by Fiona Gibson
‘What I want for Christmas,’ Midge announces, ‘is a gun with real pellets—pew! Pew!’ She extends two fingers, aiming at Jojo, who’s a few bars into Schumann’s ‘Traumerei.’
‘Shush, Midge,’ I hiss at her.
‘Or a crossbow,’ she rattles on, ‘or one of them things that pings boulders at baddies, like in the olden days….’ She turns back to her work in progress: several cardboard tubes swathed in tinfoil that she intends to strap to her body with a pair of tights and use as a portable torpedo shooter. She’ll blast people like Toby, who called Jojo Piggy in the dinner queue. ‘Or a bike,’ she adds. ‘I’ve always wanted a bike.’
Jojo stops playing abruptly. ‘Midge,’ I say, ‘you’ll have to keep quiet while Jojo’s having her lesson.’
She dumps the torpedo shooter on the table and stomps upstairs. I hear the bathroom door creaking, and the sloshing of water as she fills the basin. ‘What happens,’ Jojo asks, ‘when you need your flute back?’
‘Perhaps your mum could treat you to one. I’d hate to think of you having to give up.’
‘How much are flutes? More than twenty-five pounds?’
‘They’re a lot of money. At least, good ones are. I won’t need mine back for ages.’
‘Mum says Santa’s only bringing us one Christmas present each,’ Jojo says firmly.
I’m surprised that, at nearly eleven years old, she still believes in Santa. She adjusts her alice band, which is covered with silver beads like cake decorations. Midge is padding around on the landing now. I need to speak to Diane—explain that these are real lessons, and I can’t have Midge chatting incessantly and demanding tinfoil and poking around my house. ‘I want a dressing table,’ Jojo continues, ‘with lights round the mirror like what film stars have.’
‘I’m sure you’ll get lovely things.’ Midge is directly above us now, creeping around in my bedroom. Diane has gone out. She said she’d be home by the end of the lesson, but how long does she think lessons go on for? It’s eight-thirty. They’ve been here for two hours. A rhythmic bouncing noise is coming from my bedroom.
I hurtle upstairs and into my bedroom where Midge is springing on the bed, her pale hair flying. Pink and brown war paint is smeared all over her face. ‘I’m a warrior!’ she squawks, then catches the horrified look on my face. She stops bouncing and staggers off the bed, landing in a ragged heap on the floor.
It’s not war paint. It’s eye shadow and lipstick. Mum’s quilted bag lies on my pillow, its contents scattered all over the bed. I try to speak but my mouth is stuck, frozen open. It’s her makeup, Mum’s makeup. The lipstick and eyeshadow she used to wear, which I took with me when I left home, without telling Dad.
Midge stares up at me from the floor. ‘I’m sorry,’ she whispers. She says it over and over, wanting me to tell her it’s okay—that some ancient, half-used makeup doesn’t matter. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I stare at her, watching her mouth form the words. ‘I didn’t mean it,’ she adds desperately.
Something snaps inside me. ‘How dare you? Did you go through my drawers, Midge? Get out of my room, do you hear me?’
She stumbles to her feet, crying now. The lipstick and eye shadow are lidless on the bed. I can smell Jean Patou perfume. Loose powder has been scattered like finest sand on my duvet and pillowcase.
Jojo sniffs loudly behind me. Midge mumbles something that doesn’t quite make it out of her mouth.
‘What?’ I yell at her.
‘It was a joke. I wanted to make myself look funny so you’d laugh. I just wanted you to laugh.’
I snatch the frosted pink lipstick from the bed. It’s mashed, ruined. Midge makes a lame attempt to brush mud from the duvet.
‘Just leave it, Midge.’ I hate it that my voice wobbles, that tears are spilling down my cheeks in front of a seven-year-old kid who knows nothing. It’s only a bag, after all. Only makeup. Midge tries for a hug, bending her thin arms around me, but I shake her off. On the back of her hand is a skull and cross-bones drawn with the kohl pencil.
‘I’ll tell Mum what you’ve done,’ Jojo announces. ‘She’ll kill you, Midge. Stella’s our friend.’
They clatter downstairs after me, and by the time we’re in the hall, Midge’s sobs have turned into hiccups. ‘You won’t like me anymore,’ she says, struggling into the pea-green raincoat that is too small for her now. Its sleeves finish above her wrists.
Diane is clanking about in her house. She didn’t come to collect them as soon as she arrived home; clearly, she was hoping to wangle the maximum amount of free child care. ‘Don’t forget the flute,’ I remind Jojo, ‘and the duets book. Make sure you keep practicing over the Christmas holidays.’
‘Okay,’ she says warily.
‘Because I thought we’d take a break from lessons,’ I continue, not liking the brittleness that has crept into my voice.
‘Why?’ Jojo asks. Her face looks pale, moon-like, in the shadowy hall.
‘My Dad’s coming to stay for a few days. I’ll be really busy.’
‘Oh,’ she says softly.
Midge’s upper lip is damp and sore-looking. ‘She’s your favorite,’ she whispers.
‘Don’t be silly. Of course she’s not.’
‘I’m sorry about your makeup.’
I hold the door open and say, ‘It wasn’t mine.’
I don’t bother with makeup for Jen’s party. I just shower, slathering on the Healing Garden liquid stuff all over, and pull on jeans and an ancient black sweater. I find high-heeled boots that I’ve hardly worn—heels make me feel ungainly, like a kid in her mother’s footwear—and tie back my hair in a ponytail. I called Charlie several times to see if he’d come with me, but no one answered. Looks like he’s already gone on that last-minute holiday.
Outside the air feels like a cold drink in my throat. I walk briskly down Briar Hill toward the new houses by the marina where Jen and Simon live. A smart-looking couple with a carrier bag of clinking bottles are marching toward the house; I realize I’ve forgotten to bring wine.
I step into the heat and the noise and say hellos to the teachers from Paul Street, and Jen’s friends from college, and a scattering of school friends whom I meet up with occasionally. Some of the women are dancing already, clacking on the polished floor. Jen’s Christmas tree is, as ever, color-coordinated: a voluptuous pine adorned with silver and purple baubles.
The back garden is strung with fairy lights shaped like miniature lanterns. ‘Hi, I’m Lionel,’ a man says, offering me a deep red drink I didn’t ask for. It looks like watered-down blood.
‘Stella,’ I say, and take a sip: it’s spicy and citrusy, laced with cloves and maybe some Cointreau.
‘I’m in oil,’ Lionel says. ‘Food importing. Supply oils to restaurants and the baking industry.’
‘Oh,’ I say, suddenly wanting to escape from Lionel and his potted CV.
‘And you?’ he prompts me.
‘I’m a teacher.’ He nods, awaiting more information. ‘Music,’ I add. Donna Summer is playing. ‘Hot Love.’
‘Classical music?’ Lionel asks.
‘Yes, mostly.’
‘More of a rock man myself. AC/DC, Hawkwind, Marillion.’ He grins, exposing large, protruding teeth.
Simon’s colleagues from the architectural practice have gathered around the barbecue where Simon is grappling sausages with an outsized pair of tongs.
‘… So if you’re after a particular oil,’ Lionel continues, ‘I can source it for you, Stella, because I travel the world, looking for…’
Elliot, Jen’s grown-up son, is introducing his new girlfriend, Ruby, to his parents’ friends. Her narrow, widely spaced eyes give her a serene look. She is wearing a slippery-looking red dress, and is so lovely I have to force myself not to stare. I focus on the smattering of hairs between Lionel’s eyebrows.
‘… Not forgetting walnut and sesame oils,’ he continues, excitedly. He delves into a jacket pocket and hands me a card: Lionel Rashley, Food Importer.
&nbs
p; ‘I’ll be in touch,’ I say, ‘if I ever need oil.’
‘You do that,’ he says.
The architects are trying not to gawp at Ruby. ‘Meet Mum’s friend Stella,’ Elliot says. ‘She’s an incredible flute player.’ Elliot sloshes more red liquid into my glass from a jug. He tours the decked area of the garden, offering crudités and bowls of pale beige dip—the color I imagine Dad’s turkey mousse would turn out—as if he’s just returned from a crash course in manners.
‘I love your dress,’ I tell Ruby. I must be the only person out here who’s thinking, Poor girl must be freezing.
As she can’t really comment on my black sweater, she says, ‘I didn’t know what to wear. I was so nervous about this—I’ve never met Elliot’s parents before.’
‘They’re really scary,’ I say, and she giggles.
Two of the architects wander over and say, ‘Hi girls,’ as if Ruby and I might be of the same species.
‘So, Stella,’ Lionel asks, ‘which of these lucky men is your husband?’ The architects look uncomfortable, although thankfully not aghast.
‘My husband’s at home,’ I tell him. ‘He doesn’t like parties.’
‘Off the leash, then?’ he says suggestively. ‘Bit parky out here, isn’t it? Shall we go inside? Have a boogie?’ He places a hand on my waist and tries to steer me into the house, as if I am incapable of maneuvering my own body. I look around for Jen, Simon, anyone. The night air feels dry in my throat.
‘I’m just talking to Ruby,’ I say, then realize she’s gone, and the architects have gone, and it’s just me and Lionel, whose flattened hand is pressing into the small of my back.
‘I’m sure I know you,’ he says.
Jen appears with her hair all undone and pulls me into the house. ‘New neighbor,’ she grumbles. ‘Bloody creep. Are you going to dance or what?’
‘Maybe later.’ My sweater feels heavy and itchy. I can’t take it off because, stupidly, I didn’t put on anything underneath. I wish I were wearing lipstick; I might feel more here, more party spirited. I keep trying to edge into conversations, but when someone says, ‘I hear you and Alex aren’t…’ all I can manage to say is ‘No.’ And they shift uncomfortably, pick at a plate of rolled-up slivers of smoked salmon and ask, ‘So are you…okay?’ as if I look faintly ill, or might still be grieving.
I glimpse my unadorned face in the mirror above the fireplace. I look as if I’ve wandered in here by accident. Despite being a rock man, Lionel is making flamboyant moves to Sister Sledge. Debbie, a girl Jen and I went to school with—who stole my Snoopy pencil case, if I remember rightly—weaves unsteadily toward me and retorts, ‘Nice of you to dress up, Stella.’
‘It’s my best jumper,’ I tell her.
‘You look hot.’
‘Thanks.’ I tip the rest of my drink down my throat. I have a sudden urge to drink more, to be just the right side of drunk. An image of Mum’s powder scattered all over my pillow drifts into my head.
‘Only teasing,’ Debbie says. ‘Come and sit with us, if you’re all by yourself.’
‘She’s dancing,’ cuts in Lionel, tugging my hand.
I’m beginning to place him. Father of a girl I taught, briefly, until the flute was sold and the child bought the Rollerblades she’d really wanted.
I try to dance but my arms and legs feel like new body parts I’m breaking in. The boots are constricting my feet. Lionel has decided that dancing together has to mean holding hands. ‘Aren’t you Blair’s dad?’ I ask, pulling away from him. ‘I used to teach her, remember? You’d come to pick her up. Or sometimes your wife did.’
He laughs falsely, then turns away and gyrates, less enthusiastically now, to We Are Family.
I step out into the small front garden where Elliot and Ruby are kissing. His hands are moving all over her long, smooth hair. She’s wearing teetering heels, but still has to rise on tiptoes to reach his lips. They don’t notice me slipping out through the gate.
The main lights have been switched off in the Anchor. In the darkened lounge a fiber-optic tree changes eerily from yellow to blue. A young couple totters back from the end of the jetty. The girl walks crookedly, as if one of her heels has come loose and is likely to snap off, or maybe she’s drunk. They climb into a waiting cab, clutching each other and laughing. Maybe they came here by taxi just to walk to the end of the jetty and back. It’s the kind of thing new couples do, before they start squabbling over paint colors.
I pull off my boots, roll up my jeans and jump down to the sand. It feels cold and damp, gradually becoming mushy and squelching between my toes. I step into the sea, and it’s so bitingly cold I can’t feel it. Reflections of blue-white street-lights tremble on its surface.
I wade farther out with my jeans pulled up to my knees. If Charlie were here we might dare each other to strip off to our underwear, pile our clothes onto one of the rowing boats, and swim. We’ve done it before in the middle of winter: plunged in and raced each other until it wasn’t cold anymore.
The figure who’s striding along the jetty looks a bit like Charlie. But he’s in the Canaries, Dad reckons, where plunging into the sea in December is no trouble at all. And this man is more powerfully put together: broad shouldered with long, striding legs.
At first I think he’s wearing a wetsuit but when I wade closer I can see it’s just trunks. He reaches the end of the jetty, pushes hair away from his face and stands at the edge. He looks as if he’s waiting for something. The right moment.
He stands tall and raises his arms. I still can’t make out his face. I wade closer, soft sludge giving way with each step. There are no stars—just a slice of pale yellow moon, and small transparent clouds smudged over the blackness.
It’s Ed, I recognize him now. Ed, the man with the soft Scottish accent at the doctor’s. If he sees me, he doesn’t show it. I will him to look down, to focus on my face. I want to call out, ‘I’m Stella, remember me?’ but I’m frozen in shyness.
He raises his heels, like Ruby reaching up for her kiss, then pushes up farther with his arms, tensing his entire body. He is beautiful—graceful yet strong. I stand very still, and realize I’m holding my breath. Ed springs up and falls, cutting into the sea like a spear.
He comes up farther out than I’d expected. I wait for him to swim back to the beach but he heads around the jetty and out of sight. I want to run out of the sea and along the front and wait for him. But he’ll think I’m drunk or crazy.
I wade back to the beach, perch on the edge of an overturned boat, and pull down my sweater to dry my chilled feet. I manage to blot away most of the water, but can’t wipe the smile off my face.
It’s gone 1:00 a.m. by the time I’m home. Midge’s torpedo shooter still lies on the table. I file Dad’s Turkey Mousse recipe in the Mexican box. Upstairs, I try to de-Midge my bedroom. The eye shadow compact is too crumbled to rescue. The kohl is flattened but I replace its lid anyway. I try to mold the lipstick back into shape with my finger but all that’s left is a small mound of shimmery pink.
The Jean Patou bottle lies on the floor with its stopper off. A tiny puddle of perfume fills a dent in the floorboard. I stuff Mum’s things back into the quilted bag, zip it up firmly and slip it into the drawer. The loose powder has left a creamy smudge on my pillow.
I open the window to let out her perfume, then strip off and try to sleep. My feet are sandy, I’ve forgotten to wash them. There’s grit in my bed.
Some time later I’m woken by gusts of cold air from the window, or maybe the smell of Mum. I can see the two of us eating sorbet in Dino’s. She’s reminding me to use the paper napkin to wipe my mouth. ‘Good girl,’ she says.
I slide back into sleep, breathing her in. Then it’s not her, but him: the diver, falling in a sleek curve. I’ve never learned to dive. We were forced to try during school swimming lessons. The diving boards scared me so much I was sick into the drain in the shower area.
I’m doing it now: standing tall at the end of the jetty. Springing u
p, like a cat pouncing. My fingers and arms, then the rest of me—so fast I can’t separate the parts—shoot into the deep. It feels so right, like those distant days before Mum died, when the world was perfect as long as the lady in the old-fashioned chemists could produce the right shade of lipstick from her secret drawer.
15
Hiding from Children
Maggie and Surf tumble out of the car as if relieved to escape from Dad’s ill humor and cigar fumes in the confined environment of an aging Lada. Since his move to Cornwall, Dad has conducted casual, rather grudging relationships with a series of decrepit Eastern European vehicles. It’s more than twenty years since he drove the Citroën, which rose up like a hovercraft, as if preparing itself to brave the sea.
Surf lollops into my house and bounds upstairs, lashing his woolly tail. Turf settles beneath the shelf in the hall, looking like a hairy sweater. ‘Still all white, I see,’ Dad says, peering into my living room.
‘I’m not planning to change it,’ I say.
‘Oh. Last time we came, I assumed it was just an undercoat.’
‘Well,’ Maggie says, ‘I think your house is lovely.’
‘So do I,’ I mutter as I carry their threadbare tartan bags up to my room where they’ll be sleeping. On the landing—which is also white—ghosts of other colors show through the paint. Alex kept urging me to agree to bright yellow or green, and bought Matchpots to splash onto the walls and demonstrate how great they’d look. The roughly painted squares jarred my eyes every time I walked past them. One Sunday afternoon, while he had his guitar lesson across town, I whited everything over.
‘You mustn’t give up your room just for us,’ Maggie protests, following me into my bedroom. She has immaculate pearly fingernails, and her shoulder-length auburn hair is set in springy waves. I wonder how she maintains such a high standard of grooming, living at Silverdawn Cottage.
‘It’s no trouble,’ I tell her. ‘Just make yourselves at home.’ I have changed my bed and left the window open for the past three days, but Jean Patou still lingers like faint breath. I wonder if Dad will notice, and start remembering.