If only dustbins worked like compost-heaps: garden waste and kitchen waste going down into the dark, in order to spring up again in new green fertile growth. A similar thing had happened in her own life - her bitter youth and wasted years composting into the deep mulch of compassion. Yet no such resurrection here; only snuff-out in a landfill-site. Indeed, she was appalled at her own callousness in not considering the plight of dustbins earlier in her life. There was no excuse at all, given the scale of the problem. Tons and tons of so-called waste must be thrown out every day, and that in just the British Isles alone.
In fact, why was she keeping vigil by this one insignificant wheely-bin in this one small block of flats, when there was a much larger rubbish dump down the lane by the overgrown allotments? She must go there straight away - never mind the cold; the clammy grey mist already blurring landmarks and heralding the night - she must show her solidarity with all things ditched, scrapped, spurned, disdained, cast out.
*
Returning to her flat, at last, she had no idea what date it was, let alone what day. Everything was blurred, as if that clammy mist had never lifted, but sunk deep into her brain. Vaguely, she remembered being ill, lying sweating and delirious beside the rubbish dump. Though the fever must have abated, because she recalled crawling down a path, to take refuge in an empty shed, once used by the allotment-owners. She had stayed there ever since, living on scraps of foodstuffs from the dump.
Now, recovered, and trudging down her familiar street, her overwhelming concern was for the mice. They’d probably had enough food in her absence to manage fairly comfortably, but she preferred to be there with them, as mother and provider. She was also worried that, while she’d been away, Christmas might have come and gone, and the thought of “losing” Christmas seemed somehow deeply remiss. She had planned to make it special for them - lay on their own Christmas pudding, dense with fruits and nuts, and mince pies, of course, and marzipan, and a box or two of chocolate brazils. Perhaps she could celebrate it late, but if, as she suspected, it were January already, there’d be nothing Christmassy left in the shops.
As she approached her block of flats, several people glanced at her with ill-concealed distaste. She knew she must look a sight, with tousled hair and filthy clothes, but those were only surface things. She’d once met a man, equally unkempt, who wrote astounding poetry and who, in his youth, had hitchhiked to Calcutta and helped beggars build new lives. Yet “decent” folk shunned him as a “tramp”, as she was shunned, at present.
Inserting her key in the lock, she pushed open the front door, only to stop in disbelief at the sight that met her eyes. The bedsit was completely bare - no stick of furniture remained, no rag-rugs on the floor, no curtains at the windows, no crates or clutter anywhere, no cereal, no biscuits, no well-nibbled Newberry Fruits. And there was a completely different smell in the air - not the pungent scent she’d come to know and love, but the harsh reek of lethal chemicals gagging in her nostrils.
Hitler, she thought! He and his henchmen must have been here, aided and abetted by her hostile, hateful landlord; taken advantage of her absence to destroy her only friends. Aghast, she got down on her hands and knees, to peer into the holes in the skirting, where the mice retreated to sleep. There were no holes. Every one had been filled or boarded up. Beyond would be only corpses - pathetic, hapless victims.
Fighting a wave of nausea, she dashed back through the open door and continued running, running, down the street, along the lane, until she reached the rubbish dump and the safety of the shed. And, curling herself into a small ball at the back, she sobbed her grief and outrage to the cold, uncaring universe.
*
She was woken by a familiar rustle. Alexandra? Zeena? Opening her eyes, she was surprised to see a slightly larger mouse than hers, with bigger ears, bulbous eyes, and different coloured fur. It was sitting on its haunches, watching her with both fear and curiosity, its long tail twitching, its small pink nose aquiver.
“It’s all right,” she whispered gently. “There’s room for both of us.”
She shut her eyes again, pretending to go back to sleep, so that her nervous shed-mate wouldn’t be disturbed. However, after half an hour of lying almost motionless, she was forced to get up for the sake of her complaining skin.
Looking round for the mouse, she eventually traced it to an old Wellington boot lying on its side in one corner of the shed. Inside the boot was a nest, and inside the nest was a brood of eight - only a few days old, she guessed, judging by their hairless coats. She gazed at them, enchanted. How remarkable, extraordinary, that once again she was sharing a home with mice, when her own had been so recently exterminated. These were field mice, not house mice, but in essence the two species were the same. Surely it must be meant; arranged by some benevolent Fate to appease her for her loss. Already she had nine companions and, if she fed and tended them, the nine would reproduce in their turn, until she had a shedful. She must go out now, catch the shops before they shut, lay in stocks of nuts and seeds, fresh vegetables, fresh fruit. She wasn’t sure if field mice had a sweet tooth, but she’d find out soon enough.
She tiptoed to the door, shivering in the evening air. Twilight was just falling, the sky barred with grey and gold. As she crept along the narrow path that skirted the rubbish dump, she stopped to stare, in surprised delight, at the contents of the pile. When she’d arrived this morning, there’d been nothing that she hadn’t seen before, but now, discarded on the top, lay a tall, impressive Christmas tree, still planted in its sturdy red tub. Its branches were browning a little, and one or two had snapped off, but it was in good shape overall. And, strewn across it, was a tangled heap of decorations - tinsel, paper streamers, golden baubles, silver stars. Excitedly, she climbed the slope to the dump, crouching on her hands and knees to explore its treasures further. A half-eaten Christmas pudding had been casually tossed away, along with the remnants of a Christmas cake, stuffed into a plastic bag. And next to that, a carton of mince pies, with at least a couple left in it, and a red string bag of tangerines, not all of which were mouldy. Some wealthy family had obviously dumped their leftovers, though that again was strange. Wouldn’t she have heard them during the day - the noise of a car engine, raised voices, tramping feet? And why had they brought their rubbish to this derelict place instead of to the official dump? Hardly anyone ventured down this uneven rutted track, yet here were all the ingredients for a full-scale family Christmas - and hers for the taking, at no expense, no cost. Yes, it was obvious now, some Force must be concerned for her, working for her benefit and that of her new friends. She would decorate the tree for them, share the Christmas food with them, restore a sense of harmony.
Piling her arms with provisions - cake, pudding, mince pies, tangerines - she carried them in to the shed, putting them down as gently as she could, so as not to alarm the mice. Then she went back for the Christmas tree, first disentangling the pile of decorations. As she tugged at yards of tinsel, the sky dramatically lightened, and a three-quarters moon bellied out from behind the clump of trees. She stood gazing at it, humbled. Now she had the gift of light, along with all the rest.
As she craned her neck to keep the orb in view, she was aware of scaly patches on its surface, dark encrusted areas, discoloration, lesions. How familiar they looked, like the lesions on her back, the blood-encrusted sore place just below her coccyx, the abrasion on her arm, where the skin was still discoloured. Could the moon be thin-skinned, too - that pale ship on the dark sea of the night foundering as it sailed the broken world?
The thought was oddly comforting, and, watched by its unblinking eye, she slipped back into the shed, to celebrate the, perhaps, first happy Christmas of her life.
About Wendy Perriam
Like the plots of her novels, Wendy Perriam’s life has taken a few unexpected turns, including expulsion from her convent school for heresy, being told by doctors at the age of 21 that she wouldn’t live beyond 30, and a variety of offbeat jobs, from artist’s
model to carnation-disbudder to starring role in a blue movie.
After graduating from Oxford, where she read History and also trod the boards, she ran away to America and worked as a cocktail-waitress, rustling up Harvey Wallbangers and sorting out the drunks. She now divides her time between teaching and writing, regarding both as a life-raft.
Wendy started writing at the age of 5, completing her first ‘novel’, A Pony At Last, on her 12th birthday. However, after the loss of her Catholic faith and serious illness in her twenties, she went through a period of silence and depression, only rallying a decade later.
Since then, she has written 18 novels and 7 short-story collections, which boldly mix sex, religion and humour, and have been acclaimed for their psychological insight and their power to disturb, divert and shock. She has also written extensively for newspapers and magazines and has contributed to anthologies of poetry. Her television appearances include Catholics and Sex, The Truth About Women, The Pat Kenny Show, London Tonight, Business Breakfast and Writing About Sex, and she was a frequent contributor to the radio series Stop The Week and Fourth Column.
In 2013, she was awarded an Honorary Doctorate by Kingston University for her “services to literature and her contribution to reading pleasure”.
Wendy feels that her many conflicting life experiences - strict convent-school discipline and swinging-sixties wildness, marriage and divorce, infertility and motherhood, 9-to-5 conformity and periodic Bedlam - have helped shape her as a writer. ‘Writing allows for shadow-selves. I’m both the staid conformist matron and the slag; the well-organised author toiling at her desk and the madwoman shrieking in a straitjacket.’
Other Works by Wendy Perriam
Novels:
1. Absinthe for Elevenses
2. Cuckoo
3. After Purple
4. Born of Woman
5. The Stillness the Dancing
6. Sin City
7. Devils, for a Change
8. Fifty-Minute Hour
9. Bird Inside
10. Michael, Michael
11. Breaking and Entering
12. Coupling
13. Second Skin
14. Lying
15. Tread Softly
16. Broken Places
17. An Enormous Yes!
Short Story Collections:
1. Dreams, Demons and Desire
2. Virgin in the Gym
3. Laughter Class
4. The Biggest Female in the World
5. Little Marvel
6. The Queen’s Margarine
7. “I’m on the Train!”
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