All Bones and Lies

by Anne Fine

  Colin gazed at the sunny drifts of turmeric. ‘Yes?’

  But the officer offered only a Clarrie-style shrug. Colin said desperately, ‘But what about all the rest of it? Harassment! Damage to property! Threatening behaviour! Invasion of privacy! Not to mention interference with means of employment, and presumed loss of earnings!’

  ‘Well, there you are,’ said Geoffrey comfortably. ‘You’ve clearly got it all off pat. Best left to you, I reckon.’

  ‘I can’t do anything. I’m not police!’

  ‘More up your street than ours, though, isn’t it? Restaurants and such . . .’

  Colin surprised himself. ‘This isn’t restaurants! This is an endless mindless bloody squabble over a wall! This is phone calls all day every day, till I can’t concentrate on anything else, let alone leave the office. This is my voicemail bunged up every morning and my secretary in tears! This is me at the end of my tether. This is impossible.’ He really felt it. ‘Quite impossible!’ He saw them staring at him. ‘No! No, no. I’m sorry. I’ve struggled on by myself quite long enough. Look at the state of this pavement! Dumplings all over! Those prawns will be stinking by lunchtime if someone doesn’t clear them up. And I suspect that’s chilli on that meter. If anybody parking should end up touching that by accident and not wash their hands very thoroughly indeed, they could end up with seriously inflamed eyes. Or worse,’ he added darkly on reflection. ‘No. This is the limit, I’m afraid. I have to insist. You are the long arm of the law. Well, stick it out and do something!’

  Astonished at himself, he stepped back into bean curd.

  Then, did he hear it? Did he really hear it?

  ‘Or—?’

  ‘Or,’ Colin said, with equally quiet menace, ‘I’ll feel obliged to get in touch with County Hall and take it higher.’

  What he of course meant was, I’ll go straight back and hand my notice in. I’ll walk away from the whole boiling rather than cope with this lot a single day longer. I’d rather lose my pension and start again doing something as poorly paid but a bloody sight easier. But it just came out in the way it did, and after a good long stare the officer called Geoffrey must have decided to take him at his word because, turning to his companion, he muttered equably enough, ‘All right, then, Jamie-boy?’

  ‘All right,’ said James. And slipping on authority with more ease than most men put on a sock, the two strolled through little piles of stir-fried cucumber towards the families waiting on the pavement. There followed a welter of shrieking from the upstairs window, and some long grinding argument in which the only element of agreement between the two camps was indicated by a series of matching black looks in the direction of Colin. But one, at least, of the officers must have been blessed with the mediator’s gift, because after a few more threatening glances and shaken fists, the ranting on both sides diminished to receding tides of sullen grumbling. Colin’s relief was palpable as, one by one, the Lees vanished through the door into the shadows of Old China Heaven. And, stooping only to pick up the huge pans they’d clearly brought outside to serve as weapons, the Haksars slid silently into their own restaurant, with only the youngest reappearing a few moments later to stroll to the side door, whistling, with a dustpan and brush.

  Jamie-boy ambled back. ‘Happy?’

  Colin considered. He hadn’t cared for the dark looks. But perhaps it was to be expected that, as the one who’d failed to stop things getting out of hand, he’d find himself absorbing the blame for this little street battle. He couldn’t resist shooting a warning ‘I-hope-your-father’s-not-thinking-of-using-that-turmeric-again’ look up the alley at the Haksar boy before admitting to the officer, ‘Well, perhaps it’ll put a stop to some of the trouble.’

  ‘Any time,’ said the officer, giving Colin cause to wonder what possible reason, apart from simple sloth, had caused the two of them to be so reluctant to intervene in the first place. Another squall of temper from the window above reminded him he’d be wise not to linger; and, crunching his way back over coriander seeds, he slid in his own van and followed the police car down Sperivale Road, peeling off only when it occurred to him that, with a quick detour, he could pick up his mother’s glass snowstorm – and one for Tam, if they looked suitable – and still gain a bit of sympathy at work for an irritating start to a long, tiring morning.

  Mel’s face was dark with disappointment. ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  Even for a man accustomed to tepid welcomes, this was discouraging. If the warm clamp of Tammy’s arms around his legs had not made turning round impossible, he would have thrust the box at her and simply fled. Instead, he stood his ground as best he could. ‘I’ve brought a present.’

  Rolling her eyes, she stooped to prise him free. ‘For Christ’s sake, Tam! Let the poor bugger through the door.’

  He stepped in, wincing. But it was better not to disapprove in case she took revenge. Anyone who could fuss about a plastic windmill could slap a safety embargo on a large glass ball. If she was in this bad a mood, he would be wise to clear the contents of the box with her before even letting Tam know there was anything in it, apart from fresh fruit and a bottle of vitamins.

  Neatly avoiding the upraised, grasping little fingers, he passed it over.

  Mel raised the flaps. ‘I’ve got a toaster, thank you. And mine is newer.’

  Oh, God. Wrong box. Mumbling idiocies, he fled to the lift, then down the four flights of stairs. The occupants of the vehicle parked beside his seemed to take an inordinate interest in his rootings in the back of the van. Were they planning a robbery? He could leave out some of the freezer food he’d taken off Betta-Shoppa’s shelves for being past its date stamp. (That might teach them a lesson about other people’s property.)

  Or he could take the coward’s way, and as good as buy them off by abandoning on the tarmac the box of hideously unattractive Monsters-From-The-Deep fridge magnets he’d had to impound for their overly high lead levels. They could resell those fast and well. But suppose they dropped some as they fled? Fearing that Tam might find one lying on the car park later and finger it, or, worse, put it in her mouth, he ended up locking even these unwanted horrors back firmly in the van before starting on the long urine-stained climb up the stairwell.

  His second appearance in her doorway brought no more pleasure than the first. This time, so there’d be no mistake, he handed over only the glossy ‘Gifts from the Gods’ bag he’d put on top of the apples. ‘That’s what I meant to give you.’

  The transformation was astonishing. ‘Colin! How did you know?’

  ‘Know?’

  She hadn’t even tweaked the bag to peep inside. And even if she’d felt the hard round lump through its stiff sides, she couldn’t possibly have guessed what it might be. Hunting for meaning, his gaze fell, just in time, on two lonely birthday cards propped on the gas fire. ‘Oh,’ he said, almost lightheaded from the sense of disaster averted. ‘We in the council have our methods.’

  She lifted the softly rustling sphere out of the bag.

  ‘It feels so heavy.’

  Thank God he hadn’t chosen Pluto trailing that mangy slipper through the snow. Or Snow White, looking wistful. He would have walked through fire rather than let her know this present hadn’t been for her. Never had he seen anyone take such an age to unwrap anything. She spun it out till Tam went crazy with frustration, giving him the excuse to pick up his darling and hold her closer to the gathering excitement as, layer by layer, her mother reverently pulled off the trademark rainbow tissue from Priding’s most expensive shop.

  ‘Oh, Colin!’

  Inside the perfect glassy dome, the pearly figure with upraised arms spun on her shimmering lake. The snowflakes swirled around, settling on tiny fir trees and distant hills, and her own upswept hair. He told Mel truthfully, ‘I thought it looked a lot like you when you did that pirouette thing by the stove,’ then, to his own astonishment, heard himself tacking on, quite unnecessarily, a glib, kind lie. ‘I thought you’d really like it.’

  �
��Like it? Oh, Colin! It’s—’

  Tears sheeted down.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ he said, and kicked the door shut behind him. After the statutory few seconds of frozen staring, Tam started wailing worse than Mel. He shifted her to the other arm. ‘Mummy’s all right,’ he said firmly. ‘All that she needs is for you to show me how to make her a cup of tea. Can you do that?’ On the way over to the kitchen area, he took the chance to sweep her so close to the gas fire that the draught from her leg sent the greetings cards flying. ‘Whoops!’ he said cheerily, taking the risk of putting his back out by stooping with her still in his arms to retrieve them and put them on top of the telly.

  ‘They’ll be much safer here, Mel. You really shouldn’t ever put anything inflamm—’

  Shut up! he ordered himself. Give it a break.

  Pushing aside the unwashed crockery, he dumped Tam on the small space that served for a counter and pointed at the sugar tin. ‘Is that the tea?’

  Tam shook her head. He pointed to the coffee jar. ‘Is that the tea?’ Tam used the flat of her hands to wipe tears sideways into tangled hair, then made a face and pointed.

  ‘Oh, there!’ said Colin, switching on the kettle. ‘And how many bags do you think I should put in the cup?’

  Tam raised one grubby finger.

  ‘You’re good at this.’ He kept her busy, pointing at spoons and sugar and putting him right over and over, till Mel’s tea was ready and her weeping had quietened principally to sniffs. She sat, still clutching the snowstorm, while he continued to distract her daughter and put himself a little more at ease by rerouting the dangerously long lead to her kettle.

  Once it was safely tucked away behind the microwave he’d been longing to take away to get tested for leakage, he took a chance and dared look Mel’s way again. ‘Ready?’

  She nodded. ‘Ready.’

  He said to Tam, ‘Now take it easy, sweetheart. Mum’s feeling—’

  Stumped for a way of putting it, he finished with the word his mother always used to drain the last of what little confidence he had before school matches. ‘Peaky.’

  ‘Peaky?’ She tested the new word, and in her state of barely soothed anxiety, repeated it louder and louder. ‘Peaky, peaky, peaky!’

  ‘Hush, sweetpea. Mum’s upset.’

  Was it his mere tone of concern that sent Mel back in floods? Instantly, Tam’s shrieks shot into an hysterical crescendo. ‘Peaky! Peaky! Peaky!’

  Someone upstairs banged on the floor.

  ‘Oh, Christ!’ Mel screamed at the ceiling. ‘Didn’t your bloody children ever make a sound, you dried-up ratbag!’

  Tammy shrieked louder. To try to calm things, Colin gave her a warning frown. ‘Sssh, Tam! Be quiet!’

  Failing to stem her yells that way, he tried putting his finger on her lips. At once, she lurched forward to bite him. Terrified she’d topple off the counter, he seized her elbows, and, as she struggled to push him away, her screams went into orbit. She drummed her bare heels as hard as she could against the flimsy door of the cabinet.

  ‘Oh, thanks a million, Colin! Trying to help her drive me nuts?’

  ‘Nuts!’ Tammy took to screaming. ‘Nuts! Nuts! Nuts!’

  Defeated, Colin swung the child down from the counter. Hurtling across the room, she grabbed at the snowstorm. ‘I want to hold it! Let me hold it! My turn!’

  Colin rushed over to pull her away. Holding her by the shoulders, he told her firmly, ‘Not till you’re sitting safely and sensibly right back on the sofa.’

  A clever move. At once she stopped struggling and, turning her back on her frazzled, tear-stained mother, dived headlong into the leaking cushions. Swivelling around, she held out both hands, imperiously wriggling her fingers. He prised the snowstorm from Mel’s trembling fingers, and carried it over. ‘There’s a rule,’ he warned, holding it just out of reach. ‘You have to whisper.’

  Tammy nodded gravely.

  ‘You see, she’s so small and delicate and dainty that she can’t hear you unless you whisper,’ he said, to reinforce the point. Then he turned back to Mel. Lowering himself to his heels, he asked her softly, ‘Isn’t there someone who could help? What about your family?’

  She took the tissue he was offering and roused herself enough to say, ‘If I had any sort of family, do you suppose I’d be mouldering away in this dump?’

  ‘Well, what about—?’ Tactfully he nodded towards Tam, absorbed in whispering to the spinning nymph. ‘You know,’ he said. ‘The other Lavender.’

  She stared.

  ‘I mean, Ventura.’

  She twisted the tissue to shreds. ‘Him? All he’s interested in is getting me back.’ She pointed. ‘See?’

  Taking it for permission, he picked up the nearer of the cards.

  ‘“With all good wishes for a better year, from Hermione”?’

  ‘Not that one. That’s the bloody social worker.’

  He felt a stab of nausea. On his last birthday he’d had no cards at all. But that was only because Dilys had been away at a conference, and his mother had forgotten. If any had arrived, they would at least have been from family.

  Desperate to find some means to cheer her, he peered in the other.

  ‘“Come back! Alexi.” Well, that’s good.’

  ‘Good?’

  ‘Nice this Alexi bloke loves you enough to tell you he wants you back.’

  ‘Loves me?’ It was more of a bark than a laugh. ‘He doesn’t love me. I expect all that’s happened is that his foul moods and bad temper have finally driven away my rotten, untalented replacement. I bet the only reason he’s sent that is because he’s desperate to get a halfway decent act back on the road before the circus management give him the heave-ho.’

  Knowing a Tam-sized chunk of his own loving, beating heart was now in hazard, he forced the words out.

  ‘It can’t be that, or he’d just advertise for another partner.’

  And now he’d done it. She was furious. ‘Oh, yes? A lot you know about it! Just advertise!’ Words failed her, and had she, he sensed, not feared a fresh batch of howling from Tammy, she might very easily have slapped him.

  Instead, she turned her back. To be conciliatory, he reminded her, ‘He did at least remember that it was your birthday. And you must matter to him. You are Tammy’s mother, after all.’

  She couldn’t have looked blanker. ‘So? Tam’s the bloody problem, isn’t she?’

  ‘But if this bloke’s her father—’

  ‘Which he’s not!’

  My God! The hours that he’d wasted envying him! How stupid could you get? But no more stupid than the man himself, this oiled, muscled idiot who, offered a choice of Mel and Tam together, or neither, would seem to be sailing very near the option of ending up with an empty life.

  ‘I just don’t understand.’ He watched her rubbing at her tear-streaked face, and, like some soft-hearted hunter loosing a wire to let some desperate trapped creature go, felt obliged to add the words he knew might cause all his own happiness to fly from his grasp. ‘Most of the circuses I’ve inspected have had plenty of small children. If everyone’s strictly careful to adhere to the rules, then, with a very few added precautions, there’s no reason to think—’

  Seeing her lip curl, he wrapped up hastily. ‘And there are nets.’

  Again, that fierce hauteur. ‘Nets? Oh, yes! Thanks to you meddlers there are nets all over. But you can still fuck up. You can still make a fool of your partner.’ Tipping her head, she launched into what even Colin could tell from a meeting of moments was the poorest of imitations of Alexi: ‘“Is no good, Mel. Having child around will take the mind off.”’

  She let out an almost equally abrasive snarl of contempt in her own right. ‘But really the bastard’s just deadly jealous I had a fling, and Tam’s not his.’

  Even allowing for nameless foreign influences, the response seemed old-fashioned.

  ‘But if you’re that good—’

  ‘I am that bloody good!’

 
; ‘It seems so odd, then. To send you away.’

  ‘Send me away?’ The dark eyes blazed. ‘That arsehole wouldn’t work a proper set with me, and so I left.’

  My God, he thought. Look at her. So alive. Alight. Could he have got it wrong? Could everything he’d so unthinkingly taken for a mother’s self-sacrifice – trading the glitter and danger of the highwire for down-to-earth safety nets for her young daughter: a nearby health clinic, regular nursery attendance, and even the freedom from watching the only parent she knew miss a man’s grasp by a hair’s breadth and spiral down through air – could all of it prove to be something quite different? Something in which the child herself was incidental – almost an accident, like her own birth? All this depression, all these whey-faced looks, the unwashed dishes and the dismal, unimaginative diet on which no growing creature ought to live . . .

  Could it be possible they all boiled down to one enormous Artiste’s Sulk?

  So hard to judge. And hard to judge her harshly. Who, after all, would choose to live on a planet bulging with fudgers and shrinkers like him? The world cried out for passion. That is why people queued for circuses: Ex pulvere, lux et vis. Put a trapeze artist and a council officer in the same show, and there’d be no bets which way the audience would be looking at the moment the lights dimmed.

  No, he thought, staring. It was unfair to think that someone from a circus should share priorities from a drabber world. Souls who could fly through air, despising nets strung under them by bureaucratic little fusspots like him, should be offered some leeway. No one would buy a ticket to watch him test seals on a canteen fridge. Hundreds would sit on chilly benches, risking piles, to see the soaring wizardry of her glimmering spirals.

  Give the poor girl a chance. Instead of standing there watching her spirits fade, he should stretch out a hand. She was only a fish out of water. If she’d gone belly-up downstream from some foul overflow or some unauthorized industrial drain, he’d be out of his van in a moment to help her. Getting her away from this dump for a day or two might lift her spirits.