Ghost Moon

by Ron Butlin

  ‘She looked so neat and nimble-o

  Darning with her thimble-o.

  Dashing away with the smoothing iron . . .’

  Last thing at night you set up the wooden clothes-horse in front of what’s left of the fire and, just before you turn out the light, you wait to see the clothes steam in the heat as if they’re actually breathing. New life – which is always a good finish to the day!

  Most mornings, up to the big house and into the estate office to do the typing, the filing and accounts. Then the afternoons –

  Tuesday – the ironing.

  Wednesday – the cleaning . . . and typing for people in the village.

  Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Village typing.

  Sunday.

  But not any more – since coming here the same week’s become the same day, the same moment. There’s no weather, no date on the calendar, no time on the clock. And the years you’ve lived through? They’re here, and always have been.

  Listen –

  3

  NORRIE PUSHED HER through the door of the bungalow and into a smell of new carpet, fresh paint and woodwork. There was a small bouquet of plastic flowers on the hall table. The living room was straight out of the Ideal Home Exhibition with modern-looking art hanging above the mantelpiece, wall lamps on either side, a beige three-piece suite, coffee-table with glossy magazines, white hearthrug, cream-coloured curtains.

  ‘This yin’s the real thing, it’s fer showing people, the others are just bare walls and floorboards. Top tae bottom electric – ye want something, ye press a button. I tell ye, Maggie, yince the hydro-electric really gets going, it’ll be free electricity and buttons for us all. See this?’ He turned a switch set into the wall next to the kitchen doorway. ‘Central heating. Ye put it tae ony temperature ye want. Let’s get oorsels nice an toasty, eh! 75 degrees!’ He grabbed her by the shoulders. ‘Ye’ll no be needing this onymair!’

  Realising her coat was in danger of getting ripped, Maggie took it off and laid it on a chair next to the front door. Norrie threw his work jacket after it, but missed. Like an aggressive salesman showing how wonderful her brand-new life would be in this, her brand-new home, he then took her by the arm and hustled her through a tour of the rooms, stopping on the way to point out each labour-saving gadget, each clever new feature – the double-sink in the kitchen, the mixer tap, the waste disposal that ground up old food and garbage.

  ‘See this hatch intae the dining room, Maggie? – was me cut it and fitted it. This breakfast bar? – me. This formica top? – me.’

  In the living room he pointed out the side lighting, the fitted carpets and matching curtains, the skirting and double glazing. A large wooden cabinet stood next to the fireplace. It had to be the biggest wireless set Maggie had ever seen. Norrie switched it on. The dial lit up.

  ‘Latest thing, this. Medium Wave, Long Wave, Short Wave – mair waves than the sea itsel.’

  Once the valves had warmed up, he slewed through an electric storm of crackles and swoops until he came to –

  . . . and gentlemen. Direct from the heart of London we bring you Saturday Night on the Light – with Max Jaffa and his orchestra.

  ‘A bit of music, eh. Set the mood fer us.’

  Steered her out and across the hall. ‘The best is yet tae come.’

  Pushed her into the room opposite. The bedroom.

  ‘See this!’ He clicked a switch set in the wall beside the door, and turned on the faraway bedlights. ‘Magic, eh!’ He grinned. ‘And there’s anither yin next to the bed fer turning them off. Luxury! Built the whole fucking place near enough, so I did. Me an Grace deserve it – no? Or are we no guid enough tae live here? Think we’re no guid enough, Maggie?’

  There was a large double bed with blankets and a shiny quilt, one corner already turned down in invitation to the prospective owner. Having walked her over to the window, he tugged at a cord with his free hand, ‘Let’s make us nice and cosy, eh?’ The curtains glided shut.

  ‘Fuckers that’ll be moving in come Monday, that’s what they’ll think. That we’re just working trash. Bairn on the way, and us still sharing wi Grace’s parents in thon top floor slum. Running water in baith rooms, right enough – running doun the fucking walls.’

  He pulled her over to the dressing table. ‘Look at the pair o us!’

  Wrenched her into position till they were facing the mirror, standing side by side. His reflection glared back at her, the bloodshot anger in his eyes:

  ‘Working till we drop, and fer what? Fuck’s sake, Maggie, let’s hae yin five-star night in our lives. Yin fucking night, eh!’

  From through in the living room came the sounds of the radio orchestra.

  ‘Glenn Miller. We could hae a wee dance, you an me.’

  Keeping firm hold of her he made as if to begin a waltz, then seemed to change his mind. ‘Whaure’s ma manners? First things, first. Get the lady a drink.’

  With his free hand he drew a bottle from the side pocket of his jacket. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and spat it out. ‘A wee toast tae us baith. Cheers.’ Not taking his eyes off her, he took a deep swallow. ‘Now you, ma lady.’ He held the whisky up to her. She turned away.

  ‘No tak a drink wi me? Am a no guid enough fer ye?’

  ‘I don’t want to drink, Norrie. I want to go home. If you let me leave now I won’t say anything to Grace. Like this never — ’

  Next moment he’d pushed her down onto the bed.

  The pub stink of him, the unspoken threat –

  ‘Get off me, Norrie. Stop this. Stop it before you go too far. You’ve had one drink too many is all. Let’s just leave now and go home. Grace’ll be — ’

  ‘Like I said, Grace isnae here.’ The menace in his voice: ‘I’m no tellin, an I’m shair ye’ll keep stumm if ye ken whit’s guid fer ye. Right?’

  Over his shoulder, she could see the open door leading out to the hall and the living room beyond. They were playing ‘Moonlight Serenade’.

  ‘A few drinks and a bit of fun – whit’s yer problem, Maggie? Ye pan-loafie bitch! Easy seen whose side you’re on.’ The weight of him keeping her pinned down on the bed. He shoved the bottle at her:

  ‘Ye’ll hae tae get catched up wi me, dram fer dram.’

  She tried to twist her head from side to side, but he forced the bottle against her mouth, upending it. Some whisky slopped over and ran down her chin.

  ‘Dinna waste it.’

  Clenching her jaw tighter shut.

  His fingers wrenching her lips apart, and then her teeth – the tobacco taste nearly making her retch. Her mouth flooding with the harsh liquid till she almost choked. She had to swallow.

  ‘That’s the style! Come on, yin mair tae get yersel real loosened up, eh?’ Tilting the bottle again.

  She struggled under him, trying to push back, to kick out, but he held her tight.

  Having to swallow again. And again. His fingers in her mouth, forcing it open each time. Another swallow.

  ‘Come on, Maggie, guid stuff this. Better than mither’s milk fer ye.’

  His hand clamped so she couldn’t spit out –

  Tilting the bottle again.

  His loud whisper, his hoarseness: ‘Guid lass. We’ll hae some fun nou, you and me.’ Leaning across her, he put the bottle on the side table.

  The rawness of his unshaven chin, his unwashed sweat-smell. His roaring whisky breath –

  Pushing himself hard up against her –

  ‘What the fuck!’ The flat of his hand sliding down to press her stomach. ‘What the fuck’s this, Maggie? You’re fucking in the club, aren’t ye?’

  She jerked away, pulled her knees tight up to her chest.

  ‘Fuck’s sake, Maggie. Fuck’s sake. Up the stick, an yer making me work fer it? Ye fucking keelie!’

  He was going to hit her
. That was coming next. She could see it. She reached across and grabbed for the bottle to defend herself.

  But he didn’t. Instead he half-rolled away from her and started muttering over and over to himself, ‘Fucking keelie . . . Fucking keelie . . . Fucking keelie . . .’

  She wrenched herself out from under him and clambered off the bed. She stood up. Whisky-dizzy.

  Meanwhile, the dance band music continued . . . it seemed to be playing right inside her now, inside her head, inside her whole body, like it was spinning her round. She stumbled away from the bed, the floor see-sawing under her feet. The whisky bottle still in her hand, she raised her arm as if that gesture could bring everything to a stop.

  Next moment she watched the bottle shatter against the wall only inches from Norrie’s head. An explosion of glass and whisky that spattered everywhere, followed by the slow drip . . . drip . . . drip onto the headboard.

  His voice was a whine: ‘Could’ve killed me, ye bitch! Fucken bitch ye! Fucking hoor! Fuck – Fuck — ’

  She heard herself scream back: ‘I hope you burn in hell, the whole bloody lot of you!’

  It was after midnight when she fumbled her key into Mrs Mckenzie’s door.

  Having pulled off her coat and let it fall to the floor, she slumped onto her bed. She was shaking. If she’d not fought back, Norrie would have –

  Next thing, she was sitting with her money drawer on her lap. The loose coins slid from side to side. Everything had started to blur.

  Back and forth she rocked herself, trying to blink her eyes clear, but they blurred again almost immediately. Through her tears the silver and copper glittered, with here and there the red of a crumpled ten shilling note.

  She was still crying when she heard the downstairs street door bang shut. Someone had come into the close. She listened hard. The footsteps stumbled up to the first landing. Then stopped.

  Only to carry on a moment later. Was that him?

  She wiped away the tears with the back of her hand. And the next time she saw Norrie? And Grace?

  The footsteps had almost reached the top floor. Norrie, for certain . . .

  Hardly breathing even, steadying the drawer on her knees. Go away. Go away.

  ‘Maggie!’

  The drunken fool was shouting through the letter box. He’d wake up the whole house, the whole stair.

  ‘maggie!’

  She placed the drawer down beside her and lay flat on the bed. The instant she closed her eyes the room started to spin.

  ‘maggie, i’m sorry for causing ye bother, i’m sorry . . .’

  ‘Miss Davies? There seems to be something of yours out on the landing – kindly get rid of it!’ Mrs McKenzie was standing in her open doorway.

  ‘sorry, maggie. sorry. sorry. sorry . . .’

  ‘That is Norrie Chalmers, isn’t it? Frae next door?’

  ‘Yes, Mrs McKenzie.’ Maggie had to concentrate to speak normally, distinctly. All by themselves the words she wanted kept slithering across her tongue. ‘Foll’ed me long the street so’s I — ’

  ‘Get rid of him. Then get rid o yersel. A woman that’s no married at your age – naethin but grief for us respectable folks.’ She gave a sniff, then she settled for acid-polite English. ‘Drinking, too, I notice. Well, not in my house.’

  ‘B’ Msss McKenz — ’

  ‘I’ll take your key, if you please.’

  Once Mrs McKenzie had gone, Maggie upended the contents of the drawer into her handbag. She stuffed her clothes into her suitcase.

  Twenty minutes later, she was letting herself into the bakery – thank goodness Jean had insisted she keep a key ‘just in case’. Without bothering to wash or undress, she stretched out on the chaise longue and pulled the blankets tightly around her.

  You’ve made your bed . . .

  There was no question of returning to Fusco’s, she told Jean. Plenty unskilled jobs in offices – filing, reception, answering the phone, making tea. Or else she could waitress in a respectable teashop, a city-centre restaurant or hotel.

  The first employment agency she tried was in George Street. Up to their first-floor office, then across the small carpeted hall to the desk marked reception. As the girl sitting there was on the phone, Maggie stood and waited. And stood. And waited. At one point the girl (was Miss Snooty Junior really old enough to have left school?) glanced in her direction, gave her a nod, then carried on with her conversation. Miss Snooty Junior had an impressive telephone voice. The call seemed to be something about last month’s records, which hadn’t arrived somewhere or else hadn’t been sent. They were supposed to have been posted in good time. Mrs Somebody would have weighed them herself and Mrs Somebody else should have taken them to the Post Office at Waterloo Place. Three days ago. No four.

  Maggie was about to leave when the call came to an end. She watched the receiver being set down in its cradle, the girl letting her hand linger on it for several seconds before glancing across.

  ‘That was Head Office.’ Miss Snooty Junior had a Reception voice, too.

  Maggie was treated to a Reception smile and given an application form. Told to sit down.

  Easy questions first:

  name and address? She’d give Jean’s bakery – just as well it wasn’t a proper shop.

  age?

  school?

  Then came the hard ones:

  qualifications?

  previous jobs and experience?

  previous positions of responsibility / authority?

  position sought?

  From school onwards, Maggie’s life was quickly reduced to a series of blanks. Snooty Junior glanced at her completed form, said thank you and repeated the smile. Someone would be in touch should anything suitable turn up.

  Three more agencies, three more Snooty Juniors – same voice, same blouse, same lipstick, same smile. They all said they’d let her know.

  Lunch was a Scotch egg, a half-pint of milk and an apple while sitting on a bench in Princes Street Gardens just along from the Scott Monument. She needed her gabardine buttoned up to the chin to keep warm in a sun that, at this time of the year, was starting to get past its best. From across the sloping grass of the gardens came the occasional hoots of trains entering and leaving Waverley. But it was restful sitting in the park watching the people, the pigeons . . . and she could have happily remained there all afternoon, doing nothing, saying nothing, as if part of an unfinished painting: Edinburgh City Centre. Then she’d remember – and, all at once, the picture seemed to dissolve around her, leaving her sitting on her bench, alone. She got to her feet, brushed the crumbs from her lap, then headed back into Princes Street and to more agencies.

  Thanks to Jenners, Patrick Thompson’s and Forsyth’s, she managed to get through the afternoon. Whenever she couldn’t face another Snooty Junior or filling in another form, she made straight for the nearest department store to wallow in scarves, perfumes, hats, gloves, shawls, working her way along the rails and counters until she felt better. Trailing a silk scarf between her fingers was like dipping them into the coolness of running water; when trying on a hat, she’d let the veil drop and was able to relax behind it, if only for a moment; as she dabbed perfume onto her wrist, she’d close her eyes, breathe in deeply, and let her weariness dissolve into Chanel.

  It was getting towards five o’clock when she toiled up the too-many flights of narrow, badly lit stairs to present herself at Superior Employment. Her arrival was perfectly timed – no receptionist in sight. Had this particular Snooty Junior left early? Was she playing with her dolls? Sitting on the boss’s knee? Maggie didn’t wait to find out. Ignoring the brass bell with its notice asking visitors to ring for attention, she made her way along a short corridor until she came to a door which stood invitingly half open.

  She walked straight in.

  The name plate said: Mr Wilson, and this
was Mr Wilson himself, she presumed, seated behind the desk, head bent over a pile of paperwork. Unlike her mother’s hair-parting, Mr Wilson’s was ruler-straight and precise enough to look painted on. She had to resist the temptation to reach down and touch its jet-black glossiness to see if the paint was still wet. Without raising his head, Mr Wilson continued to scrutinise the form in front of him, ticking his way down the boxes of what was probably someone’s job history.

  ‘One moment, please.’

  Each ponderous tick was accompanied by a ‘humph’ of approval whose seriousness reminded her of an elderly Recording Angel, one whose recommendation would be given great weight. Even though she couldn’t read the form upside-down, it was clear that here was an applicant with no blanks in their life. Every box was so crammed that the handwritten details of their busy career had spilled over into the surrounding page.

  The Recording Angel inscribed one final extra-large tick of approval before glancing up.

  ‘Yes? Can I. Help you?’

  ‘You are Mr Wilson?’

  ‘Yes.’ His tone was cautious as if he might have been about to add but only on weekdays or only in this office.

  ‘My name is Miss Davies and I’m seeking employment.’ She sat down. The wooden seat was hard and straight-backed, forcing her to lean forward as if she had difficulty catching what was being said.

  She tried a smile. ‘Your agency has come very highly recommended.’

  ‘Experience?’

  From somewhere out in the corridor came the clatter-clatter of a typewriter. The Recording Angel had his back to the window, which kept his face in shadow, reducing it to a mere suggestion of a face. His one-word question was expanded:

  ‘What. Experience. Have you?’

  He wore glasses. Small, rodent-like eyes – she felt their gaze gnawing at her, felt it scampering along the cut of her blouse and jacket, teasing the creases she’d ironed out on Jean’s travelling-trunk-cum-table. His face remained immobile, his lips parting no wider than the minimum necessary to allow his prepared words their exit. Between words, the mouth stayed firmly closed.