Devils, for a change

by Wendy Perriam

  She’d tried to make Joe realise he needed more security, but Joe seemed almost frightened of his son; the big bully father reduced to funk and bluster, now Rita was away. He couldn’t cook, couldn’t run a house; was rarely home, in any case; always scavenging for scrap, touring dumps and car parks in his tow-truck, making shady deals in shabby pubs, checking other scrapyards, nipping in and out of bookmakers to put money on a horse, or taking time off, not for Luke, but to drive out to a race meeting, watch the horse he’d backed. If Rita Craddock kept on running temperatures, kept on losing weight, it would be Christmas Day before Luke was off her hands. Except they’d both be nomads then, both out in the street, since Liz’s house was sold, the completion date fixed for mid-December.

  ‘Right, time to start, everyone. Gabriel and Mary up on stage. Pontius Pilate, will you please not pick your nose. You’re an important Roman Governor, in case you’d forgotten. And if I have to tell you one more time about that spear, Luke Craddock, you’ll feel it on the seat of your pants. Okay, kids, let’s go …’

  ‘You were marvellous, Luke.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘Yes, you were. You looked just like a real soldier.’

  ‘It’s stupid dressing up.’

  ‘No, it’s not. It’s fun.’

  ‘Bet you’ve never done it.’

  ‘Yes, I have, lots of times. I was the Virgin Mary once and Joseph twice.’

  ‘Girls can’t be Joseph.’

  ‘Yes, they can. I was even a King once, with shoe-black on my face.’

  Luke looked disbelieving. She herself now felt it quite extraordinary that a bunch of aged nuns should have acted out their pathetic little playlets, taken them so seriously, crowing like small children over cardboard crowns, or turbans made from tea towels. Their cast had been so limited – no males, no Pakistanis, no playground bullies to take the baddie roles. Yet hadn’t it been fun? She recalled her own star role as Pontius Pilate, fifteen years ago; the sense of almost sinful glee that she was allowed to stride around and play a man, even play a bad man; allowed to raise her voice for once, shout orders, snap her fingers, if only for ten minutes out of the five hundred thousand silent minutes which formed the normal convent year.

  She fumbled for her keys as she and Luke turned the corner into Cranleigh Gardens, stopped outside the ‘SOLD’, sign.

  ‘D’you like them people, Hilary?’

  ‘Those people.’

  He looked at her, confused. ‘What people?’

  She opened the gate, clicked it back in place. It was a losing battle to try to teach him grammar. ‘Well, which people did you mean?’

  ‘The ones what bought the house.’

  ‘Yes, they’re very nice.’

  ‘I don’t like them.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘They’re werewolves.’

  ‘Oh, are they?’

  ‘Yeah.’ He kicked out at the dead hydrangea bush. ‘Can we go and see my Mum?’

  ‘Not today. She has to be kept quiet.’

  ‘I won’t talk. Honest.’

  ‘I know you won’t, darling, but …’

  ‘I won’t say a single word. Cross my heart and hope to die.’

  ‘We’ll try to go tomorrow, or the next day. That’ll give you time to make her a nice card. I’ve got some real gold paper, that lovely shiny sort.’

  ‘I don’t want to make no cards.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Luke. I’ll help you.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I want to watch Dracula.’

  ‘It doesn’t start till nine. You’ll have heaps of time before that.’ She had tried to wean him off the television – all those horror films and cop shows he claimed to watch with Rita, despite the fact they were often very late; had given up the struggle now, and simply sat beside him, flinching at the gunfights, recoiling from the gore.

  He switched on Battlestar Galactica as soon as they got in, crouched down on the carpet, still in scarf and anorak, eyes glued to the set. She switched it off again, poured him a glass of Seven-Up, as minor compensation. ‘Remember what we agreed, Luke – reading first.’

  ‘Reading’s crap.’

  ‘No, it’s not.’ She went to fetch his dragon book, one she’d bought herself, to provide some welcome contrast to the dreary reading-schemes they insisted on at school, with their safe and small vocabulary, their lists of repeated words. The dragons were exotic, very much in Robert’s style, with threshing tails and plumes of fiery breath. ‘Look, this one’s called Demetrius, and that’s his wife, Drusilla. Can you read me just the first page? I know the names are hard, but try these few fines here.’

  Luke peered down at the print, stuttered out a word or two, then tried to close the book against her hands. ‘Let’s find another book.’

  ‘What’s wrong with this one?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘You liked it in the shop.’ She should have saved her money, bought him shoes instead. She glanced down at his scuffed and battered trainers, the patches on his jeans. He had arrived with one small duffle-bag, stuffed with torn and dirty clothes; his usual long and floppy hair shorn to prison-length. She suspected Joe himself had acted barber, since, even now, it was sticking up in tufts. It angered her to see it hacked about like that. If Luke had been born a Lawley, not a Craddock, someone might have found the time to replace his worn-out clothes; made him feel he mattered; made him an appointment with a decent children’s hairdresser.

  She moved his glass to the safety of the coffee table, ‘Well, if you don’t like dragons, how about a magpie story?’

  He didn’t answer, just stared at the blank screen, as if the intensity of his gaze might somehow have the power to switch it on again. ‘A crow ate all them chicks,’ he said, at last, talking to the set.

  ‘Which chicks?’

  ‘The ones you said flew off to the seaside.’

  She flushed. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Tim Wentworth. He lives just down the road, right beside that big tall tree the magpies built their nest in. His Dad saw these crows attack it. They had this awful fight, he said, and the mother magpie screamed like she was dying. Then the biggest crow gobbled all the babies up, except just one he dropped. Tim found it on the pavement. It was bald, he said, and dead.’

  Hilary said nothing. She had known about the carnage. It had happened back in May, and it was now the first week in December. Had Luke only just found out, or had he been brooding on the tragedy all those seven months? The magpies had backfired on her in other ways. She’d got a book out of the library, just a week ago, to garner more details for her stories; discovered that according to the folklore, they were birds of evil omen, which heralded disaster, even death. The ancient legends claimed that they’d refused to wear full mourning at the time of the Crucifixion; were even called the Devil’s Birds in Scotland, believed to conceal a drop of Satan’s blood beneath their coiled black tongues.

  She glanced out of the window. She hadn’t drawn the curtains yet, and the dark night seemed to press against the pane. The whole room looked bare and desolate, with only the piano left, a makeshift coffee table and two hard wooden chairs. Once a house was sold, it seemed to lose not only all its comforts, its furnishings and fittings, but also lose its soul. No wonder Luke was nervous, kept asking to go home.

  She pulled the heavy curtains, went to squat beside him. Her own fictitious magpie stories were still entirely innocent. She refused to change her kindly Mrs Swagger-Tail, her blameless Droopy-Wing; or let Luke know that magpies were a type of crow themselves, which gobbled eggs and fledglings with that same aggressive relish. She unzipped his anorak, tried to peel it off. ‘Mrs Swagger had her chicks, though – a good half dozen, wasn’t it? Shall we have that story while I’m putting you to bed?’

  ‘What d’ you mean, “bed”?’ He pushed her hands away, refused to shed his coat. ‘You said I could watch Dracula, and it starts in fifteen minutes.’

  They wer
e halfway through it when the doorbell rang. Hilary was glad of an excuse to miss the next slow and gloating blood-sucking; less pleased when she saw Ivan on the doorstep. She had never quite recovered from her initial shock on discovering that she’d allowed herself to become romantically involved with what Delia called a poof. Since then, she’d learnt more tolerance, become fond of Ivan in a different sort of way, admired him for his kindness, his sensitivity, yet she still felt a shade uneasy with him, especially on her own. He had somehow become entangled in her sex life. Every time she’d been to bed with Robert, Ivan had been there, as well, as she tried to tip and rock her pelvis, remember what he’d said about relaxing, opening up. And occasionally she’d wondered – secretly, shame-facedly – that if it had been Ivan in her bed, instead of preening Robert, would she have responded any better; felt more sense of being in her body, owning it, enjoying it, able to experience ecstasy, release?

  The thought had quite confused her, made her realise that her feelings for Ivan still went far too deep, despite the fact they were completely inappropriate, could never be reciprocated. Once she’d ended things with Robert, she’d also found herself avoiding Ivan, trying to keep their conversations as brief and bland as possible; had been frankly quite relieved when he’d moved out two weeks later, on the last day of September, found himself another room in Richmond. She hadn’t seen him since.

  ‘Come in,’ she said, trying to force a casual smile. ‘Have a cup of tea. I’m afraid I haven’t got your herb tea, but …’

  ‘No, I mustn’t stay. I’m on my way to Croydon. I’ve just brought you round a present.’

  ‘A present?’ He was holding nothing but a bunch of keys, and what had she done, anyway, to deserve a gift from Ivan?

  ‘It’s out there in the van. I’ll need a hand to bring it in.’

  ‘What is it then – a grand piano?’

  He grinned. ‘You’re getting warm.’

  She followed him out into the road, gasped to see the rocking horse stabled in a battered van, its red nostrils flaring still, its majestic tail lustrous-long and black.

  ‘I’ve no room for it in Richmond. My pad’s so small, there’s hardly room for me. I thought you’d like it, you and Luke. Liz told me about Luke – all the problems with his mother. I’d like to help, but …’ He shrugged, embarrassed. ‘I couldn’t think of anything but this.’

  ‘Oh, Ivan, no, it’s far too precious. I couldn’t take it, honestly.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to. I’ve already filled the space it took, bought a new stereo which will give me far more pleasure than poor-old Dobbin here.’

  ‘You can’t call him Dobbin, not a thoroughbred like that.’

  ‘You see, you do deserve him. Give him a grand name and stable him in Liz’s sitting room. He needs a bit of space.’

  ‘But I’m moving out as well, Ivan.’ She gestured to the ‘SOLD’ board. ‘I’ll be gone in just ten days.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Luke can have him then. He’s more a child’s thing anyway. Just be careful Craddock Senior doesn’t break him up for scrap. Right, if you can steer the front part, I’ll try to take the main weight. Up she goes!’

  Dobbin had changed his sex in seconds – which reminded her of something. Once the horse had been installed inside and Luke was in the saddle, she asked Ivan if he’d wait for just a moment, disappeared upstairs, returning with a puppet in her hands, a pretty boy in trousers, with a cloud of girlish curls;

  ‘Your turn now – a present in return. I bought it months and months ago and forgot to give it to you.’ Not quite the truth, but near enough. She handed over the smirking doll, which had been stuffed into her sock drawer since his birthday in late March. What progress she had made since then – no longer a limp doll herself, a strange androgynous creature who feared to be a female, yet was frightened of all males; a dangling marionette who couldn’t take a step without a puppeteer to pull her strings. Now she felt human and very near autonomous; if not quite fully adult, at least well on the way.

  Ivan was still lingering in the hall. ‘Look, if you ever need a hand, Hilary, or the loan of anything, or a lift in this old banger, which I’ve loaned myself from one of my old chums, or even just a chat, if you feel you’re going spare, please do ask me, won’t you? That’s what friends are for.’

  She mumbled something trite, wished she could express the surge of genuine pleasure his words had roused in her. He was a friend, a true one, and friends were very precious. She had become far too isolated, would have to start to change. Today was quite a landmark: a rapprochement with Ivan, an overture from Gill. Crazy to be ill at ease with Ivan because of something that had happened – or rather hadn’t happened – eight whole months ago, and which she’d blown up since to a confused and senseless tangle. The whole affair was totally one sided, Ivan himself completely unaware of it. He was offering simple friendship, which he’d offered from the start-nothing more, nothing dangerous. She dared to touch his arm, steer him from the door. ‘Ivan, please do stay, just for one quick drink. Forget the tea – let’s have a glass of wine. Liz left me all her booze, and I need an excuse to drink it up.’

  ‘Okay, just five minutes.’ He turned back to the sitting room, repocketing his car keys. She went to fetch the wine, returned with two full glasses and a thimbleful for Luke. She had cause to drink to Ivan. It was he who’d first relaxed her, returned her body to her, given her her bones; sown the first frail seeds of her present confidence, however gauche and groping it might have been at first. ‘Cheers!’ she said, as she arranged the two small chairs in a corner on their own, so they could talk above the chilling strains of Dracula, the creaking of the horse. Luke was watching his programme from the saddle, plunging wildly to and fro, feet rammed in the stirrups, reins bunched up in one hand. ‘Careful, Luke!’ she warned him. ‘It’s not a Ferrari.’

  Ivan grinned, touched his glass to hers. ‘Good luck in your new job. Liz told me all about it on the phone. She also said you’ve been a saint, helping out with Luke, and stuck with all the problems here, while she’s free as air in Scarborough, wowing local councillors and enjoying the sea breezes.’

  Hilary looked down. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. I enjoy it.’

  ‘It isn’t nothing, Hilary. It’s really pretty decent of you. I feel bad myself. I haven’t done a thing.’

  ‘You brought the horse. He loves it.’

  They both glanced across at Luke, who was now talking to his steed out loud, explaining some new twist in the film. ‘His father buys him all these awful war-toys – Thundertanks and Doom Rollers, and robot anti-terror squads.’

  Ivan shrugged. ‘I had all those myself or the equivalent, in my day, and they didn’t do much harm. I’m still a pacifist.’

  ‘I’m not sure Luke is, though.’ Hilary laughed, leaned back against her chair. It no longer seemed so uncomfortable and hard, nor the room so bleak and empty. They had furnished it themselves, with their presence, conversation; become a little family – man, woman, child – the child even quite content now, as he dismounted from the saddle, fed his horse a toffee.

  ‘Hey, Luke,’ said Ivan, swivelling round to face him. ‘What you going to call your bucking bronco?’

  ‘Demetrius.’

  She smiled. The dragon’s name. She was surprised he could remember it, let alone pronounce it. Perhaps, after all, that book had done some good.

  Ivan drained his glass, rezipped the knitted jerkin which served him as a coat. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ll have to make a move now, or I’ll never get to Croydon.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, getting up herself. ‘But don’t lose touch, will you, Ivan? Come and visit me in Hertfordshire. I’ll remember to stock up with your favourite fennel tea.’ She heard herself sounding like a normal friendly woman, no longer shy, embarrassed; realised she’d come light-years since the spring.

  ‘Right, I will.’ Ivan said goodbye to Luke, slapped Demetrius on the flank. ‘And if you need anything before that, including
a free lesson, don’t hesitate to ring.’ He paused a moment in the hall, riddling with his car keys. ‘I don’t know how to put this quite, but I won’t forget you, Hilary. I mean, even if you flitted off to China, instead of just to Letchworth, I’d still …’ He broke off, frowning, as if impatient with the language, or his own unaccustomed awkwardness. ‘I meet a lot of different people in my work, often get to know them from the inside out, if you follow what I mean, and your “inside” is … Hell! I can’t find any words tonight. I must be tired or something. What I’m trying to say, Hilary, is you’ve got a special kind of strength – what my army Dad called “spunk”, or perhaps I should call “backbone”, to fit my own profession. You may not be aware of it yourself yet, but it’s there all right, believe me.’ He stepped over Luke’s discarded shoes, moved towards the door. ‘Look after it. It’s rare.’

  She kept her gaze on the pockets of his jerkin, so he couldn’t see the expression on her face, its mix of sheer pleasure and surprise. Robert had said something much the same, but it startled her still more to hear such words from Ivan, who wasn’t out to flatter her, or woo her. She had regarded herself since the age of seventeen as the frailest of all sinners, and since her early thirties as a total abject failure, yet two very different men had called her special, praised her courage. Perhaps her past, however gruelling, had taught her perseverance, tempered her like steel.

  Ivan opened the front door, gripped her hand a moment, as he turned to say goodbye. Impulsively, she took a step towards him, reached up to kiss his cheek.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said simply. ‘And I mean for everything.’

  ‘Bedtime, Luke. Come on.’

  He shook his head, climbed back in the saddle, wrong way round this time, face towards the tail. ‘I want to see the Western.’