by Sally Bayley
You may go away, but where you were born, or where you were borne from, remains the same. When Jane returns to Thornfield she finds Mrs Fairfax, the housekeeper, still there, Mrs Fairfax as sturdy as the gatepost she climbs over.
‘I suppose you are a stranger in these parts, or you would have heard what happened last autumn, – Thornfield Hall is quite a ruin: it was burnt down just about harvest-time. A dreadful calamity!’
Jane listens, and her body shivers with fear. Old Jane is dead; a new Jane must begin. As she crosses the long stretch of meadow that surrounds her first home, her mind strays towards the image that has haunted her all these years.
——————————
Every place you’ve lived in has something you carry with you. For me, that’s the painting in the dining hall at Colwood above the tables where we ate. It is a picture of a child holding a white dove. The child is clinging to the dove; he is squeezing the dove tight, because the child is frightened. He has wandered from his cot, out into the meadow. The morning grass is wet and sodden. It is summer and the earth is warm; there are buttercups and daisies on the ground. But the child can hear his mother’s voice; she is telling the story of the fairies, the fairies that live forever. The child hears the story and longs to fly as they do, so he carries on, across the meadow.
A strong wind begins to blow and the corners of her white blanket lift. The child looks up and sees the dove. The dove will show him how to fly! The dove will take him to the fairies! So the child with the white blanket runs across the meadow and the clouds puff and blow, puff and blow, and the child lifts up his arms and sails into the sky.
——————————
Of all the records we played as children, my favourite was the story by a man called Prokofiev of Peter and the Wolf. I loved the sound of Peter running out into the meadow, Peter soaring high on the strings, Peter carefree and running through his grandfather’s gate out into the wide, green world.
Shh! It’s about to start. Lie still, won’t you? said my brother. The man is about to begin!
Early one morning Peter goes out into the big green meadow. He meets a little bird in the tree. Before long the bird becomes his friend; the bird, she says, will teach him how to fly.
‘What kind of a bird are you if you can’t fly?’ the little bird says. Soon after, a duck comes along, and the duck asks the little bird, ‘What kind of bird are you if you can’t swim?’
The music grows louder, and the duck starts to waggle about. He doesn’t notice the clever cat creeping through the grass on her velvet paws. But Peter sees her coming, and he shouts ‘Out! Out! Out cat! Out!’
‘Out! Out! Out!’ My brother jumped up and screamed. ‘Out cat, out! Out! Out! The wolf is coming, the wolf is coming, the wolf is coming! You stupid cat, you stupid cat! The wolf is coming! Can’t you see? Run away, run away, run away!’
‘Not yet!’ The grandfather has to come out first, and he will shut the gate so the wolf can’t get in. ‘Shut the door, Peter, shut the door. Shhh! She’ll hear … Shhh!’
‘It’s a dangerous place. If a wolf were to come out of the forest, then what would you do?’
‘Peter! Sit down and be quiet. She’ll come downstairs if you carry on like that.’
Peter paid no attention to his grandfather’s words, because boys like him are not afraid of wolves.
But grandfather took Peter by the hand, locked the gate, and led him home.
‘Just in the nick of time,’ Mum said as she passed by the door. ‘Now close the door. You’ll wake Di.’
The horns blared. I looked up towards the ceiling; the chandelier was shaking ever so slightly.
‘Shh! She’s awake,’ I said. ‘Shhh!’
The wolf is coming and the duck is running away. But the duck can’t run fast enough because she’s fat and the wolf has fast, greedy eyes and his eyes are tearing towards the fluffy white duck. Now the wolf is slinking along the ground, but the duck doesn’t see the wolf coming, because she is waddling about and arguing with the bird.
‘Shh! Peter! Shh! Shhh!’
The horns are getting louder and louder. They are so loud I can hear them inside my ear. Blah! Blah! Blah! Blah! Blast! Blast! Blast and balderdash! Shut up, you awful little swines! Shut up! For God’s sake, shut up! Some of us are trying to sleep! Switch that racket off! For Pete’s sake switch it off!
But Peter wasn’t afraid. Boys like him are not afraid of wolves. He went back into his grandfather’s house and found a piece of rope and went back out into the meadow. He climbed the tallest tree he could find and wrapped the rope around his wrist and then his middle until he had made a long lasso. Peter picked up his lasso and put it over his shoulders; he inched closer along the branch.
Then suddenly a sound started up behind him. Tweet, tweet, tweet, tweet! It was the voice of the little bird. Silly little bird, thought Peter. She’ll get herself killed. Shh! Shh!
But the bird was cleverer than the wolf, and stayed up high in the tree among the branches. And when Peter saw that the little bird was safe, he lowered his lasso close to the ground and dangled it behind the tree. And when the greedy wolf came close to the tree Peter said to the little bird, ‘Tweet, tweet, little bird, tweet, tweet, tweet,’ and the little bird tweeted with all her heart. Then just as the wolf caught sight of him, Peter pulled hard on the lasso.
Tweet tweet said the little bird, Tweet tweet tweet.
——————————
One summer when we were hot and bothered and bored my brothers and I invented a game. We called it ‘Tweet tweet’. The rule was that you had to pass from one room to another without ever putting a foot on the ground. ‘Even a toe counts,’ said my brothers, ‘even your little toe touching the ground!’
So we climbed across the kitchen table and jumped towards the sink and climbed out through the window on all fours. Then we edged our way along the drainpipe, clinging with bare toes, to the bathroom at the back of the house. When I caught my cotton petticoat on the window ledge, and the force of it dragged me to the floor, my brothers yelled, ‘The big bad wolf has got you … You’re out! You’re out! The big bad wolf has got his teeth out! You’re out! You’re out!’ And I sat on the floor and went Tweet, tweet tweet, tweet tweet tweet but my brothers said it was too late for that. Wolves don’t wait for little birds. If a little bird falls from the tree they gobble it up.
——————————
Sometime in the winter of 1986 I fell from my tree. But in truth, I made myself fall. I did it sitting on a hospital bed with a clipboard in my hand and a woman sitting next to me on a plastic chair. The woman handed me the clipboard with a form attached to it and explained that if I did this, if I signed the form, then I would never have to go home again. I would have to go somewhere, but she wasn’t quite sure where yet. I could stay in Colwood for a few more months, but I couldn’t stay here forever. I was going to have to go into care.
‘Going into Care,’ explained the woman on the plastic chair, meant that Social Services were now in charge of me. They had to find me somewhere to live. They’d tried a few homes, but everything was full. I’d have to be patient.
‘Turn the page over,’ said the lady. On the other side of the form there was a name and a signature: Angela Christine Bayley. Date of Birth: 18 December 1947. I peered at the date, and for the first time I realised how old my mother was. I was fourteen. My mother was nearly forty. She was nearly three times my age. My mother didn’t look young or old, I thought, only pale.
I looked down and I could see her pale face floating through the form. Then I saw her mouth; it was moving.
‘Up, up and away, in my beautiful balloon.’
Mum sang that song on Sundays while she was doing her hair.
‘Nancy’s best song. Not a patch on her dad, but not a bad effort. Middle of the road, sweet voice. The Americans like it.’
My mother’s mouth was moving through the long, wide vowels. She liked vowels. Vowels should
linger and stay, she said. Vowels were to be savoured. ‘Open your mouth and speak properly. Pronounce your vowels, for goodness’ sake!’
My mother’s mouth is moving slowly around her coffee cup. She is sipping her coffee slowly and gently. Now my mother’s mouth is open; it is as wide as the brim of her cup. ‘Sa-lly-Sa-man-tha-M-ary-Bay-ley … If Margaret Thatcher can learn to speak properly, so can we.’
‘Have you read it properly, Sally?’ asked the lady on the plastic chair. I jumped. ‘Your mother has consented. She’s signed the form.’
My hands trembled. ‘It doesn’t say anything about a home. Where will I live?’
‘We don’t know yet. We’ll need to find somewhere. It may take a few weeks. I’m trying to find somewhere suitable. It may not be perfectly suitable to begin with … or purr-fect-ly beautiful.’
‘Suitable,’ said Mrs Rutherford. ‘“Sue” as in “zoo”, but with an “s”. “Sue-ta-ble”. Sue-ta-ble is one of those words you need to make the most of. There will be many occasions when you will think something is not quite sue-tar-bull. Not quite the thing … no thank you, I’d rather not.’
‘I’d rather not go anywhere that wasn’t suitable. I’d rather stay here. I’ve got used to it.’
‘You can’t stay here. We need to find something longer-term.’
‘How long? How long are you sending me away for? The last time I was sent away they told me it would be a little holiday. It turned out to be a year and three months, nearly four … which wasn’t very suitable.’
‘We may need to find you emergency care. There are plenty of families prepared to help. I’ll do what I can to find the best match. It may not be ideal, but we haven’t had much notice.’
The lady on the chair looked down at the form. She pulled gently at my pen.
‘Right. That’s all done. I’m afraid now we’ll just have to wait and see.’
I see my mother’s head poking through the forms. She is singing louder now. Her mouth is moving fast. Her lips are shining. A gust of wind lifts her up and my mother takes off. Her pink balloon drifts through the white clouds.
Up, up and away, in my beautiful balloon
The world’s a nicer place, in my beautiful balloon …
For we can fly, we can fly, we can fly
34
A Winter’s Tale
Mum always wanted to be a teacher. I think she thought that if anyone can – and if prime ministers can’t – then teachers can change the world. For Mum, a teacher was a middle-aged woman who wore tweed skirts and scrimped and saved to pay for her holiday in Italy. In Italy she would go and see Michelangelo. Michelangelo was the best artist in the world, Mum said, and one day she would take us to Florence to see his very special David.
Mum was very particular about teachers. Teachers, she thought, were like creaky old chairs that had sat around for a long time. Good teachers were valuable antiques. You put a good price tag on them. Teachers shouldn’t go cheap.
Mum wouldn’t have thought Dave was a good teacher, Dave, the drama teacher at Colwood, who lived somewhere near Brighton, over the hills and far away. Mum would have hated that fact, because Brighton, she said, was queer.
Queer: something unusual, odd, funny, or strange; something coming at you from a peculiar angle. It’s true that Dave was queer. He wore bright shirts and bangles, and he leapt about a lot. But Dave was tweedy too. For one thing, he loved Shakespeare.
‘Poetry in action,’ Dave said. ‘That’s Shakespeare. Poetry that makes things happen. Strange and magical things, queer things. Now listen! This will take five minutes. Then you can go and get your food. But I want to tell you a story … A Winter’s Tale.’ Dave cleared his throat. ‘King Leontes lives in Sicilia with his wife Hermione and his son Mamillius.’
‘Boring, Dave, boring! We don’t want to hear about fucking kings and queens.’
‘Shut up, Darren, you’re not bleedin’ five. Listen to Dave!’ That was Gary Sharp. It was always Gary Sharp or Darren Black. ‘You’ve the attention of a gnat,’ Mum said. ‘A very small gnat.’
Dave cleared his throat and began. ‘One day King Leontes receives a visit from his old friend Polixenes, king of Bohemia. They haven’t seen one another for years. The two friends are getting on famously, one thing leads to another, and Polixenes ends up staying for longer than expected. Months go by. Months and months.’
‘Freeloader!’
‘Thank you, Gary. Friendship isn’t always an opportunity to make a buck … but after nine months Polixenes decides that it really is time he went home. He’s overstayed his welcome.’
‘Fucking right he has!’
‘Shhh!’
‘Leontes is downcast at the thought of his friend leaving, so his wife, Hermione, tries her best to persuade him to stay. Polixenes is duly persuaded – Hermione does a good job of convincing – but strangely, Polixenes deciding to stay on makes Leontes suspicious. Then, soon after, with no reason at all, he begins to suspect that his wife is having an affair with his old friend.’
‘He should keep his dick to himself!’
‘Gross, Gary. You’re so gross!’
‘Shut up, Trace. The only gross thing here is you.’
‘Thank you, Gary! Well, things start to get out of control. Before long, Leontes instructs one of his lords, Camillo, to poison his old friend.’
‘Just knife him!’
‘Shut up, Darren!’
‘Leontes is determined to have someone killed. He starts to scheme like a madman. But Polixenes manages to escape, so Leontes turns on his wife. He throws her into prison, which, considering she’s now pregnant with his next child, is particularly cruel.’
‘Wanker! He’s the one who should be in prison!’
‘Still, despite a lot of pleading from Hermione’s friend Paulina, Leontes is unmovable.’
‘Fuckin’ off his rocker.’
‘I couldn’t put it better myself, Gary. Yes. He’s off his rocker. Meanwhile, Hermione gives birth to a baby girl called Perdita. But tragically, soon after Perdita is born, Leontes’ son dies and Hermione drops down dead.’
‘Fuckin’ hell, Dave, who the fuck’s gonna believe in all these fuckin’ dead bodies? I mean, who the fuck …?’
‘Well, there lies the problem with tragedy, Darren. The play has suddenly become a tragedy, in a matter of a few scenes. Tragedy comes out of nowhere. It’s beyond belief.’
‘Yeah, well how do you expect us to believe this fuckin’ stuff?’
‘It’s a fairy tale, Darren. I don’t think anyone expects us to believe it. Listen. Leontes has made a fool of himself, lost his cool. He’s made a mess of things, a bloody mess. In fact, as soon as Hermione is dead he begins to regret his decisions.’
‘Twat.’
‘Thank you, Gary. I don’t entirely disagree.’
‘Yeah, well, speed up the story, Dave! Get a move on!’
‘Yeah, Dave. We haven’t got all day. I’m starvin’.’
‘OK. So Perdita, the daughter who survives her dead mother, Hermione, is carried off secretly by Paulina’s husband, a man called Antigonus. Antigonus and Paulina are the fairy godparents of the play. It’s because of them that Perdita survives. They’re the good fairies.’
‘I knew there’d be some fuckin’ fairies showing up sometime soon. Fuckin’ fairies! Dave, this is a joke!’
‘Well, perhaps it is, Darren. Perhaps it’s all a joke on us, the audience. If it’s a joke, let’s enjoy it. So Perdita is carried off to a place called Bohemia and there she becomes part of an entirely different life, a rural life, a life of shepherds and sheep and milkmaids.’
‘Sounds like a fuckin’ boring life to me, Dave.’
‘Thank you, Gary. Now, back to Perdita. There’s a young shepherd boy who falls for her. His name is Florizel, but actually he isn’t a real shepherd, he’s a prince in disguise. Florizel is the son of Leontes’ old friend Polixenes, the king of Bohemia. OK, so Florizel falls in love with Perdita, and Perdita, remember, is
a princess. After a few shenanigans, those two end up together. The play turns into a romance after all. We steer away from tragedy. The two lovers flee back to Sicilia in disguise, along with the shepherd who adopted Perdita. Now things start to move quickly. Leontes learns from the shepherd that Perdita is his lost daughter, and everyone is over the moon.’
‘Fuckin’ losers.’
‘So, the final scene is the most extraordinary in the play, the most dramatic. Everyone goes to Paulina’s house – remember her, the loyal friend of dead Hermione? So they all troop off to her house to go and look at a statue of Hermione in the chapel that Leontes has had made in her memory.’
‘What do you want a fuckin’ statue of your fuckin’ wife for?’
‘So, wait for this – as they’re all standing around the statue, it begins to move. Hermione comes back to life. Ta-da! And there you have it: the queen comes back to life, Leontes and Hermione are together again, and Paulina is engaged to Camillo. Florizel and Perdita, of course, are going to get married. Happily ever after. The End.’
‘What fuckin’ moron is gonna believe she’s been standing around for fuckin’ years pretending to be a statue? Shakespeare’s fuckin’ stupid, Dave.’
‘Yeah. “Hello, I’m” – what’s-her-name? – “Herpes, and I’ve been hanging about for … err … fifteen years waiting for you to show up.” What kind of moron stands around waiting for his wife for fifteen fuckin’ years? That’s fucked up, Dave, really fucked up!’
35
The Great Gig in the Sky
A few weeks later we started to put on the play. Dave let Darren and Gary help him with the casting, which now I think about it was a pretty bold move.
‘Who’s gonna play the fuckin’ dumb-arse queen who stands around acting dead then, Dave? We should ask Trace! She’ll let us do anything to her. She don’t care, right Trace?’