‘Because I’m interested. Tell them, the staff, that I passed by.’
‘What for?’
‘Pardon?’
‘Did you pass for any reason.’
‘None.’
Susan turned off the music when the car had drawn away.
‘And you had to have the fucking music, too. Big, cool bugger. You’re off your fucking head, you know that?’
‘Mm?’ Gus seemed to be thinking of something else. Kicking at the gravel and singing under his breath. ‘“Three hun-dred . . . six-ty five deg-rees. Burning down –”’
‘I scared him, though, didn’t I?’
Susan smiled, ‘Aye, you did.’
‘I scared him. I did that. It was easy, too. I didn’t think it would be that easy.’
‘What would be that easy?’
And Margaret walks out under the heavy sun, feels it on her face and shoulders, gravel moving under her feet, tastes the sourness of burnt spirits and sweat there, mixed with the sweetness of tired grass.
‘What would be easy?’
‘To do this every day, Maggie. To do this and nothing else, every day.’
Margaret falls into an undisturbed warmth, sighs out into her bedroom as she dims the sun.
THE FIRST TIME Gus and the others performed the fire, let it spring into a clammy dusk, all feathers and teeth, Margaret wondered how good an example she was. Where was she taking these people?
Flares of heat were almost reaching a late Gala Day crowd when she remembered the kids working all day to end by reaching down into earth and dirt for coins. They had clowned and acted; Susan and Elaine had juggled; they had worked hard and then had to stoop down and find their payment thrown at their feet like a quiet insult.
There was something uneasy about it. People’s eyes on them had an ugly weight when the end of a performance came and then round and down went the hat, the hands, the money. Today the money was for a hospital, but it still felt the same. They shouted to drown the feeling.
‘In his pocket or in the tin, which do you dare. Keep that Dialysis Unit running. No one else will. Hope you never need it and pay just in case – that’s the way. All notes must be folded. Keep the folk alive. Thank you, thank you, thank you.’
‘For fuck all. Asking the buggers to save their own skins and they look like you’ve spat in their eye. Jesus fuck.’
The same feeling would sink over the Factory when the palefaced young men and women would scuff in, hoping they could get a meal, a warm. They were people it made you cold to stand close to.
If Lawrence wasn’t looking, they would get their feed – no paying – and then go. One time you looked they would be there and then they would be gone, leaving a taste of frost.
Margaret would watch the Youth Theatre and wonder where they would go to. When they would go. She was almost at a dead end herself, almost past the point where she could imagine a change for the better, any change at all. That was how she felt. Prematurely finished.
She was telling these people to keep clean, to keep straight, start their lives right, but what did starting right have to do with them? And she knew, at their age she hadn’t been clean, or straight, or right. They would ask her for advice sometimes and what could she tell them? What did she know? Had she learned?
She wanted, at times, to tell them about the night down South, safe in the Heart of England, when she had spread the oil on her liquorice rolling papers, then rolled them full of English grass and menthol tobacco.
Sitting by the open window, blowing the smoke at the stars and wanting Colin back. This was the house they’d been in together and now he wasn’t there. She would have to go back to her father and her father’s sympathy, all the time wanting Colin back. Nothing other than that.
She smoked her lungs transparent and then black and then some hot colour until she felt she wanted to lie on the floor for a long time and let the smoke rise, herself sink.
The floorboards pressed her elbows, heels, the ridges down her spine, her skull, until she was suspended by those points. A power grew in her head, that or the echo of power, and it seemed that if she touched herself now, Colin would feel it. If she thought his name enough, it would become a word in his head. If she let her wanting become a sweat, a movement, he would know. All that energy would kick off a message into space.
Rain was coming in through her window in the morning and had wet her feet. Something about the way she moved was swollen, thick, heavy. She hoped she had dreamed the reason for her lying on the floor. If it hadn’t been a dream, it would mean she was much more stupid than she wanted to be.
Not crazy. Stupid. Margaret would like the Youth Theatre to know how stupid she can be.
MARGARET FOUND IT odd, how she learned things. A person she knew very well could tell her something and although it would seem to make good sense, a total stranger would turn the familiar sentence round another way and there it would be – the meaning she thought she’d grasped all along, very clear and very new. So there she was again, understanding that she hadn’t understood.
Or familiar people could teach her in unfamiliar ways.
Or words she had heard at school would suddenly light in her head and she would know they had been untruths, incompletions, evasions, slivers of something bigger that she hadn’t listened to. She could feel the same way about university. She wanted to go back again now, because now she’d be there for herself and not her father.
Or she would go to bed and then wake up in the morning with something she hadn’t known before, there in her mind. Sometimes she knew her daddy must have planted it.
‘Princess? There’s my Princess. You asleep?’
He was whispering so low that Margaret could barely hear him and she could tell that he was really speaking to himself. He let a path of light into her room, walked forward and then closed it off behind him. He came over gently to let his weight tug down one side of the bed. She didn’t move, didn’t open her eyes, knowing that he wanted her to be there, but nothing else. That was nice in a way; not as good as talking, but nice.
‘There she is. All asleep. Oh, what do we do, eh? Can’t stay like this. I won’t be here in the end. In the end you’ll have to look after yourself. All those worries, all that heaviness. We should just stay like this, then one of us would always sleep at night and, in the end, maybe I would sleep, too. That would be good.
‘Princess?’
She started slightly and knew he was looking at her, felt his eyes.
‘Sssh, I’ll not wake you. I’ll not wake you. There. No harm done. No worries, not a one.
‘Not even for me really. You know that? You see, I send them away. I imagine a railway line, the two lines of track, silver lines. I imagine a station; somewhere for the train to come to, clean down the track, into the station. You can walk up and down the platform and know exactly where that train will stop, because it has nowhere else to go.
‘And when the train comes? I give it my worries on board to take away. All along the silver lines, it takes them away. I promise you. And I’ll make you a train like that, I do promise. It’ll run on silver, straight and safe. Nothing will stop it, Princess, it’ll just roll on. Past me and away. Past me.’
This seemed so sad that Margaret gave a cough and rolled over until her stomach could feel her father’s side through the blankets.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I woke you.’
‘Hiya.’
‘There’s Margaret. Eyes full of moonlight, ears full of water, what did I do to deserve such a daughter. You go back to sleep, now, I’m sorry.’
‘Tell me something.’
‘What?’
‘Anything. A story.’
‘You’ve had too much story already. Come on, school tomorrow.’
‘I needn’t go, though.’
‘Yes you do need go, though. Sleep. Aaaah, come on then. We’ll let the porters come and get you, my worry. Where do you want to go?’
‘Blackpool.’
‘Blac
kpool?’
‘I’m only playing. Staying here is fine in real life, but it should be Blackpool for this.’
‘How do you want to go.’
‘Ship.’
‘Oh, now then. Is it a calm sea, or a stormy sea.’
‘Just calm.’
‘Not a wee bit stormy?’
‘No.’
‘Well, we’ll have to see. See the sea, eh, see the sea? Well it wasn’t bad for this time of night. You look out for the typhoons, never mind screwing your face up at other people’s jokes.’
And her daddy pressed and bounced his hands into her mattress, soft and then harder and then making the bed jump so much that she squealed and then soft and softer until they both rocked to a stop.
‘More.’
‘More tomorrow.’
‘It is tomorrow.’
‘Then more the day after that.’
He had kissed her on the forehead and tucked the sheets round her in a way which was uncomfortable, but nice because of the thought behind it.
He always did such nice things for her, but still kept that place inside him that stayed beyond her reach. She couldn’t stop him being lonely, or pacing his bedroom floor, waiting for something she didn’t understand to appear along the line. She hadn’t helped him with that, or with much else. A bit of a useless daughter, really, if she thought about it.
When James taps her shoulder, Margaret turns automatically without thinking who is there. The way he looks surprises her again, as if he should appear more normal, now that she knows how normal he is inside. His blue eyes are slightly quizzical.
‘What’s the matter, do you want something?’
If she had to, could she get him to the toilet? What would she do once they were there?
James folds his hands together and rests them under his head.
‘You were asleep?’
He nods and points to her.
‘No, I wasn’t sleeping.’
He smiles and nods his head, taps one hand against his paper.
SNORING WAKE ME UP
‘What? I wasn’t snoring. Was I snoring?’
James giggles and claps his hands together.
‘Are you serious? I’ve been snoring with all these people around? Seriously, James?’
James giggled again and, very shakily, wrote.
JOKE
‘Joke?’
Nods and a big, fading smile.
‘Joke.’
Hands clasped in an apology.
‘James, you have an odd sense of humour.’
Eyes closed, head drooping.
‘I could go in the huff with you.’
James begins to turn away and Margaret reaches over to point at the paper.
JOKE
‘I’m only kidding, I’m not in the huff. I’m joking. James. I’m joking, OK?’
JOKE
‘Yes, I’m only joking, don’t be upset.’
James turns to shake his head and point at his chest.
‘Oh, you were joking again.’
Nods.
‘OK, well, I’ll just go in the huff again, then.’
James claps his hands to his mouth, giggling, then points.
JOKE
‘Yes. And. Then I’ll pick you up and throw you through the carriage window and watch you bounce as we go past.’
JOKE
‘Mm hm. And you can just catch hold of the last carriage and crawl along the train and climb through the window and poison my coffee in revenge.’
JOKE GOOD BUT
‘But what?’
CANT CLIM CANT WALK
‘No. No, I know that, but, well, jokes don’t have to be real. Do they?’
James nods and looks past her head, out through the window. Margaret can’t think of anything to say. When she tries to pat his hand, he is writing again.
IM SECRET
‘You’re secret. How do you mean?’
NOWON NOWS NOBODY
‘What don’t they know?’
ME
‘I know what you mean, James, I think I know what you mean.’
JOKE
‘No, James I do know what you mean.’
Margaret and James settle down to play noughts and crosses, slipping the grids in the spaces between James’s words.
‘James, why don’t you just write CHEAT once and then you can point and tell me whenever you like? And I can point to it as well.’
Around them the hills grow lower and begin to cup small towns in the hollows they make. Grey stone buildings and streets pass, gathered in the lap of brown green slopes. One is shaded under boiling cloud, but marked out with fingers of brilliant light where the sun glimmers through. It seems that God is pointing at it, for some undisclosed reason, while the train noses south, hidden from time to time by embankments.
Margaret continues to play with James, because they are both happy playing games, knowing they are both capable of deeper and greater things, but knowing they can’t be bothered with them now.
Colin was good at games.
Margaret had seen him play pool and football, badminton and dominoes with the same peculiar devotion. If they happened to be in a pub on quiz night he would be powerless to leave without taking part and hearing the final result. He had a competitive mind.
Alone with him, she would know he was completely cheerful when he started to play.
‘OK. Minister’s Cat time.’
‘What?’
‘Time to play The Minister’s Cat.’
He nudged his prick a little more snugly in and kissed her nose.
‘Some people would think this was hardly the moment, you know?’
‘Nope, I can’t think what you mean. Come on. Just one game. We can do other things, as well.’
He did another thing. Just a little.
‘You know you’re a pervert.’
‘Mm hm. You’ve got first go, by the way.’
‘Awfffffff. The minister’s bloody cat is amiable.’
‘That’ll do for a start. Come here.’
‘I am here.’
‘Not close enough.’
Margaret felt him begin to bite along the line of her ear, something she didn’t always like, but which seemed pleasant now. He was tight against her stomach and tight inside, slow and smooth and tight. It was surprising, sometimes, how neat a fit he could be.
‘Your turn, baby.’
‘I . . . um . . . the cat’s amiable, bucolic, carnivorous, domineering, what was it?’
‘Not concentrating.’
They were in a rhythm now, both moving, which was quite unusual. Their first real sweat began to break.
‘Amiable, bucolic, carnivorous, domineering, emetic, fucking gigantic, hairy, intelligent, jocose, killer, lecherous. Now. It’s the wee baby’s turn, my wee baby.’
Margaret watched him, knowing that he couldn’t watch her back, because both his eyes were closed and he seemed intent on reaching for something just behind her head. She felt he was reaching through her for something else she didn’t know about.
‘Amiablebucoliccarnivorousdomineeringenergetic, no emetic, emeticfuckinggigantichairyintelligent, intelligentjocosekillerlecherousmalodorousniceorderlypurringquerulous. Querulous. There. Colin?’
‘Thinking, just thinking of a good one, wait a minute. Oh.’
If she could reach inside him it would be different. Margaret thought that. And she wanted to make it different. There was something he wouldn’t let her into. He wouldn’t let it go, make it open for her to come in. She knew because she did the same thing; never entirely being there. Even though she tried.
‘Purringquerulousratarsedstotioustightropewalking.’
‘What?’
Colin paused a little, keeping a laugh down where they could both feel it tickle. She liked to feel him laugh and she liked to feel him at the edge of laughing almost as much.
‘Tightrope walking.’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
�
�No.’
‘But why not, though?’
‘You’re not taking this seriously, are you? Mmm? And how are you taking this? Is this serious? Is this? What about . . . Mmm? Serious?’
‘Very serious.’
‘Good. Then we’ll put the cat out. Put the pussy to sleep.’
‘Colin?’
‘What?’
‘I love you.’
‘I know.’ He spoke very quickly. ‘Really, I know, you don’t even have to say it twice. I know.’
And for a while, they did serious things together.
If Margaret remembers rightly, that all happened on a Saturday night, or an early part of Sunday morning. Before they went to sleep there was already a trace of brightness over her street. She hated having to do these things on a Saturday night; the only possible times narrowing into Friday or Saturday night, because otherwise they would both be tired at their work in the morning.
She didn’t like to be so limited, but there were times when it was like this – very nice and easy – and the day of the week was not important. Margaret would visit Colin’s house or he would visit hers, or they would both go out together somewhere else and there would seem to be no work involved, no effort, only the pleasure of being there. She would smile past Colin’s face, or down at her feet and think of her daddy’s only sexual advice.
‘You see, sometimes you have to work at these things. Really, you have to work at them a lot. It’s not like us, it’s not something you’re born with; the two of you will have to choose each other and then have to make sure you were right. It’s quite hard.’
‘Could I not have a baby, instead?’
Margaret had been quite young when they had the conversation.
‘A baby? What do you mean? Has anybody said that?’
‘No, but I could have a baby and then I wouldn’t need anyone else. I could be like us. You’d have a grandbaby, then.’
‘Your baby would need a daddy would it not?’
‘It would have you.’
‘Aye, well, it’s all a long way off. But, Margaret?’
‘Yes?’
‘Tell me if anyone says anything about babies to you. Will you do that?’
The subject didn’t arise again until their positions had almost reversed. Margaret was visiting her father to check if he was eating properly, to nag him into doing less in the garden. To mother him.
Looking For the Possible Dance Page 9