by Steve Haynes
It’s early, so the old woman doesn’t open the door when I first ring the bell. It’s only after several minutes of waiting and ringing and waiting and ringing again that I hear the slow shuffle of her feet descending the stairs. When she opens the door, it’s only by a crack, and she keeps the chain on.
‘Who is it?’
I feel a moment of shame when I see the fear and suspicion on her elderly face, but then I think of Lisa and the cigarette and I thrust the feeling away.
‘It’s me,’ I say. ‘It’s James Lewis.’
‘Oh! Mr Lewis.’ Mrs Entwistle sounds relieved. ‘I didn’t know who it was, this time in the morning. I didn’t know who it could be.’
‘Can I come in please?’
She blinks at me, still bleary from sleep. ‘Is something wrong?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Yes, I think it is.’
‘It’s not Lisa?’ she asks, concerned.
‘Look, can I come in?’
‘Yes, yes, of course.’ Mrs Entwistle backs away and fiddles with the chain. It takes her a minute, but then she has it unhooked and it falls away. She opens the door wider. She is wearing a mauve dressing gown and no slippers. Her feet are small and blotchy, roped with swollen blue veins. ‘Come in, come in,’ she tells me.
I step over the threshold and close the door behind me. Mrs Entwistle beckons me into the living room. There, she gestures to the couch, but I shake my head, so she remains standing too. She studies my face.
‘What is it, James?’ Her anxiety appears genuine, but I don’t trust it. Like the poem, it seems to be hiding something.
‘The poem,’ I say. ‘The poem you gave to Lisa and me.’
‘Yes, I remember. A triolet, wasn’t it? Most lovely.’
‘Lovely!’ I snort. ‘I don’t think so. Oh, I don’t think so.’ I’m shaking my head over and over; I don’t seem to be able to stop.
‘What’s this?’ She frowns. ‘I thought you liked it.’
‘It’s changed!’ I say, and suddenly my frustration all rushes out at once. ‘It’s changed, you old hag! It’s all gone wrong!’
I half expect Mrs Entwistle to cringe away from me, but instead the old woman’s face goes hard. ‘It hasn’t changed, Mr Lewis,’ she says primly. ‘None of my poems change. It’s not in their nature.’
‘I’m telling you, it’s different,’ I insist. ‘I was listening to it last night, and it – ’
‘It won’t have changed,’ Mrs Entwistle repeats. ‘The poem is still the same poem. But, I suppose, it may have grown.’
‘Grown? Grown? What the hell does that mean? It doesn’t look any different. It’s the poem that’s different.’
She shrugs. ‘If you insist,’ she says, in the tone of a teacher humouring a wrong-headed pupil.
My anger builds. ‘You’re some kind of witch,’ I accuse. ‘These poems, you give them away like they’re presents, like they’re blessings. But they’re not. They’re not. That thing – it’s some sort of spell, isn’t it? And now Lisa . . . Lisa . . . ’
My knees feel suddenly weak. I drop onto the couch. ‘It’s ruined everything,’ I moan.
Mrs Entwistle stands over me. ‘I’m no witch,’ she says, ‘and my gift to you and your wife was no spell. It’s just a poem.’
‘But what does it mean?’ I cry. ‘‘Two lovers lie’ – what does it mean by ‘lie’? What kind of lying? And which lovers? Which two? ‘In their dreams’, it says. In whose dreams? In mine? Who’s sleeping? Am I sleeping? Is Lisa? With whom? Jesus, what does it mean?’
Mrs Entwistle looks down at me with sad eyes. ‘It’s a poem,’ she says again. ‘It means what you make it mean. It means what you think it means.’
I put my face in my hands. ‘Great,’ I groan. ‘That’s just great.’
On my way out, I brush again against the bush with the red flowers.
The Jackdaw Prince, it says, old as the hills . . .
‘Shut up!’ I growl at it. ‘Goddamn it, can’t you just shut up!’
The Cat King will not catch him, it replies, gravely.
VIII
I don’t go to work that day. I don’t go home either. I just get in the car and drive. I take the A-road out of town, and then I take every back road I come across until I’m way out in the countryside. There are no clouds in sight, and the air is a pale winter blue.
I follow a winding road and find myself at the top of a ridge, overlooking a steep-edged valley. I can see for miles. There’s a viewing area by the side of the road, with a faded sign and a small car park. I pull over, tyres crunching on the gravel, and then I just sit in the driver’s seat looking out at the fields and the woods, the verges and the hedgerows, the hills and the villages spread out below. I gaze at the vista of greens and browns, and think about how, if I were to touch any of those plants, they would remain silent. They would not spout pernicious, ambiguous verse. They only mean one thing: themselves.
The thought is comforting, and after a while I drift into sleep.
It’s dark when I awake. I check my phone and find I have four messages: three from the office and one from Lisa. I turn the phone off. Then I start the car and drive carefully back into town. I feel much calmer.
The November night has come early, and the lights are on in the windows of all the houses in my neighbourhood. I head home, but when I get to the house I find myself driving right past it. I drive past Mrs Entwistle’s place too. But when I get to Bob and Carol’s I ease on the brakes and let the car dawdle outside. They haven’t drawn their curtains yet, and I can see right into their front room.
Peeping on the inner world, whispers a voice at the back of my mind.
I cannot see Bob, though their car is in the driveway. Carol, however, is sitting in an armchair with her back to the window. Her left hand is lying on the armrest, palm up, fingers curled slightly inwards. The top of her head peeks out above the chair, and it lists slightly to the right. She is asleep.
I wonder where Bob is. I wonder if I would find Lisa at home, if I went back there.
Together, sleeping.
Bob and Lisa, I think bitterly. And in another sense, Carol and me. Except I’ve woken up. Poor Carol.
I drive on before my lingering gets too suspicious, and I surprise myself again when I stop outside Sarah Ealing’s house. Only once I’m there do I realise why I’ve come.
Her poem; yes. I can picture it now, with its lone violet flower, the petals curving upwards to cradle the stigma waiting at its heart. And Sarah’s blush, I can see that too. We had thought it mere embarrassment at the time, but now another detail of the incident springs to mind: how Sarah’s eyes flickered to Lisa as she put a denying hand upon my own.
Seven years, Sarah had told us; her poem had flourished for seven years. Now, sitting outside her home, I ache to know whether the plant remains as hale as it was that day. Had it ‘grown’ like mine and Lisa’s, so perversely? Or did it endure still, as elegant as it ever was?
I summon my courage. Leaving my briefcase on the passenger seat and my phone, switched off, in the glove compartment, I get out of the car and go ring the bell.
Sarah does a double-take when she opens the door. She’s wearing pyjama bottoms and a knitted, oversized jumper. There is a pair of reading glasses perched on her nose, and her hair is pulled up into a scruffy ponytail.
‘James,’ she says. ‘Did you – Did I forget – Did we arrange . . . ?’ She peers behind me, presumably looking for Lisa.
‘No,’ I say. ‘No, don’t worry.’
‘Then why . . . Sorry, but why are you here?’ Her gaze moves over me, and suddenly I’m aware of my hair, dishevelled from my nap in the car, and my crumpled work clothes. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks.
I open my mouth and shut it again. I honestly don’t know if I’m all right, but I suspect that I’m not.
Sarah looks at my car, parked in the street, then back at me. ‘Do you . . . Do you want to come in?’
‘All right,’ I say.
I wipe my shoes on the mat, though they’re pretty much spotless as all I’ve been doing is driving around all day.
We stand awkwardly in the hallway.
‘Would you like a – ’ Sarah starts, but I interrupt her.
‘Your poem,’ I blurt out.
Alarm flits across her face. ‘My poem?’ Her tone is wary, but also – I think – ever-so-slightly wistful. ‘What about it?’
I pause, biting my lip. ‘Can I . . . Can I hear it?’
‘It’s – ’
‘It’s private, I know.’ I smile at her wearily, trying to show her that I understand; I understand now what she meant by that blush, by those words. ‘I know.’
She looks at me, her expression guarded.
‘Please,’ I say. ‘I’d really like to hear it. Please.’
Her eyes soften. Slowly, she reaches out and takes my hand.
GEORGINA BRUCE
Cat World
My sister Oh and I go to the corner shop and buy a packet of Doctor Rain’s Travel Gum. Oh wants Cinnamon Sour, and I want Spearmint Buzz, but Oh wins because she’s older and it’s her money. We run out to the back of the yard. Oh runs with her hands in her pockets, one hand curled around the Gum. I am never allowed to carry it because she says I might drop it, but I definitely wouldn’t. We go to the railway line, where the trains used to come down. There’s an overturned crate to sit on and a bit of plastic tarpaulin to haul over our heads. I say, let’s do it at the same time, don’t start without me. And Oh laughs and says everything with you is like that, you never want to do anything by yourself. But some people are just like that, so what are you going to do?
So we sit together and unwrap the gum at the same time, and we put it in our mouths at the same time, me watching her to see if she is going to do it right, and she waits for me, and I smile and say chew! So we do it together. And then we are gone, and I see her body falling through space, turning and turning like a brown stick in the milky galaxy. That bit is not real, Oh always tells me, but sometimes it’s my favourite bit of all.
Then we are there in Cat World. Oh is all clean and her hair is in braids. I guess mine is too. We are sitting in the kitchen at a large wood table, like a slab of wood cut out of a tree just to make the table, and I say, let’s do the thing. She says, I don’t want to do the thing, we always do the thing. I think about sulking but I decide not to waste the time and so instead I get up and look out at the garden where all the cats are stalking through the long grass. Let’s play in the garden, I say. We could ride on the horses. Oh says, those aren’t horses you idiot. They’re swings. You’re no fun, I say, but secretly I’m a bit relieved, because I don’t want to walk in the garden with the cats. We raid the fridge and eat all the sugary yoghurts, and afterwards we press our faces against the window and point at the cats, then the gum loses its flavour and we are back on our crate in the rain.
I want some more, but Oh shakes her head and presses her lips firmly together. She needs it, she says. She needs it more than I do. She stuffs it right at the bottom of her bag, and tells me I’m not to touch it. I’m cold and it’s starting to rain. Big fat plops of rain splash onto my head. Don’t cry, Little One, says Oh. Come on, we’ll do the thing. She drags the tarp over our heads again and I clamber into her lap. Her arms wrap right around me, holding me like a baby, and she rocks me gently back and forth. I suck on my thumb and say wah wah goo goo gah, and Oh says, hush now my little baby. She’s a lovely little baby isn’t she? Look at her, little diddums, yes she is.
Oh has to go to work. A big ship has landed, and the tourists have real money in their pockets. We want real money, paper money, not the stupid plastic money because it’s no good for us. We can’t buy anything with it. I’m too young to work, according to Oh, but I’m eight, actually. Oh is twelve, and she’s been working for years, ever since the men came for our Mummy. They took our everything. I don’t want to go to work, but I don’t want Oh to go to work either. I want her to stay with me and do the thing, and play and go to Cat World, but then we wouldn’t have any food and we would die. Oh says we are going to run away to the real Cat World. When she has saved enough money, we are going to find a boat. There are some women, Oh says, who are like mothers. They are kind. They can help us get away.
We do our exercises. Oh makes me remember all the things she’s taught me. Hit them in the balls, she says, and put your fingers in their eyes, and bite their ears. All right, I say, jeez louise, I know all this. Oh laughs and musses up my hair and says, just looking out for my little sis.
We drag the tarpaulin over to the side of the tracks where there are some big bins, and put the tarpaulin over the bins, so it’s like a tent. Oh is pleased. She says she didn’t notice the bins until now. Oh gives me the sleeping bag and my teddy, and our little bag, and makes me put the picture of Mummy in my pocket. I make Oh give me a lot of kisses, and I tell her I want a story, but she says no story tonight, just close your eyes and go to sleep and when you open them again, I’ll be back.
I like the sound of rain falling on the tarpaulin. It’s a good sound. Nobody walks around the railway tracks at night in the rain. I could light a match if I had one. It would be safe, probably. I’ll tell Oh in the morning: we can have a light when it rains, maybe a fire. It’s very dark, but with my eyes closed I imagine I’m going to sleep in Cat World, in a real bed, with Mummy and Oh sitting either side of me, just quietly sitting, and a light on in the hallway outside the room.
Then I open my eyes and it’s morning. Light is coming through the blue tarpaulin, and it’s sort of milky and nice, even though it’s still raining. I’m dry and warm, so I just lie there for a bit, thinking how nice it would be to wake up in Cat World for real. And I think what shall I say to Oh first of all, will I tell her about my dream or will I go and get her a cup of tea from the tea boy in Edward Road. She’s quiet when she’s been working, but she’ll give me some money to buy tea and maybe some fruit. So I decide to get the tea first, and that’s when I realise she’s not there.
She’s not curled up in the sleeping bag with me, or crouching under the tarpaulin, watching the rain. I lift up a corner of the plastic and look outside to see if she’s there, but she’s nowhere.
She hasn’t come back.
I’m not going to cry, I’m not. I’m a big girl. I’m going to get back into the sleeping bag and curl up and close my eyes and dream about Cat World. And next time I open my eyes, she’ll be back.
Rain makes the neon shine and hurt my eyes. I hide in a narrow alley, behind a giant blue bin. My stomach growls at me, and I think about climbing into the bin and looking for food, but I don’t, because what if someone catches me? What would they do to me? Oh says they can do anything they like to us – there are no laws about what happens to little girls who live on the street. I am watching the door on the corner, where men are stepping in and out. They laugh loudly and slap each other on the back. Their eyes are bright and cold.
Smells from a nearby café drift up my nose. Bacon and eggs, hot greasy sausages bursting open in the pan. My pockets are empty. I check them, anyway, for the thousandth time. Finally, the door swings open and a girl steps out. I recognise her: it is Book.
‘Book! Book! Hello!’ I wave at her and she looks back at me, not smiling.
We know Book from the old days. Her mummy was my mummy’s friend. They used to talk for hours, over the fence between our back gardens. Book and Oh used to play together, and I was not allowed to join in because I was too young and stupid to understand their games. Instead I used to lean against my mummy’s leg and listen to her talk about the government. She did not like the government. No one did.
‘Little One? What are you doing here?’ Book says. ‘Where is Oh? You’re soaked! Come in out of the rain.’ S
he takes me by the hand, and her pointy fingernails dig into my skin. She leads me to her sweaty, perfumed cubicle at the back of the hotel. It is the size of a single bed and it’s not possible to stand up in there.
‘I’ve lost my sister,’ I say. I want to wail. I’m so hungry, too. But Book is very calm. She sits with her legs crossed on the bed, so I do the same. My hair is dripping onto the blankets.
‘She didn’t come back yesterday, or the day before,’ I say. My voice sounds strange to me, having not spoken to anyone for two days. ‘I’ve been waiting and waiting. Can you help me find her?’
Book looks startled. ‘I don’t think that’s possible,’ she says. She rubs her hands over her face, pushes her black hair back, sighs. ‘Girls disappear, honey. They don’t come back.’
‘No,’ I say, making Book raise her eyebrows at me. ‘She has to come back.’
And then I think, what if she’s gone without me? Maybe she found the women who help, and she went on a boat, and she forgot me.
‘Poor little thing. Hey. You could work here,’ says Book. ‘I’m sure if I spoke with Mr Cow––’
I shake my head, stricken with fear. I cannot.
‘You always were a big baby.’ Book laughs. ‘But if you won’t work, I can’t help you. And if Mr Cow finds you here, he’ll make you work. Trust me.’
‘Did she come here? Did she go anywhere else? Did she have any other friends?’ I am trying not to cry, but the tears are bubbling out of me.
Book shakes her head. ‘Don’t be sad,’ she says.
‘I can’t help it.’ I wipe my nose and eyes. ‘Aren’t you sad?’
Book makes a funny expression, turning the corners of her mouth down. ‘I don’t know,’ she says.
For some reason, this makes me cry even harder than before.