Girl, Balancing & Other Stories

by Helen Dunmore

  Nina looked up. Through the window she saw a girl coming down the narrow passage to the entrance of the café. Her head was bent over something she was holding. Nina saw a smudge of white through the fuggy glass. The girl’s face was small, narrow and very calm. It was a girl called Sarah, who’d had to leave in Upper Sixth because she was pregnant. She was two years ahead of Nina. She came in through the door and looked around the café. From the corner table a man raised his hand and beckoned.

  Nina hadn’t expected the unwieldy rollicking of the posters as she unrolled them on the floor. If she could get all four of them laid out flat together, like a jigsaw, she could see how big the whole picture was and work out how to fit it on her walls. But as fast as she weighed down a corner with a book or a bag of sugar, another corner broke free and began to roll up. The room filled with a sickly smell of printers’ ink and new paper. The posters would never fit on her walls, even if she could get them to stay there. She decided to concentrate on the rectangle which showed the horse’s head with its mane flying free, and blue sky behind it. The wallpaper was old and pitted, and had come away from the skirting board. She would stick up the fresh new poster with Sellotape.

  She crisscrossed it at the poster’s corners, and ran strips along the edge. She had to bend down to fix the bottom and when she straightened up her head filled with blackness. She stood quite still, waiting for her vision to clear. When it did, there was the white horse, nostrils wide, glaring at her. Its head seemed angry at the separation from its body.

  But it was better than before. Now she would boil her egg. The reason she felt dizzy was that she was hungry.

  The eggs looked smaller than Nina thought eggs ought to look. ‘Pullet’s eggs’, her father would have called them. They were dead white, and cool from being outside. She cradled one in each palm, then lowered them carefully into the roiling water. A plume of white ran out, coagulated and began to whirl as she quickly turned down the ring to two. She buttered three slices of bread and cut them into fingers. It was three minutes for a just-set egg, she knew that, but these were so small that perhaps she should allow less time. Her alarm clock had no second hand, so she counted aloud, ‘one and two and three and …’, and then she lifted the eggs, one by one. The best thing to do would be crack them open and mash the soft-boiled egg.

  She took her plate over to the table counter and began to eat ravenously, cramming the food into her mouth. Egg dripped off her fingers and she wiped up the drops and licked them. She finished both eggs and took another piece of bread out of the packet to wipe the plate. Suddenly her stomach clenched. Sweat started out on her forehead and she sat very still, clutching the sides of her chair.

  There was a sound. A corner of the poster detached itself and began to roll up, slowly but with an authority which could not be interrupted. The poster moved across the wall like a wave, cleansing it. The horse’s head had almost disappeared. There was a final small sound and then the last bit of blue sky vanished as the poster fell right off the wall and disappeared behind Nina’s bed.

  She had left the saucepan of boiling water on the ring. The Sellotape had steamed off. There was a fine film of moisture all over the surface of the wallpaper.

  Nina went to the window and opened it as wide as it would go. The iron smell of the eggs left her. Outside, the fog that had hung over the city for days had all blown away, and there was a cold, wild look to the sky.

  GIRL, BALANCING

  THE WARDROBE WAS sticky black, as if someone had tried to polish it with cough mixture. Nina looked inside and racks of old-lady clothes bulged into the room. She shoved them back, forced the door shut and locked it with the rusty little key.

  She had picked the wrong room. The house was tall and narrow and there were six bedrooms. It belonged to her friend Edith’s great-aunt, and Edith had been coming here for holidays all her life. Now the great-aunt was dead, and the house would soon be stripped and sold, but Edith could have it for Christmas week. It was better than having it lying empty, for squatters and thieves.

  Nina went to the window and looked out over the surging sea and the broad empty promenade. A gull flew and then sank down almost to the water. The wind was cutting the tops off the waves. It came straight from Siberia, Edith had told her that. The house creaked coldly and the windows rattled.

  She would choose another room. Nina scooped her stuff off the bed, crammed it back into her bag, and went up to the attics. The stairs were bare wood and her feet clopped on them. At the top there were three doors, all closed. She tried the knobs, one by one. Locked. Locked. But whatever happened she wasn’t going back into that room which smelled as if someone was still dying in there. And then, like a sudden warm miracle, the china knob of the third room door turned. She paused. Far below in the bowels of the house she could hear Edith singing and banging pots. The sound gave her courage and she pushed open the door.

  It was the smallest, whitest room. It looked as if someone had scrubbed it bare from ceiling to skirting boards. It was like being on a ship, Nina thought. Up here the house was left behind and you were halfway out to sea. She went to the round window. The glass bulged and distorted the line of the horizon and the iron railings of the promenade. From here she could see the humps of boats hauled on to the shingle bank.

  There was no bed. She would drag a mattress upstairs, and she had her sleeping bag. Edith had said to bring it. Nina began to spread out her stuff in neat piles at the side of the room. Her clothes, her hat with her money tucked inside it, her roller skates. She had plenty of money. She was working at the Gaumont cinema and, with all the Christmas shows, there had been plenty of extra shifts. She could more than pay her way. They would have to buy bags of coal, and wood. There would be the gas for cooking, and the food.

  She heard Edith’s footsteps coming all the way up the house.

  ‘I’m here!’ Nina called down. ‘I’m in the attic.’

  There was a pause, and then Edith clumped upwards again. She stood at the door, her cheeks flaring scarlet. ‘I’ve got the stove lit,’ she announced.

  Nina stared at her in admiration.

  ‘There was coke in the cellar, but there’s no coal. You brought your skates, then.’

  ‘Yes.’ Nina lifted her roller skates. They were old and the red leather was rubbed, but her feet hadn’t grown since she was twelve and they still fitted.

  ‘We’ll go skating before it gets dark,’ said Edith, and her eyes flashed boldly. ‘There’s a shop on the corner that sells bags of coal. We can carry a big one between us.’

  They lugged the coal home, grunting and heaving under its weight. The shop man watched them ironically, without offering to help. He seemed to know Edith, but she was cold with him. As they left, Nina smiled back over her shoulder, abjectly.

  ‘You want to watch yourself with him,’ said Edith before they were out of the man’s hearing.

  ‘Why?’

  But Edith just glanced, sniffed and said nothing.

  Nina had the gift for lighting fires. All her life she’d known how to coax flame and make it roar. In her bedsit she was thwarted, because there was only the gas fire with its mean blue jets. But here, there were fireplaces in every room. Even in her attic there was a small black iron grate. Edith was going to make soup, she said, and Nina could light the fires.

  Nina found a pile of old newspapers, and began to make coils. First you rolled up a sheet of newspaper, then you coiled it round and twisted the ends until it was as firm as a bird’s nest. She began in the front room, which was the sitting room. The fireplace was big, cold and lined with beige tiles. There were no tongs or shovel; Edith said people had taken most of her aunt’s stuff. Nina laid a pyramid of paper coils, balanced kindling from the shop into a pyre, and placed small lumps of coal delicately all over it. She sat back on her heels, laid several larger lumps of coal ready, and reached for the matches.

  She held the match to the edge of a coil at the back of the fireplace. Through the kindling she saw
the flame grow from blue to yellow and then stretch up to lick the wood. She dropped the match, lit another and held it to the deepest coil at the right back of the fireplace. Another touch, and another. The flame puckered and crackled on the wood. It was lit. It was going. She leaned forward, feeling its heat, urging it on. The wood settled; the coal slipped. She laid more coal jewels, dropping them on to the cruxes of the kindling. The damper was right out and the chimney was drawing. More coal, bigger pieces. There was heat in it now as well as flame.

  Nina went from hearth to hearth, starting fires in the back room, in Edith’s bedroom and in her own. She would get all the fires roaring and then she would bank them down with slack so that they would stay alive while she and Edith were out. She went out to the coal bunker. It was empty of coal, as Edith had said, but there was an old shovel left in there and an iron bucket. Nina scraped for slack on the floor of the bunker and thought of the sound the coalman made when he delivered his sacks, walking to the bunker bent double, then heaving the sack off his shoulder, opening it and letting down the coal with a rattle and then a rush. You could tell how full the bunker was from the sound. Back and again the coalman trod the path until he had delivered all the sacks. And then you were safe for the winter.

  They sat over the fire, still in their coats, and ate the soup Edith had made. It was thick with onions, fried until they were brown and meltingly sweet. The smell of coal-smoke and onions was slowly hiding the old, dead smell of the house. Behind it all Nina thought she could still taste the faint tang of the sea.

  Nina wouldn’t be allowed to make such soup in her bedsit, even if she knew how. Boiled eggs, toast and baked beans passed muster, but anything fried or foreign was out. Nina had learned that after her attempt at curry brought Mrs Bersted prowling upstairs, sniffing at the doors until she found Nina’s.

  ‘I’ll get bones from the butcher tomorrow,’ said Edith. ‘He’ll be all right, as long as he thinks we’re getting our Christmas meat from him.’

  ‘Aren’t we?’ asked Nina.

  Edith shifted and looked at the fire instead of at Nina.

  ‘It’s not really worthwhile getting a bird for one person,’ she said.

  ‘We could make sandwiches from the leftovers.’

  ‘I’ll be sick of the sight of a bird by then, after the turkey at my sister’s. One year it was so big she had to break its back to get it in the oven.’

  ‘That’s only one meal, though. You’ll be hungry again.’

  Edith looked deeper into the flames. ‘She wants me to stay over,’ she said. ‘She doesn’t want to drive me back on Christmas Day. And then they always go for this long walk on Boxing Day, so it would mess that up if she had to drive all the way over here first.’

  ‘With the baby?’

  ‘Oh, they wrap the baby up and he goes in one of those carrier things, on Simon’s back.’

  ‘So you’re staying over on Boxing Day too?’

  ‘I’ll be back really early the day after, Nina. You know what it’s like. Simon’s not much of a one for people. He’s a musician, you know.’

  Yes, Nina knew. She looked down, flushing at her own stupidity. When Edith had said, ‘I’ll be going to my sister’s for Christmas dinner,’ she had thought: Christmas dinner, that’s only three or four hours. Edith will be here in the morning, and she’ll be back in the evening. It will still be a proper Christmas.

  ‘You’ll be all right, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Nina. ‘I’ll get some sausages.’

  She was glad no one else had heard Edith’s words, or her own thoughts. If Tony was here he’d smile in that way of his, a bit mocking, and say, ‘Little Nina.’ If Mal was here he would stretch and yawn like a cat, and walk away because he didn’t want to think about Nina, not when she was like this. ‘You want to keep your feelings inside you, where they belong,’ he’d said to her once. Remembering it, she flushed more deeply.

  The good thing about Christmas, thought Nina, is that it comes when the days are very short. Once it was dark again she could curl up by the fire. In the old days, she thought, people probably never left their beds all December. They wrapped themselves in their wolfskins and dreamed all winter long. They let their flame burn low, saving themselves for summer. By four it would be thickening into dark, and she could say to herself, ‘Christmas Day is over now.’

  Edith had left at nine. Her sister didn’t come to the house, because you couldn’t bring the car on to the front. Edith was meeting her outside the corner shop.

  Nina cooked the sausages early. It was either a late breakfast or an early lunch. She cut up an apple and grilled slices alongside the sausages. She and Edith had bought a big net bag full of tangerines. Nina thought of squeezing tangerine juice over the sausages, for a change of taste, but decided against it. Instead, she went into the small, grim garden behind the house and picked a few grey heads of lavender to put them in a jar. She looked up and down the row of houses. There were some lights on in the back windows, but not many. A string of coloured fairy lights flashed, four houses along. The garden could be beautiful, Nina thought, if it had the right plants in it. The shape of it was good, and even though you couldn’t see the sea from here, you could smell it and hear the gulls.

  The day was still and cold. She would go out later. It was all right to go for a long walk on Christmas Day; it was what people did. She would build up the sitting-room fire and then she would go out and walk for miles and miles.

  No. She would skate. Edith said that the promenade went on for miles, until it faded into the road that went over the marshes. And the country was perfectly flat. You could see for miles, Edith said, over the salt marshes and down the coast. In the old days, when it froze hard, people used to skate along the drainage ditches.

  Nina had never skated on ice, but on roller skates she was a demon. She’d practised all her childhood, backwards, forwards, turning, jumping, doing arabesques on one leg. She raced, she skated long distances over the clickety pavements, she practised figures on the smoothest and oiliest piece of tarmac she could find. Her skates wore out and she begged another pair for her next birthday. They were metal skates with hard rubber wheels, a laced toe-piece and an ankle strap. You could adjust the length by unscrewing and screwing a metal nut.

  Edith was no good on her skates. They’d tried on that first day. She wobbled; she messed about like an adult playing a child’s game. Nina tried skating with her but it was unbearable. She longed to strike off alone, free, but out of politeness she held back and took off her skates at the first opportunity, saying it was too cold to stay out any longer.

  Now, Nina washed up the sausages, banked the fires and put on her coat, her scarf and a striped woollen hat Edith had knitted for her. She picked up her skates, and locked the house.

  There was no one on the promenade. The sea lay flat, as if a huge hand had stroked it in the night. The horizon was wintry, bare of ships. Nina’s heart lifted. Leaving her skates by the railings, she ran down the steps to the beach, across the shifting, crunching pebbles, to the edge of the water. There it lay, barely breathing. She knelt on the shingle and reached out her hands. The cold water sucked her fingers, then slunk back on itself. She licked the salt taste, dipped her hands again, licked more salt and then slowly she rose from her knees and turned to go back up the beach.

  There was a figure leaning against the railings, watching her. A stab of recognition pierced her. It was him. Surely it was Mal. Scarcely daring to believe, she peered through the thick, cold air. His hair had fallen forward, hiding his face. Yes, it was Mal’s hair, the two dark wings of it, almost meeting.

  She scrambled up the beach, hot, hasty, breathing hard.

  ‘Little Nina,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t call me that. I don’t like it.’

  He raised his eyebrows, smiling with a crooked corner of his mouth. ‘Nina, then,’ he said. ‘After all I suppose you are seventeen.’

  She came up the steps, watching his face a
ll the while. ‘How did you know where I was?’

  ‘I’ve been here before.’

  ‘With Edith?’ she asked quickly, and then wished she hadn’t.

  He nodded, indifferently.

  ‘But I thought you were spending Christmas with your mother,’ she said in a rush.

  ‘I was, but I changed my mind.’

  There was something in his face which made her say, ‘You haven’t eaten.’

  ‘I borrowed Tony’s van,’ he answered.

  ‘I’ve got some sausages.’

  He shrugged; then, as he moved his feet, something clinked. His feet had knocked her skates, on the edge of the promenade where she’d left them.

  ‘Some kid’s left her roller skates behind,’ he observed, looking down.

  She nearly disowned them, but his look made her sure he already knew. ‘They’re mine,’ she said, ‘I’m skating to the marshes.’

  ‘Can I come too?’

  ‘You haven’t got any skates.’ And then she thought of Edith’s. Edith’s feet were big, size eight. Mal’s were small, considering his height. ‘I suppose you could borrow Edith’s,’ she said.

  They went up to the house. It seemed very dark and quiet inside, with the fires sleeping in their grates. Nina’s heart was beating with excitement now. They would skate side by side. He would match his strokes to hers. Mal would be a good skater, she was sure of it. She found Edith’s skates and with the key she adjusted the metal base to its maximum length. She could have done it in complete darkness, she was so used to it.

  There were a few more people about when they set off. Thick, bundled figures in groups, staying together as if they had brought their indoor closeness with them. But she was with Mal. When Edith asked what she had been doing, she would say, ‘Mal came over. We went skating.’