The Trapeze Act

by Libby Angel

  One weekend our family was invited to the Gores’ house for dinner. Should we pack our pistols? Leda joked, turning to my father. Shall I hide your dictaphone in my handbag in case things go awry?

  Kingston only encouraged her: I’ll make a petrol bomb as a precaution, Mama.

  You can bloody well pull your heads in or stay here, Gilbert snapped.

  My mother guffawed. My father pretended not to notice, or else he had his bad ear turned towards her. Selective hearing, my mother called it.

  We climbed into the green box of a Volvo and drove due north out of town. The suburbs fascinated my mother; each neat family confined to its quarter-acre rectangle of land, every house a bizarre, anachronistic fantasy of plaster, brick and asbestos: here a Texan ranch, there a hacienda or Grecian temple with pillars, a castle with turrets—mansion upon mansion of hilarious simulacra.

  Look kids, Leda mused. It’s Disneyland!

  Two cement griffins perching on gateposts welcomed us as we pulled up to the Gores’ property; their eyes flashed electronic red as the gates rolled open. Crunching over the gravel, we crawled around the circular driveway, through a symmetry of dwarf-sized hedges, mushroom-shaped garden lights, shaved green grass, rows of pencil pines, and iceberg rosebushes with fist-sized blooms. A huge tiered fountain lit with pink lights stood in the centre.

  The house, or mansion, had been recreated in the image of a Southern Tara-style plantation home, replete with pillars, porticos and marble stairs. I almost expected to see servants standing either side of the entrance to greet us. (There must have been a cleaner and gardener, at least, but they were nowhere to be seen. Mr Gore’s home life was top secret and he employed as few people as possible.)

  We stood on the porch like the Von Trapp family, my mother almost demure in a bobbed brunette wig, my father holding a bottle of red under one arm. Even Kingston was behaving in a semi-normal fashion. I hid behind them watching moths kamikaze into the porch lights, clutching the bunch of flowers I had collected for Mrs Gore from our garden.

  No sooner had my father released the buzzer than Mr Gore opened the front door, as if he’d been waiting behind it. He was a gentle-looking man with softly rounded edges, but his eyes, I noted, as he looked into mine, were as sharp as two diamonds set in a lump of plasticine. He shook each of our hands with a manic firmness as he welcomed us inside.

  In the entrance hall, gold leafed cherubs sailed across the ceiling, a baroque hall table and an ornate urn the size of a short, obese adult stood on the marble floor, and a huge mirror with a gold ormolu frame took up the greater part of one wall. A deer’s head featured above the doorway; a zebra skin was laid underfoot. An immense crystal chandelier like an upturned wedding cake bedazzled the scene from above.

  Mrs Gore, in a purple-and-gold brocade pantsuit with flared legs and peplum waist, seemed to materialise out of the décor. Her hair was coiffed into a blonde-grey helmet and her face was made up with pastel orange lipstick, black eyeliner and false eyelashes. Her smile was pure Cheshire cat.

  I held my posy forth as if to the Queen. It seemed inappropriate now, way too homely, but Mrs Gore didn’t laugh as I feared she would. She took the flowers with fingers stacked with huge stones in elaborate settings, her square-tipped acrylics matching her lipstick, and went off to find a suitable vase from her collection, clip clop, in kitten-heeled slingbacks across the marble floor. Even my mother was impressed.

  Mr Gore showed us into the drawing room, which was furnished with more of the same: baroque tables and chairs, golden urns, cherubs, pillars, pedestals. He took the bottle of wine from my father and offered drinks and nibbles: cashews and gritty cheese biscuits, as if the ingredients included a pinch of sand. We sat in awe until Mrs Gore returned from the kitchen and showed us into the dining room, which was candle-lit with magenta walls.

  No sooner had the vichyssoise arrived on the dining table than my father and Mr Gore started whispering away to each other about the Mr Whippy case. The rest of us knew only that the police had found bullet holes in the windscreen of a Mr Whippy van and another through the vendor’s forehead like a third eye. The press had recently aired a half-baked theory that the Mr Whippy franchise was a cover for some sort of organised-crime network.

  Mr Gore got up from the table to retrieve a revolver from the drawing room. He placed it beside his soup bowl.

  It was something similar to this, he said. An everyday piece, lightweight, relatively cheap, ammunition widely available across the country.

  After rack of lamb followed by peach flambé, we retired back to the drawing room where the gun fun began in earnest. Out of the drawers and off the walls they came. Here was a genuine Colt used in the American Civil War; here an early US police issue, an absolute classic. (Mrs Gore was American and the couple travelled there regularly.)

  A tour of the house revealed guns at every turn, even in the toilet. Most were of historic interest only, Mr Gore emphasised. These days it was near impossible to find ammunition for all but a few of the more recent editions.

  My mother took all this in as politely as a fifties housewife. My brother, too, remained subdued. But I could see the cogs turning behind their dials, their enthusiasm for the subject.

  In the bedroom, also, were guns. Mrs Gore kept a pearl-handled revolver in the bedside-table drawer, while, on his side, Mr Gore had a more masculine sort of piece.

  Out of respect for the snowy carpet, we had taken off our shoes, and as the adults rattled on about guns I enjoyed the feel of the long pile under my feet. I admired also the Queen Anne-style bedroom furniture.

  We returned to the drawing room for coffee and port. Mr Gore handed my father a revolver.

  What a little beauty, my father said, pointing it responsibly at the floor.

  Meanwhile, my mother occupied herself with a nineteenth-century pistol, which, Mr Gore claimed, had once been owned by a member of the Kelly Gang.

  Kingston wanted to fondle the weaponry too, so Mrs Gore obligingly passed him a lightweight, almost harmless-looking rifle, a .22 calibre, which appeared not unlike the one my father had at home.

  There was no prelude to what happened next. My brother took the rifle, snuck back the bolt and took aim through a pair of French doors at a tree that was lit up in the courtyard. He fired. There was a deafening bang followed by the rising wail of the security alarm. A huge oil painting, a landscape, crashed to the floor.

  CHRIST! my father shouted, wrenching the rifle away from my brother.

  Mr Gore went to a small control box on the wall and keyed in a code.

  Well, said Mrs Gore as the alarm subsided. That was an unexpected delight. She got up to examine the hole in the glass. Darling, she said, turning to Mr Gore. Darling, why is my .22 loaded?

  She took the rifle from my father, opened the barrel and emptied the remaining cartridges into the palm of her hand. These she put in her pocket, before setting the rifle down on the coffee-table next to her glass of port.

  Mr Gore walked over to the wall, picked up the painting that had fallen down and hung it back up.

  How embarrassing, my mother said. We’ll certainly pay for the damage.

  Kingston will pay for the damage, my father corrected her.

  Kingston looked at the floor. I’m so sorry, he whispered.

  My father turned to him. Look Mr Gore in the eye and say it properly.

  I’m so incredibly sorry…

  I’m sorry the rifle was loaded, I don’t understand how, Mrs Gore said in a low voice.

  No harm done, Mr Gore smiled. We’ll put the firearms away now, shall we?

  All the way home, my brother was on a loop: I didn’t know it was loaded; it’s so irresponsible to hand a loaded rifle to a minor; that was an accident waiting to happen; why do they keep loaded firearms lying around? And so on and on. Nobody bothered saying, ‘What if?’ As we drove past the castles of suburbia, my father stared at the road, my mother and I stared out of the windows, and my brother’s words met no reply.
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  Still, these were golden family days. My mother in her wig with her glorious legs, the envy and scorn of every frumpy woman in the town; my father with his starched dickeys and billowing cape; my brother, a hand grenade without a pin.

  And there am I, a passenger.

  EXPEDITION JOURNAL, E. N. LORD (REMNANTS)

  …

  the knowledge of the direction that mountains and rivers take, the bones and blood vessels of bodies terrestrial. We begin, therefore, by following the M river and its tributaries with a view to joining the Eastern and Western surveys, confident this path will lead us to the vast inland sea.

  On our approach to the middle interior, if conditions prove favourable, I shall lead a small side party north-west until we reach such a place as matches my calculations, and where, it is hoped, we shall find evidence of the existence of elephants. If not immediately observable, we shall, at the very least, be well disposed to take samples of wood, fossil and soil etc, and upon returning to the colony, be further able to determine the feasibility of my hypothesis.

  …

  SEPT 7TH

  Lat 34° 4 mins 20 secs S

  The night was cold and frosty, but the moon shone clear in a cloudless sky so we were enabled to ride along the cliffs, from which we descended to one of the river flats at 1 a.m. and, making a roaring fire, composed ourselves to rest.

  …

  Having left in such great haste, it has quickly become apparent we are greatly overburdened, and it is necessary, before we should again move, to rearrange the loads. After some discussion we decided to renounce a number of items including our spare frockcoats (I am sure we may be forgiven

  …

  SEPT 10TH

  We pulled into the Rev H’s mission settlement, a modest timber chapel with surrounding huts, late yesterday afternoon. The Natives were hard at work planting rosebushes when we arrived; the Rev says they come from all around to attend the service. He is very pleased with the Hymn books and grateful for the delivery of tea, flour and sugar etc. After dinner I managed to tune the piano a little then tried Hymn 212. We set off at sunrise this morning after a break fast of tea, eggs

  …

  with the drays ranged close to each other on either side, the boat carriage forming a face to the rear, and the tents occupying the front; thus leaving sufficient room in the centre to fold the sheep in netting.

  …

  and although they were up to their middles in the finest grass, the bullocks were not satisfied, but in a spirit of contradiction common to animals as well as men, they separated into mobs and wandered away. Meanwhile, Misters H and Z, from the Camel Carrying Company, are obliged to round up their charges with alarming frequency. One dromedary in particular, Mrs Smith, is especially recalcitrant, and regularly chews through even the most intractable of knots. Camels, however, more than horses, are known for their endurance and hardiness

  …

  great many red kangaroos, some very young, others very large; and he chased a jerboa, which escaped him. We also saw a new bird with a black crest, about the size

  …

  We allowed our horses to go and feed with their bridles through the stirrups, and were sitting on the ground when we heard a shot, and a general alarm amongst them, insomuch that we had some difficulty in quieting them, more especially Mr P’s horse. It was at length discovered that one of the gentleman’s pistols had accidentally gone off in the holster, to the dismay of the poor animal.

  …

  The banks of the stream had numerous herbs, as spinach, indigoferae, clover etc, all suggestive of better soil.

  …

  the air heavy, the sky dull and the flies exceedingly troublesome. All these were indications of an approaching change. We had heavy rain all night, and in the morning flying thunder-storms.

  …

  now pouring along its muddy waters with foaming impetuosity, and carrying away everything

  …

  continued rain until sunset, when the sky cleared to windward and the glass rose, About noon, D, our native guide, came to inform us

  …

  a sad accident, and had three of the first joints of the fingers of his right hand carried off by the discharge of his fusee whilst loading. He had incautiously put on the cap and was galloping at the time.

  …

  at half-past five, as the sun’s almost level beams were illuminating the flats, and every blade of grass and every reed appeared of that light and brilliant green which they assume when held up to the sun. The change from barrenness and sterility to richness and verdure was sudden and striking.

  …

  We took our guns and without taking aim, discharged into the midst of them, knocking over three ducks—the only bird I have shot for many years.

  …

  and its long runners are covered in flowers that give a crimson tint to the ground.

  13

  THE JUDGES handed down their verdicts, mostly in favour of my father’s clients. One day, a Saturday, my parents came home with a look of smugness and togetherness and said, We’ve bought a new house. We’re moving!

  The power of the adult fact.

  We piled into the car, drove out of town, a million miles away it seemed to me, away from the racecourse, away from the oak-lined avenues with the statues of soldiers dying in action, and up into the foothills. There it was, at the end of a cul-de-sac, a flat, round house, like a spaceship landed on a rocky outcrop, surrounded by scrawling pines and weed-choked scrub, the naked sky overhead.

  We sat in the car, stalling, while my father elucidated on the architectural credentials of the house, which had been listed by the real-estate agent as a modernist masterpiece. The ‘For Sale’ sign was yet to be plastered with a ‘Sold’ sticker.

  Does it turn around? my brother wanted to know. (There was a revolving restaurant on the tenth storey of a building down by the bay.) My parents laughed.

  So we’re moving to Disneyland too, I said, but they ignored me, enraptured as they were by the clean angles of the roof and three-sixty walls of glass.

  I had not failed to notice, down the end of the road, at the bottom of the hill, a cemetery sprawling like an entire suburb for the dead: miles and miles of bones laid down in plots, blackened gravestones, angels with chipped wings, plastic flowers in tin pots fading in the sun. Most disturbing of all, but I couldn’t say why, was a round windowless caretaker’s hut in the central avenue.

  At dinner that night, when I could finally get a word in, I told my mother I did not want to live in a house near a graveyard full of rotting corpses, but she only turned to my father and laughed: She’s afraid of the dead.

  My father shrugged. He had no interest in old bones and slabs of granite.

  Once we had moved, my parents quickly entered an advanced state of mutual exclusivity. My father rang during the day to talk to Leda for no reason. He came straight home after work and spent entire evenings watching television or reading. Instead of going out separately, as they had done before, my parents went out together, or with other couples, to watch French films or to try out new restaurants in town.

  My father, in many ways a traditional man, was always ready first, and would sit on the built-in bench seat in the television room jangling his keys in his pocket while he waited. Finally, Leda would emerge, dressed as a mermaid with scales and dragging tail, in a man’s suit with a bowler hat, or in the fashion of an exquisite corpse, the spaceman’s jacket with a tutu, the yeti feet with a Scottish kilt.

  My father would sigh—You’re not going to wear that, are you?—and roll his eyes, but in a fond way.

  So back she would go to the dressing room to swap the hairy feet for a pair of python stilettos, or the tutu for a silk dress.

  My father appeared pleased when he could see the woman he had married, the shape of her, although even at her most restrained, it must be said, Leda reeked of irony. And it always made them late.

  But they came home laughing, and sat on the b
uilt-in bench seat touching one another, so that my brother and I felt moved to shuffle off to our rooms.

  Some weekends they invited my father’s colleagues and partners over to the spaceship. Visitors admired the panoramic views, the bluestone floors, the pure-wool carpet, the built-in cupboards and storage seats, the large fireplace in the centre of the house, the wide stone chimney.

  Open-plan living, the men said, handing my father bottles of plonk.

  Oh, what a fantastic kitchen, the women gushed, handing my mother plates of hors d’oeuvres.

  They played mixed doubles on the lawn court which was chiselled out of the side of the hill below the house, and, afterwards, they sat around drinking wine and spinning vinyl on the new stereo: Pink Floyd or, my mother’s favourite, the Tijuana Brass.

  Nobody ever mentioned the fact my mother would be wearing a plastic fox mask and a wig, or that she had just made it all the way through a tennis match dressed as a robot on a thirty-three-degree day. And won. They didn’t ever say, Oh, that renaissance-era dress is so elegant! They didn’t laugh or frown or acknowledge Leda’s absurdity in any way at all, as if they couldn’t actually see her.

  But lo! If there was one aspect of the new house that encapsulated all the years of hard work and bowing down to the judge my father had endured, one aspect of the place beyond the two bathrooms, the tennis court and the kitchen with dishwasher that could not go unremarked, it was the walk-in wardrobe in the master bedroom.

  An entire room in which to dress oneself! His and hers sides! A full wall of mirror in which to loathe oneself! Here on one side were my father’s suits, and on the other, Leda’s silk dresses, leather pants, cashmere coats, the gorilla suit and PVC nurse’s uniform.

  Despite their airs, the wives in the town, those of my parents’ vintage, didn’t forget for a moment that Leda had escaped from a long line of parachute-tracksuit wearers and tip-up-toilet users. They looked at their reflections in the walk-in wardrobe mirror and their reflections looked back at them, bewildered. Their own wardrobes did not compare. Their houses, restored faithfully with brass fittings in the Edwardian style, now seemed staid. The rules had changed.