‘What is it?’
‘I’ve just noticed, we’re neither of us wearing our seat-belts. A couple of days in the country and we go to pieces.’
‘It’s called being relaxed; some people do it all the time.’
‘Mm. I know. It was lovely up there. Thanks for suggesting it.’
‘Are we talking about the Humph or the holiday?’
‘Both. I mean it, thanks.’
‘You don’t have to thank me. I wouldn’t have gone without you, wouldn’t have thought of it. And it’s been lovely to see you so happy. So calm. You were almost like another person.’
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘You know what I mean. You were more like yourself than I’ve seen you for ages. It was lovely.’
‘Well, it was good. It was nice. And you’ve been good to be with, too.’
‘Margaret, can I ask you something.’
‘Sure.’
‘It’s just, that job’s so fucking bad for you. It’s so pointless. Why don’t you give it up. We could live off my wages.’
‘I see.’
‘Until you got something else. I could help you out until we found something better. And when we’re married, there might be other things. Just think, you wouldn’t have to plod about in jeans and sweaters all the week.’
‘I didn’t realise my job was pointless.’
‘I mean it’s a waste of what you could be doing.’
‘Whereas sitting at home and living off your money wouldn’t be. Because I’d be so much better dressed.’
‘You just, I wish you could see the change there’s been in you, only in these few days.’
‘Yes, I remember. You said I seemed like another person. That seemed to be your ideal. I’ve been on holiday, Colin, that’s always nice. It has nothing to do with real life. What are you telling me. I have to stay on holiday now, for ever.’
‘Oh for fuck’s sake.’
‘My own thoughts entirely. Of course, the great thing about being up here was that you could get your hole whenever you liked. Let’s not forget that. Available day and night – ideal.’
‘You weren’t complaining.’
‘I never fucking do, do I.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘No, what did you mean? I try to give you some advice which, fuck knows, you need and suddenly you’ve only been putting up with me all this time. It’s entirely unreasonable for me to want you to listen to what I’m fucking telling you. Your idea of a marriage is you do what you fucking like.’
‘You’d rather I just did what I was told. I happen to think that selling pensioners satellite TV should be illegal. Do I ever say you should give up your job? At least I’m trying to help folk.’
‘How can you help folk when you canny even help yourself. It’s pathetic.’
‘Shut up, Colin, just shut up. Before I do something I’m sorry for. Just take us fucking home.’
‘I’ll take us where I fucking want. I trusted you. I fucking trusted you. Fucking pathetic.’
Margaret reached to snap on the radio, then folded her arms and sat while its voices smothered their silence. She pressed one elbow down on her stomach, where a tension was starting to build, a chill. The van passed a car with its bonnet crushed, its roof cut neatly off. Firemen and policemen still walked round it., stepping silently through a sheen of broken glass. A little white cloth had been folded over the back of the driver’s seat. Its brightness framed a large stain of blood, unsubtle in the flat afternoon sun. Margaret found she had too much saliva in her mouth, started choking it quietly down.
Colin whispered, ‘Jesus,’ but when Margaret turned to face him he said nothing more, apparently intent on the road ahead. As they moved into the city, the radio described their accident, told them who died, gave it reality.
‘The Underground isn’t far from here.’
Colin dawdled the van towards the kerb.
‘Is the back door locked?’
‘Here’s the keys.’
‘OK. I’ll get my bag, then. Thank you.’
Margaret walked slowly to stand by the passenger door. Stooping down to pass through the keys, she paused for a while, simply watching Colin’s face. He seemed upset, less angry and more liable to cry. She knew she didn’t want him to be upset. She knew she didn’t want him to drive away. She knew she didn’t want to apologise.
‘That’s my bag fetched. I’ve just thought, I’ve no money left. I don’t even have my fare for the underground.’
‘Uh huh.’
It seemed important for her to slide herself back inside the van, to tug her holdall on to her lap and close the door.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Could you give me a lift back home. It’s on your way. Please.’
‘Fine, fine, fine. Just put on your seat-belt, will you?’
‘I’ll do that.’
By the time they reached her street, Margaret felt almost light-headed. Her stomach was throbbing in time with her pulse. She gave a start when Colin spoke.
‘This is you.’
‘I know. Colin, I want to touch you.’ The noise of motors ran through the pause. ‘Did you hear me? I want to –’
‘I heard.’
‘Would you, do you want that?’
‘Of course I fucking want that. I want you. I don’t know how to get you.’
‘I’m here now.’
‘I don’t know.’
‘We have to get to know each other. We have to get used to each other.’
‘I can’t even reach you now, your fucking duffle-bag’s in the way. Always something.’
‘I’ll put it outside. I can hold your hand now. Feel.’
Margaret took Colin’s left hand in her right and he let the engine die. She could feel his blood beating in his veins, a squeeze against her palm, a rearrangement of fingers.
‘Colin, I want us to be together. So much. It can’t be this hard. This makes no sense. Oh.’
He was crying, without sound, his mouth very slightly open.
‘Baby, don’t cry because of me. Please don’t. Come in, come up with me.’
‘No.’
‘Come up. I want you to.’
‘No. I can’t now. I don’t know what I’m doing.’
‘Well, I’ll call you in a couple of hours. Will I call you?’
‘Alright. Yes, do that. Maggie, Maggie, I don’t know.’
‘I’ll call you and we’ll talk. We can go for a drive. Will you be alright? You shouldn’t be driving, you know.’
‘I’m alright.’
She lifted his hand and kissed it, then got out of the van. Once she’d closed the door, she tapped on the window till he rolled it down.
‘I will ring you and you must take care. Go and have a bath, have something to eat.’
She waved as the van pulled away, the sound of her tapping on the window still in the air. Click, click, click. Her ring had made a good noise on the glass. A useful noise. Click, click, click.
IT WAS AN all-night place, slightly grubby, with high, plate-glass windows that let in the dark. Margaret had already drunk one coffee when Colin arrived. He turned in the doorway, smiled when he picked out her face, then seemed to remember something which took his smile away and left him tired.
When he came back from the counter, he put his coffee cup down next to Margaret’s, but didn’t sit. He stood behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders, leaning down to smell her hair and kneading her jacket in his hands.
‘What’s the matter? Come and sit down.’
‘I will, I will.’
And he slowly moved to take the chair opposite. Margaret had the impression that he’d already told her goodbye: that whatever they said could not alter what he had decided. He had driven away and not come back. The hours had passed in a different day and they were not together now. It could not be possible for them to be so together and then so apart inside the same day.
She watched her face
in the blackness of the window, her nose illuminated, the rest in shade, and heard Colin start to speak. It seemed she had heard him say these things before, it seemed they were less real than they should be.
‘I can’t do this any longer. It isn’t working. I’ve never felt more uncomfortable or unhappy in my life. Never.’
He did look unhappy.
‘We don’t deserve this. I mean, I’m fucking sure I don’t. I’m sorry. I’ve thought about it all night. Longer than that, on and off, but for the whole of tonight. There really isn’t a way out. Either we live together, we both commit ourselves, the whole thing, or we call it a day; we don’t see each other. Not at all. I am sorry.’
Once Colin has left her, Margaret will twist her ring around her finger without knowing it and she will say nothing and let him go out of sight along the street. She will tell his name to a stranger, then buy herself her third cup of coffee and start to drink. Slowly.
She was already feeling almost better and somehow expecting that Colin would walk back in and feel much better, too. Some kind of argument broke out behind her; two female voices, young and quickly screaming. Two waitresses and a man in a suit rushed between tables and then moved towards Margaret, pushed back towards the door by two girls.
‘There’s nothing in my fucking bag – that’s all! And would you mind not breaking my fucking stuff. Ian!’
A thin, pale man was waiting in the street. He walked away.
‘Ian!’
The staff linked arms to bar the door, slid bolts and talked about policemen coming. The girls screamed and battered, then subsided, the one with the blonde hair now crying and swaying.
‘I’m only sixteen.’
No one in the café moved, or looked up. Margaret heard cars pass outside, one girl crying, another breathing, both pale with serious eyes.
And then the remarkable thing happened. Margaret saw the darker girl wander, pause, drift quite close to her table and then walk through the plate-glass window. Simply walk, head tilted forward. Away.
The crash was almost liquid, huge, and there were screams as a tide of glass washed back and into the café. A piece landed near Margaret’s hand, but she did not move, even flinch, because she was watching the girl disappear at a run and wondering if there was anything now she would walk through a window for. She didn’t know what would make her do that, what would be strong enough.
There was only a little blood dotted over the floor. The only real sign that anything had taken place, blood in droplets and a hole leading through a window into the night.
IF THIS HAD happened in any other week.
Margaret often thought that. ‘If this had happened in any other week.’
She is phoning a friend in London now. Margaret’s friend is a woman called Helen. They were at university together and have seen each other only once since then. They have also sent letters, from time to time.
One hand holds the receiver, while the other dials and Margaret thinks, ‘If this had happened in any other week.’
Making an unknown phone ring, miles and miles away, Margaret imagines a face which no longer exists, because it is seven, or five, or three years out of date and because parts of it have simply been forgotten. The voice is much the same.
‘Maggie? Fuck! That’s very crazy. Maggie!’
‘That’s my name, don’t wear it out.’
‘What, Mags?’
‘Nothing. Yes, hello. How are you?’
‘Me? Great. But listen, I’ve just done your Tarot reading – it’s on the floor, right now. What? Oh, sorry Mags, we’ve shuffled you up and now it’s someone else. Someone you don’t know. In fact I don’t know him, either. Hey, could we get a bit of quiet here, this is a person calling from Scotland? Sorry, Maggie. But really, it was very odd. You been suicidal recently? If you don’t mind me asking. The nine of swords came up, but only as a past influence. God, it’s good to hear from you. Are you coming down?’
‘Well, yes, I am. Just for a while. But it might be permanent in the end.’
‘Well, no problem. Do stay here. It’s a much nicer flat than the last one. We do things together.’
‘Like Tarot readings.’
‘That’s the latest, yes. I think we’ve done everyone possible now. Fictional characters next. When are you coming?’
‘The end of the week. If that’s OK.’
‘Any time. Give me a ring and we’ll sort out how you get here. I’m rehearsing another one of these profit-share things, so I’m out in the day. Fuck, this’ll be good. What? Oh, Paul’s just asked if you’ve got nice legs. You’ll be glad to know that he’s not really a sexist bumhole and he also doesn’t live here. It just feels like it.’
‘It doesn’t sound as if things have changed much.’
‘No, well, they don’t do they? How’s things with thing, with Colin? Not hot?’
‘Not really.’
‘All in the cards, my dear, all in the cards. You can tell me when you come down. Don’t worry, you’re going to get very spiritual and a good and trusty friend is going to gallop up and help you out.’
‘Did it say anything about getting a job?’
‘Oh. Serious shit. What have you been doing? No don’t tell me now, it’ll cost too much.’
‘Yes. And I’ll have to go now. But I’ll ring you again. And thanks for letting me stay.’
‘No problem. I’ll come up and stay with you, too. See the Year of Culture and all that. Really, no problem. It’ll be nice to see you.’
‘Good, well, that’s me away then.’
‘Bye, bye.’
‘Hey, Helen.’
‘Hm? Yes? Sorry, did you say something?’
‘No, no, I ran out of steam. Just, just, thanks. I’m glad you were in.’
‘Look, do you need to talk? I can ring you back.’
‘No. I’m fine. It’ll be great to see you again. Bye, Helen. Bye.’
Margaret doesn’t replace the receiver right away, she listens to the click of disconnection and the dull hum that follows it. She feels lonely enough to cry.
Now, she rings Colin’s number again. Again he doesn’t answer. This is because he isn’t home, but the lack of reply feels more personal than that.
And he should be in. Since Monday morning, she has rung him at times when he should have been in and he hasn’t answered. There is something wrong. Since he left the café on his own, of course, there’s been something wrong, because they are apart now, but this is something different. This feels like something different. If it had only happened in any other week. This week, there is too much going on.
She should have known on Monday. Even Monday was bad. The night before, she had slept well enough; one day into not having Colin. She felt quite light, relieved. It couldn’t be possible things were really over and when they had got back together, they could start from fresh again. There were mistakes that needn’t be repeated. Perhaps it would even be peaceful if she was alone for a while. Margaret was in the mood for peace. But Monday hadn’t been peaceful.
She arrived nice and early, ready to fit back into the Factory, knowing there was typing to be done, a few things to clear up.
‘No, that’s alright, we did that, Maggie.’ Lesley smiled and pushed a mug of coffee towards Margaret. ‘Things are really very quiet, just now, you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Oh, well, I’ll do the stocktake for the café, then.’
‘No need, put your feet up. Take it easy. Oh, and good news – Lawrence won’t be in today, he told us, so why bother running about when there’s nothing to do? How’s Colin? Did you have a nice time?’
‘Yeah, fine. I think I’ll get a biscuit, then, if there’s nothing else to do.’
For the first time, Margaret began to feel how much she would miss Colin; that it was quite unlikely she would be seeing him again.
The day passed in a blur; Lesley chatting, even joking, the Factory oddly quiet. Graham wasn’t there and Margaret would have liked to talk to him.
Dear Miss Hamilton,
It has been drawn to my attention that your general conduct has failed on several occasions to meet management guidelines and terms specifically agreed in your contract of employment.
In the light of this and two specific instances of serious misconduct, I regret to inform you that the Community Link Centre management can no longer retain your services as Centre Assistant. Kindly accept this as one month’s notice of dismissal, as dated above.
It was from Lawrence, of course. And it should have arrived in any other week but this one. Not now. She wasn’t concentrating.
An appointment had been made for her to see Lawrence the following morning. She managed to be less than early and walked straight to Lawrence’s office, speaking to no one. She knew that the letter had been typed on the office word-processor, she knew there had been no ‘serious misconduct’ and she knew that she was angry. She was angry enough for it to show. Even Lawrence flinched a little when he saw her.
‘I believe my letter made an arrangement for ten o’clock.’
‘That’s right.’
‘I don’t suppose there’s any reason for your being twenty minutes late?’
‘No, there isn’t.’
‘I see. We’ll get straight to business, then, allow me to explain. Lesley McGavin has all the necessary papers with her in the office and there is, in fact, no reason for me to see you. I just wanted to see your face. Do you understand that?’
‘I do not. And I don’t understand why I’m being fired.’
‘I think I made that clear.’
‘No, you made nothing clear. I could guess at a reason, of course, but your letter said misconduct – what misconduct? I haven’t done anything.’
‘I was hoping we might leave just a little of this unsaid. So much of it, after all, has always been unspoken. Your choice. Your technique. Until you’d finished the job. But we can always go through this piece by piece, just to please you.’
‘Mr Lawrence, I don’t know what you mean. Again.’
‘Of course you don’t. Of course. That’s always the case, isn’t it, with sexual harassment. Flirtation. Teasing. Matters of that kind. People always talk about misunderstandings. Women talk about misunderstandings. You’re telling me you want words. You and your friend, Graham, you like words, don’t you.’
Looking For the Possible Dance Page 18