The Microcosm

by Maureen Duffy

  ‘You know perfectly well colour’s got nothing to do with it. It’s just that …’ What more could she say. The unfairness of it struck her. She had to lie and listen to him, to anything he might say to her and she could say nothing in reply.

  ‘You see, I am right. There is nothing you can answer, nothing at all.’

  Cathy lay silent then and after a little she heard the feet dragging upstairs again and the sad music wailed louder through the ceiling. How would it have been, she wondered, if she’d been different? Was she really different? She imagined his brown body naked in the room and found it less disturbing than her father stripped in the kitchen for his evening wash down. It was nothing to her and stirred only a vague envy. If you only knew I’d swop you the colour of your skin for everything that goes with it. There was no excitement just a pity for pain that she couldn’t ease. She felt no shock either at the speed with which things had developed, partly because it amused her to think how Garsley and particularly her parents would have reacted with a gossiping from yard to yard, heads shaken and a descant on the wickedness of the times as dismal as anything on Nala’s whole stack of records yet she knew of dozens of families in the town where the birth of the first child was dangerously close to the wedding day among the parents of her friends, and others who were a legacy from the camps on the moors the soldiers and airmen of all nationalities who had never come back. There’d even been one or two black ones she’d heard from Babs but they had disappeared into homes in the cities so that Garsley could still present a uniform face to the world.

  She was falling asleep lulled by Nala’s music, a fantasy forming in her drowsing mind which had something to do with the radiographer who was her new neighbour. Dimly she heard a soft voice calling her. ‘Cathy, Cathy, I am dying for you.’ But it merged with her dream to become a girl’s cry. Wish fulfilment again, she thought, with a half smile at herself and sank into deep sleep.

  Inevitably as the days pass she becomes a unit in the complex structure of the city which is forever changing and expanding, thrusting out a part of itself which will break away from the main mass to begin a separate existence as satellite town or suburb with its own nucleus; casting off dead cells only to replace them as dust is swept into the orbit of a star, the sweepings of distant places drawn irresistibly to its magnetic centre; the outer skin constantly renewed as buildings crumble, streets are bull-dozed away, new blocks rise. Each cell has a life of its own yet is part of the total life of the city. All day she performs her function within the corporate body only when work stops does she break away, withdrawn into herself, lies quiescent, storing up her resources for as yet the city does not nourish or refresh her. She is not completely integrated. It gives her freedom but nothing more. There is a working arrangement between them only and the relationship goes no farther because she is not yet involved. The central problem remains and now at last she has time to concentrate on it; all distractions removed it stands before her in a paralysing simplicity. What can the newcomer do? She is free but now her freedom begins to taste a little thin and bitter. She is still alone; no longer distracted by the meaningless demands of a family to whom she has no true relationship, her day to day economy taken care of, she exists now like a character by Henry James isolated from the comings and goings of the rest of society, concerned only with the infinite subtleties of emotion and introspection, like Nala’s music but she will not see him again. She is more apart than women in purdah or the mediaeval lady shut up in her castle and like them she is in danger of obsession.

  At night and on her days off she wanders the city, peering into amusement arcades where the lost play pintables, fruit machines, stare through sights out of alignment for a bull’s eye, top score, jackpot, the answer that comes when the bell rings, lights flash, the world comes crowding to see the tarnished silver leaping into the cupped hands, overflowing onto the floor among the fag-ends, blown paper, dust, or dive clubs where children of her own age dance bound together, caught up in the present, seeing nothing while the music holds them. She walks swiftly like someone with a destination but she is searching. Somewhere there must be, they are here I know, there was that article. Never believe all you read in the papers, catchpenny, catch you too if you don’t look sharpish. Once on a tube train a woman stared her down, the eyes full of question; once she followed a couple through the streets until they disappeared through a discreet door and she caught a brief glimpse of steps leading down, heard music and voices laughing but it closed against her and she hadn’t the courage to push it open again and walk in. She searched the faces of crowds too, dreaming of the small incident, the sudden happening that would unlock her isolation but the miracle never came. All around her were signs, hints, a way of walking or speaking, a style of dress or gesture, the question in the eyes but they were as indecipherable as a tramp’s message scratched on a gatepost, understood only by the fraternity.

  For long hours she stood beside the river watching the windows of the great hospital. Ambulances, visitors came and went. Up there perhaps they were operating. Shadows passed like the play of silhouettes behind a screen. Yes sister, no sister. Even that they had kept her from. What do you want messing about with the sick and the dead. It’s a long hard training and poor pay at the end of it. Just some romantic notion like some kids get stagestruck. I can see you sticking to it when you can stick to nowt else. There was a life she could be part of but not yet. Perhaps next year when she knew more, was certain. This must come first, she could do nothing til then. Physician heal thyself but how do I even begin, she thought. It was nearly May. Spring would soon be over and she had done nothing. After the deceptively easy start her progress was at a standstill.

  As Nala had prophesied the work wasn’t easy, it was often very tiring, but it had its compensations and she had been brought up to look for compensations in a job rather than positive fulfilment. She liked George who eventually formed the other half of her crew and the backchat and innuendo that went on between the others, particularly the married old-stagers of both sexes, didn’t worry her much; it was stock dialogue in almost every occupation varying only in expression from level to level not in basic content. But she made no close friends. Ted continued to treat her like a dutch uncle as Garsley would have put it but the others kept their distance. With George she seemed to strike an immediate chord though, perhaps, Cathy thought, because we’re together so much, see such a lot of each other although when I come to sort it all out I don’t really know anything about him at all except that his parents are elderly and have a mania for television.

  They were sitting in the small canteen behind Cargrave Square supping tea and gossiping lazily of this and that, whiling away an odd half hour when it happened. A little group of actors had come in from the nearby theatre and were talking loudly, still acting through their break. George turned to watch them. ‘Look at that one. I bet he’s as queer as a coot.’

  She felt her colour rise. ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Oh with him it sticks out a mile, besides a lot of them are in the acting profession. The girls, too, like all these film stars the men get all hexed up about.’ He turned to face her and instinctively she knew what was coming and the answers began to take shape and dart about in her mind like mayflies over the surface of the pond on Garsley Green. ‘You know what they say about you Cathy? They say you’re a les.’

  She looked down into her cup and automatically stirred the dregs. ‘What makes them say that? How can they possibly know?’

  ‘We’ve had one or two before and they were all like you.’

  ‘What do you mean like me?’

  ‘Well you can tell when you start chatting a girl up if she doesn’t come back with the smart answers leading you on, means she isn’t interested that way. If she’s married it may be that she’s still in love with her old man though generally the married ones are the worst. If she’s single she’s either flashing a great engagement ring and her ears are too full of bells to take in anything else or
you’re always hearing about who she was out with last night and where they’re going tomorrow. Then the single girls or a lot of them still live with their mums but the others they live by themselves if they haven’t got a girlfriend. And another thing look at your uniform.’

  ‘What’s wrong with it? It’s the same as everyone else wears.’

  ‘Ah but you don’t wear it the same way. You’re always so neat with a sort of shirt and tie under the jacket, and those flat shoes and men’s socks.’

  ‘How do you know they’re men’s socks?’

  ‘They are though ent they?’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yeah, you walk like one and look at your haircut and no make-up. But it’s mainly the lack of interest that gives you away, and the way you drop your eyes of course if you think anyone’s getting too near.’

  ‘So you’ve all made up your minds. What happens now?’

  ‘Nothing much. Someone might pull your leg about it sometime soon that’s why I thought I’d better show you the old red light.’

  ‘Thanks very much.’

  ‘Now don’t be like that. I’m trying to help you.’

  ‘I shouldn’t bother. I mean if you’re right there’s nothing in it for you is there.’

  ‘I thought we were mates. The trouble with you is you’re too prickly, spiky as a pair of running shoes, trampling all over people who want to do you a bit of good. I don’t think you’re very happy like you are that’s your trouble.’

  ‘Oh I know that one, I’ve heard it before. Come to me and I’ll cure you. All you need is to hop into bed with someone double quick and all that nonsense’ll be forgotten.’

  ‘So you are then.’

  ‘Very clever. Yes I fell for that one didn’t I. Well there’s only one thing to do now and that’s find another job.’

  ‘Now don’t be so daft, go and fly off the handle like that. I said I wanted to help. Honest Cath I meant it but I had to know for sure that you were. Straight up though you’re not happy are you?’

  ‘I’m not unhappy. I try not to think about it too much. I mean I’m better off than I ever have been. You can’t expect everything to come at once, turn up on a plate just like that. Things don’t happen like that.’

  ‘Have you been to any of the clubs?’

  ‘Clubs?’

  ‘Yeah, where all the girls go. Don’t tell me you didn’t even know.’

  ‘That’s the trouble if you’re really interested. I don’t know anyone or anything. As far as I’m concerned I might be the only one in the world. How do you meet people? Just to find someone to talk to, to know I’m not the only one.’

  ‘You poor kid. All this time.’

  ‘How do I find them these clubs, at least I think I did find one. I followed a couple but how do you get in? Can anyone just walk in?’

  ‘I dunno. Look there’s a pub I go to on Friday nights. There’s some of the girls get in there sometimes. Why don’t you come with me this Friday? You don’t know, you might get talking to one of them though it’s not like us. I always think they’re more cliquey so I suppose that makes it more difficult, stick to their own little gangs more.’

  ‘You said “us”.’

  ‘Well. How else would I know? I’m not saying I’m all the way mind. I’ve been with girls and maybe I will again, least I kid meself though they say once you’re in you’re in for keeps. One of me mates did get married the other day. We’re all waiting to see how it works out and how long before he’s doing the rounds again. Sometimes I think about it or about marrying one of the girls but I dunno.’

  ‘Will you really take me? What shall I wear?’

  ‘Well there again they seem to be different. You know more divided into butch and femme I think they call them, boys and girls like. You’ll see some of ’em in suits, what they call full drag. I’m just warning you so you don’t stand there gaping like a provincial. You’ll come then? It’s all fixed.’

  ‘George?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Does anybody know about you at work?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Hope not anyway. I never mix business with pleasure see. This job don’t matter to you Cath, anyone can see that who’s got a bit of common. You’re better than this job and you could go out and do something else tomorrow. Oh I’m not saying you don’t do it well, better than most, but I reckon you as a grammar school girl and that you’re only doing this while it suits you, while you find your feet. Me, this is the best I’m ever likely to rate and I want to hang on to it. That’s why I’m careful not to let the word get round, put up a big front with the girls, and in future if anyone asks me I shall say you’re not neither, that you come from a good home and you’re not used to the old backchat, and you’re waiting to go to college or something and that’s why you’re different. You see if I seem to be too matey without telling a bit of a tale they’ll begin to put two and two together, think we’re tarred with the same brush, and it’s still against the law for us you know.’

  ‘Yes I know that. You can tell them I’m going to be a nurse and then you’ll be telling the truth. You know just talking to you I feel better already. What’s this place called?’

  ‘The Sweet and Twenty. Funny name for a pub ent it?’

  ‘It comes from Shakespeare.

  ‘Then come kiss me sweet and twenty,

  In delay there lies no plenty …

  Youth’s a stuff will not endure.’

  PUSH open the door, shoulder aside the curtain of smoke, the malt savour of spilt beer that hangs before the threshold thick woven with the tensions that are already strung across the evening so that the walk to the bar becomes a bat flight between taut wires that bounce back their warning signals as you draw near. Eyes swivel, robot antennae housed in the rigid metal masks that encase the soft, vulnerable core behind each drawn face, querying each inswing of the door that eddies the curtain, sends waves of hope humming along the wires for the loved one or the desired, the young man who comes with an apple in his pocket, the golden apple of immortality to renew the flush in dried cheeks, set the blood flowing in the flattened veins.

  Who’s here tonight? Who’s in, who’s out? Early yet, the main body of the saloon still empty; a fringe of solitary drinkers clings to the bar; a group or two chatters by the platform where drums and piano beat a kaleidescope of shifting sound patterns into the air. A tall queen passes by on her way to the gents, shoulders slightly hunched, stardust gleaming in her set hair, unsmiling, impassive. And this must surely be the place where the differences show up best, under these too bright lights that rain down from the ceiling, semi-naked bulbs at the end of spider-leg contemporary chandeliers, unlike the House of Shades where anonymous figures drift together in the undersea twilight. This is a place that would echo sunlight, tanned young men on a beach in light classical colours, gossiping hand on hip, waiting to wrestle or run. Women’s rites are more ancient and secret, the virgin goddess who is another face of the earthmother, old Hecate herself honoured in the halfdark where form is indistinct, curved and flowing.

  ‘There’s David over by the band, he’s early, and Steve too. Better grab some seats while we can. What’ll you have? You go and sit down. I won’t be a minute.’

  What would Mr. and Mrs. Everyman think, I wonder, suddenly out for a quiet drink one evening and dropped in here. First look round wouldn’t notice anything unusual, then as the time wore on, more and more were pushing open the doors, staring round as they cross the floor, appraising, a voice pitched too high, the camp gesture, a mouthful of conversation overheard, slowly digested. ‘A fine one she is. Where’d you get your handbag darling? Get you!’

  ‘Come on Elsie. Let’s find somewhere else. Can’t stand all these theatrical types.’

  ‘Oh is that what they are. I wondered. Very nice looking aren’t they. Still I suppose they have to be in that job. Well dressed too, not like our Derek and his friends with their long hair all over their collars and their terrible flash clothes. I must sa
y these look like nice quiet boys, sort of clean like you get in the Woman and Wife our Joy buys every week. Make some girl a lovely husband some of them would.’

  ‘Wouldn’t make pussy a husband between them, this lot.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know. They’re bound to be a bit sensitive. It’s their job.’

  ‘Shut up for Christ’s sake. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Finish that bloody drink and let’s get out of here. They give me the creeps.’

  The strained silence that comes from things which must never be said, never mentioned as if at the naming of them the whole order of society would crumble, the streets be filled with howling wolves welcoming the fall of civilisation, resurgence of the beast, drives the wedge further between them as they get up to go, she thinking, it’s always the same when I’m enjoying myself, and he, Bloody women they don’t know nothing. And that’s how the misconceptions get perpetuated from generation unto generation, Matt said to himself, putting down his money and picking up the two glasses, until it’s as ingrained as a pottery style or a method of working flints and takes aeons in human terms before anyone sees the need for a change or the sense in it. Imagine the poor devil who first thought of chipping off flakes from a prepared core instead of just using the whole flint. What they must have thought of him trying to get half-a-dozen for the price of one, and how long before he could make them see they could all use it to their own advantage and the advantage of the tribe as a whole? There must have been hundreds who were tucked away in their little gravel beds still maintaining it wasn’t right and that was why the Ice Age was coming.

  ‘What are you looking so worked up about?’

  ‘Hallo David. I was miles away I’m afraid, fighting an entirely imaginary battle with the common man and his ignorance.’

  ‘You’ll never change people, at least not in our lifetime.’