The Ballerina and the Revolutionary

by Voiez, Carmilla

  ‘Where to, love?’ the taxi driver asked.

  ‘Cadford.’

  The taxi smelled of sweat and spice. I tried to roll down a window but it stuck a few centimetres down.

  ‘Hot day,’ the driver remarked.

  I nodded. Scott tried his window and a sliver of breeze snaked into the car. The soft suspension rocked my body and I felt the insistent tug of exhaustion. My eyes started to close although I tried to keep them open, blinking frequently, heavy lashes rested against my cheeks for longer each time my eyes closed. I leaned back against the hot leather seat and tried to focus on Scott as he stared out of the window, hands balled into fists. He hated this. I could see how distressed he was. Was it the car or the thought of the funeral? I wanted to ask him but didn’t, realising he might not want talk about it.

  I touched his arm, but if he noticed he didn’t show it and I moved my hand away again. I felt awkward, unsure of myself and him. Was he thinking about my mother? What was their relationship? Did he miss her? They weren’t lovers, I was certain of that now, at least.

  What then of our own relationship? Scott and Crow, Crow and Scott. Did we have one? Were we friends or were we lovers? The ambiguity of our friendship bothered me. It made me think of my other interpersonal relationships, all seemed empty, transitory. People wandered in and out of my life, but I never knew them. I never cared enough to try. I was isolated, cut off from everyone, even myself. How much did I know about my mother, Nanny or even my brother? Nothing of substance. They were all ghosts to me. I remembered finding that purple sphere in the clouds and seeing the vicious razor wire wound around it repelling all touches. Had I done that to myself? Had I deliberately separated myself from the world? Was it too late to change?

  The taxi pulled up behind a row of parked cars. I saw Tomas cuddling little Missie as Cathy watched us come to a halt.

  ‘That’s twenty quid,’ the driver said.

  Scott looked at me and frowned, mouthing the word ‘Ouch.’

  ‘I’ll get it,’ I offered. He didn’t argue.

  It felt cooler here. A breeze played with my earrings. Cathy was scowling and I realised I'd forgotten to change for the funeral. I was the only person present wearing a t-shirt and well-worn combats. I blushed, ashamed for a moment before realising the pointlessness of that feeling. I grabbed Scott’s arm and nudged him towards the gathering. The hearse was already there. I wondered whether the rest of the mourners had followed the coffin here and why they hadn’t invited me to join them. I smiled awkwardly, feeling unwanted, wishing I was brave enough to say something. This new estrangement felt unnatural. Was it paranoia or was I really not welcome here?

  Cathy took Melissa as Tomas was led towards the coffin. I started to follow him. The coffin was carried by Tomas and five other men I did not recognise. Stripped of flowers, the burden was borne into the chapel. Cathy followed behind. I hurried to join them, but found myself pushed further and further back as other mourners surged from the lobby and gathered between me and the casket.

  The modern chapel attempted to achieve old world sophistication but fell short of the mark. The entrance lobby was panelled, but looked more like a Swedish sauna than an ancient church. I wished I could be anywhere else. The ugliness around me scratched at my paper-thin surface and I wanted to cry or scream or shout, maybe all three. I wanted my brother to hug me and for everyone else to leave so Tomas and I could be alone with our mother.

  Thirty or more mourners followed the casket. No one recognised me. I was merely another body to fit into the room. Only two others walked behind me: Clive and a woman I didn’t recognise. Clive looked different without the bold coloured shirt or maybe his tears had altered his face, for he was crying without restraint. The woman beside him was crying too. They were trying to support each other and met in the middle like a Gothic arch. I looked at the woman who seemed preoccupied with Clive and her grief; she didn’t return my steady gaze. She was around Tomas’ age and had very straight black hair cut in a severe bob around her beautiful heart shaped face. She reminded me of a younger Vivienne, her delicate frown a perfect match. I couldn’t see the woman’s eyes but believed they must be grey. My heart leapt towards her. She couldn’t be ... could she?

  I tugged Scott’s arm and pointed towards the couple. Scott nodded towards Clive who fawned and preened under Scott’s gaze. It sickened me how Clive’s dignity could be so easily shattered. The woman seemed unaffected as if she didn’t recognise Scott or care about his presence. Clive whispered something in the woman’s ear and her hazel eyes rose to meet mine, staring at me and offering a weak smile.

  The mourners moved further into the chapel. Clive and the woman sat a little behind Scott and me. I could hardly concentrate on the service. The vicar’s words washed over me; none of it mattered. What did I care of God’s grace? I could only think about the woman sitting behind me. Was she Vivienne’s daughter, my sister?

  My throat felt dry. I wanted to shout out and yet at the same time curl up and hide. My brother and my phantom sister pulled me in opposite directions. I clung onto my wooden seat, head swimming. I saw trees ... no, not now. I bit my wrist again and returned to the chapel and the deep, dark groaning of machinery. Everyone bowed their heads and I saw the coffin beyond them, dark, polished mahogany; resting on the lid was a pair of ballet shoes. The coffin shuddered then started to descend. I swallowed painfully. Goodbye Mum. Half of me hoped this wasn’t a final farewell, that the spirit of my mother would live on in the house and we could have the relationship I had always wanted.

  Flames roared, either real or imagined, and with eyes tightly shut I watched my mother’s desiccated body explode in fire. She was consumed quickly, painlessly, but it felt as though one thousand cigarettes had been stubbed out simultaneously across my own skin. Pressure mounted behind my eyes, my face stung and my mouth filled with an unvoiced wail: Mummy. I covered my face with my hands and wept hot tears that scalded my cheeks. Mummy, why did you have to leave me? Why now? I felt Scott’s arm around my shoulders and was thankful, pressing my body closer to his.

  I rubbed my eyes dry with my sleeve and glanced over my shoulder. Clive and the woman were getting up to leave.

  ‘I need to know who that woman with Clive is,’ I whispered to Scott.

  He didn’t move so I pushed past him. Stumbling into the aisle, I felt everyone’s disapproving eyes on my back. I shrugged them off and pushed the chapel door open. Clive and the woman were already beside the row of cars. The woman paused to light a cigarette. Her pose and facial expression reminded me so much of my mother. I ran over.

  ‘Are you my sister?’ I asked.

  The woman coughed, spitting cigarette smoke in all directions.

  Clive answered for her. ‘Giselle meet Anna. Anna, Giselle. Yes you are sisters.’

  I grabbed Anna’s hand and shook it. ‘I knew it,’ I said, triumphantly. ‘Does Tomas know?’

  Anna shook her head.

  ‘No, we thought it best to disappear. We don’t want to cause any problems. Have they told you about the will yet?’

  ‘No, I didn’t go.’

  ‘I did,’ Clive said.

  ‘And ...’

  ‘Tomas and Cathy aren’t too happy about it. Look we’d better run. Come round to the shop later. Say six o’clock ... we’ll talk then.’

  ‘Will you be there?’ I asked Anna.

  ‘Yes.’ Anna looked at her feet as tears splashed onto shoe leather, but her voice was soft and musical, like a ballet and I wanted to hear more. I opened my mouth to engage her with more questions, but Clive shook his head and Anna retreated into the car.

  ‘Six o’clock,’ Clive said again then, to my complete shock, he winked playfully at me. ‘And bring the hunk. I’ll cook.’

  I watched through the windscreen as Anna patted Clive’s shoulder. He smiled at her and reversed out of the parking space. I waved at the back of their car as they hurried away from the funeral party.

  ‘Anna.’ The word felt
rich and sensual in my mouth. I heard the crunch of gravel behind me and spun around to face Scott.

  ‘She’s my sister,’ I told him. ‘Anna.’

  He smiled at me, the look in his eyes more eloquent than any words.

  ‘Do you think she is my missing piece?’ I asked him.

  He looked at me and shook his head.

  ‘It’s a start though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes and you’ll recover the rest. Just give it time.’

  39

  No-one offered us a lift back to the house. I sat, bubbling with resentment on the chapel steps while Scott talked to the vicar.

  ‘There isn’t a phone we can use,’ Scott told me. ‘But there’s a bus-stop just at the end of this road. He says they’re regular.’

  Standing up, I brushed stone dust from the back of my trousers and imagined Catherine, back at the house, hosting the wake, full of smiles and courtesy. Smiles that were so fake they had to be polished each morning. I didn’t know whether I was being fair and I certainly didn’t care. As far as I could see it I was here at their request. I had done everything Tomas had asked of me and this was my reward, abandonment. What did they want from me, really? Why did Tomas even ask me to come back to Bristol when he would have been happier keeping Vivienne all to himself?

  Clive had said my brother wasn’t happy with the will, and I wondered why. Perhaps they were expecting to inherit Mum's house. It was a great house in spite of the bad memories and ghosts dwelling within, large and expensive. Selling it would have set them up for life. Tomas, in his line of work, would have set up an insurance policy or two on Vivienne, so I was sure he’d be okay even if he and Cathy didn’t get the house. But if Tom didn't, who did? Anna? That would be a kick in the gut for the brother who refused to listen when I’d tried to tell him about our sister. Yes that really would hurt. My hand tingled as I thought about her, my big sister, another chance to have a family, to love and be loved.

  I walked beside Scott away from the cemetery. We strolled down the driveway in silence while I looked around at all the shimmering, white tombs and imagined their occupants bidding us farewell. My life had changed so much in these past weeks. Before I had known only righteous anger and basic survival, but my feelings had become more complicated and harder to untangle. I still felt anger, but it had become more confused and its target less clear. It was hard to hate my mother now I knew many of the problems she'd faced were greater than my own. Some of my anger transferred to Catherine, but I knew that was transitory, meaningless. The woman had too little impact on my life to warrant my hatred. I could still see the unfairness of this world and rage against it, but I felt tired. I wasn’t sure I wanted to fight any more and that thought scared me more than any other. Without the fight, the struggle, what did I have left – an uneasy void I must fill with something, but what?

  It would be easier to return to London and put all this behind me, keep the anger inside my stomach and not repair my broken soul. My existence there was simple. I fought tyranny and helped people who couldn’t fight their battles alone. It was worthwhile and it didn’t confuse my senses in the way Bristol seemed to. I had dedicated my life to continuing the fight against oppression my father had fought before me, or so I'd been taught, but even that seemed to hang under a cloud of doubt. Was my father a South American revolutionary or was that fairy tale, retold by my dear, sweet Nanny, also a lie? Did it matter, really, who my father was? Surely it was more important to know who I was, but I had no clue and to find that out I would have to continue this journey with Scott and, if I did, would I remain the same person at the end of it?

  ‘What about ghosts?’ I asked Scott.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Are there ghosts in the dream world?’

  ‘Only ones you bring there. The ghosts have their own plane of existence. It’s the spirit world. You get there by spirit walking.’

  I stopped walking and grabbed Scott’s hand. My eyes blazed with a strange excitement. I could speak to Nanny, to Vivienne even to my father perhaps. I could untangle the puzzle and set myself free. ‘Can I get there?’

  ‘Do you want to end up like Vivienne?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Then no, not without years of training and all the right equipment. Listen Crow, I taught you how to visit your dream world so you could heal yourself. That’s great, that’s healthy, or it should be, but already you’ve been dragged into it kicking and screaming and today I found you unconscious on the kitchen floor.’

  ‘But ...’

  ‘Please, Crow, let me finish.’ He stared at me and I closed my mouth. I could feel his power radiate around us both. ‘A shaman walks a fine line between sanity and insanity. A shaman has to be strong or lose his or her mind. I’ve battled all my demons, but not in the spirit world. They would overwhelm you, Crow. Promise me you won’t follow in your mother’s footsteps. I see so much more in you.’

  Two weeks ago I would have agreed. I had considered myself worth one hundred of my mother. But now ... things were different. She wasn’t the crazed demon I had known, she was more than that, and I felt her tugging me, drawing her into her world?

  ‘Promise me,’ he said again.

  I nodded. Staring at me, he looked incredulous. I could feel him trying to dig beneath my façade to learn the truth, strip me to the bone. I tried to walk away, but he grabbed my wrist and held me back.

  ‘Say it.’ His voice was a low, threatening growl.

  Inside, I felt something grow, a new strength and my old defiance combined. I felt my power unfurl in my chest. My eyes flashed with anger and indignation. How dare he? I pulled my wrist from his grasp and marched towards the bus stop.

  ‘Fuck off,’ I shouted over my shoulder.

  My body grew lighter as I strode away from him. I didn’t need his help and I wouldn’t promise him anything. He wasn’t hurrying to catch me up. He strolled purposelessly, as if on a summer jaunt through the countryside. His bare feet sounded like dead fish as they slapped against the tarmac and I realised I hated him. He didn’t know me at all. How dare he pretend to know what was best for me? It reminded me of Vivienne and her assertions that mother knew best, and perhaps she did protect us the best way she could. She certainly made huge sacrifices to keep us safe. Thinking back on all her suffering, I wanted to hold Mother in my arms and tell her I loved her. My stomach ached with the loss I felt. Mummy!

  The bus stop was empty and there was no timetable to check or sign of the bus arriving. Scott would catch up with me; would we feel compelled to talk? I could run to the next bus stop, but that seemed childish and, anyway, he would simply get on the same bus when it reached this stop. I stared at him in silence when he reached the bus stop, feeling petulant, warning him not to say another word. He stood apart from me, rolling a stone between his toes, not glancing up at my face. I heard the heavy splutter of diesel that suggested a bus was climbing the hill towards us. As the roof came into my line of vision, I held out my hand to stop it. When I checked behind me Scott was gone. Maybe he’d decided to walk home after all.

  The bus was almost empty and the route was quick. As it turned the corner into Vivienne’s street I saw dozens of cars parked outside the house; guests for the wake, I assumed.

  I opened the unlocked door and stepped over the threshold, into a crush of black. So many people, had they all been at the cemetery? I looked at a group of girls near the front door and examined their delicate features and long hair pulled back from their faces with Alice-bands, knots or ponytails. They could have been miniature Viviennes, perhaps they were her ballet students. Maybe Vivienne had gone back to teaching.

  ‘How did you know my mother?’ I asked one girl.

  The girl was achingly beautiful and her skin glowed with health. Her perfect face recoiled from me as repulsion added a new layer to her features - ugliness.

  I caught a glimpse of Catherine watching me from the doorway of the old drawing room. As our eyes met she looked away to lavish her attenti
on on the old lady beside her. That woman was holding a plate full of cakes, her fingers covered in gold rings and she wore a single, prominent cross on her chest.

  I wondered how all these people knew Vivienne. On the stairs two men were discussing one of Vivienne’s portraits, smiling and drinking. I imagined them discussing their conquest of my mother - how easy she had been, how needy.

  I pushed past bodies in the hallway, ignoring complaints as drinks were spilled or food fell from heavily laden plates, and headed to the kitchen to grab a glass of wine or something stronger and my own plate of food before stepping out into the garden and away from the ravenous strangers.

  No ghosts haunted the open space. I looked for Nanny, but the garden was empty. I opened the shed door, hoping for a glimpse of Mother, but it was dark and still. I sat, alone, on the raw floorboards and sipped warm white wine. ‘I wish you were here, Mum.’

  ‘I’ll always be here.’

  The back of my neck prickled as I looked all around me, but it was only an echo inside my mind.

  I wondered what time it was. I had no watch, no phone and the only clock was inside the house. It could be almost five by now. I downed my drink and stuffed mushrooms into my mouth. Crumbs covered me, but I didn’t bother to brush them off. Taking my glass back to the kitchen for a refill, I checked the clock - five-fifteen. I gulped down two more glassfuls and left the house without speaking to anyone. I didn’t see my brother or spot Catherine on my way out. I vaguely wondered where they were and imagined them complaining to other guests about the injustice of the will, or even rifling through Vivienne’s jewellery box, just as I had before them.

  I walked towards Healing Ways and ordered a portion of chips from the neighbouring takeaway. The stodgy potatoes felt heavy in my throat and burned my chest like acid as I swallowed, but I devoured them all, wondering how many bags of chips it would take to shift this feeling of emptiness.