The Year of the Ladybird

by Graham Joyce

  When we were finished she collapsed on me. I lay in a tangle of her raven-black hair. It made me think of the dark woods of fairy-tale; her sweat and the scent of her all over me. As we lay there breathing hard I tried to remember more about the things that happened during the night.

  ‘You okay?’ she said in my ear.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Hungover?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘I thought I was never going to get you back here.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t you remember any of it?’

  ‘Some.’

  She reached over to the cabinet and picked up the small travel clock I kept there. She sighed. ‘I’ve got to get back to my place, somehow in these clothes. What a giveaway. I need to get my Greencoat outfit and get back here for the briefing.’ I waited for her to get up. Instead she shimmied her way up my body, pressing her nipples against mine. Then she soul-kissed me.

  ‘Stay here,’ I mumbled through mashed lips.

  ‘I don’t want to get up, but I have to.’ She hauled herself out of bed and found her dress on the floor. She checked herself in the small mirror behind the door. ‘Jesus, I’m a wreck. God, I need a shower but I’m not taking one here.’

  Well, her hair was a thrilling mess. Her eye make-up was smudged, too. But as she stood there naked, holding her dress in one hand and running her fingers through her dark hair she looked wonderfully happy. Her tawny skin glowed.

  ‘You look beautiful, Nikki.’

  She pulled her dress on over her head and wriggled into it and then she climbed into her heels. ‘I can’t even find my knickers. They’re probably still on the beach, you animal. You threw them in the water.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘Yes. And lots of things beside.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I got a bit scared of you.’ She looked at me oddly. ‘A tiny bit.’

  ‘What happens now?’ I said.

  ‘What happens now?’ She held up her left hand. ‘You put a ring on this finger, that’s what happens now. Joke. No, I’ve had my way with you and I’m satisfied. It’s done. Thanks. Ta-ra and all that. No, I’m still joking! Look at your face!’

  What I wanted to ask her was: are we a secret? Are we an item? Are we open to the others? This wasn’t just because that had been the absolute pattern with Terri. Even asking seemed such a statement, a declaration. The question itself seemed to contain a promise. She sat on the bed and leaned in for a kiss, slipping her hand under the sheets and running her fingers along my thigh. Then she quickly withdrew. ‘No, I have to go. You need to get moving, too. I’ll see you at the briefing.’

  Nikki went to the door, unlocked it and opened it just a crack. She peered through the gap and then opened it a little further so she could check up and down the corridor. When she decided the coast was clear she blew me a kiss and slipped out, closing the door behind her. Almost instantly I heard another door open and someone else stumble into the corridor. Bad luck. I heard a loud wolf whistle.

  I knew her head would be held high. ‘Good morning,’ I heard her say loudly, in her bold Yorkshire accent. There was an ironic arch to her voice and her heels clicked noisily as she made her way out.

  18

  Causing no disturbance around the Jack

  There was a morose mood amongst the Entertainments staff when I got to the auditorium for the morning briefing. Pinky sat on the piano stool at the edge of the stage with his hands in his pockets and his socked-and-sandaled feet crossed in front of him. The rest of the staff sat in the front row of the auditorium facing him. They had been joined by another figure in a blue blazer who was perhaps responsible for the mood.

  It was the office manager – the man with the pencil-thin moustache who had fed breadcrumbs to sparrows on my first day. He also sat in the front row with his legs crossed and with his hands in his lap.

  Nobby started on me as soon as I walked in. He’d surpassed himself this morning. He was wearing his striped blazer, apparently without a shirt. His scruffy, grey trainers looked like newsprint dissolving in the rain and in contrast to Pinky he wore no socks at all. ‘Christ, look at the state of you! Dragged through a hedge backwards forwards sideways and head over heels or what and—’

  ‘Give it a break, Nobby,’ Pinky said sourly. It was the nearest I’d seen Pinky come to introducing a disciplinary measure.

  Nobby was about to reply; then thought better of it.

  ‘Anyone seen Nikki?’

  Tony looked at me pointedly, folded his arms, then very slowly turned his head one hundred and eighty degrees away from me.

  Gail, who shared a room with her, spoke up. ‘She’ll be on her way. She’s a bit off colour this morning.’

  Pinky blinked at her.

  ‘Women’s problems,’ Gail said.

  ‘There’s been a few complaints,’ Pinky said. He gazed glumly at the carpet and paused so that we could take it all in. He snorted, like an old coal miner putting a pinch of snuff up his nose. ‘Things not well organised. Equipment not laid out properly. Chaotic activities. Lack of attention to detail. People—’

  The swing doors opened and Nikki bustled in. ‘Sorry I’m behind,’ she said, taking up a seat next to Tony.

  ‘Here’s the hedge,’ Nobby said.

  Nikki looked at Nobby. ‘What?

  ‘People turning up late for programme duties,’ Pinky said. Poor Nikki, who was normally never late for anything. ‘Certain activities not even being run. Appearance and personal hygiene. Nobby, you talk about other people but look at the state of you. You better get back to your room and get a shirt on. You’re not going out like that. Get some clean socks on while you’re at it.’

  Nobby’s jaw went into overdrive. ‘Right right right! You boys get me a shirt that fits not a piece of sail cloth or a winding sheet or a three sheets to the wind sheet one that actually fits as per collar size as per described instead of a boy scout’s fuckin’ jamboree tent and I will—’

  ‘Just get a shirt, Nobby, you’re a disgrace,’ said Pinky.

  ‘I’ll tell you what is a disgrace, shall I? Shall I? Shall I?’

  ‘You know what?’ Pinky said. ‘You and I, we’ve reached the end of the road, mate. End of the road.’

  ‘So what you gonna do? Fire me? Eh? Eh? Eh?’

  The man in the blue blazer stood up. ‘Come and have a word in my office, Nobby.’

  Nobby was on his feet. ‘You know what you lot are? All of you? Blackshirt fascists. That’s what you are, Blackshirts. Sad little Nazi running-dogs. Night of the fuckin’ long knives, is it? I’ll fuckin’ spill the beans. I will, don’t you worry.’

  ‘Come and have a word in my office, Nobby. There’s no need for all this.’

  Nobby turned to us. ‘Are any of you gonna speak up for me? Are you? Any of you?’

  There was silence.

  ‘There’s your answer,’ Tony said. ‘And to be fair, you’ve been told about it time and time enough. You’ve had plenty of warnings, Nobby.’

  ‘Come to my office, Nobby, let’s have a talk.’

  Nobby stood with his hands on his hips. He turned and looked at me full on. His eyes were wet. Getting no response from me he shuffled to face Nikki. Then Gail. It was a serious situation but there was something comical about him shuffling from one position to another in his filthy, broken trainers, getting in everyone’s face. Finally, he stormed out of the theatre, still babbling, followed by the personnel manager.

  We all sat in silence for a couple of minutes after he’d gone. Then Pinky got to his feet. ‘Well, I don’t know about you lot but I’ve got work to do.’

  He left Tony in charge of deploying us. Nobby’s responsibilities were reassigned. We were expected to double up. I asked if this was a permanent arrangement or whether Nobby would be replaced.

  ‘I don’t think,’ Tony said rather sharply, ‘that this is the time to be forming a Trade Union, do you?’

  I never saw Nobby again after that.

  I d
idn’t get to work with Nikki that morning but I did see her for lunch. Gail joined us, and that suppressed the conversation we wanted to have. But when Gail returned her plates at the hatch I said, ‘Tony seemed to know already. Nobby certainly knew, too, though I don’t know how.’

  Nikki’s brow wrinkled. ‘Would there be any particular reason why it would have to be a big secret?’

  The reason was, of course, Terri. I took a big breath. ‘No.’

  ‘I mean I’m not proposing to hand out a press-release to everyone, but what we’re doing is not illegal or against any rules that I know about.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If they find out, they find out.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Only I would like to be able to hold your hand occasionally in public.’ She touched the back of my wrist. I must have flinched. She took her hand away and sighed. ‘You do want to carry on seeing me, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course. ‘I’m “seeing” you now.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  The truth was I did want to carry on ‘seeing’ her. I wanted to see her naked in my arms right then, right at that moment if you want the truth of it. It wasn’t that I had no interest in her. It was just that I felt terrible about how Terri would take this, assuming she was still alive. I felt an obligation to work through this whole thing and find out what had happened. In reality, Nikki was a relief to have around. She brought a lightness of spirit, whereas Terri was a brooding presence. The demons of a bad history weighed down her shoulders, through no fault of her own, it seemed to me. All the madness of what had happened between us was now thrown into stark relief whenever I thought about Terri, and I knew it always would be. If I’d been dragging chains, Nikki had come along and unlocked them.

  ‘I do want to see you Nikki, yes. I want to be with you. I want to pull your skirt off, right now.’

  ‘There are rules against that, I know.’

  ‘Can we just keep it . . . low profile? I mean like you say, we don’t have to advertise it, do we?’

  ‘Okay. If that’s what you want.’

  Gail came back to the table. ‘What are you two lovebirds up to?’

  After lunch I made my way to the bowling green, past the fortune-teller’s white caravan, to organise the old boys in their games of crown-green bowls. Before the backstage theatre events I’d been learning from the old boys about how to handle the woods and how to use the bias on the bowl to make it run in a curved path. Now that any and every distraction was essential to the balance of my mind I was determined to try to put my mind to it again.

  I’d been astonished at how many forms of delivery there were in simply rolling a bowl along the grass to get close to the jack. But then nothing in life seemed simple any more, not even bowling. ‘Draw’ shots aim at causing no disturbance around the jack. A ‘finger peg’ is initially aimed to the right of the jack, and curves in to the left. A ‘fire’ or ‘strike’ uses speed and force to knock either the jack or a specific bowl out of play. A ‘block’ shot is deliberately short to stop an opponent’s draw shot.

  These elderly men were full of cunning. They enjoyed teaching me all their tricks – or had before I’d suddenly lost interest. One of the old fellows, a retired coal miner, hailed me. ‘Has ’ta played before?’ he said, puffing on his briar tobacco pipe.

  ‘Once or twice,’ I said.

  Many men of retirement age like to teach young men. They know that this life is fleeting and time is limited. They want to leave something behind. It was hard to keep my mind on draws and blocks, and on finger pegs and fires, but I did my best. The old fellow with the pipe was gently trying to improve my delivery style. He complained that I had no follow-through. And he told me that I should extract every advantage from having bowled the target-jack.

  When I said I didn’t know what he meant by that he took his pipe out of his mouth and rolled his eyes. ‘Tha bowled the jack, so tha knows the weight and length and curve tha wants to bowl t’wood, don’t thee? Tha’s still got the memory of it in tha body, han’t tha?’

  I felt a sudden jolt, like when you crack a knuckle, but somewhere in my brain. I stood there thinking about what he’d just said. You’ve still got the memory of it in your body, haven’t you? I looked at him like he was a puffing Buddha and he’d just given me a koan to figure out. He was right. Somewhere in my body was the exact memory of the delivery of the jack, and therefore I should be able to summon it to mind and replicate it. Somewhere in my body lay other memories, too.

  I was aware that he was waiting for me to make my play. I bowled and got pretty damn close to the jack. The old boy puffed on his pipe, content with me. Then when I bowled my second, I’d lost it again.

  Apropos of nothing at all he said, ‘Did you know there was a lion in town?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve seen it.’

  He took his pipe out of his mouth again. ‘What? Tha saw it?’

  ‘Yes. You can see it every Saturday.’

  ‘What’s tha talking about?’

  ‘The lion. They take it for a walk every Saturday.’

  ‘They won’t take it for a walk now,’ he said. ‘They shot it.’

  ‘What? Who shot it?’

  ‘The police. It killed a dog and attacked a little girl. They shot it.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘This morning. It had got loose and was causing mayhem in the town.’

  I realised we had been talking at cross-purposes. ‘Was it a lion from the circus?’

  ‘Well, I daresay it hadn’t come from the Town Hall.’

  ‘That’s a tragedy,’ I said.

  ‘Tha can’t have a killer lion on the loose. Imagine that poor little girl!’

  ‘What little girl?’

  ‘The one it attacked.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘I mean you’re right.’ I picked up a ‘wood’, weighing the polished resin in my hand.

  ‘Now then,’ he said. ‘Head down, eyes still. And always follow through.’

  19

  A bit of street-fighting is in order and would help

  I fell in love with Nikki, plain and simple. It may seem unfeeling to say so, but I thought less and less about Terri. Neither had I heard from or seen Colin since the night we’d driven up to the mine shaft at Black Bank. I could only speculate; and, since I didn’t like what I speculated, I even stopped doing that.

  In some ways I found it easy to blame Terri for what had happened. It was convenient to convince myself that I had been the one seduced. The truth was that with Nikki it was utterly different. I was allowed to display my happiness at being with her instead of creeping around in secrecy, hiding every smile and disguising every remark.

  But I wasn’t allowed to forget her completely. One early evening I was making my way towards the theatre with a couple of boxes of candy rock in my arms when four men stepped out of the narrow alley between the theatre and the offices. One of the men was Terri’s’s brother. Williams and Hanson, the two knaves from the kitchen who had been at the National Front meeting were also there. The fourth was a burly figure I’d never seen before. He was kitted out in the orthodox skinhead uniform of Sta-Prest trousers, Doc Martens and braces over a neat, short-sleeved Ben Johnson shirt.

  ‘A word if you don’t mind,’ said Terri’s brother.

  None of them were smiling. ‘I’ll just get rid of these boxes.’

  The unknown skinhead stepped behind me.

  ‘We’ll just be a minute,’ said Talbot. He motioned that I should lead the way down the alley.

  I tried to look over my shoulder but the skinhead crowded me. ‘What’s it about?’ I knew it had to be about Terri.

  ‘That’s why I want a word.’

  The burly skinhead was still breathing on my neck, and I was flanked by Williams and Hanson. Williams had his usual goofy smirk on offer but Hanson, the one to whom I’d given a carton of cigarettes didn’t seem to want to make eye contact. My options were limited. I thought I could either walk down the alley un
der my own steam or get dragged down there. I opted for the former.

  When we got behind the buildings I stood with my back to the wall, still holding the two cartons of candy rock. The meaty skinhead folded his arms, pushing his fists behind his biceps as if to make them look bigger.

  ‘What’s in the boxes?’ said Williams.

  ‘So what’s this about?’

  Williams reached across and took the lid off the top carton, exposing the cellophane-wrapped gaily-striped sticks of rock.

  Terri’s brother stepped in between us. ‘You’re a Leavisite.’

  I squinted at him but said nothing. I hadn’t a clue what he was talking about. What had this got to do about Terri? The only Leavisites I’d ever heard of were followers of the flowery literary critic F. R. Leavis; I knew in my bones that Terri’s brother hadn’t got me up against the wall to discuss Literature.

  ‘You’re Colin’s man, aren’t you?’

  ‘In what sense?’

  ‘Don’t deny it.’

  Hanson piped up for the first time. ‘He’s sound; I’ve told you.’ He glanced at me and then he looked away. He was embarrassed by all of this; I was grateful I’d bought him with a carton of cigarettes.

  Terri’s brother held up a large, putty-coloured finger to silence Hanson. ‘If I get a scrap of proof of what’s gone on: you, Tony, Colin, Broomfield . . . all the lot of you. It won’t be a little chat next time. Do you understand me?’

  I was about to tell him he may just as well have been speaking in Urdu for all the sense I made of it, but given his affiliations I thought better of it. But I couldn’t say no I don’t understand you, any more than I could implicate myself in all of this by saying yes I understand you, so I remained silent.

  After a moment, Williams swatted the cartons out of my hands. The cheerful sticks of rock spilled across the concrete path, many of them breaking in the process. Williams bared his teeth at me, but the burly skinhead closed his eyes. Hanson too turned away in shame.