Nothing else. Just ‘Your mother’s left.’ So I grew up with a sort of sadness mixed with curiosity. I was angry sometimes, but usually I blamed myself instead of blaming you, because I didn’t understand until I was much, much older. So I don’t want to hurt you or anything like that. I just wanted to get to know you. To fill in the gaps. To get back the mother I missed when I was young.”

  “Ah.” Rita sighed and put the cake plate back on the table. “Alright. That makes sense. I’m sorry too. There, I said it and I mean it. I’m sorry. It never worked out well for me either. Served me right I suppose. I was a bloody idiot.”

  Carefully Georgia did not answer. “I could try and unblock your windows,” she suggested. “Would you like to let the light in?”

  Rita brushed off crumbs and nodded at once. “Well, I don’t want people poking their noses in of course so I’d need good curtains. They’re a nosy lot around here. They’d be in my life, noses pressed against the glass, quick as a sniff. But light would be nice. Sunshine in the room. I always liked the sunshine.”

  “Perhaps you shouldn’t be so suspicious of other people,” said Georgia. “After all, your door doesn’t close properly. If your neighbours really wanted to pry into your private business, then they could walk right in. Why not risk some nice open sunny windows? I’d show up the pretty colours in this room.”

  Rita smiled, now enjoying the remaining chocolate biscuits. “Yes. You’re right. Windows. But I’d like a lock on that door too and put the hinges straight.”

  Georgia called Norwen. “Am I right? Can I deliver what I’m offering?”

  Norwen’s voice said, “Try. She’s asking, so she’s likely to be ready. Start with light and windows. Forget the lock on the door.”

  Where there were windows outside, Georgia made windows inside. It was a good deal easier than she’d imagined, though she began slowly. She’d already learned a few things from the Summerlands so she did not concentrate on the physical appearance of window frames, their size or space or colour. She concentrated on the meanings behind the symbolism, on letting in light not to the room but to its occupant, and on allowing the free passage of knowledge from the outside to the inside, and its reverse. A central smear of glitter widened and hovered and entered. While Rita sat avidly, excited and delighted, the openings formed.

  “Go on,” Rita said, moving closer and reaching out a tentative finger. “Not nasty dark old wood. Paint the frames white. I’m tired of the dark.”

  “I think that’s a good sign,” said Georgia and the white, the light, and the energy of golden sunshine flooded the room.

  “Oh my,” said Rita. “That’s lovely. Though of course, it’ll show up all the dust.”

  “I think dusting out your corners might be something you’ll enjoy doing,” said Georgia. “You do know about symbolism?”

  “Don’t preach to me, clever clogs,” sniffed Rita. “I’m no bloody idiot, you know. I may not have come in on your high and mighty level, but I’m not in the bloody bogs either. I know just what you mean by dusting out my corners. And I’ll do it too.”

  “Then can I come again?” said Georgia.

  “Yes, you can come again,” said Rita. The plates on her table were now empty even of crumbs. “And next time, perhaps you can make a nice tasty dinner. We can have a proper long chat, and then you can fix that door.”

  “Doors mean suspicion,” said Georgia. “Not letting in other people’s opinions, and keeping things secret. Shame and doubt. Stop all that, and you’ll find you can easily straighten your door yourself. It’ll just happen.”

  Rita opened her mouth and then paused. “Well, alright,” she finally said. “I’ll think about that one. But not too much snooty goody-goody stuff or telling me what I should be doing, please Miss Know-it-all. You mind your own business, a
nd I’ll mind mine. Then we’ll get along fine. Might be quite nice having a daughter after all.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Primo walked back through the forest towards the lower fogbanks that divided the third plane from the fourth, to the hut he had built on the cliffs there and to the places he had loved and valued for their beauty and their isolation.

  Living there, he had adored the accomplishment of achieving one plane higher. It had been an escape from Pigseed’s gang but it had been much more than that. He had felt, with a burnished pride and ease of heart that he had grown into himself.

  Then after perhaps a year, though the passage of time was not the sort of thing you could actually count, he had outgrown it, which meant he had outgrown himself. So now he had moved on deep into the woods with their mysterious hidden magics, and built a larger home, more comfortable, while encompassing a greater subtlety and far deeper meaning.

  But now he went back. It was the idea of karma that was troubling him.

  He went back to the boundary hut he had built which had been his very first proper home after death. He still had a fondness for it, as if it represented himself as an earnest and endeavouring child. He was sorry that Daisy was there, fucking someone he didn’t like. But it was Daisy he wanted to see.

  There had been no easy copulating on the third plane. Everyone had tried and no one had succeeded except for some unsatisfactory fumbling. Yet further down in the third on the borders to the second, one of the girls had told him there had been frequent rape. A few girls mumbled about Pigseed’s forcing them when he was lower down, but no one said it too loud.

  Primo had never been so low. His arrival had been in the upper section of the third, and an immediate adoption by the gang. Then, on the fourth, when Daisy turned up and Primo had tried again with her, it had worked. He knew why. Simple, really. He’d put a little heart into it instead of just body pumping, and the emotional part had grown. The satisfaction had seemed stunning in the beginning, like two minds merging and feelings heightened. Not just flesh to flesh stuff, but positive meaning. Primo didn’t imagine fat Sam would have any feeling to impart, but maybe that was just the illusion the little turd liked to give off. It was the silly arrogant show-offs who often felt much smaller and shyer underneath.

  Sometimes Primo walked and sometimes he flew, and the harpy went with him. The flying was best when he travelled with his hand on her neck feathers, or with her warm backdraught supporting him, but the walking felt good too. There were many living things amongst the trees, and usually it felt as though the grass beneath his feet whispered its own messages. The scrubby bushes and the little wild flowers sang to him too, and the vines and sometimes even the stones. It seemed as though every single thing lived, and in its own fashion, thought. And Primo could hear those thoughts, even if they imparted nothing to him beyond a consciousness of their own.

  There were a million insects and tiny animals. The fourth was the favoured plane of such life. Many travelled into the fifth, the sixth, and, it was said, even into the seventh. But the fourth was the favourite, for here the balance between physical and spiritual hovered in a sublime and recognisable symbolism, which sheltered each creature as it desired. And because he loved them all and delighted in their shapes and colours, Primo could see them as he walked. Had he shown fear or disgust, they would not have showed themselves to him. The planes were vast. There was space for each thing to disappear when it wished.

  Primo was prepared to fly as soon as he felt the nothingness pit, but it was no longer where it had been. The forest floor was thick in undergrowth and no opening threatened its peace. Instead, there was a fallen tree blocking his path. He was surprised. Nothing died here. Nothing could die here. But the tree, content upon its side with its great length at rest, continued to support life and leaf, bird’s nests and crawling things amongst its waving branches and occasional blossom. It had merely wished to try a different perspective. It had not fallen. It had lain down.

  Although Primo accepted the necessity for visiting Daisy and the border lands, he felt no compulsion to hurry. So he took his time. It was his time, and he took it. When, most unexpectedly, night slipped down upon them, he nested with the harpy.

  It was a large platform of sturdy and compliant twigs wedged into the high fork of a tree, a place she had built herself some time back. She had several nests, she said, in these forests. “I build too,” Primo said, squatting beside her and gazing up at the blackening sky. “The homes I build are more complicated but perhaps it’s the same thing.”

  “I build what I want,” she told him. “I have always built this way.” She did not speak in words but her thoughts were clear and sharp and bright, like her eyes. Primo curled, hugging his knees tight to his waist. The platform bent a little beneath him, with an easy creak of green wood and the pliability of a small trampoline. Although it was high enough to touch the sky, it was neither cold nor uncomfortable. The canopy roof of the forest leaf was a little below, a waving fronded sea of breezes in the branches. The harpy had chosen the tallest tree. Above were the stars.

  Primo decided not to sleep. He had not called down the night and therefore decided it had come not for him but for the harpy. She was unlikely to be tired, but perhaps, since they were passing one of her old nest sights, she had decided to visit it again, and roost after all. Now she rattled her primary quills and hunched her wings up under her feathered frills. Surveying first the surrounding scene and then the proximity of her man, she considered everything satisfactory and settled to sleep. Primo felt the soft scratch of her folded wings against his arm and smiled. He liked the touch of her. Her claws were thick and curved and strong enough to disembowel a man. Many times he had watched her flight through the trees, the spread of her huge wings and the tucked feet stretching out as though hunting, her eyes like golden moons within the deeper shadows. In admiration he watched the impossible swoop, the inevitable crash, which never came. In the intense forest thickness it was inconceivable that such speed could sustain the manoeuvrability of direction, yet she was master of all her surroundings. The shadows closed in but the bird parted them. Even with the swooping of such powerful velocity, she could judge each detail of her passage between the giant tree trunks. They did not bend aside for her and she did not tremble or hesitate. She soared like the harpy whose name she carried, and still came to rest as gently as a fluff of duck down against his arm.

  Now, tucked against the sweet warmth of her, he watched the stars. He did not know if they were real stars, and if the living humanity of his past life might be watching the same whirl of illuminated planets. For all he knew, these might be pinpricks made in God’s black paper sky, or the eyes of heavenly frogs suspended way above. The secret of the Summerland stars was not one anyone had explained to him. One day, perhaps, he would find out.

  And then, in spite of his decision, he slept. When he awoke, he realised that the coming of night had been for him after all, because of the dream.

  He had dreamed he was alive again, and was sorry.

  He was back in the jalopy with the old lady and his mouth was full of ham sandwich.

  “You’re not concentrating, young man,” the woman was already saying. “Now, I can’t reach while I’m driving, can I? Just lean over, and pass the flask.”

  Primo leaned over to the back seat again and fumbled about in the basket. It was a picnic basket and padded with cheap cotton in red checks and a faded frill. There were various packages inside and a plastic flask full of liquid. Primo grabbed the flask and opened the cork. He handed it to the old woman. She uncurled one weather beaten hand from the driver’s wheel and lifted the flask to drink. Then she stopped and shook her head. “Too difficult while I’m driving. I’ll have some later. Have some if you want. Lemonade. I made it myself. Best thing in this heat, but not so fresh anymore of course.”

  Primo drank. It was lukewarm and unpleasant. A slight bitterness from the boiled lemon pith soured the taste. “Nice. Thanks.”
<
br />   “I make the best lemonade,” nodded the woman. “Have another sandwich.”

  He’d liked the sandwiches. “No thanks. I’m fine now.”

  “Go on,” she said, still unblinking from the relentlessly rising dust of the road ahead. “I can always make some more. We won’t get to town for another half hour at least. I can tell you’re hungry.”

  Primo took one and ate it. His stomach began to settle as if all the emptiness and bubbles of bilious hunger were as thankful as he kept politely saying he was. He looked aside at the woman’s hands. She’d spent that morning making lemonade and sandwiches, slicing ham and buttering bread. Now he was watching those same skinny fingers and wondering what it would feel like to break them, one by one. They weren’t that weak, but they were ugly. The skin was shrivelled around the joints and the backs of her palms were leathery with brownish blotches. He looked at her neck. It was hidden under a cotton handkerchief, a sort of knotted scarf that covered the wrinkles. Perhaps she was self-conscious, though she didn’t seem the type. Perhaps she felt the cold, though it was a broil of a day and the desert was baking. Probably she simply dressed the way she always had. Cover-up. Prudery.

  Primo finished the second sandwich and wiped the grease from his mouth and the crumbs from his lap. He felt a whole lot better. Even the lemonade had helped, though he would have preferred water. He wondered if the neck below that silly scarf would break as easily as her fingers. Snap, snap, snap.

  He’d only ever thought of young, tactile flesh before. With a youthful neck, his fingers could press right in and find the bones under the thin, supple layer of fat. Old bones were right there on the surface – no probing necessary. He wasn’t sure if that would be more pleasurable or less. Probably less. But new experiences were interesting for all that.

  His brother had been young. Very young.