Demo

by Alison Miller

  And then, he’s fumbling wi the condom, rippin the paper off, pullin his ain jeans down at the same time. He’s too close to me, so I can’t see what he’s doin. The smell a my dreads reminds me of him, reminds me of Florence. Then there’s a snap and a sharp stink of rubber and he’s pressin against me, guidin himsel into me and

  Oh!

  I put my hands on his bum and feel the way the cheeks hollow out every time he thrusts and he’s inside me and my bum presses harder into the cold tiles and this is the third time I’ve did this and I don’t even know if I want to and I do want to and I

  Aaahhhh. He groans and jerks and shudders and goes slack against me. His breath is hot on my cheeks and my ear is wet.

  And then he’s out of me, takin off the condom, pullin up his jeans. He moves the curtain to one side, steps out the bath, turns, wipes his mouth on his sleeve, leans forward and kisses me on the forehead, a wee dry kiss, stands back and looks me up and down, pats my pubes, smiles.

  Nice pussy, he says.

  And his hand is off me. He tiptoes to the door, listens, unbolts it slowly, slowly, quietly, and steps outside. Closes it behind him. The curtain ripples a bit in the draught he’s left. The lassie in the tree tightens her grip on the guy. Then it goes still again. Back to normal.

  And I’m standin in the bath wi my jeans at my feet and the condom lyin beside the plughole, oozin spunk, and the wrapper torn in half down at the other side of my boots.

  Clare! Clare, gonny come out a there for fucksake! I’m desperate for a slash. Danny’s voice sounds slurred.

  Comin. Just gies a minute.

  I haul up my jeans and cover them with my jumper. At least Danny doesny know the door’s no locked. I pick up the condom and wrapper, shift the curtain the tiniest wee bit, so the rings willny rattle, and climb out quiet onto the floor. I search about for a bin, then think, No, unroll some bog paper and wrap it in that.

  Come on, Clare, I’m gonny piss mysel.

  Comin.

  I look at the window; it’s dark outside now. I don’t see any way to open it.

  Clare.

  I shove the whole mess in my jeans pocket, pull down my top and open the door.

  I thought you’d a grew out a that by now, Danny says. His voice is slow and hazy. Spendin fuckin hours in the bathroom.

  I’m away hame now, I says. I’m gonny get my coat.

  Right, he says. But he’s stoned. He doesny gie a shit.

  I’m back in the spangly red hall and the livin room door’s shut. I tiptoe across to it and peep in. No sign a Julian. Just Jed, lyin back in the armchair wi a wee squashed end of a joint in his hand, starin softly into the distance. There’s a bank a blue smoke driftin across the dark window, ower the top a the carry-out trays and beer bottles. The whole place smells a dope and curry.

  Hi, Clare, Jed says, and waves the dowt at me.

  Where’s Julian?

  Gone to crash out he said.

  Right, I says, and I pick up my coat and bag. Say cheerio for me, will you? He waves the fag end again.

  On second thoughts, don’t bother.

  He isny bothered. He’s away wi the bees.

  First bin I come to when I get down the stairs and out the close, I dump the mess fae my pocket. Some of it’s leaked out in my jeans and the slime’s all over my hand. As soon as I’m sittin in the taxi, I look in my bag for my hankies.

  That’s when I see it. Laetitia’s diary.

  March 2003–October 2004

  21 MARCH 2003 – GLASGOW

  Well, they’ve done it: despite protests the world over, the Americans have dragged us into war and are bombing hell out of Iraq. The other day, Julian, Danny, Jed and I watched the Commons debate on a pub TV; watched Blair, reeking of Righteousness, stand his moral high ground, use his oratorical skills to persuade Parliament it was the only thing to do. But we were all a little stunned when the first missiles landed on Baghdad, in spite of knowing it was inevitable. Danny and Jed were unusually subdued. A cloud of hopelessness descended on the flat and not even Julian’s best comic efforts could dispel it. Jed went out and bought an enormous, widescreen, ex-rental television – a bargain, he said – so we can follow events as they unfold. But after the first evening, I couldn’t watch it and left them to their obsessive channel-hopping. Coverage seems to be 24/7: unreal night vision targets flare momentarily as ‘smart bombs’ pick them off; reporters on hotel balconies wear flak jackets, try not to flinch when shells whizz and bombs crack in the city behind them; ‘ordinary’ Iraqis, i.e., men in cafés, give guarded responses to questions about Saddam Hussein; and the first footage of limbless, crying children in narrow hospital beds has begun to filter through. Unbearable.

  At least it has prompted me to take up my journal again. Not to record the horrors, but to track where I am in it all, what with the baby coming. I finally, finally stopped lamenting my lost journal and bought this new notebook the other day, a rather fine one, covered in turquoise silk with green embroidery, a bright little talisman against the darkness, one that won’t so easily slip from my grasp. Still can’t for the life of me remember what I did with my last one. I know I had it the day Julian and I met that peculiar man in Silvio’s café, but none of the staff would admit to having seen it. Perhaps our friend with the blank-eyed stare and the sonorous voice found it. Appalling thought! That a stranger might read it! When I try to recall what was in it, what incriminating details, embarrassing revelations, I come up with very little, even though it covered most of last year and all of the year before. It makes me think I must try to be more conscious of what I commit to these new pages, treat this notebook as something other than a repository of self-reflexive outpourings.

  I already regret not recording the start of my pregnancy. And yet, would I have written anything during the months of sickness? Probably not. I have never felt so ill, so utterly wretched, so totally in the grip of a process at once part of me and a thousand times more powerful. It was hard not to think I was carrying some alien life form. Yet, now I’m better than I’ve been for months, especially since I’ve felt the baby kicking. All the old clichés turn out to be true: I’m ‘blooming’, the nurse at the clinic told me; Weary, Cheery and Dreary, the three trimesters, have suddenly clicked into place and I’m enjoying a welcome break in Cheery-land. Progesterone sure as hell beats the pants off Prozac as a mood enhancer! Which is just as well, since I couldn’t keep the damn capsules down. It’s such a relief to have stopped vomiting, anything afterwards would be heaven by comparison. But it’s more than that, I’m full of energy, joy almost. Against all reason, it has to be said, what with Mother’s frank aversion to the news when I told her in London last month, the disappointment in Daddy’s voice pulsating darkly down the phoneline, Julian’s wild oscillations about the prospect of fatherhood. And I don’t care. I don’t care. ‘I’ve boarded the train there’s no getting off.’ I’m having this baby and that’s that. Perhaps the feelgood factor is some dastardly trick one’s hormones play, to convince one to see the pregnancy through. It’s certainly become more of a reality in the past few weeks; I can believe there is a baby now. I ought to have let them tell me the sex when they did the scan, then I could assign a pronoun, make it even more real: she’s kicking; he’s peaceful today for a change. But I’d rather wait, somehow. Generic BABY is as much of a concept as I can cope with at present. And it’s definitely as much as Julian can handle. He goes quiet sometimes and I wonder what he’s thinking, but he’s never once suggested he won’t go the distance and stay with me. With US. With me and little Letty, as he calls the baby. For that I am truly grateful.

  10 APRIL 2003 – GLASGOW

  Baghdad has fallen to the Americans; the statue of Saddam toppled. Comical Ali, so-called, the Iraqi Information Minister, denied it right up to the end. ‘If the Americans come to Baghdad, we will hit them with shoes!’ he said. Danny told me a whole cult has grown up around him – website, T-shirts, badges, the lot. ‘Wait till you see, that cunt’ll turn up o
n the Parkinson show!’

  Meanwhile, yet another demo last weekend, though much smaller than the enormous ones in February. Is there any point? Is anyone listening? Somehow, being pregnant makes it more urgent. Imagine bringing a baby into a world where people do such things to one another. And yet, there’s my father supporting Blair too. Demonstrations and bannerwaving, those are the politics of adolescence, he said to me; you have to grow up eventually and that means making difficult decisions and abiding by the consequences. As if it’s Blair or Bush who will have to suffer for what they have unleashed. The most they will endure is political defeat, followed by the publication of their war memoirs and many lucrative years on the after-dinner speech circuit. Well, Blair, at any rate; I doubt if George W. will leave the golf course! I have never felt so cut off from Daddy as I did during that phonecall. He even used the odious euphemism, ‘collateral damage’, when I spoke of the images of maimed and orphaned Iraqi children. This I might have expected from my mother, but not Daddy. As for my ‘difficult decision’ to go ahead with the pregnancy and ‘live by the consequences’? That was another matter: You’re throwing your life away. It’s your grandchild, I said, but he was unmoved.

  Julian is in London to speak to his parents about the baby; I wonder if he’ll have more success. It meant he wasn’t at the demo, which I was glad of in the end. Danny was there, Jed, the watchful Clare, complete with dreads(!) and her little Muslim friend, Fariah (I think). Clare was wearing a T-shirt she’d had printed Katharine Hamnett-style with a message of her own:

  Very effective, I must admit. Wish I’d thought of it. Together, they made quite a statement: Clare, like some fierce but diminutive Celtic warrior princess, white T-shirt, black slogan, flaming, snaky hair; her friend in black from head to toe, carrying a placard with the same message – English on one side, Urdu on the other. A jovial policeman walked alongside us for a bit, told them it was a dangerous invitation to make to him and his colleagues. Clare shot the poor guy a look to wither his manhood! And Fariah unleashed a stream of invective in Urdu. Or at least, that’s how it sounded. They both seemed so young and – what? – unencumbered, that I had a flash of myself in my current state, cow-like, ponderous. And, if I feel that now with over three months to go…

  Jed was very sweet, told me my new top was the exact shade of the kingfisher’s wing he’d seen last week down by the Kelvin. Made me realize it’s my colour of the moment, kingfisher, the same as my new diary. I asked him if the bird was as vivid as its reputation and they all seemed surprised – assumed I’d have seen flocks of them at Wellwood. I was immediately uncomfortable. Of course there was a river, but we’d left for London before I became interested in such things. It was pure iridescent, man! Jed said, his eyes alight. I began to tell them about the heron Julian and I saw by the weir last November, but caught a glimpse of Clare’s scowl and let it drop. She’s unvaryingly sullen towards me now, despite my best efforts to be friendly. Whatever Julian says, she read more into their Florence adventure than he insists it warranted. I tried to broach it with Danny after the demo, but he gave me such a look! I was mortified; I forget sometimes, that we had our own brief liaison situation. Mostly it’s fine, no tension that I can detect. But this time, Danny said, Is your head full of wee boxes? Some you keep locked up, so the things that don’t suit can’t escape and damage the official version? I guess I deserved that, though I was a bit taken aback by his ferocity. It sounded rehearsed too, as if he’d given it some thought. The good thing about being pregnant is that one is so completely taken up, one’s body and mind surrendered to the process, that these things recede quickly into the background. Next day, he brought me a mug of tea and asked, a trifle anxiously, if I was alright. He’s so solicitous, Danny, about my condition, protective even. I struggled out of the sagging armchair and gave him a hug, told him I really appreciate his support. That seemed to mollify him and he went off to work quite happy. God, that sounds as if I’m simply exploiting him, but truly, I do depend on his being here, especially with Julian away.

  Had a sudden urge – several months overdue! – to dig out my thesis again, while the hormones remain favourable. By this time I ought to be on the outskirts of Drearyville but, fingers crossed, so far I still feel good. I got as far as reading my notes on To the Lighthouse, but when I went back to the novel to check out some quotes, I found Lily Briscoe so arid, so thoroughly two-dimensional, that I couldn’t imagine how I ever perceived her struggle to paint as heroic! It must, I think, be another trick of the pregnancy; childless women seem so pointless. Mrs Ramsay, who struck me before as unbearably smug and interfering, now seems rounded, complete. I didn’t even bother to open the Gertrude Stein. The whole thing will have to be done again from start to finish. Frankly, my dears, I don’t give a damn!

  17 MAY 2003 – LONDON

  What was I thinking of, coming here? I’m sitting at the glass-topped desk in ‘my’ room at Mother’s. When I look out the window, I can just see her, chair camouflaged in the purple shade of the plum tree – The blossom this spring was simply stunning, darling. Such a shame you missed it – nursing a cup of coffee, flicking too quickly through the pages of a magazine to be actually reading it. I’m starting to calm down again – deep breaths – but why is it that she can get to me so? Why did I think this time would be any different? I was feeling good when I walked in the front door, absurdly happy to see the stained-glass nymph still dipping her toe in the pool, actually looking forward to spending time with my mother, grandmother of my child-to-be. And what was the first thing she said? God, darling, you’re so big! I do hope you are using cream to prevent stretchmarks. And that was the least offensive of her remarks. She poured us a coffee then launched into – Celia Legrozet cut me dead at a charity dinner last week. The child is definitely Julian Legrozet’s, is it, darling? Only, there are rumours that the family doesn’t believe so. This last line she delivered to my back as I walked away from her. Hence, my retreat to my room and Mother’s to her garden. Julian certainly didn’t tell me his parents were harbouring such thoughts. He did say they may be ‘a little ambivalent’ but that ‘they will come round’. Deep breaths. Think of the baby. Last time I sat at this desk, I could roll right in to the edge. Now the baby informs me in no uncertain terms just how close I am allowed to come to hard objects! I feel him kick at least twenty times a day now.

  I’m so glad I saw Daddy last night, before coming here. Once I got over how stylishly cool the restaurant was – glass and light minimalism with a Japanesey feel, and me like a stranded whale among the sushi! – I began to relax. He was looking well, Daddy, if a little greyer, and clearly pleased to see me. I was determined to make the most of this meeting, since he’s going abroad again. OK – don’t mention the war, I thought. And what does Daddy do once the starters are on the table and the waiter has withdrawn? As I guide the chopsticks to my mouth, he says, So, what do your anti-war friends say to Iraq now? Evil dictator out of the way; temporary UN-backed administration; road to democracy embarked upon. Everything rosy! I mumble a few things about warring factions, Sunni and Shia, American oil interests, dead children, recruitment of new generations of suicide bombers. But there is no way my father is going to listen to any of that. He sits there in his expensive suit and holds forth between mouthfuls, shiny and solid with that assurance of his place in the world, which I have always envied. Everything he says comes with such easy authority, I find it difficult to stand my ground.

  I knew I had to change the subject if I was going to rescue the evening. The portions of food were fashionably tiny and I was still starving after two courses. I asked for another dish and Daddy raised his eyebrows, Eating for two, is it? I realized that was his first allusion to my pregnancy. But then suddenly he leant across the table, took my hand and launched into a litany of questions and concerns: Was I alright? Did I really want the baby? Would Julian do the decent thing and support me? What about my PhD? What about my career? Did I need more money? It was my old daddy again. I a
lmost expected Biddy to bound up and lick my hand! From there, we found our way back to the more familiar and comfortable terrain of our days at Wellwood.

  It wasn’t till we got to the hotel – as plush and sumptuous and dripping with red and gold tassels as the restaurant was trendily bare – and were sitting in enormous armchairs in the residents’ lounge, that I asked Daddy about his great-aunt Laetitia. I was too tired and hormone-befuddled to take in the genealogical details; it was the story I wanted. Not much to tell, he said. But Mother said you really admired her. That’s what I told her, he said, and winked. He must have seen disappointment on my face, because he did his best then: I do know she was involved in the suffragette movement before the First War. What happened to her afterwards? I asked. She became a campaigner for rights of one sort or another, squandered the family fortune on various ‘good causes’– he didn’t need to wiggle his fingers; his intonation conveyed the inverted commas round the phrase – lived till her nineties and died in penury. And Harry, I asked, what about Harry? Who? my father said. Never heard of him. Her, I said. Harry was a woman. Never heard of her, he said. And that was all I could winkle out of him. We went to our separate rooms then – what luxury after the flat! – and this morning shared breakfast before Daddy headed off to the airport and I came here to Mother’s.

  Talking of whom, where has she gone? She’s left her magazine and cup on the seat under the plum tree. I’d better go and make some kind of peace with her. Tonight, Aunt Laetitia’s trunk…

  18 MAY 2003 – LONDON –GLASGOW TRAIN

  Well, Daddy’s account of Aunt Laetitia didn’t offer any new insight. I have her diary and the letters from Harry I found in the trunk last night spread out in front of me here. As things stand, the two brief letters I’ve read so far don’t reveal much more: the address, 15 Larchfield Road in London; date: 19 Sept. 1915. Then –