‘It’s not just your garden, it belongs to all the flats and they pay someone to come in and work on it.’
‘Margaret, all he does is cut the grass. He’s just a boy. If I had to sit in all day and watch the weeds grow, I’d go daft. Do you want me daft?’
‘Of course not.’
‘Well.’
They would often have a proper Sunday lunch together, both eating more than was comfortable for the other’s benefit.
‘That was nice.’
‘I’ll not be moving for a while.’
‘Well, I’ll get on with the washing up.’
‘Margaret Hamilton, since when have I been unable to do my own washing up. Sit on your backside and let your pudding settle. There’s more tea, I think.’
‘No, you finish it. I couldn’t swallow another thing.’
‘Mmm hm.’
Margaret lifted the tray from his lap and left it in his tiny, shiny kitchen. They sat for a while, hearing his clock chime a quarter hour; it didn’t seem to tick, never had. Margaret breathed in the smells that always surrounded her father, even in the sheltered flat. All that was missing was a trace of coal tar soap. She’d bought him something different for Christmas and now he must be using it. Not as nice as coal tar.
She moved her eyes over the ornaments that were mostly older than her and remembered where Daddy had kept them in his old place. Their place. She moved down to sit between his legs, her back against his armchair and her arms looped up over each of his knees.
‘Hullo, hen.’
‘Hiya.’
‘You’re getting thin.’
‘So are you.’
‘It doesn’t look well on a woman. You worry too much.’
‘Uh huh.’
‘You know, I think I’m into my change of life.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I just don’t feel the same as I did. I’ve asked Mrs Mitchell about it – you know, her downstairs. She just laughed. Nice lady.’
‘How do you not feel the same?’
‘Mainly, it’s the way I think. I think about your mother a lot. Really a great deal.’
‘Well, that’s only natural.’
‘No it’s not. It’s the least natural thing in the world. I haven’t seen her since, what, 1963. Why on earth should I think about her now? I’ll tell you something, Margaret, something I’ve worked out. It’s important.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘If, when you get someone . . . Don’t sigh. I’m just saying. If you end up getting close, just remember. You need to have the same sense of humour. It’s the most important thing. You can get by without anything else. Your mother and I, we never laughed at anything together. All she could find to laugh at was me. That’s not what you want. Get a man with the same sense of humour.’
‘OK.’
‘I mean it. Promise. Don’t make my mistakes.’
‘I promise. Honestly.’
He cupped his hands across her head and kissed between them. ‘Good girl.’
Margaret and Cohn did have the same sense of humour. Sometimes they didn’t work at each other in quite the way they should, but they did, very often, laugh at the same kinds of things.
Because it is such a nice thing to see, Margaret has always wanted a picture of Colin laughing. So far, the pictures she has show him about to be laughing, or having laughed. Of course, she has an image in her head, but that won’t really do. She wants better evidence than that, as if he might someday disappear and she would have to prove that he existed. With his laugh.
His laugh is important for Margaret. When Colin came back to Scotland and preferred to watch Margaret without her seeing him, he allowed himself to walk past the Fun Factory. He watched its street and grew used to the way that Margaret looked from an ever decreasing distance. This meant that when he called on Margaret, for the first time in three years, he was prepared for the meeting, but she was not.
She was sitting on her own in the Blue Room, writing a sign for the café. PATRONS ARE REQUESTED NOT TO TENDER IRISH COINS. Sam knocked the door and came in.
‘There’s a guy here says he knows you, Mags.’
‘Knows me?’
‘You’re the only Margaret Hamilton we’ve got. Will I send him through? He looks alright.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘Sitting in the café. Lesley thinks she’s seen him in before. This isn’t something we should know about?’
‘You tell me. I’ll come out.’
Colin has asked her since if she knew who it would be, sitting at an empty table by the door. She can only say that she felt strange as she looked round the café and then not completely surprised when she saw his face.
‘Oh.’
‘Do you know him? Will I go now?’
‘Sure, sure, Sammy. I know him. I think I know him.’
Colin stood almost as soon as she saw him, brushed the hair back from his forehead and took a step. Margaret turned and walked back into the Blue Room, unsure if he would understand to follow. She left open the door.
Perhaps a minute passed before she heard him walk in.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi yourself.’
‘How are you?’
She could feel herself wondering if he meant this year, or last year, or maybe the year before. Or did he only mean today?
‘I don’t know, I was fine this morning.’
‘Good. Good. I actually feel rather nervous myself.’
‘Oh.’
‘Aye. I’m not long up from London . . . that’s where I was . . . I wanted to see you quite soon. How’ve you been? Did I say that?’
‘Alright. You could have called.’
‘I know, I know, I thought about it. I was going to and then I was going to write and then I was going to come up and then I wasn’t. Sorry, sorry. I know.’
‘I mean you could have called to say you were coming.’
‘Fuck. Aye, yes, definitely. Um. See, I had things all lined up to go to like the Burrell and the Necropolis, Provand’s Lordship and all that, but none of the guides had your number. I did try. Tourist Information. Fuck all. I looked.’
Margaret didn’t know he’d meant to be funny until he was already laughing, wheezing and gulping, holding it in to watch her face. If she had decided not to laugh, he would have gone away again. That would probably have been the end of that.
Instead she laughed because he really wasn’t funny, but he was laughing and that was funny and both of them laughing together at something unfunny was certainly funny, in fact it was so funny that it hurt. Soon, they looked as if they had been crying, which was enough to make anyone laugh. So they did.
And one or other of them reached out a hand and one or other of them took it and Margaret thought, very clearly, ‘It’s alright. It’s alright now.’
AS IF SOMEONE had turned a tap somewhere, flicked a switch, it was spring. Margaret spent the whole day tasting a certain difference in the air outside the Factory, feeling a certain kindness in the rain, watching a certain easiness in faces she was used to finding taut.
Lesley and Sam, having found out for certain that Lawrence was still away on a long weekend, chased each other slowly round the office and held hands over lunch. The domino players smiled at them, fatherly, some enjoying snacks not purchased on the premises.
When Margaret got home she didn’t feel tired and there was still some daylight to make the dinner by. It was close to the end of February, just over a year before she would lose her job. Colin didn’t yet have a key to her flat but he had taken to turning up there without warning on a variety of pretexts.
‘Hi. Did I disturb you? I just wondered if I could use your bath.’
‘My bath?’
‘It’s the spring weather, you know? I took the afternoon off – and most of the morning – came home and I’ve been running all day. Right round the park and along the river and fuck knows where. Run myself stupid, I have. And you know I’ve only got a shower. I
need a bath.’
By this time he was standing in the hall, wriggling out of a sweatshirt while he took off his shoes.
‘Christ, I’m going to be sore tomorrow.’
‘Well, it’s your own fault. I can remember when you wouldn’t walk your length.’
‘I know. I remember it, too. But me and Uncle Archie sorted it out. And I’ve needed to look after myself sometimes. It’s better to be fit. Safer. If you wanted, you could run with me sometimes.’
‘I will assume that was a joke. Should I wash some of this?’
‘No, I’ll have to go home in it. I suppose I’ll have to go home.’
‘I can lend you a big kind of sweater and I think I’ve got one of your shirts.’
‘A big kind of sweater.’
‘For your big kind of body. Get in the bathroom, if you’re having a bath; you’ll frighten the horses like that.’
‘Come and scrub my back.’
‘I’ve got a report to write up tonight.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s nearly finished, I did most of it today. If Sam and Lesley hadn’t been playing Mr and Mrs Rabbit all afternoon, I’d have got it done.’
‘Not doing what rabbits normally do, I hope?’
‘Just mooning about and giggling, calling each other wee, daft names.’
‘Sounds alright.’
‘Aye, well, it was. I kept breaking off to watch them, as it happens.’
‘It’s nice to see people in love.’
‘Colin.’
‘What, what have I said?’
‘Come here.’
She pushed him into the bathroom then squeezed in after him. Their reflections were waiting in the mirror above the sink. Hers kissed his.
‘There. That’s people in love. Now, I’m going to finish this. Put that away. I’m going to finish this and by the time you’ve had your bath, I’ll be all yours.’
‘I’d like that.’
‘And I would, too.’
Colin lay for a while on the sofa, his head still warm and a little damp, rested deep in her lap. Margaret wondered why they hadn’t done this before, it felt so nice. He slept until the news came on television and the music woke him up.
‘Ow.’
He was wearing her dressing-gown, very short on him, and as he turned, it flared away from his legs.
‘What’s the matter.’
‘Oh, I’d forgotten I was here. Hello. I think I’m starting to seize up. My neck’s sore.’
‘You shouldn’t run on your neck, I’ve told you before; use your feet.’
‘But I do have to take my neck out with me. Come down here.’
‘Can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘You’re in the way.’
They would have made love on the sofa, but an odd thing happened and made them stop.
Colin was resting his weight on her chest, almost stopping her breath when there was a pain. The further he went the more pain came and then the pain became a thing in itself, very big. Margaret felt herself scream.
‘What is it? Baby, what’s the matter? What? What? OK, alright. Tell me when you can, it’s alright, alright. Baby, baby girl, it’s alright. It’s alright.’
She lay with his arms around her, panting and feeling sick. Part of her wanted him to go away. She felt Colin move a little then draw in his breath.
‘Darling, there’s blood on me. Did I hurt you. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Darling. Darling, we should do something about this. What is it?’
After a while longer of being quiet, Colin slid away from her and fetched a warm flannel, a towel. Margaret moved a little, began to sit up.
‘I’ll do it, lie back.’
And Colin cleaned her, very gently, not letting her see the blood and kissing her stomach as he dabbed her with the towel. He asked her to let him look and she opened her legs just a little, felt his breath on her thighs and a thin stab of new pain. Over his face, she could see a shine of sweat.
‘Ssh. Don’t be sore, please don’t be sore. You’re split, you’ve got a little split in your cunt. Lie still. You’ll be fine, you’ll be fine. Please.’
She could hear his voice, as if he might cry, feel his breath very hot. She didn’t know how she felt; more than anything it seemed strange that her pain could affect him so much when she was getting used to it now.
Colin sat on the floor beside her, holding her head, until she had started to doze.
‘Darling, darling, you shouldn’t go to sleep here, you’ll get cold. Come on, slowly, very slowly, we’ll get you to bed.’
And Margaret became an invalid for him, went weak in his arms, found herself agreeing she would take a day off work and go to see the doctor in the morning. Colin disappeared to wash off her blood and then returned to slip in beside her. He didn’t touch her, lay very still.
When she woke in the night and turned, the pain was there ahead of her again and it seemed she had something she ought to apologise for. She felt she had done something wrong. This didn’t happen to other people, other men made love to other women and they didn’t bleed. Would she bleed every time now? Would she always be waiting for the pain? Colin wouldn’t understand that, after a while it would surely be in his way.
He kissed her goodbye in the morning and she pretended to still be asleep. She didn’t know what to say to him.
Margaret was surprised when she got an appointment. Often you couldn’t be given a time the same week, let alone the same day. Busy surgery, they would say. House calls, it seemed, were no longer even possible. You were better off asking your chemist for something; better off making do, saving the cost of a prescription. If she’d told them it was an emergency, it would have made things easier, but then they would have asked for details. She could hardly announce that she had a split cunt. She didn’t know if she could tell the doctor that. But Margaret rang and found she was lucky: they had a cancellation.
Margaret’s doctor was a sandy-haired man with a butcher’s complexion, raw pink. He wore bow-ties and waistcoats and seemed to sweat a lot even though, naturally, the heat never reached his hands which remained medically chilly.
‘Ah, you’re looking at my little graph. Well, that shows our practice averages to date. Only sensible. See here – the number of times we prescribe, ages, sexes, drugs. Of course, with the older clients things become different. There we’re only preventing death, really. Putting it off a bit. You know?’
‘Aren’t you always doing that?’
‘Ha, ha, ha. Well, yes, of course, if you want to look on the black side . . . yes. Do you look on the black side? Often?’
‘I don’t know. Why I’m here . . .’
‘Yes. You don’t mind if I have a biscuit, do you? If I don’t eat at regular intervals, I get very short-tempered. Do go on; why you’re here?’
‘Well, you see, last night, we had some difficulty –’
‘Say no more. Time to slip up on the couch. Take off your things and give me a call when you’re ready. I’ll just wash my hands; crumbs, you know.’
Margaret didn’t like to show herself to somebody like this. She tended to feel she was private property, something she might decide to share, but otherwise not an object to be stared at. Medical places always made her feel she didn’t belong entirely to herself, because they knew better than she did what she was, how she worked. It felt strange. She supposed you could get used to it, if you had to.
Above the couch there was a clear, large notice in black and white, listing all the charges for a range of services: vaccination certificates, variously exhaustive medicals, screenings and tests.
The final sentence read, ‘Removal of pacemaker from body after death: £31.30’.
Margaret read and looked away. She wondered where they would do such a thing. Why? Was it possible to use a pacemaker again? Were they cheaper, second-hand? How much did it cost to remove one before death? Could you be insured against that happening by mistake? The notice didn’t mention that.
‘That’s quite a deep fissure you have there and one . . . inside. Did that hurt? One, nasty one inside. This is lack of lubrication, you know? Could be your pill, could be your cycle is changing, could be almost anything. How do you feel?’
‘Sore.’
‘Ha. Yes, but how do you feel? You find your partner attractive? Mm hm. Not depressed?’
‘No, he’s fine.’
‘I mean, you’re not depressed.’
‘Well, I’m not exactly happy, right now.’
‘Quite. Clothes on.’
The doctor gave Margaret two prescriptions, one for anti-depressants and one more for iodine cream.
Walking away from the surgery, Margaret found the sky too blue to look at. Down the pavements there were sparrows chasing pigeons chasing crumbs. The examination had made things much more painful when she moved and she wanted to be home and lying down.
She was in just that position when Colin rang her. She had recently applied a layer of sticky, stinging, yellow cream but had not taken an antidepressant. Margaret had thrown that prescription away. She would rather be happy independently, or even not happy at all; at least she would know where she was. There were women in the Factory on Ativan, Librium, Valium, Tamazepan and the rest, nobody knew where they were. They would forget they were eating in the middle of a meal, they would stare between walls that nobody else could see, they would cry. Margaret didn’t want to be like that.
Colin wanted to know if she felt depressed.
‘I’m fine. I’ve got cream. It’s nothing fatal. The split isn’t, anyway – the cream’s a bugger.’
‘Poor baby. Will I come round?’
‘It’s alright.’
‘I got you some chocolates.’
‘It’s really alright. I’m better off on my own.’
‘I want to know how you are.’
‘How I am is fine, but I don’t need company. Not you.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘I don’t mean it like that.’
‘I think the meaning’s pretty clear.’
‘And I think you’ve misunderstood me. I feel funny. I don’t know how I feel. I don’t know when we could make love again.’
‘Oddly enough, that wasn’t all I was thinking of. Jesus Christ, I’m worried about you. Did the doctor say it was my fault? Is there something I can do?’
Looking For the Possible Dance Page 10