by Aly Sidgwick
#
When I wake I find Joyce at the end of my bed. She snores on the floor, inside a royal-blue sleepin’ bag. There are three empty mugs beside her, an’ a copy of Christian Weekly. Her hair is frizzy.
I look at the square of light behind the window. Iss hard to tell, but it looks like it might be a nice day. I look back at Joyce. She hasn’t moved. I feel heavy.
It feels like the window is open, though the curtains are too still for this to be true. I think about gettin’ up but find I can’t move. Instead, I move my eyes to the ceilin’ an’ count the half-moons in the cornice. I keep losin’ count somewhere around sixteen. Joyce turns over at one point, but doesn’t wake up. I want to look at the clock, but iss extremely hard to turn my head. By the time I start countin’ again, the room is brighter. Birdsong echoes down the chimney – starlings, I think – an’ iss so loud it sounds like the room is full of ’em. I crane forwards an’ see Joyce has gone.
#
Today. Slow, wanted, wanted so badly.get out. of bed. My face. tight an’ bloated. Like cryin’ a. lots. a cryin’ a. ah. ugh. Spend time. Lookin’. at hands. back. of my hands. an’ think. they look. wrong. Remember hand. Diff’rent hand. Face raisin’. a hand. spoon of hot. Spoon. to mouth. My mouth. an’ the sleeve. Lace. an’ tiny cup. Sweeties. in they go an’. an’ an’ after I. can’t move my. mouth. Wasn’t my hand. see? Not stupid. know that now. How could it be? How could it … That’s why that’s why that’s. I know it. the cornice. an’ an’ the seam. in wallpaper. Up. above headboard. I see it. seam. crack. seam an’. sound. voices. somewhere. quiet. think they were. think came tryin’. feed me. sweeties, but then. When I see. Foil. the foil. Pop. blisters. Pop! Popple. An’ I. know. pills … I glide through. long. dull expanse. brown. gentle stream. The voices. the whispers. An’ the room. goes away.
#
Iss warm, an’ soft. Wind throwin’ gravel at my window. I know that. Like the nights. Smash trickle, smash trickle. A hand snared in gold an’ opal. Rings. Bangle. Magazine. Smell coffee. That magazine moves, fraction. Does not reveal face. But she’s on other side. I try to say Joyce, but. my mouth … body feels. wrong.
try again. arch my neck. suck in. Then,
‘Joyce …’
Magazine moves. Joyce’s face.
I was right.
‘Go to sleep, lassie,’ says bitch Joyce. But her voice. like mine. Unnatural.
Want to reply. But. all breath used. Hands chatter. Feel my … I … Watch her face the … The mole … jowl … The twist of … mouth. coffee smell strong. Saliva. My bottom lip i.waterfall. Stop … Can’t move arm. Can’t nt’n’tt wipe. blooms. Warm into into pillow. Quick cold. Then … cold cheek. Joyce. Fades.
Hand comes back. scratchy tissue. wipes my lip hard. Close my eyes. wish she had not done that. Things swing back. I’m here. I can hear ev’rythin’.
‘Shush now,’ says her voice.
Upupupblistering lights! swarms, see it. coming, no, from somewhere. out. around. sinuses. hurts. can’t. Stop! Can’t … stop! Catch … it … stopGasp, an’
whooshesdowndown down downdowndowndowndowndowndownaround. inhale. I am … movin’ backwards … faster than. I … oh. jelly.lights.an’. an’.ican’t … keep. up …
#
I realise my voice is talkin’, an’ I jerk my eyes open. Joyce sits beside me, wearin’ diff’rent clothes. Her eyes stretch when she sees me lookin’ back, but she finishes her sentence.
‘—did it make you feel when he did this?’
I look round, then back at Joyce. I think she’s askin’ a question. I look round again.
‘What?’
The room is much cooler than before. I’m not in my bed, or even my bedroom. This is a room I haven’t seen before. I jump. The woman is not Joyce.
‘Aaaaaah …’ I say, startin’ to panic. Somethin’ below me rips, an’ then I see a wide blue sheet on the bed. Like toilet paper, but too big. Hands appear on me, an’ a sharp pain stabs my arm. Faces appear, smoosh to one side an’ droop into shapes. A smile tingles on my face as all the world turns soft. Voices overlappin’ from somewhere in the sky. The air is not real. I breathe chiffon. Blue paper cracks as my weight drags down. Slow earthquake, comin’ apart in bits. Soon the gap will swallow me. Ears rumble. Voice has stopped talkin’.
#
Joyce drives me back from the clinic in Inverness. An emergency she says. Only for your own good she says. But I know the truth. They’ve been dyin’ to hypnotise me again an’ this was the perfect excuse. Joyce seems pleased. She says we’ve made progress. I barely speak back to her.
Mist hugs the road, forcin’ us to drive slowly. Every so often, headlights blunder out of the greyness, an’ we reverse to the closest passing place. Joyce keeps her eyes on the road. Rust-coloured trees flash past. Yawnin’ ravines an’ sullen, stationary sheep. They appear an’ they leave. A cloudy slideshow. The world starts to feel as unreal as one of my dreams. This is a place that never sees the sun.
#
We pass a sign that reads Milk Bar. Joyce stops beside a tall hedge an’ reverses back to the sign. She drags the map from the glovebox an’ studies it, peekin’ once in the rear-view mirror. Then she pushes back into first gear. We creep through a hole in the hedge an’ up a narrow track. Gravel purrs under the wheels. Wet rhododendrons stroke the windows.
‘Are we stoppin’?’ I ask. I picture a tall, cold glass of milk.
‘Mm,’ says Joyce, hunchin’ over the steerin’ wheel. Then the car bucks, an’ we swing to the left. Joyce swears under her breath. Then it happens.
Through the undergrowth I spy a wooden house. Painted white. Log pillars. Pointed roof. A plungin’ sensation drags my chest down, an’ all at once I am fallin’. Somewhere down there my knees are movin’. My lungs heave an’ catch hold of nothin’. Door handle in my fingers. Ev’rythin’ turns cold. I flounder head first into branches. Shriekin’. I lurch. Run. Fall. Roll into a dark, swampy place. The house is still there, behind my shoulder, an’ I can’t get far enough away. The weight in my chest is too strong. There’s mud under my nails. In my mouth. In my collar. Damp creeps through my clothes, I swoon into blackness, an’ when the stingin’ in my palms hauls me back I find myself clingin’ to the ground. I vomit, an’ water comes up. Behind me, Joyce is shoutin’. The car squeals, whirrs an’ crunches. A mechanical grunt, then the gravel patters in a diff’rent way.
‘Kathy!’ bellows Joyce. ‘Kathy! For God’s sake!’
I hear the plants swing behind her. Then she stops, an’ everythin’ goes quiet. Her hands touch my shoulders, an’ angrily I shake her off.
‘Sorry, lassie,’ she says.
I spit acid into the dark. My knees are hot an’ soaked, an’ it takes some time to clean myself up. By the time I’m ready, my heart has stopped hammerin’. I go back to the car an’ find Joyce leanin’ on the bonnet. Her hands are in her pockets. Her coat covered in seeds. For a moment I feel sorry for her. She looks like she actually does care.
‘You ready?’ she asks. I nod.
We get back in the car an’ drive to the top of the track. There, the car park is empty, but the sign says Open, so we go inside. The front porch is full of glass animals. I pause, thinkin’ we’ve strayed into someone’s home, but when Joyce opens the next door, we see the tables an’ chairs. An old woman in a housecoat brings two handwritten menus. We’re the only customers. Joyce shoots me a look as we sit down, but I don’t know what this means so I pretend not to have noticed. A plastic inflatable parrot in the window takes my fancy, an’ when the woman comes back I ask if I can have it. Again Joyce glares at me, so I shut up an’ look at the floor. The woman says no.
Joyce has a cheese sandwich an’ a cup of coffee, while I have tomato soup. We eat in silence. To my disappointment, there’s no milk on the menu. We have scones with pear jam that the woman says she made herself. Then Joyce pays an’ we head back to the car. I close my eyes as we drive down the path, to make sure I don’t see the house in the w
ing mirror. Iss nightfall by the time we reach Gille Dubh.
#
I dream of a dark, dense room with a paintin’ of a ship on the wall. When I wake up, Joyce is sittin’ by my bed. She’s brought me some tea an’ a plate of oatcakes with cheese. I’m impressed that Joyce brought the green-striped cup, even if it was by accident.
‘Thank you,’ I say, an’ she nods.
I take a sip, tryin’ to avoid her gaze. Iss strange to have her here in my room.
‘So,’ says Joyce. ‘Do you think you could tell me some more about your mother?’
I freeze. Suddenly I see the machine in her lap.
‘My … mother?’ I gasp.
‘Yes,’ says Joyce. ‘We were really getting to the bottom of that, I think.’
I look at the tape machine. Iss switched on. The little tape goin’ round an’ round.
‘I want to go for a walk,’ I say, an’ slam my cup down on the nightstand. Joyce’s eyes follow my cup. One large splosh heads her way, an’ she dodges to avoid gettin’ it on her dress. By the time her eyes return to me, I’m out of bed. Joyce shoots upwards as I reach the doorway an’ the tape recorder clatters to the floor.
‘Well you can’t!’ she commands, but by now I’m runnin’ down the corridor. My nightgown glues my legs together, slowin’ me down. At first I think I’m goin’ to get away. But Joyce comes crashin’ after me an’ wrestles me to the carpet at the top of the stairs. She pins my arms above my head, like a marathon winner.
‘Caroline!’ she yells. ‘Caroline! It’s Kathy!’
I raise my head an’ see faces.
‘I want to go outside!’ I scream, an’ wriggle free.
Joyce lunges an’ misses me. But jus’ then Caroline appears. Hands grab me, an’ the weight on my back becomes more than I can fight. My knees hit the ground, an’ all of us go down. Someone holds my head still, an’ a hand with a needle swings close. As I sink into the floor, I recognise the pattern of my bedroom carpet. The tape recorder – still runnin’ – on the floor. Then the sounds blur an’ stretch, draggin’ away from my ears, pullin’ me away, an’ around, an’ down.
When I wake it is dark, an’ I’m alone. I try my door, but find that – for the first time I can remember – it is locked.
#
I sit in the far corner of the dinin’ room, eating my toast an’ jam. I drink my tea from the mug with flowers on it, now that my green one’s broken. When no one’s lookin’, I put my arms round myself. My wrists are bruised, yellowish-tan. They don’t hurt any more, but the sight of them still upsets me. They’re the crownin’ glory of my awful, lost weekend in Inverness, an’ a reminder that sooner or later I’ll be dragged back up there for more. What will happen then? Will they make me talk about Magnus? Or my mother? Maybe they know where my mother is, an’ that’s what Joyce meant when she said we’d made progress. My memories of my mother are faint. I jus’ know she was thin, with short, black hair. No matter how hard I try, I can’t picture her face, but I do remember her dressin’ gown, which was flimsy an’ dark with a brightly coloured print of fruit on it. I remember her wearin’ it while cookin’, with her back to me. It breaks my heart to think of her sittin’ by her television now. Seein’ my story on the news. Not carin’ enough to pick up the telephone.
The workmen have built a plain brick wall across the hole where the conservat’ry door used to be, but iss not insulated yet, so the house is still freezin’. Who decided to build a wall instead of a new conservat’ry? It feels like somethin’ Joyce would do to punish me. I mean, it was no secret how much I loved the conservat’ry. I spent every single morning out there. Evil witch. I bet iss her idea to keep me inside, too. Caroline took people out for a walk earlier, but I wasn’t allowed to go.
The workmen’s voices echo through the house. They talk about football an’ pop stars whose names I don’t recognise, an’ sometimes without warnin’ they bark with laughter. When their voices get loud I throw my arms up to protect myself. I know they talk behind my back. I’ve seen them lookin’ an’ dread what they might be plottin’. I wish they’d jus’ finish an’ go away.
When I’ve eaten I take my dishes upstairs an’ push them under my bed. If I wash them later on, I won’t have to bump into the men.
I sit draped in my mustard bedspread an’ watch Caroline’s walkin’ party from the window. Every so often I lose sight of them behind dips in the slope. Mary walks two steps behind the others, clutchin’ handfuls of wild flowers. Each time she passes, the bunch of flowers is bigger. She sees me one time, an’ waves. I wave back. By the time I hear the front door, iss dark.
10
January 19th, 2005.
Everything around me is still so exotic. Six days since my arrival, I remain thrilled by the unfamiliar brands. The champagne-flavour pop. The tins of ‘Bog’ and ‘Sodd’. The lighter fluid I mistook for mouthwash. The ridiculously long tri-language ingredient listings. Those three, cheeky extra vowels. The strangely named chocolate bars. The weird, dense little cakes, the open sandwiches and the elk jerky. The fruit soup and the sour cream porridge. It’s all so bloody exotic. The supermarket has become my church, and I bow to its novelties with ceaseless delight. In the daytime, when I am alone, I cross the main square to Rema 1000, just to gawp at the products. On the first day, I learnt to gawp rather than buy. The prices, by British standards, are seriously high, and if I bought everything that took my fancy, my savings would be gone in a week. For now, Magnus buys our food. It’s not something I’m comfortable with, and I certainly don’t intend to become a kept woman, but I content myself with the knowledge that it’s a temporary arrangement. The petrol, van hire and ferry tickets depleted my meagre life savings, and now I’m down to my last three hundred pounds. It’s the poorest I’ve been in my whole adult life, but with Magnus by my side I’m not afraid. When I get a job I’ll treat him in return. Teamwork! Isn’t that what marriage is all about?
For the first week we play house. In the morning Magnus puts on clothes and goes to work. In the daytime I scour the Internet for a job. In the evening Magnus returns and we climb back into our tiny loft bed. Occasionally we remember to eat. Night after night we meld and contort, hot skin glued together in the freezing air. Sometimes in the light, and sometimes in the dark, hours fly past like seconds. I doze in between, his heart thudding strongly beneath my hand, and feel happier than I ever thought it possible to be. Sometimes a lock of hair tickles my neck, and when I go to brush it aside I realise it is his, not my own. At night, I truly feel we have become one.
Magnus works at a teen community centre where they have bands and a café and all this other cool stuff. Loop the Loop, the place is called. He’s like the Godfather to those kids. On Saturday nights he works late, and originally we’d planned for me to hang out there during his shift. I’d looked forward to seeing the place at night-time, after months of hearing how great it is. But on Saturday he comes home at six with a bottle of aquavit. ‘I pulled a sickie,’ he grins, and pours me out a massive shot. By midnight we can barely walk, never mind scale the loft ladder. Magnus drags some coats from the wardrobe instead and we build a makeshift bed on the hall floor.
My job hunt is not going well, and this is largely to do with my language skills. I learnt it all from a book, you see. The Queen’s Norwegian. It looked so easy on paper. Paul and Eirin and their delightful conversations about verbs. Their jaunts to Aker Brygge to order coffee in perfect Bokmål. The reality is more daunting. The book never warned me about the dialects people speak up north. It never warned me how fast people speak, and the fact that though most of them speak English, they don’t particularly want to. I was naïve to think I could just continue speaking English. I see that now. But it never once struck me that the Norwegian I’d learnt would also largely be useless. Maybe if I pretended to be deaf, things would be easier. If I could have my conversations slowly, on paper, I might get by. But my God … even then I wouldn’t understand the colloquialisms.
‘You’re t
he Geordies of Norway!’ I tell Magnus, but instead of laughing with me he rasps, ‘Well, get used to it.’ At first I’m enraged by that comment, but as the days go on I realise he is right. Sure, I’m more of an outsider in this place than I’d anticipated, but I can’t hide under Magnus’s wing forever. I’m not a child. Why should he go out of his way to help me settle in?
So much for my glittering art career. Things were supposed to have been different out here. I’d imagined landing an art director job at a magazine or museum or whatnot, and doing my own paintings on the side. Becoming a famous expat artist, with Magnus by my side. But suddenly it’s not that simple. There are plenty of arts sector jobs, but all of them require experience, or some form of vocational training. As a native university-leaver, I might have found a company easily, but as it stands I require a dictionary to carry out the simplest of transactions. It says so in the adverts – all of the adverts actually – ‘Fluent Norwegian essential’. I’m beginning to know that phrase by heart. Right now, even the kebab shops wouldn’t hire me.
‘Have you considered … um … moving to Oslo?’ I ask Magnus one night.
Without looking at me, he shakes his head.
‘You could ask for a transfer or something,’ I press. ‘They must have community centres down there. Or some other council job …’
‘I’m staying here.’
‘It’s just … it might be easier for me to get a job down there.’
‘Mn,’ says Magnus, and I can tell he is not really listening.
‘You see, my Norwegian’s not good enough for—’
‘Speak English then. Everyone speaks English. They love to speak English.’
‘But all the ads say—’
‘So speak Norwegian. Do a course. I had to, when we moved up from Aarhus.’
‘You were a kid then! You’ve had plenty of time to—’
‘Just do the course! It’s not that hard!’