The following Sunday, as they walk to the paper shop, his dad describes girls and girls’ habits. The description requires three circuits of the play park with the rusty swings – right to the bottom trees and back, three times – because it is long and detailed. Although the boy has met girls at school and mainly not given them much thought, his father makes of them dangerous strangers and causes for concern. They will not grow into women like Dusty Springfield, someone the boy is very fond of and believes would be nice, even if she does wear spacewoman dresses and have frightening hair. In fact, perhaps because of that, he really does quite fancy her a bit. His father says the girls will have nothing in common with Dusty, won’t be gorgeous. Or, if they are, this will not be good news.
Once they have made it to the shop, his dad asks the boy if he would like to spend this week’s chocolate and comic money and the boy tells him that it’s all right for today and no and thank you – because he has plans to buy a thumb tip and other indecently, nakedly misleading and deceiving stuff from the wonderful shop that smells of cigarettes and men and badness and which is called J. Cooper & Son’s Magic, although there is no J. Cooper and there aren’t any sons. His dad gets him a Crunchie anyway, which isn’t normal and so the boy eats it too fast on the way back home before anybody can notice and doesn’t enjoy it.
When they are just inside the cool of the entrance – looking at where Mrs Barker keeps her flower tubs which the squirrels dig at because they are bastards – the boy’s father hugs him and closes a hand around one of his ears and rubs it a bit, as if he might make it disappear, and then his dad looks at him and whispers, ‘Arthur, always be careful.’ And he kisses the top of the boy’s head and asks him, almost too quietly to be heard, ‘Will you do that?’ And Arthur – the boy’s name is Arthur, an old-fashioned name, it gets him grief at school – he nods, although he feels that he won’t manage. His magic won’t be adequate for girls.
Arthur lives in a ground floor flat beside a roundabout which has daffodils on it in spring and once a bloke on it in the summer, pretending to sunbathe for a laugh. The flat is in London – sort of – but not so that Arthur can notice. He is a train and a bus ride or two bus rides and an Underground away from anything notable or on postcards. There is no Big Ben and no ravens and no palace at the end of his street and when he goes to visit these things they do not belong to him any more than to anyone else and this means they make him annoyed, rather than proud or excited. His mother lives with him. She is unhappy. And his dad is there – his tall and blond and wiry father who is striking but will eventually be quite difficult to recall. His father is also unhappy.
But Arthur is happy – he makes sure to be.
And Arthur’s hands are both delirious. They are overjoyed.
And Arthur loves them.
First night aboard and Beth dreams in numbers. She has edged herself into the bed, curls on her side away from contact, takes care that her chill won’t wake Derek, her salt chill.
Which it would – I would disturb him.
Because I’m frozen. I haven’t a warm place.
Not really.
And he needs to rest.
And he doesn’t need to feel there’s something wrong with me, all over me, and he won’t, because I’m the only one who’ll notice that. My secret.
And Arthur’s.
No. Just mine. I allow it to happen and it belongs to me.
I used to share it and now I don’t.
I used to be . . . walking in the street and nothing showing, respectable – riot inside, though, mayhem – with any memory of him, every memory of him – I couldn’t predict what of Arthur would hit me or when – as if I’d walk straight into him, like rain – his hands on my shoulders and the press of him behind – or the shape of his fingers – confident, talkative fingers: snug. Trying to stroll and worrying I might fall with the sense of him, the knowledge of him. And I’d smile, because no one could tell and I would think – Here’s me and I’m covered in him and nobody knows it.
He clings and aims to be ingrained.
Like smoke.
Like water.
Like the scent of him.
Not that he doesn’t take care to be unperfumed, neutral. But he’s there all the same, he’s there on you when he’s left – delicate.
He finds your bones, soaks in.
Bastard.
And she has no hopes of sleep, expects simply to lie and recite and recite: loving the unlovable is stupid, is self-harm – loving the reasonable is what I need and I can have that. I do have that. I can prefer that because I am not an idiot.
Which depresses her because she won’t believe it.
I am not an idiot.
Except when I am an idiot.
Bastard.
Sleep does arrive, though, unexpected – a strangely rapid kindness she pushes into, under. But then it turns shallow, of course, and relentless. The force of unease turns her on to her back and the bed nags and sickens beneath her and Arthur—
Bastard.
Creeping bastard – always pesters.
Arthur stands there in her mind. He’s fidgeting and wears his overcoat and is occasionally crying, which she would rather not see. And with salt fingers, cold and blunt fingers, dead man’s fingers, he reaches forward and summons numbers from the air – empty hand passing them deftly to empty hand – and then he puts each figure in her mouth.
She hasn’t forgotten – couldn’t forget – the lists of meanings, the translations for each one.
One.
Listen, please.
It’s useful, one. It can slip into any sentence, any one you choose, and it can ask you.
Please listen.
It marks out the start of the story and Arthur’s a man who wants all of the story, all of the time. He wouldn’t like to miss a word.
And, then again, he’s happier yet when it can mean Look at me – when we’re working from the second list, the personal list: The Code for Peculiar People in Public Places.
He loves it if you look – shy and then not, absolutely not, lying out for your attention, blazing with it.
Favours dark sheets: purples, blues – he brings them with him to every hotel, asks the staff to remake the bed with them – give us something other than the standard white. He’s the one paying – paying too much – paying for special attentions – so he gets to pick.
And once he brought black: black sheets, black towels, black curtains, black everything.
Like being exiled into night.
And Arthur lying on the night, showing the light of himself, the milk light.
Look at me.
For special occasions.
Buttoned tight, otherwise. Won’t even roll up his sleeves. Then it’s clever talk and numbers and playing games.
Look at me while I’m hiding, find me, come hunting, and then I’ll know you love me, that it’s true.
He knows too many games.
And he’s too much work.
And he ought to always hide and be ashamed. And why should I fucking find him? He’s nothing to do with me: shouldn’t be anything to do with me. He’s a Bank Holiday shag, he’s play-acting pickups in hotel lobbies, he’s a duplex suite with a fruit bowl and two tellies when all we need is a bed, because we just fuck – no more to us than fucking, not now.
Every night a one-night stand.
Look at me.
But then she swallows Five which is peppery and has thin edges and is Help which is what she needs, but doesn’t get. Or else it’s Come, which is what she needs, but shouldn’t get, because people can use it for cheating and taking things away from idiots.
Time was, they could both be together – Beth and Arthur in company – and they could ask this of themselves and make an answer. Come. They could both deliver and request. They could watch for the twitch of a smile,
or the colour rising, the approach. They could enjoy understanding and being understood.
Out of my mind, but into yours, very into yours, and your wish is my command and vice versa.
Takes training.
And the insanity to think of training.
And no cheating – because we’ll know . . .
Beth and Arthur.
In her dream she wants to see his face, because she believes it might be informative, but all she gets a sight of is his wrist, the flat back of his wrist.
And no more commands and no more wishes – they don’t come true.
Arthur never did a true thing in his life.
A man you should not look at, except from far away, should not be permitted to touch.
Man is Two.
Tastes sweet – over-sweet – a memory growing, laid on her tongue, and it ought to be salt, it ought to be forgotten.
Man.
Long-shinned, long-footed – soft give of the skin at his throat: feels all alive – and the tuck of the muscle in over his hip: that curve, that line – and he’s blond, but then a little darker, coppery too, where the strangers don’t see him, what they don’t get.
Two.
Clean, clean shaven – or the bristle of him in the dark – early morning – and kissing the insides of his thighs and breathing him in – hot – roaring – the shine of the boy – pale boy – silky boy – like saying silk – to lick.
Two.
And otherwise, and naturally, it’s Smile at me.
It bloody would be.
And it would be easy to keep herself in this now, concentrate on the pictures of how he can be. This once, she would risk it, indulge it – half awake and with Derek beside her – but the dream of him feeds her Eight – pushes it in with his thumb – fat and slippy – Accident.
Always needed it for the punters – got to cue each other in so we can tell them how their loved ones left: the car, the motorcycle, ambushing workplace, fate – acknowledge the endlessly amputated plans. Rude of them, the dead – hurtful to rush away without ever saying, ever mentioning, ever finishing what they started. Untidy. We do hate to have it untidy. And we hate to know our dead have torn things that we can’t survive without. They have stolen who we are when we are with them – our good selves, our beauty.
And Eight is No.
No.
The other Eight.
An almost entirely powerless word in life. You can scream it as long as you want, but matters will still work on as they must, reality will still ignore you. You’re flesh in the mechanism, caught in its gears.
No.
But when it meant Later and Persuade me and At the moment, I’d like it if I was in charge, then we loved it – horny word – the no in between us – tickling.
Christ.
Christ, we fucked up.
He fucked up.
He is fucked up.
And she dreams herself away from Arthur, tears things about which she does not wish to think and moves away, free. Relatively free.
Bastard.
Awake. I want to be awake.
I’m not, though.
It’s that thing – I’m in that thing you get when you can’t move and you’re not awake, you only think you’re awake, but you’re wrong. You’re dreaming.
I think I’m wrong.
She’s in a fluid version of her past. Its edges ripple and dart forward. It makes her tense.
And she’s queuing to board the boat again and outraged for some unnamed reason – she’s close to retching with disgust – and she picks up a little bag, heavy bag – which isn’t hers, or else it is, but she can’t recognise it – and then she flings it – intends to make a large and savage gesture but releases too early, her effort swinging wild and to her left and then she spins round after it and sees him – Arthur – again Arthur – and he’s sitting – gently sitting – and the bag has hit him, landed in his lap, and he is instantly, immeasurably sad, which is her fault.
Hit him in the balls with my baggage – my baggage which is emotional.
Well, whatever could I possibly mean by that?
Fucksake.
And, although she is additionally outraged by her subconscious’s lack of finesse, she responds to the scene and tries to make amends for Arthur’s hurt – but there’s no way through to touch him, only sudden crowds that intervene. She can’t offer consolation. There is only this obvious, accusing damage: him sobbing with his arms hugging the bag and rocking, shuddering – and then he’s scrabbling in his pockets, he’s desperate, he wants to show her something but can’t find it.
Seven.
Not my fault.
Seven.
It was an accident.
Eight.
Or else it was his fucking fault for being in the way, for being here in the first place.
He’s looking for seven.
I’m not. I don’t expect it.
And it’s not my fault that he’s in the way.
It’s not my fault we’re in each other’s way.
His hands are clearly fighting with pockets that seal and shrink.
That’s what you get with tailor-made: bespoke and wilful.
He lifts his head and blinks at her and is panicking and lost. He wakes her with a look.
Love.
Always the same on any list.
Seven.
Forget every other number, you could still manage a sitting, an evening, a seance, with just that.
Not that it needs a number. It’s the constant.
No matter how well the enquirers lie, you can still see it in them – seven’s what they want, their heart’s request. Why else would they come? They need you to tell them the loves they felt were real, that the cruelty was love misunderstood, the absent affection was only hidden, that every love has been continued, will be endless. They want the dead bound hand and foot to them, chained in love.
Which is expecting a lot of the deceased. One minute they’re live human beings: fickle, silly, irritating, gorgeous, flawed – the next they’re supposed to be perfect and content to adore us for ever. Nothing better to do with eternity than watch us, see everything we are and worship it.
When nobody ought to see everything we are, because they couldn’t stand it.
Seven.
The best of the games and somewhere in every one of the games. Passing it between them like a note. Arthur and Beth. Beth and Arthur.
‘Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs – scared me witless when I was a kid – something about the dwarfs’ hats – and the pickaxes.’
Civilians not included.
‘Canal holiday – boating on the Avon. Or the Severn. No, the Avon. No, the Severn. Perhaps both. It’s big, the Severn. Fucking huge.’
Becoming somewhat notorious for babbling and non sequiturs, mispronunciations . . .
‘I don’t know if that seven is legal.’
Civilians not capable.
‘Five Seven Eleven – my gran adored that. Any time of day, you’d go in – the bedroom would be full of it.’
Changing the name of the perfume to fit. Not Four Seven Eleven. That wouldn’t suit them. So it’s
Five
Seven
Eleven
Come
Love
Be beautiful
But people change.
They can’t endlessly be what someone else requires, it wears them out.
So I am tired, tired, tired. I have 888 reasons for being tired, tired, tired.
Beth gets up, showers quietly, goes and sits in her complimentary bathrobe and watches the next day arrive in shades of slate. The irregular shatter of large weather is comforting as it jars the ship’s spine and then hers.
She stares and imagines nothing, a beige blank,
until she hears Derek stirring. Then she calls up room service for coffee – no breakfast, they’ll neither of them want it – and she steps over to start coaxing at her partner – her registered with US Immigration and the shipping line official partner, the man she is supposed to be with, the man that she currently is with – starts cajoling her partner into sips of water and another pill.
Outside Beth’s cabin, passengers stagger and shoulder walls as the ship bounces, shrugs. There are little impacts and the blurred melodies of hearty chat, or sympathy, or good mornings. And the staff will smile, because this is compulsory and they will polish and dust and varnish and paint unendingly, because this is also required and the seafaring way – otherwise chaos would triumph, water and hard weather would eat the ship.
Inside Beth’s cabin, she is trying to be both hearty and sympathetic and has already said good morning. ‘You’re rallying.’ Keeping the chaos at bay.
‘I’m fucking not.’
‘You don’t look as green.’
‘I’ve got a headache like you wouldn’t believe.’
‘Dehydration. Drink some more.’
‘If I drink any more I’ll be sick.’
They decide that being dressed might raise their spirits and so Elizabeth helps Derek to abandon his sweated-through pyjamas, encourages him into the shower and nods when he props himself back on the bed in a soft checked shirt and old cords.
He draws up his knees, glares weakly. ‘What are you nodding about? Passed inspection, have I? I’m the one who had to do it all. That shower’s a fucking joke – like being pissed on by an ugly bird.’ He isn’t usually coarse in this way – he is trying to annoy her.
And it’s good that he has the energy to be annoying – although it is also annoying.
She rubs his arm. ‘They say looking at the horizon—’
‘Who say?’
‘I don’t remember. I heard it on the radio, I think.’
‘You think . . .’
He is being petulant and insulting, but that’s all right; she knows him and is sure he would be noble with a broken leg or a serious infection, something dignified with which he could contend. Seasickness is distasteful and pathetic and yet overwhelming, it has him rattled.
The Blue Book Page 12