by Pat Rosier
As Ann is getting dressed to leave, Suzanna holds out a small package. “Merry Christmas,” she says. “Go on, open it.” Inside is a crystal on a string, multi-faceted. “You can wear it,” Suzanna said, “or hang it in a window and when the sun comes in it makes rainbows. Like in Pollyanna.”
“Thank you. It's lovely.” She reaches into her handbag and brings out a tiny flax kete with a piece of paua attached. She'd brought several with her as traveller's gifts and this was the last and she’d put it in her bag as she left the house in case there was a chance to give it. “Look inside.” The bone carving is a common fish-hook style, the cord black. A piece of paper explains the design. Suzanna reads it and laughs. “You hooked me good, kiwi girl.” She unfurls the cord and puts it over her head, looking down at the white bone against her dark skin.
“I think I can say it suits me.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Thank you. It's a lovely present.”
A phone call for a taxi, a long last kiss, an arrangement for new year's eve and that's it for a week.
*
“I hope your train is running and on time!” Ann calls out the window as the taxi drives off.
Chloe's pleasure at her presents is a highlight of Christmas day for Ann. She calls them inspired, and says she will teach the twins to use the abacus in due course. But it’s the book she keeps returning to.
“Eight hundred years ago, Fibonacci wrote this,” she says, “and it’s as fresh as if it were yesterday.” She makes notes on pieces of paper, works things out, tells Ann and Joshua about the Fibonacci numbers, each the sum of the previous two. Scribbling on the back of wrapping paper, Joshua and Ann are soon up to 987. Chloe tells them the next number before they can figure it out.
Joshua can’t get the Skype connection to Shirley and Keith going, assumes it’s overloaded, and they agree, in a standard phone call, to leave it for a day or two. The twins have no idea who they are talking to. Chloe warmly reinforces Joshua's invitation that they visit. Ann is surprised at his heartiness as he talks to her father, maybe he’s shy. He’s more relaxed talking to her mother, but then he and Shirley appear to have a lively email conversation going on.
“He seems like such a nice young man,” her mother says to Ann. “Is he?”
“Yes. They're lovely. Well done, you, for setting me up to visit the rellies, all of them.” America, though, seems a long time ago. She brushes off a small maternal fuss about her being among strangers soon, in a hostel in Paris.
Her father wants reassurance, yet again, that she is happy with selling the house, and her belongings. Does she know what she will do when she gets back? Stay with them of course at first, but what about the longer term? He has an idea that they could build on, add a room and a bathroom and kitchen and make a self-contained flat, that back garden was getting too big for him anyway. She can hear her mother in the background, telling him to wait …
“Whoa Dad,” she says, “I think I might want to get my own place.” She can almost hear the thump of his let-down. “You're very kind and generous, but I …”
“I know, I know, you're not my little girl, you're all grown up, and a fully independent woman. I'm just a foolish old man. Now don't you feel bad, I'll find myself another project.”
All good, thinks Ann as she goes to bed, all good in the family. Evelyn has written about hanging out with her buddies, except for Jerry who has gone to New Jersey with his new “young blond.”
“Looking forward to a good year,” Diana wrote, reporting that husband Daniel has a “new, fifty-something PA who is frighteningly competent.”
“I’ve already got presents from you,” Ann had insisted to Joshua and her parents, “Bread and board, not to mention a storage room.”
The crystal Suzanna gave her hangs from the wardrobe handle in her room. She wonders where exactly she is and if she is having a good time, whoever she is with, wishes she had an email address, then can't think what she'd say if she did.
Post-christmas sales start with a bang on boxing day, dominating television and loading the daily paper with flyers. Joshua has some days off and takes over the cooking. Ann goes to a couple of movies, feels flat, finishes all her library books, replaces them without enthusiasm. The children have colds and are more grizzly and fractious than usual. The weather stays dry but is cold, bleak and grey, offering no incentive to go out. Then Ann goes down with the cold, followed soon after by Chloe and then Joshua. Every-one feels awful, and the adults do their best not to be cranky with each other.
Ann spends most of two days in bed. On any day there is one more or less functioning adult, and while Joshua is grateful for Ann's presence, she doesn't feel very useful. Joshua's “Welcome to the Kennington snot factory,” over one bleary lunch, gets him a withering look from his wife. The children bounce back overnight, the adults a little more slowly. Ann realises, on the morning that she feels returned to her usual self, that their virus-immersion lasted only four days; she won't have to defer new year's eve. There’s not been a single text message from Suzanna, and none sent.
Her friends, however, are voluble, with plenty of advice, occasionally touched with envy. “You seem to be great with those kids,” Mo writes, “you could re-train in early childhood education.” Ann thinks about twenty years of working life, and the relentless needs of small children every day.
“Thanks, Mo, for thinking about my future,” she says in her reply, “I've got a bit of an idea that's not a million miles away from yours, but not teaching.”
On Dec 30th, at eight pm, a text arrives from Suzanna—2moro 2pm mine. b prepared 2 wlk & stay onite mine. Okay?—I knew she'd come through, every time she does what she said, she just doesn't do it as soon as I would. Anyway, a couple of days ago she might have said she was too sick, now she was fine it’s Chris and Joshua who are left with nagging coughs.
— Yep. Lkg fwd to it—she sends back, slightly tempted to just send the—K—that some of her friends use. She works hard at not being embarrassed or flustered the next day when she says she could be out overnight.
“I like librarians too,” Chloe says, smiling at her husband. “Don't let her break your heart.”
“It's not that sort of—thing.” Now she is flustered.
Ann walks to Suzanna’s with her mouth closed against the rasp of cold air in her throat, thankful her nose is unblocked. She passes several heavily wrapped Somali families, smiling as she goes, smiles that are returned by the women and children. One of the men scowls at her.
The downstairs door to Suzanna’s flat is ajar and she’s standing in the upstairs doorway.
“Come on up. I knew you'd be on time.” Inside, a long hug, then a long kiss, then Suzanna stands back.
“You look good,” she says. Ann thinks the other woman looks good, too, a little tired maybe.
“You look good enough to ….”
“Have you eaten?” Suzanna gestures at the ready-made filled focaccia on the table. “I haven't, I'm starving.”
Ann, expecting a different greeting, is adjusting her expectations and can see Suzanna noticing and almost feels annoyed. Or disconcerted. Is she being played with? Yes, she is, Suzanna is grinning at her, with an open mouth and a poised sandwich.
“I don't like to be predictable either,” she says, sandwich filling falling onto her plate, “and I really am very hungry.”
Ann relaxes, grins back, pours herself some orange juice from a carton on the table.
“How are you? How was Christmas?”
“You talk, I'll eat.” Suzanna picks up the second focaccia.
Christmas, successful present-giving, her parents, getting a cold, she doesn't bother about what’s in or outside the rules, just chats on until Suzanna wipes her mouth on a paper napkin and says, “Sounds good. I’m glad to be back, and glad to be seeing you. Did you bring your walking shoes?”
“Yes, but…”
“We're not going to the country, babe, we are going to Westminster Bridge to watch the
fireworks and believe me walking is the best way to do it.”
“Okay, I like the sound of that. Won't it be cold?”
“It will be cold. Dry, though, according to the weather woman. No wind. Ideal.”
“Trusty sneakers in trusty back-pack.”
Suzanna takes her hand across the table and they stand and move together. “Slowly,” she says, and, “let me,” when Ann is unzipping her fleece. By the time they get to the bed Ann's body is all sensation and any desire to hear about Suzanna's Christmas has evaporated.
Later, they toast each other with ready-made mulled wine heated in a pot and eat Christmas cake Ann brought. She tells the story of the Edmonds Cook Book recipe emailed from New Zealand and stops looking for places to ask about what Suzanna has done in the week since they last met. She does ask, though, about the Somali man who scowled at her. “Don't look at me like that! Now I feel like I've said something wrong.”
“Not wrong,” Suzanna says, “naive.” Offending the man, she says, if in fact Ann had, could have any number of causes. “Some of the families have lived here in Kennington for years, others are new. Many are muslims, not all, and not all the muslims have the same views about what is right and proper. Maybe the man thinks you, a stranger, shouldn't have acknowledged his wife at all, or should, or shouldn't, as a woman, have acknowledged him. It's easy to assume,” and as Suzanna says this her voice loses its hectoring tone, “that all Somalis, or Afghanis, or whoever, have the some ideas and beliefs. We don't, why should they? He might have just been cold. Or worried about being attacked. Or any damn thing.”
“You're right, of course. It’s not as though…” if she tries to explain she’ll sound defensive, so she says, “I’ve embarrassed myself bringing it up. It's a bit—um—galling.”
“I’ve met a lot worse, and there’s no time for you to wallow, we have immediate matters to discuss.” She reaches behind her for an A to Z and shows Ann her planned route to Westminster Bridge, their spot for watching the midnight fireworks. “A forty-five minute brisk walk each way, max. More fireworks in ten minutes than you'll see in the rest of your life. Huge crowd, usually well-behaved, but leave your valuables here. Okay?”
“Great! I love fireworks! When I was a kid …” Ann leans over to get her shoes out of her backpack.
It isn't until they are beyond the big intersection at Elephant and Castle that the footpath begins to get crowded. Suzanna pulls Ann's arm through hers. “Hold on, she says, “if we get separated we'll never find each other. D'you reckon you could find your way back if you had to?”
Ann nods. “Not by the shortest way, maybe, but I can find Kennington Rd and …. But I'm not planning on letting go.”
“If you can see the Eye, you can see the fireworks,” says Suzanna as they approach the bridge along with an increasingly dense crowd. Suzanna finds the spot where she wants them to be and by manoeuvring the two of them around milling groups and facing down a couple of drunk young men, gets them a place leaning on the parapet. Big Ben is almost directly ahead at the other end of the bridge, with the London Eye in full sight to the right. The clock rings out for eleven.
“Rehearsing for midnight,” says Suzanna.
They can see the river too, boats scurrying about on fireworks business. No-one can block their line of sight.
“Get ready for a cricked neck. And don't, whatever you do, need a pee. There's no chance.”
“I think I'll manage.”
“Good. I was remembering when … oh, never mind. Here.” And Suzanna passes over a flask of something strong and warming. “Whisky and ginger ale,” she says. They stand with their backs to the bridge wall and watch the people. More and more are moving into what look like already full spaces. It is a still, clear night.
Chapter 12
Ann has picked and pecked at London’s surfaces before; on this trip she’s mingling with its history and its present. A big, old city like London contains multitudes of past tenses with the present perching on top of and alongside the maintained and the decayed. All these people, from all over London, all over the world, crowding together for a spectacle, laying a new decade on the centuries. Back in New Zealand grandeur is in the forests and mountains, inland open spaces and coastlines, not usually involving crowds.
Suzanna interrupts her ruminations, pointing at the river, at the men on the boats, their white suits scattered with lights. The two women lean on the bridge, peering into the blackness of the water.
“You've seen this before.” It’s more of a statement than a question.
“Yes,” says Suzanna, “five times. I've seen every one—in person, not on the BBC—since they moved it from Trafalgar Square.” They stand close together, arms tightly linked. The crowd is counting down and gives a great collective sigh as Big Ben sounds its first chime. Except the sound is too solid to be called a chime Ann is thinking, when the show starts in a rush of silver light and an explosion of gunpowder. A huge AAAHHHH flows with the dark river.
“Happy new year, kiwi girl.”
“Ha …” They are kissing, fireworks are sizzling and crackling, and they separate to watch cascades of light, spiking, bursting out, flowing around the London Eye as though that’s what it’s for. No music, just the percussive sounds of explosions, crack and boom, sizzle and spray, the sky lit up with dazzle and flash, ears assaulted with bangs and deep, pounding explosions. Ann hopes people from the world’s war zones have kept their children away from this, even as she marvels at the splendour. A massive rainbow, a final silver blast, and it’s over.
The surge away from the river begins as soon as the last gunpowder star fades, the last glow evaporates. Sound becomes the rumble and hum of people talking and moving off, like thick water in an enormous pond oozing away from an absence in its centre. The spectacle binding all these people together has ended .
“Did you like that, then?” Suzanna's hand is at her back, guiding her in the right direction. On the way in people were drawing together, now they are all, in their singles and pairs and groups, moving out, following invisible threads leading to somewhere that is home, at least for this night. The long length of Ann’s thread leads her inexorably back to New Zealand. Via Paris. She wants to say this to Suzanna, and ask where her thread leads her but conversation is impossible. Sirens now, the inevitable city sirens.
City sirens calling people onto the rocks of mammon.
Stop it! she tells herself, you're not a poet and you know it.
“Yes, yes, I liked it! It was stunning,” she finally replies. “And so did you, I could see on your face how you loved the whole glorious show.” Not that I was watching you, she nearly adds. They’re almost separated by a man pushing through calling someone's name, so they clasp arms again. As the bridge falls away behind them and the people thin out, Ann thinks of a huge bag of marbles, spilled onto a hard floor, spreading out in all directions.
Back in the small flat, Suzanna heats some mulled wine while Ann warms up in the shower. They barely drink a glass of wine each, Suzanna taking hers into the shower room. All they’re good for is falling into bed and sleep.
It’s dark when Ann wakes. She looks around for a night clock and sees Suzanna lying on her back open-eyed.
“Six fifteen,” she says. “Good morning.” Suzanna’s voice is cheerful but in the moment before she speaks Ann sees something else on her face.
“Hello.” Then she is being kissed and stroked and her body is waking in response and she is kissing and stroking too, and there is nothing else. For a long time there is nothing but sweet sensation, body on body, until a final juddering wave, and both fall back, sated.
“Hello two thousand and ten,” says Ann.
“Hello two thousand and ten,” Suzanna repeats.
“No new year's resolutions.”
“No, no new year's resolutions.”
Last new year's day Ann had woken up with Ex, and a job.
Suzanna turns and pulls Ann into her arms, nuzzling her hair and neck. �
�I am very, very glad you came into my library and that I got up the courage to speak to you,” she says. Ann makes a move to pull back and look at her face but is held firmly up close. “I am going to get up and make us pancakes with real Canadian maple syrup, and coffee, and you are going to lie here. When we have eaten I will tell you some things. Don't say anything. SSShhhhhhh,” and Suzanna puts a finger on Ann’s mouth.
Then Suzanna is out of bed. “No talking,” she commands again and goes about pouring pancake mix into the bottom of her largest saucepan, grinding coffee, opening the syrup bottle, humming tunelessly.
Ann watches silently. “Rustling up breakfast,” she thinks, and must have dozed off because she opens her eyes to see Suzanna, dressed, with shower-damp hair. Everything is on the small table, including a pile of pancakes and Suzanna is holding up the robe for her to step into.
“This is how you do pancakes my-style,” she says, fitting actions to her words. “A pancake on your plate, lashings of syrup, yoghurt or cream or both, I like both, roll it up and lean over your plate while you eat it to catch the innards dripping out. Expect a sticky chin. And fingers.”
They demolish the pile.
“Yum,” says Ann, tearing more off the roll of paper towels to wipe herself. “Disgusting but yum.” Suzanna is pouring coffee.
“Now,” she says, when she is sitting opposite Ann again, “now I'll answer some of those questions you have been kind enough not to ask. Ready?”
Ann nods.
“My up north,” she says, looking at the table, “is Leeds. My mother and sister live there. My mother has a mental health diagnosis that social services in their wisdom keep changing. She is how she is because of things that have happened in her life. You have no idea.”
She holds up a hand to stop Ann from saying anything.
“My sister, now seventeen, is pregnant. Her first child died of foetal alcohol sickness. Men come and go, emphasis on go. Mother and sister both think lesbians are sick and depraved. I live in London so I can have a life. I go back because if I didn't nothing good would ever happen for them. There is no way to bring the two parts of my life together, and no way I will give up either. You, kiwi girl, are a wonderful fantasy from another world, a world I could never inhabit, any more than you could mine.”