Brixton Beach

by Roma Tearne

  ‘Meeting his new woman, I mean,’ he continued regardless, glancing at her sideways.

  ‘Nothing could be worse than his last,’ Tessa said shortly. ‘She was truly dreadful.’

  And she shuddered delicately, making him smile inwardly, in spite of the fact he’d rather liked the last one. He stopped the car and they got out in silence.

  ‘Well, here we are, Ralph!’ he said too heartily as the host opened the door.

  And then they went in.

  ‘Just orange juice for me,’ he said. ‘I’m on call tonight.’

  He watched as a beautiful nineteenth-century glass was filled with wine for Tessa. Tessa was looking around discreetly for the new woman.

  ‘I’m Simon Swann,’ he said to the man standing near him.

  He turned to introduce Tessa but she had been whisked away by Ralph. There were hungry, admiring lions waiting, he guessed, pleased for her.

  ‘On the wagon, then?’ asked the man next to him.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Not drinking?’

  ‘Oh, I see. No, no, I’m on call at the hospital tonight, that’s all’

  ‘Really? Can’t have an inebriated doctor, I suppose!’

  ‘No, exactly.’

  ‘What d’you do? Stitch up drunks?’

  ‘Bit of everything really. Emergency surgery, on nights like these,’ he said, sipping his orange juice and surveying the room.

  There were a lot of people tonight, mostly here out of nosiness, he suspected. It would certainly not be for the food, Tessa had remarked earlier, for the host was well known for his uncertain culinary talent. The man next to him was looking a bit green. Liverish, thought Simon, out of habit.

  ‘So they know, when they see you, what’s coming, eh?’

  Simon smiled gently, not minding, knowing how people were about the subject: squeamish, not wanting to see what might be around the corner of their own lives. So he smiled.

  ‘They’re not usually conscious,’ he said mildly.

  Excusing himself, he went in search of Tessa. Snatches of music filled his head like ghosts. He could see her talking to the host’s new woman with a look of intense curiosity. He hoped she was not disappointed.

  The empty glasses were cleared away by the new woman in a proprietorial way. They went into dinner, and Ralph, himself a medic, served up the veal.

  ‘Vitello Brasato all’ Uve!’ he announced, holding it high above the table, raising their hopes and expectations, toying with their appetite only to dash it hopelessly, so that several guests would stop at the fish-and-chip shop on the way home, and snuffle down a double cone of chips, all salt and grease and warmth straight from the fryer, before they would at last feel sated. But that was later. For the moment he simply brought in this dish, conjuring up in their minds the beautiful early summer full of expectancy and colour and surprise, the grapes plump and softened in the wine, the warm tartness of the fruit against the sweetness of the veal making a fine marriage. The guests waited with the fine claret in its cut-glass glinting ruby-red, and the candles in the polished holders glowed in the lit room, a token reference to bygone ages. The host placed his dish, rather as a conjurer would, on the mat on the high-gloss mahogany table to the soft sounds of appreciation around him. The women all wore black.

  Tessa Swann glanced at her plate, her eyes glinting sharply. She’s in good form, thought Ralph, with the sharp eye of the psychiatrist. It did not stop him noting shrewdly that she had begun to wear the shadow of disappointment sometimes seen on the faces of once attractive women. She was not ageing well, he mused, chewing on his veal, frowning slightly with the effort. It wasn’t obvious to the casual observer yet, but Ralph wondered how conscious she was of the fact. Tessa Swann had always relied on her good looks, he decided, warming to his ruminations. But they had let her down now! Ralph imagined her forging ahead each morning with her brushes and her cover-up creams, unable to believe in her body’s betrayal. She had such an air of holding on. With a small frisson of excitement he began to think of her naked and in bed with him. Tessa smiled, aware of some approval on his part. Satisfied that his new woman wasn’t up to much, she relaxed. Triumph made her sharply defined, like a newly sandblasted statue. The host grinned. He felt a stirring in his elderly groin, a rising of what might pass for sap. He breathed in spring, when for him it was really autumn. It was a pity, but the new acquisition would have to go, thought Tessa, leaving the field clear for their continued, gentle flirtation conducted over many years and wholly undetected by Simon himself.

  At the other end of the table Simon Swann was only half listening to a convoluted story told by the new woman. He had forgotten her name and was waiting for a pause in which to ask her it again. She was a long woman, he saw, with a torso that took up most of her frame, giving the appearance of a body stocking accidentally stretched in the wash. And, he observed mildly, she had a hypnotic manner. She was American and every subject that she raised—motherhood and adoption (she had tried neither, she told him), psychoanalysis and the nature of the soul or literacy in Bradford—every subject discussed was washed with the all-consuming twanginess of her voice. How did she do it? marvelled Simon. She had a lot to say, mesmerising them all, so that even the veal became unimportant in the face of so much energy. When she began to talk about the war in Iraq, Simon felt his eyelids become heavier. He stifled a yawn; he had been working late just recently. The American’s voice seemed to be running down, like vinyl being played at the wrong speed. Or perhaps she had simply lost interest in him, for she was now addressing her remarks to the man on her right. The veal was inedible, a discovery that spread slowly around the oval table, but even this did not bother Simon too much as with professional instinct and courteous manners he pushed the congealed cream, like regurgitated sick, around his plate. And then, just at that moment, the woman to the left of him spoke.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, startled out of his dream. ‘I didn’t quite catch that.’

  He had not seen her sitting there beside him, she was so small and the American woman had absorbed too much of the atmosphere, he realised, belatedly. The woman beside him sighed. She flashed him a look from huge dark eyes and for an instant Simon could not conceal his astonishment.

  ‘I was talking to myself,’ she said, slightly defiantly. ‘I was wondering how much more of this I would have to endure.’

  Taken aback he laughed out loud. An alarming amount of defiance here, was his first amused thought.

  ‘I was thinking the same thing,’ he said before he could stop himself.

  Across the table Tessa’s crystal earrings glinted dangerously. The light seemed to have a surge of sudden power, falling on the sparking table with new force.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, wishing the woman would look at him again. ‘How rude of me. I should have introduced myself. I’m Simon Swann.’

  ‘I’m Alice,’ the woman said unsmilingly.

  He had to bend to hear her and then he caught a glimpse of her eyes once again. That was what he saw first, those eyes.

  Are you a psychiatrist too?’ he asked.

  She smiled unexpectedly. Her eyes went on smiling far longer than they needed to, he noticed. There was something very arresting about her appearance, which was dark. Exotic, he supposed, was the word.

  ‘Oh God, no!’ she was saying. I’m not quite sure why I’m here. Antonia invited me. She thought it would be good publicity.’

  Antonia?’

  ‘The woman you were talking to,’ she said, nodding in the direction of the American, who had moved on and was now deep in conversation with the man across the table.

  ‘She’s a friend of yours?’

  ‘God no! She just exhibits my work. I believe she thought it would be good for my next exhibition. Actually, I think she wanted me as moral support. Not that she needs any’

  Simon looked confused.

  ‘She’s just met Ralph,’ Alice said patiently. ‘Our host. And she told me this would be a dinne
r for medics and she wouldn’t know anyone. So,’ she shrugged, ‘I said I’d come. I must say, he can’t cook, can he?’

  Simon gave a shout of laugher, hastily stifled, and the woman stared at him.

  I’m sorry,’ she said, not sounding sorry at all. ‘But he can’t, can he?’

  Again he noticed her eyes. They were truly enormous, he thought, mesmerised. And a little at odds with her manner, which had a curious flatness to it. He hesitated, wanting to ask her where she was from, but afraid of giving offence.

  ‘What sort of work do you do?’ he asked instead.

  ‘Me? I make sculptures.’

  ‘Really!

  She glanced at him sharply. Evidently he passed the test because she seemed to relax a little.

  ‘What sort of sculptures?’ he asked once more, encouragingly.

  About my life.’

  He registered the deadpan inflection in her voice again and was silent, not knowing what to say.

  ‘What I mean is, they’re not pretty nudes,’ Alice said, with the faintest trace of amusement in her voice.

  She took a small sip of wine and pulled a face, keeping her eyes lowered. He had the distinct feeling she didn’t want to have anything more to do with him, maybe even regretted talking to him. In fact, he had a strong sense that she had withdrawn from the table altogether. Her face in profile was arresting. Also her voice had no trace of an accent, he thought, puzzling over this. Obviously she was from some Asian country but he could not decide where it might be. It was not, he felt sure, India. And although he would have liked to ask several questions, the woman’s shuttered face seemed to forbid it. Her dark lashes covered her eyes, turning them into elongated buds. He stole another look at her.

  Ah! I see you’ve met Alice,’ Ralph cried, appearing from behind and removing their plates. He replaced them with small pudding bowls. ‘Alice is an artist, you know.’

  ‘So I hear,’ Simon nodded.

  ‘Has she told you, she’s got an important exhibition coming up soon? I’ve told Antonia she must send us an invitation. You mustn’t forget,’ he added loudly, smiling broadly at Alice. Tessa was staring steadily at Simon across the table.

  ‘Yes,’ Alice said softly. ‘I do understand. I speak English!’

  Only Simon heard her. Touchy, he thought, noticing Ralph had had a bit too much to drink. Antonia must have had the same thought, for suddenly she was beside him, holding a dish.

  ‘Now, who’s for summer pudding?’

  ‘Not for me, thank you,’ Alice said.

  Simon had the feeling that she was fuming quietly. He opened his mouth to say something and, just at that moment, just as he felt he had discovered someone interesting in the evening, his bleeper went off.

  ‘Damn,’ he said gently. ‘I’m on call tonight.’

  ‘Oh dear! Now you won’t be able to sample my excellent pudding,’ Ralph said plaintively.

  ‘Lucky you!’ murmured Alice.

  Tessa, watching across the table, made a small moue of irritation and the man next to her laughed sympathetically. Twice in two days.

  What’s the point? Tessa was thinking privately. After all, he hardly ever saves them.

  ‘Should I drive you?’ she asked, her concern suddenly and sharply proprietary.

  ‘Oh, goodness, no,’ murmured Simon. ‘I’ll drive myself, no need to worry. I’m afraid there must be a rush on if they’re calling me.’

  He took out his pager.

  ‘Bad luck,’ Ralph commiserated.

  ‘For whom?’ asked one of the guests nervously.

  Simon Swann pushed back his chair regretfully.

  ‘If I could just use your phone, Ralph. Very nice to have met you, Alice. Sorry I couldn’t stay. You must send us an invitation to your exhibition. When is it?’

  She was looking at him as if she didn’t believe he was interested. Again he noticed how small she was. Her eyes reflected the candlelight unnervingly. Fleetingly she reminded him of someone he had met many years before.

  ‘In about a month,’ she said.

  He searched in his pocket and found a piece of paper and scribbled his address down.

  And then he was making for the door, checking he had his house keys, telling Tessa not to wait up for him. With a quick peck on her cheek, he was gone.

  Far away in another time zone, dawn was breaking. It had been breaking for years on an unrecoverable past. The Sea House sighed and sank a little more into disrepair. Over the years it had slowly given up, loosening its hold on its past life, gently absorbing all that the elements threw at it. Accepting defeat. Only memory remained, possessing each of its rooms; folded inward with dust, undisturbed by human presence. There was no one to pick them up and shake them open. May had not been back. She had not found it possible to walk the path beside the coast, bending low under the bougainvillea branches grown heavy and unruly with neglect. The path held too much for her to bear. It was filled with the footsteps of her journeys to school; it had been the way she had walked as a young bride and then with her beloved son. She had thought his absence had defeated her completely, but then she had received a bundle of clothes. Only then did she understand the true depths of loss.

  Through all of this, the Sea House soldiered on regardless, wreathed in neglect and unshed tears. The monsoons swept through it, making the rooms their own, and when they passed, the garden claimed the house again. Birds settled all over it while the paw-paw tree thrust its branches in through the open window. Chairs and tables, beds and hammocks, everything that once held life crumbled while the Sea House buckled under its fate. Janake visited it after Namil’s funeral. When the bundle of clothes had arrived, Namil, like the house, had given up. May had thought he had not understood, but it seemed he had. He died in his sleep a day later. A blessing, Janake said, when he came to comfort May. At her request, he went back to the Sea House in search of a letter Namil had written when he had first met May. But the letter was not to be found, even though Janake looked everywhere. Instead he found other things that had been overlooked. A pair of child’s shoes belonging to Alice, a lump of glass that he had given her, some driftwood they had found together on the beach, and then, to his delight, a photograph of her standing beside the rocks with him. Janake stared at it for a long time. His heart contracted. Buddhism was about letting go, he knew, but he longed for the simplicity of his past. He took the photograph, adding it to his small collection of possessions. He would keep it, he thought, in case the time should ever come when he might give it to Alice or her son.

  Eleven years had passed since Alice’s uncle Namil died. Peace of a sort had come to her island home. Sri Lanka had become a place that many people knew about. Thanks to cheap air travel, it had become a honeymoon destination, but for Alice the place held nothing but painful memories. Her aunt had disappeared, like all the people in her life, unintentionally, inevitably. Ravi at almost eighteen was a handsome boy with a shock of curly black hair. Although he did not know it, he had grown into the image of his great-grandfather, Bee. Every time he smiled, Alice’s heart missed a beat. They still lived in the house in Brixton. She had converted one of the rooms downstairs into a proper studio and here she had begun to make the large sculptures that were becoming increasingly well known. Yet she was not happy. As he grew, Ravi began to change. The slow breaking away process, the growing distance between mother and son that was so necessary for the boy’s entry into adulthood, had come as a shock to Alice. She felt each step away from her as a terrible wrench. There had been so many separations in her life. She saw her son’s apparent indifference as one more. Ravi had always visited his father regularly, his parents’ divorce having made little difference to his relationship with Tim. The plan of Tim’s new home as he had drawn it on the day long ago had changed and changed again. Tim was no longer with the woman for whom he had left Alice. Other loves had come and gone with only his affection for his son remaining intact. Now, as he grew independent, Ravi began to take himself to his father’s
house on the other side of Brixton more frequently. He went after school, without bothering to inform his mother, letting himself in before Tim returned from work, and the first Alice knew of it was when she rang Tim’s house. Often Ravi ended up staying the night. Shocked to discover feelings of jealousy within herself, struggling to acknowledge them, silent with hurt Alice watched as Ravi drifted away from her. Adolescence had brought the end of his love for her, she believed. All that she had tried to hold on to, she told herself, had vanished into nothing, and only her work remained. This was beginning to be noticed, first locally and then in a slow, haphazard fashion, further afield.

  One day a woman from a newspaper came to interview her. She was about to have an exhibition in a gallery on the Railton Road. The journalist had come wanting to see her studio. She smiled with pleasure when Alice opened the door.

  ‘I love the name of your house,’ she said. ‘Where’s the beach!’

  Alice had looked at the woman, unsmiling.

  ‘It’s in my head,’ she said.

  After she had made a pot of tea in her blue kitchen with its brightly painted shelves, its cheerful pottery and geranium plants that dotted the room, she suggested they look at the work.

  ‘Who’s the boy?’ the journalist asked, peering at the photographs pinned up everywhere.

  ‘My son,’ Alice had answered shortly, and then they went into her studio.

  Later, when she read what had been written about her studio, she was surprised.

  Her studio gives the appearance of emptiness, apart from the solitary armoire and table. At first glance nothing is out of ordinary, yet the effect of stepping into a room lit from above by two spotlights gives an uneasy edge that is bewildering. There is something a little shocking about walking between table and armoire, their very ordinariness, the break from the daily business of living that invites one to view the experience of the ‘disappeared’ in a new and shocking light. This, the Sri Lanka-based artist tells me, a little hesitantly, is what she wants, this bridging of the spaces between one person’s experience and another’s.