‘Did you go with him?’
‘No.’ Ann eases Alice’s arms off her abruptly. Alice wanders off down the garden, her shoebox garden forgotten. She is musical! What does it matter that she isn’t pretty like her sisters? She has something that sets her apart, makes her different. Perfect Pitch. Nurture. She rolls the new words around on her tongue.
Her grandmother comes out into the garden to take in the washing and Alice skips over to her. ‘Granny, guess what? I’m musical! I’m going to have lessons.’
‘Is that right?’ Elspeth says. ‘Well, don’t go getting above yourself now.’
I was sent once a week to a woman down the road to have piano lessons. Mrs Beeson was tall and incredibly thin with long grey hair that was usually looped into clips on top of her head or sometimes spread in a greasy grey curtain over her shoulders. She wore long orange crocheted cardigans. Spit collected in the corners of her mouth when she talked. Throughout the lessons in her dark front lounge, her large, mottled cat would lie across the piano, purring.
I learnt how to hold my hand on the keyboard as if I had an orange in my palm and how to translate the black dots on the page to the smooth, flat white keys or the thin, finger-like black ones — every good boy deserves favour, all cows eat grass.
I learnt the flamboyant Italian phrases and how to alter my touch accordingly.
I practised hard. The piano in our house was right next to the kitchen and my mother would open the door to hear me play. My fingers became strong and muscular, I kept my nails short, 1 held in my head the precise number and types of sharps and flats in each key, at times of stress I would drum out the fingering for different scales on any available surface.
1 did exam after exam, toiling over the same three pieces for months to perform them in a musty church hall to a glazed-faced examiner. I think I did believe that I was talented: my certificates, framed by my mother, said so, didn’t they?
Alice had been at the party three-quarters of an hour. Mario had kept her clamped to his side for the first half-hour but as soon as he became drunk enough she had extricated herself and escaped to the corner of a room. It was a second-year’s room, covered in posters of the Stone Roses and the Happy Mondays and crammed with people; the bed was sagging under the weight of six people and a girl in a tight white catsuit was dancing on the desk, shouting at a few of the goggle-eyed boys to look at her.
Alice found the boys here odd: they were either incredibly introverted, with an excess of knowledge in an esoteric subject, or stunningly arrogant, but yet completely unsure of how to talk to her. It was the first time she’d mixed with large numbers of English people. On her first day a boy called
Amos had asked her where she’d come from. ‘Scotland,’ she’d replied.
‘Ah, how many days did it take you to get here?’ he’d asked, in complete seriousness.
She looked around the smoky room and told herself she’d give it another five minutes and then she’d leave. Mario waved from the other side of the room, Alice drained her mug of warmish, syrupy wine and smiled back thinly.
Mario was an Italian-American from New York, very rich and very beautiful. He was at the university for a year, courtesy of his father. When Alice had asked him how he’d arranged an exchange year from America, he said, ‘My father opened his cheque book,’ and roared with laughter. She had met him in her first week while wandering the corridors of the university library. She’d seen him smiling at her and had asked him for directions to the North Wing. He’d offered to show her and led her instead to the tearoom where he’d bought her tea and cakes. He sent her flowers that soaked her room in a heavy, sweet scent, he called on her at all times of the night and day. He wanted to be an actor and would recite great chunks of plays to her in public places. He had long, wild, curly black hair that reached almost to his well-formed shoulders. She’d met no one like him in her life and he seemed large and colourful compared to the bland, well-brought-upness of most of the people she’d encountered so far. Aside from that, she was flattered by his attentions: Mario had so many women after him.
Last night, they had been walking through the deserted streets of the town centre after seeing a film. Mario suddenly pressed her up against the metal framework of an empty market stall and kissed her hard. She was amazed. His body was hard and hot and his hands travelled over her body. He was pushing his pelvis into her, making the metal pole behind her press into her back.
‘God, Alice, I have the largest boner ever,’ he breathed into her neck.
‘Boner?’ she managed to say.
‘Boner. You know, erection. Do you want to see it?’
She laughed incredulously. ‘What? Here?’
‘Yeah. Why not here? There’s no one around.’ He pulled open her shirt and started biting her breasts.
‘Mario, don’t be ridiculous. We’re in the middle of town.’
Alice felt him start hitching up her skirt and feeling for her pants.
‘Mario!’ She wriggled and pushed him away. ‘For God’s sake.’
He grabbed her by the hips and went to kiss her again, but she struggled free. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ he shouted, his face red with exertion.
‘Nothing is the matter with me. We’re in the middle of town. I just don’t want to get arrested, that’s all.’
She started walking away but Mario caught her by the arm and swung her round. ‘Jesus Christ, I’m only human, Alice. Don’t you think I’ve been patient? I bought some condoms today, if that’s what you’re worried about. I assumed we might get around to it at some point.’
‘You assumed, did you?’ she scoffed. ‘Well, you assumed wrong.’
‘For fuck’s sake, honey, anyone would think you were a fucking virgin or something.’
They stared at each other, Mario panting and Alice rigid with anger. ‘Well, for your information, I am,’ she said softly and walked off.
Mario caught up with her outside the darkened windows of a bookshop. ‘Alice, I’m so sorry.’
‘Go away.’
‘Alice, please.’ He caught hold of her and wrapped his arms around her, suffocatingly, preventing her from walking any farther.
‘Leave me alone. I want to go home.’
‘Alice, I’m so sorry. I was a jerk to say those things. I had no idea. 1 mean, why didn’t you say?’
‘What do you mean, why didn’t I say? What was I supposed to say? Hello, I’m Alice Raikes, and I’m a virgin?’
‘I just had no idea. You seem so ... I don’t know ... I mean, I couldn’t tell.’
‘You couldn’t tell?’ She was angry again. ‘How do you usually tell?’ She struggled but he held her fast. ‘Let go of me, Mario.’
‘I can’t.’
She felt that his whole body was shaking and she realised in horror that he was crying. He hugged her and sobbed loudly into her hair. ‘Alice, I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. Please forgive me, Alice.’
She felt a mixture of disgust and guilt. She’d never seen a man cry before. There were people walking past, staring at them. She put her hands up to his shoulders and shook him. ‘Mario, it’s all right. Don’t cry.’
He released her at last and, holding her at arm’s length, gazed at her searchingly. His face was desperate and tear-streaked. ‘God, you’re beautiful. I don’t deserve you.’
She fought an impulse to laugh. ‘Mario, come on, let’s go. People are staring.’
‘I don’t care.’ He flung himself against the wall. ‘I’ve upset you and I can’t forgive myself.’
‘Mario, you’re being ridiculous. I’m going.’
He seized her hands. ‘Don’t go. Tell me you forgive me. Do you forgive me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Say, “Mario I forgive you.”’
‘Don’t be stupid.’
‘Say it! Please.’
‘All right. Mario, I forgive you. Right. I’m going now. Goodbye.’
She walked down the street, leaving him slumped against
the wall in an attitude of profound grief. Just as she was about to turn the corner, she heard him shout her name. She turned. He was standing in the middle of the road, his arms flung wide in an expansive theatrical gesture.
‘Alice! Do you know why I got so upset tonight?’
‘No.’
‘Because I’m in love with you! I love you!’
She shook her head. ‘Good night, Mario.’
The next day, Alice was reading some critical theory when he knocked on the door. He smiled at her radiantly and offered her a bunch of wilting chrysanthemums.
‘Mario, I told you I couldn’t see you today. I’ve got work to do.’
‘I know, Alice. I just had to come over. I’ve been up all night, just walking by the river.’ He clasped her around the waist and kissed her deeply. ‘I meant what I said last night, you know.’
‘Oh. Right. Mario, you have to leave. I’ve got an essay to write.’
‘That’s OK. I won’t disturb you, I promise.’ He ran his hands down her sides.
‘You’re disturbing me already.’
He walked to the other side of the room and sat down on the bed. ‘I won’t do it again. Promise.’
She carried on reading. He made a cup of tea in the tiny kitchen in the corner of her room. He flicked through a couple of her books and put them down with a slap. He fiddled with her stereo, looked through her CD collection and then began doing press-ups.
‘Stop that.’
‘What?’
‘That panting. I can’t concentrate.’
He rolled on to his back and looked up at her. ‘You work too hard, you know.’
She ignored him. He began stroking her ankle. ‘Alice,’ he whispered.
She kicked him off. He grabbed her ankle. ‘Alice.’
‘Mario. You’re really getting on my nerves.’
‘Let’s go to bed.’ He ran his hand up to her thigh and buried his head in her lap.
‘Right. That’s it. Get out.’
‘No. Not before I’ve got what I came for.’ He smiled wickedly. ‘Do you know why I came here today?’
‘No. Frankly I don’t.’
‘I came,’ he paused to kiss her left breast, ‘to take away your virginity.’
I had both my hands clasped around the last banister and was swinging from side to side. I was not allowed to do this as it weakened the woodwork but my mother had a visitor and I was eavesdropping.
‘My father was very musical,’ she had her social voice on, ‘and it was always my greatest wish that one of my girls would inherit his talent.’
‘And they haven’t?’ the visitor enquired.
‘I used to think Alice had. She plays the piano, but she is not particularly talented. She tries hard but her playing is average, really.’
I left the hall and walked through the kitchen. With my right hand I was testing the springiness of my little finger. It felt frail, brittle. I could have broken it with one cruel flick.
It was as if a large bowl of warm liquid I had been carrying around inside me had sprung a leak. All that warmth was draining away. I was furious with myself for being so gullible and with my mother for planting such ideas in the first place only to dash them by idle chat with some tedious neighbour. It was almost dark outside but I tore around the garden in a rage, ripping leaves off plants until my hands were bleeding.
My grandmother happened to come into the bathroom with a pile of clean towels while I was bathing my hands in tepid water. She put down the towels on the side of the bath when she saw me and began stroking my hair, tucking loose strands behind my ears. ‘Alice Raikes, why is it that you rail against life so?’
I said nothing. Bitter-tasting tears were rolling rapidly down my cheeks.
‘Can you tell me what it is that’s making you cry? Or would you rather not? Did something bad happen at school today?’
I looked up, so that my face and hers were framed by the mirror. ‘I’m just so ugly and horrible,’ I burst out, ‘and I’m no good at anything.’ My sobs were beginning to choke me.
‘Well, my dear, I have to say that I’ve seen you looking better.’
I looked at my face and laughed. My eyes were swollen and bloodshot and my cheeks streaked with mud and the green ooze of leaves. My grandmother squeezed my shoulders with her powerful hands.
‘Do you not know how bonny you are? Is it blonde curls like your sisters that you want?’ I hung my head. ‘I see it is.’ She turned me round to face her. ‘Alice, I’ll tell you a secret. In here,’ she pressed her hand against my solar plexus, ‘right here, you have a reservoir of love and passion to give someone.
You have such a huge capacity for love. Not everyone does, you know.’
I listened solemnly. She tapped me on the nose. ‘Just you make sure you don’t give it all away to the wrong man.’ She turned to pick up the towels. ‘Now, away up to bed. You’ll be worn out with all that crying.’
I didn’t give up. I still went once a week to Mrs Beeson’s flea-infested front room to be drilled in my scales and touch. Somehow my mother’s proclamation released me. I stopped galloping through exams and played what 1 wanted. Mrs Beeson phoned my mother to report that I had lost my motivation and that I could be a ‘nice wee player’ if I tried a bit harder. But I had no interest in that any more.
Alice looked down at Mario’s flushed and grinning face. She had already made up her mind that she was going to sleep with him at some point, but was convinced that it wouldn’t be good for his already considerable ego for them to do it whenever he decided the time was right. Right now he had his hands inside her shirt and he was struggling with the clasp of her bra. She tried to get hold of his arms. They grappled.
‘Mario, stop it. I am not going to sleep with you today. I mean it.’
He smacked his head with his palm and shouted, ‘Then when? I have to sleep with you! I must!’
‘I have to work. I’ve got this essay to write.’
He cast himself face down on the floor and began rolling about, groaning.
‘I am going to sleep with you,’ Alice noticed that Mario was suddenly still, ‘but not now.’
OK. Just make it soon. I’ve got balls like watermelons.’ She laughed and turned back to her books. After a while she realised Mario had gone to sleep. Later they went out to the party.
John took the stairs two at a time. Trust Alice to have an office on the top floor of a five-floor building. When he got there he could see through the glass door that the room was deserted, apart from Alice. She was sitting, straight-backed, with her hand on the telephone, as if she’d just finished a call. He strode in, slipped his arms around her shoulders and, lifting the heavy plait of hair, kissed her neck. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to have lunch with me,’ he whispered.
She felt stiff in his arms. Her profile was pale and set.
‘What’s wrong?’
She said nothing. He came around to crouch beside her and grasped her hand. ‘Alice? What is it?’
She looked at him for the first time. Her pupils were so dilated that her eyes were almost black. He stroked her hand and kissed it. ‘Tell me.’
She dug her nails hard into the back of his hand, gathering strength to speak. ‘My grandmother has died.’
He put his arms around her. ‘Alice, I’m so sorry,’ and he held her as the first tears splashed on to her desk.
Alice had forbidden John to take up the invitation that she knew her mother would issue after the funeral.
‘But I want to see the house where you grew up,’ he had protested.
‘Tough,’ she’d said grimly.
So when Ann pressed John to come back to the house he knew to make the excuse that they had to get back to their B&B. But Alice’s precautions hadn’t prevented her mother from buttonholing her in the crematorium toilet. ‘John seems very nice.’
‘Yes. He is.’
‘Have you been seeing him long?’
‘A couple of months.’
‘Wh
ere’s he from?’
‘London.’
‘I mean originally.’
‘Originally? What do you mean, originally? He was born in London.’
‘He could be Italian or Greek or something. He’s so dark.’
‘Dark?’
‘In colouring.’
‘Well, so am I, in case you hadn’t noticed.’
‘Is he Jewish?’
Alice exploded, ‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’
‘So he is,’ Ann said calmly.
‘Yeah, he is. Do you have a problem with that? You are so hypocritical sometimes. You call yourself a Christian, putting on that ridiculous performance in there when you know Granny didn’t even believe. Aren’t Christians supposed to be tolerant and love thy neighbour?’
‘Alice, there is no need to fly off the handle. I was merely asking.’
Another woman came into the toilets and went into a cubicle. Alice washed her hands in the scalding water and her mother handed her a paper towel.
‘I’m just worried that it may cause you problems, that’s all.’ ‘What do you mean?’ Alice hissed. ‘What problems? There are no problems. You’re the one making problems.’
‘Do his parents know about the relationship?’
Alice made a fatal hesitation. ‘His mother’s dead, for your information. ’
Ann rolled her eyes. ‘Does his father know, then?’
Alice was silent.
‘Has he told his father he’s seeing a Christian?’
‘I’m not a bloody Christian!’
‘Alice! Don’t swear in here!’ Ann turned round to see if the other woman might have heard. ‘A Gentile, then,’ she whispered.
‘No. He hasn’t.’
Ann pushed her face close to the mirror to check her make-up. ‘I see.’
Alice was sullen, defiant, her mouth drawn into a tense line. Ann sighed and, in an unaccustomed gesture, clutched her daughter’s hand. ‘Alice, I’m not getting at you. You can see who you like, as far as I’m concerned. You should know that by now. I just can’t bear to see you letting passion impair your judgement. Don’t ever let all this being in love stuff obscure your sense of self-preservation.’
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