The Microcosm

by Maureen Duffy

  ‘Taxi Miss?’

  She shook her head and began to move aimlessly in any path that her feet would take, down the row of parked cabs with their drivers reading newspapers, a fat man leaning in at a window in sidelong furtive talk, and down towards the street, the roar increasing with every step and breaking over her as she passed through the ungated portal, blanketing out all thought, all ability to decide anything until she was brought to a stop again like a stupefied hunted animal and leant against the wall, holding on tight to the case and breathing quick and shallow.

  But it’s no good, she thought, I can’t just stand here, must move, get somewhere. The address, find the address. She dug in her pocket, wanting to put the case down and search properly but what was it they said at home? Never put your case down in a London street or they’ll whip it away from under your nose before you’ve time to look round. So she hung on and struggled, aware she was wearing too many clothes and it wasn’t as cold down here. Still I couldn’t have packed them anyway and they had to get here somehow. I can’t imagine them sending anything on.

  It came out at last, the scrubby back of an envelope where she’d written it down as Babs had given it to her. ‘There’s the Y.W. of course,’ she’d said, ‘if you’re really stuck or the cops will always find you somewhere but I always try to keep clear of them. Well you never know do you? Not that I ever but anyway that’s all over now and I’m a respectable married woman. But you, what’re you after down there? I mean you’re not the type. You’re clever? Funny how we hardly spoke at school and now I’m telling you all this.’ ‘I’ve no one else to ask and you promised not to tell them anything.’ ‘And neither I won’t. Besides it’s a big place London is. They tell me there’s like eight million there and I can believe it. You’ll see when you get there. Like looking for a French letter on Hollheath. What you going for Cathy? Won’t you ever come back? You will, you see, just like me, when you’re ready to settle.’

  Southgate Terrace, it said, Bayswater. She looked up at the buses but they were bowled along in the stream and none of them said Bayswater on the front, not even in the smaller print and they might be going in the opposite direction. Best to walk on the way she was going until she came to a policeman or to another station and it was a good day for walking even with a suitcase heavy with all your life up to that point, and a bit of a sun shining although far away through the haze of fumes and smoke and everyone seemed very brisk and busy as she passed a huge building site where men in orange tin hats drove tractors, mixed and poured concrete or simply walked about with plans and schedules clipped to bits of board looking purposeful under the raking shadow of the giant crane that lowered a ton of steel girder as gently as a woman picking strawberries. ‘Aye, they’re always building summat down there like kids with a box of bricks but dammall we get done up here and where would they be wi’ out us any road?’ she heard her father saying and she would have liked to have stopped on the observation platform, provided by the company for the amusement of passers-by with a bird’s eye view, among the smart poster men in their bowler hats that she’d thought had all gone long ago apart from the picture house since foremen had given up the fashion and her father had put his carefully away in a brown paper bag at the top of the wardrobe.

  Then, across the road, she saw the station, Warren Street it said, with people coming and going like ants from the nest on a summer’s day and she crossed the road waiting first for the stream to be dammed by the red light. What does this remind me of, this going down a hole in the ground? How do I know where to go? That’s where you get your ticket, phone boxes, a map. You are here. Now if I stand here and just look through all the places eventually I’ll find it. There’s the river Thames. Would it be North or South of that? There doesn’t seem to be much in the South. Nowhere in the middle; they’re all famous names. The Right will be the East End and it isn’t there. Somewhere near the park, she said. Which park? Hyde Park? That’s the only one I know of. There ought to be an easier way of doing this. Supposing I get lost among eight million people. Well I just find a station and try again. Hyde Park Corner, Marble Arch, Queensway, Bayswater. There it is. Now how do I get there? Go back to square one. You are here. I’ll write it all down so I don’t forget. From here to Tottenham Court Road, then the red line, where’s the key, that’s the Central to Notting Hill Gate, then the yellow line, that’s the Inner Circle to Bayswater. Go West young man is the answer.

  Her voice sounded high and strange as she asked for her ticket and she put down half-a-crown and pushed it towards the man thinking that would be enough if she didn’t understand what he said. A dark skinned girl in the official uniform clipped her ticket, the first time she’d seen one off the screen though she thought they had them in Bradford, and she stepped on to the moving staircase, all luggage dogs and perambulators must be carried, and they had one of those in Bradford too in a big store. The platform seemed very narrow and the drop on to the glinting rails almost enticing so she drew her eyes away and looked at the other travellers who were all shapes, sizes and colours as she’d noticed up in the street. Well among all of them who’ll notice me; eight million and all looking so different like hundreds and thousands or dolly mixtures.

  The journey was long and nerve-racking because like a sailor at night she had to continually check her course by the points 2f the compass and by the fixed star of Bayswater. Emerging into daylight again she felt tired and hungry, the case too heavy, and she still had to find the road. Once again she was bewildered by the different faces of the crowds hurrying past. No one looked like a resident, someone who could be trusted with directions. Like the people in the station they seemed to be just passing through. Then she saw the policeman waving his arms at the traffic and dragged her case across to his island. He brought out his little book and thumbed over the pages. ‘You’d have done better to go to Queensway.’ Her mind staggered and then steadied itself to concentrate on the directions. He seemed fairly cheerful about her prospect of getting to Southgate Terrace and carried along by his optimism and her first communication with another human being in this city, she walked down two streets, changing hands on her case at every sixth lamp-post and turned Right into a row of high white houses with late classical porches at the top of shallow steps.

  ‘How long did you want it for?’ the woman asked staring at Cathy round the half-open door.

  ‘I thought perhaps four days.’

  ‘Nights; we go by nights here. A guinea a night, twenty-one shillings, in advance. Alright?’ The girl nodded. ‘You look very young to me. Not run away? I don’t want no trouble, no men in your rooms after twelve o’clock.’

  ‘I’m nineteen.’

  ‘That’s alright then. Long as you’re over age. I’ll show you your room.’ She opened the door fully, let the girl step past her into the hall and shut it again after her. ‘How did you find us? Someone recommend you?’ She led the way upstairs.

  ‘I was just passing and thought …’ She had decided at once not to mention Babs. From her own account she’d led a pretty hectic life while she was here and who knows why she’d left or whether a friend of hers would be welcome. The woman paused on the half landing; pushed open a door. ‘That’s the lounge and breakfast room. Breakfast is at eight if you want it.’

  Cathy wondered why she shouldn’t want it having paid for it but suspected that she might find the answer next morning. She had noticed a strange smell as she stepped into the hall, a smell that grew stronger as they climbed until it seemed concentrated in a solid mass behind a curtain on the second landing. Again they paused while it was drawn aside to reveal a small gas cooker, a vintage model like they had at home which seemed to be handmade in wrought iron, its enamel surfaces pocked and lined like a lino cut, its black metal coated with brown grease that would cling against all assaults of hot soda water, vim and the scrubbing brush while leaving the water with a thick lees of rust and mud. ‘You can cook any meals you want here.’ She picked up a pan half full of some rich
sauce the origin of the strange aroma. ‘Curry; the Indian gentlemen use a lot of it. Students. Don’t care for our food much.’ She put back the pan, drew the curtain and led the way on up to the third floor where another door opened to her push. ‘This is the room.’ She crossed to the window and drew back the curtains, letting light in.

  It seemed to be clean and there was a wash basin in one corner. The coverlet on the bed was well washed too. Cathy put down her case and dug in her pocket for her wallet. She hoped she had enough without rummaging about in her case in front of the woman for the extra she’d put aside. ‘And you must never let ’em see how much you’ve got or they’ll have it off you before you can say knife.’ She heard her father’s voice and remembered the strange expression with which he’d leant forward on that last word as if it were a blade unsheathed in his hand. She held out a five pound note.

  ‘Oh thank you dear. I hope you’ll be very comfortable. I’ll give you your change later; I’ve nothing on me at the moment.’ She folded the note carefully and put it away into the side pocket of her crumpled green slacks. ‘The bathroom and W.C. are just across the hall. Baths are two and six and I must have warning in advance. The front door’s open all the time, just turn the handle. I always say I’ve got nothing to hide or steal. There’s a bolt on the inside of your door in case you think you need it. Some do, some don’t. The sheets are clean. I always change my sheets for a new person. If you decide to stay longer you’ll let me know as soon as possible won’t you? I can always let my rooms; turn people away all the time. There’s no prejudice in this house. I find the coloured gentlemen most agreeable mannered.’

  The door closed behind. I don’t know her name, Cathy thought, but I don’t suppose it matters much. She sat on the bed and looked round the room. Then she got up, slid the bolt into position and sat down again. All at once she felt sick with weariness and reaction. I must have something to eat or I shall be howling my eyes out. Go out and find a cafe that’s it. Ought to unpack really but that can wait. I wonder how many other people have sat here like this on this bed, and if there were many like me. There doesn’t seem to be a key. What do I do about my money? Take it with me I suppose.

  She put the case on the bed and unlocked it. As the lid sprang back from the expanding clothes inside, she paused and turned. Behind her was a dressing table with a mirror. With slight variations the room was almost a replica of the one she had left that morning and for a moment she felt the walls closing in to stifle her again, as if she had never left, never travelled two hundred miles into the afternoon. But there was no bolt on her door at home. Will they know yet? Will they have found the note? Well, there’s nothing they can do. I’m over age, whatever she meant by that, anyway too old to be brought back even if anyone cared enough to try. Don’t you like it here with us? she used to say, and now it won’t matter anymore. But I’ll have to be careful with my money. It won’t last long. Tomorrow I’ll look for a job; not libraries though, something quite different. After all if I don’t like it I needn’t stay. No one will know; no one’ll say that three jobs in three months is a sign of bad blood somewhere but then you never can tell what you’ve got to contend with when they’re not your own. No one can say that again or if they do I’m not there to hear it. Among all these eight million people there isn’t one who knows or cares a damn. I suppose some people would find that lonely but I don’t. If anyone does come to know or care it’ll be because they want to and because I want them to not because they have to or feel they do. That’s what I want; that’s why I’m here.

  She shut and locked the case again and stood it neatly beside the wardrobe. She counted the money that was left. It had taken her a year to save at a pound a week out of her small salary and it had seemed a fortune but she knew how expensive London was. Hadn’t he told her? Spend brass like water down there. Don’t know how ordinary folk get by except they must earn a deal more than us and do a damn sight less for it. Such a fortune it’d seemed that she’d spent five pounds on clothes, on a three-quarter length donkey jacket and a pair of navy jeans with fly fronts, going all the way into Bradford to buy anonymously in the big camping and sportsgear shop, and smuggling them home when she knew the house would be empty. Then as a last useless gesture, a meaningless blood price since they weren’t of her blood, a niggardly conscience money for how can you ever repay them for taking you out of that home and bringing you up as you were their own, she had tucked two five pound notes into the envelope she’d left on the hallstand. The fare had surprised her, taking a huge bite out of what was left.

  ‘Return?’ the man has asked.

  ‘No single.’ She’d wanted to add, ‘I shan’t be coming back,’ but it had sounded too much like tempting fate and she found herself suddenly superstitious. Now she had about twenty-five pounds left. At seven guineas a week plus food she had less than a fortnight and then? Panic ran acid in her mouth and churned in her empty stomach. A job and a room, she thought, or should it be the other way round? Now which way do I go to find something to eat? Back towards the main road and the station I should think. Must remember which turnings I take so that I can find my way back again. What about that then? La Pasta. Menu in the window. Let’s see how much. Yes that’ll do. Just like the one at home only a bit more plush and only sixpence up on every price which isn’t bad considering. She wished she’d brought a book but the few she’d brought with her were still packed in the bottom of her case. Even a paper so that she wasn’t forced to sit and stare round. Like a gaping provincial though they’re an interesting enough collection. I wonder what they’d think to them at home. But I mustn’t keep on wondering that as if what they think really matters when I’ve come all this way just to find out whether it does or not, whether their way’s right and the only way to get born and grow up, get married to the boy next door and have children and that’s that, the cycle complete and your life only to be lived in theirs ever after. The terrible questioning year after year: what’s wrong with me, am I the only one, what do I really want and then when the answers began to come and all the parts of the equation resolved themselves to a2 on one side, nicely finished off, and y on the other. But no that won’t do. Perhaps it should be a + b = a2 and where do I find someone to make the square? Must be light headed thinking like this. Let’s hope this is mine coming now before I float right off the chair and out through the door. Imagine the headlines in the paper. They’d say, must be our Cathy she always was a bit strange. I’ll have one of those rum baba things after from that trolley over there and then two cups of coffee and I’m ready to start taking things in.

  Over coffee she took up the problem again, spooning the layer of froth into her mouth like icecream and watching the people passing the window through a bead curtain of condensed steam. The first thing to do was to buy a map of London like they’d had in the reference library, then she needn’t have this continual horror of getting lost. Tomorrow she must look for a job. How do you begin? The evening paper I expect and the local labour exchange so I’ll have to find the nearest public library where I can read the papers with all the other down and outcasts and ask where the exchange is. But not today. Today I’m going to have to myself to walk about. I’m free at last, don’t have to be home for tea because it’s been cooked for me and it’ll spoil if I’m not there on the dot and that’ll be another sign that I don’t belong, that I’m not one of them because he’s always punctual to his tea, you could set your clock by him, and where would I be any road since I haven’t a boy friend that they know of though if she had we’d be the last to hear you can be sure of that. There I go again thinking along the same old track and what’s the use of coming all this way just to do that. I’ll save that other coffee til later; go out now and find some shops, get a map, walk about, maybe go to the picture house, anything, anything I like.

  The streets seem friendly and the air alive. She is bumped and brushed past but she doesn’t mind and wanders on taking a different turning to find herself at another station. T
hey’ll have a map at that bookstall I bet, then I’ll find somewhere to sit and sort out where I am. She turns away from the station mouth and sees across the roar of traffic a wall and above it the moving arms of trees veiled lightly in small green leaves and the suddenness of them in that place maker her more aware of this coming Spring and its possibilities than she has ever been of any changing season before.

  Pretty, how pretty and I never expected it not here. So often they said to me how lovely the moors were with their changing colours and sunlight and cloud shades passing over them and how I didn’t appreciate the beauties of nature, wasn’t natural they meant, and I couldn’t see what they were getting at, to me they were just waste, wasted on you they said, miles of rough moistureless-looking grass in various tones of beige and putty with the black outcroppings of stone. You ought to like it they said, after all you’re named for one of the characters in a great book about these parts, but they hadn’t read it and if they had they’d have known there was never anyone less like her than me. Heathcliff now that’d be more like it. All those wild speeches he makes to her about how if she’d only had faith in her love and dared to flout convention instead of betraying it for pretty clothes and parties are just the kind of things I might say to someone. The dark outcast, cuckoo in the nest, where do I find my Cathy?