Demo

by Alison Miller

  Dearest Laetitia (that gave me such a strange feeling!),

  I have at last recovered sufficiently from our European adventure to risk reaching out to you again…

  They must really have fallen out in the end.

  … I write to ask if you would be willing to meet with me to try, in some small way, to re-establish our relations on a more friendly footing, away from the baleful influence of the ‘arrangement’ we lived by in Florence. I had thought that, should you agree, we might choose somewhere public and open, such as Kew Gardens, and see how we go from there.

  And it ends –

  I await your reply, and remain forever

  Your loving Harry

  There’s no indication of whether or not the meeting happened, no surviving entry in Laetitia’s diary around that time, just a few ragged edges near the spine. Then, in another letter, dated 14 October 1915, two lines and a photograph:

  Mr Haldane, the young American we met in Florence, sent me this photograph taken in Fiesole. I thought you might like to have it. H.

  The photo is not particularly clear. It shows two women sitting at a table on a terrace in dappled sunshine. The one in the foreground is smiling from under a wide-brimmed hat, squinting a little, her face turned up to the sun; the other, further back, is almost totally obscured by the shadows of leaves. On the back of the photo are the words: ‘Laetitia Gardener, Fiesole, April 1915’. The writing is Harry’s, same as the letters, same neat hand from the dedication in the notebook. It’s fascinating trying to cross-reference the letters with the journal, ‘read’ the ripped out pages, guess at the mysterious ‘arrangement’. Unbearably tantalizing! How odd to erase sections of one’s life like that. I should think one would want to hold on to all of it, especially the parts one can’t expose to the public gaze. Perhaps she foresaw that someone from the future would rummage about in her personal writings, pore over her private papers, ferret out her secrets. Had she known it to be her namesake, would it have made a difference? Why won’t you tell ME, your greatgreat-niece, Laetitia? Will you mind very much if I find you out? Before we parted, Daddy said he would try and find out some more information about Laetitia.

  18 JULY 2003 – GLASGOW

  Bright sun again today, not particularly hot, I’m told, but I’m finding it close to unbearable, what with the traffic fumes and the migrainey shimmer above the cars. Silvio’s wasn’t much better, the hiss of steam from the espresso maker apt soundtrack to my discomfort. So, back in the cool of the flat, before the sun moves round and makes sitting in the window impossible.

  Another dream last night, like most nights since I came back from London in May. This time, the action has moved on; it’s more like a half-submerged memory. I need to nail it before the baby comes. So here goes…

  The point disappears soundlessly in the soft fur between the legs. There is a sudden stink: blood, raw meat. A hand works quickly to withdraw the knife, lay it on the bench. In the dusty light a flash of the blade. Pink fluid oozes from the slit in the body, as fingers probe the lips of the wound and pull apart. More pink revealed. I am unprepared for the WHACKWHACK! of the cleaver. My eyes are level with the edge of the bench and I blink and blink. The furry feet set aside look wrong; white knuckles of bone gleam. When I turn to you again, you are pulling the skin like socks off stumps of limbs, folding the fur back on itself along the hare’s body, rip, ripping it away from the naked flesh. Why are you taking his jumper off? I ask. The skin reaches the front of the body, stops at the base of the skull. WHACK! goes the cleaver again and the head is off. You toss it by an ear to the side of the bench from where one dead eye regards me. The neck is ragged, trailing strings of blood, Two more whacks then silence. I stare at the naked body, the glistening headless doll…

  I sat up with a cry and Julian held me. Shh, shh, it’s OK, it’s OK. Was it that pesky wabbit again? Shh, it’s alright. And so we added another to my list of theoretical frameworks to tame the beast: Looney Tunes. Elmer Fudd gets lucky and bags Bugs Bunny. That’s all, folks!

  By the time I calmed down, we were fully awake. Julian lit a roll-up. He’d avoided the discussion till now, but this time when I asked what we should call the baby, he said, If it’s a girl, she could be Florence after the place of her immaculate conception. And if it’s a boy? I ask. Let’s see what Joyce has to offer, he says. He jumps naked out of bed, takes down Ulysses from the shelf, opens it at random and reads off a list of names. I remember some of them: Goodman, Simon, Blazes Boylan, Horatio Nelson, Theobald Matthew… That’s just the first two paragraphs, he says and reads out another list, ending with: Dedalus, Dignam, Bloom. He looks up and smiles, See, a rich crop! Never fails. Any among that lot tickle your fancy?

  How about Matthew? I say.

  I favour Dedalus myself. What do you say? He puts his ear to my belly and the baby kicks hard. He agrees, Julian says. Unequivocally!

  Danny came in at that point in my musings and turned on the TV. Dr David Kelly, the Iraq weapons expert, has been found dead. There are pictures of an area of woods, cordoned off with crime tape, and a stricken Tony Blair disembarks from a plane in Tokyo. Now the shit will really hit the fan, Danny said. Will it? I said. Action and events, things happening, are unimaginable to me now; the world has stopped for me till the baby’s born.

  27 JULY 2003 – QUEEN MOTHER’S HOSPITAL, GLASGOW

  My baby boy was born at 3.00 a.m. He’s asleep in the Perspex crib beside my bed. So much black hair – such a red face. So beautiful! Quiet now among the white beds after the clamour of birth. Julian fetched my journal so I could record it. The night nurse is reading in the nurses’ station opposite. Earlier, Danny and Jed brought flowers. Danny had a tear in his eye, I know he did, called the baby ‘Wee Man’. How you doin, Wee Man? Julian’s gone back to the flat for a sleep – white as a ghost after staying with me through labour. He has bruises on his arms where I

  9 NOVEMBER 2003 – KELVIN QUADRANT, GLASGOW

  A long gap since the last entry – no time, what with Matthew and getting our new place ready. And now I have two journals to choose from. Funny my lost one turning up on the day we moved out of the flat. It was behind some books on the shelves in our room. How it got there, I can’t imagine. I stopped among the packing cases for half an hour to look through it. It’s as if it belongs to someone else, someone in a different age. I blushed to read my preoccupations before Matthew was born. It’s so strange to think that’s the person I was less than a year ago; even stranger to transport myself to a world without Matthew, in which his cry had never sounded, the cry round which my entire existence now revolves. A chill came over me at that moment, kneeling on the floor in the flat, with the light dying at the window. I was struck by an unbearable longing to hold him close and rock him and feel the weight of his little body in my arms. But I couldn’t. He was at Peter and Maeve’s. I got hold of myself and the feeling passed, but not without a surge of resentment towards P. and M. Unfair. They have been incredibly kind, looking after him for us. And the best of it is, they never made it seem like an imposition; they so delight in Matthew, that it’s rather as if we were the ones doing them the favour. Sometimes I wonder if they

  When I think of my hesitation in taking up their offer! I don’t know what I expected that first day; some ghastly high rise with broken lifts and graffiti and used needles abandoned on the stairs. But their house is warm and comfortable – a good close, as Maeve said. There’s plenty in the scheme not so good, but this stair’s not bad. Danny was there to introduce us and he stood back smiling when Maeve took Mattie from me. I found myself swaying in unison with her, as she rocked him, cooing, his little red face peeping out from under his hat, his eyes squeezed shut. Your mammy can’t take her eyes off you, she said to him. No she canny. And it was true. I liked her immediately. She has a faded version of Clare’s red hair, dyed a kind of strawberry blonde to hide the grey, and Danny’s green eyes almost, though more of a blue-green. And when she looks at you, she has a level gaze that coul
d cut through any bullshit. A little unnerving. She’s obviously very close to Danny too. I was slightly anxious the atmosphere would change when Peter came in, but I needn’t have worried. Danny and he have clearly arrived at some sort of workable truce. He was quiet that first day, Peter, quite formal when we were introduced, more reticent than Maeve, I thought. But since then, it’s an absolute joy to watch him with Mattie. He walks about the floor with him and sings him funny little Glasgow songs, as well as Van Morrison and other golden oldies. I sometimes wish

  Clare is the only source of tension in the house now, the only fly in the ointment. Most of the time she keeps to her room, but occasionally she doesn’t escape soon enough when I turn up to drop Matthew off, and it’s obvious she’s miserable. The whole family is very edgy around her, since she didn’t sit her English exam in May and consequently ruined her chances of going to university this year, despite doing rather well in her other subjects. She dug her heels in and left school, with no plans to sit the exam next time round. Now she seems to do nothing but mope around the house all day.

  14 DECEMBER 2003 – KELVIN QUADRANT, GLASGOW

  Mattie asleep, fitfully; teething I think, his cheek red. Julian gone to buy him some rusks and a ‘playstation’, as he calls it – a ‘command centre’ of spinning, clacking, rattling coloured plastic – for his Christmas!

  A letter from Daddy today – not coming back before the end of the year after all. Still hasn’t seen Matthew.

  Saddam Hussein captured, hauled from a hole in the ground in Tikrit, bearded and filthy. Americans cock-a-hoop.

  12 APRIL 2004 – SILVIO’S CAFÉ

  Haven’t been in here for ages. Danny taking Mattie for a walk in his buggy in the hope the movement will induce a nap. A chance to catch up with myself before Julian comes. Coffee and a scone, I think. So tired. Mattie up again most of last night. Not even Maeve could get him to sleep last time he was there and she’s the champion. Nearly puts me to sleep with her rocking and crooning! Met her sister Patsy on Thursday. No mistaking she’s from the same family – a mass of red curls, pale skin, dark blue eyes. She and Clare were deep in conversation when I arrived – they could easily be sisters – till Maeve introduced me. Clare scuttled off to her room then as usual, leaving the real sisters to argue over who got to hold Mattie first!

  US began bombing Falluja on Good Friday. Happy Easter, from the civilized Christian West!

  15 JULY 2004 – KELVIN QUADRANT, GLASGOW

  Less than two weeks till Matt’s first birthday – can’t believe it! It’s passed in a flash at the same time as feeling like eternity. How does that work? Thank God he’s sleeping better now – I’m starting to feel vaguely human again. Dug out Aunt Laetitia’s journal once more, determined to get to the bottom of it. Read it cover to cover this time; realized I had actually seen it all before, I just didn’t feel as though I had. Not surprising, given the removal of half its pages – kept having the sensation I was just missing something. But I was right first time round – mainly art criticism, travelogue stuff, a quest for the paintings of Artemisia Gentileschi. Nothing more about Harry. A mystery. A closed book. Daddy still hasn’t found out anything about Laetitia – or at any rate, hasn’t sent me it.

  Round at the old flat yesterday, all of us glued to Jed’s giant TV for the Butler Report. Talk about Teflon Tony! Hutton, now Butler. Couldn’t stay till the end – Mattie was crawling around, ‘into everything’, as Maeve puts it. Danny’s done a great job holding back the tide of grunge, but there are still too many hazards in a flat geared towards starting the revolution!

  *

  23 OCTOBER 2004 – SILVIO’S GLASGOW

  Waiting for Danny to bring Mattie down from the flat when he wakes up. He sent me off for coffee and a chance to read my letter from Daddy again properly, without Matt grabbing for it. Typical Daddy – he writes me a letter instead of phoning. He’s had to cancel his visit again – or rather, postpone it, he says. But he’s sent information about Aunt Laetitia – as a softener, no doubt. So let me get it down here.

  … Laetitia was a leading light in the suffragette movement, an embarrassment to the family, with all her banner-waving and unladylike activities. She narrowly avoided disinheritance by marrying well at the eleventh hour – some silly sod who was besotted with her, Lord James Gregory by name. Marriage only lasted four years – or rather Lord James did; he died suddenly, done in, so the story goes, by his helpless adoration of the beautiful but difficult Laetitia Gardener. (See photo enc.)

  The photo is of them on their wedding day in 1921; L. in flapper gear, cloche hat, dark bob, looks straight at the camera, a determined set to her jaw, striking rather than beautiful. Lord James, in some sort of military get-up, has failed to watch the dickybird; his face is a soft blur, though the angle of light reflected in his eyes suggests he’s gazing fondly down on his bride.

  It seems there was a child, which died in infancy, broke Lord James’s heart. As for Laetitia’s political activity, you might imagine not much of a record was kept by the family, but I managed to acquire the enclosed booklet – you’ll never guess from whom – Nanny Rosenthal! Do you remember her? Of course I bloody remember her. Though, if I’m honest, I rather thought she was buried somewhere in the grounds of Wellwood – with Biddy, under the horse chestnut!

  She lives in sheltered housing now, but is sharp as a tack and appears to have quite an archive of family memorabilia. I thought the booklet might satisfy some of your curiosity. In answer to one question, I can tell you that you weren’t named after the late, great Laetitia. Good Lord, no! Your mother got the name from some magazine.

  Thanks a million, Daddy!

  Give my grandson a big kiss from me (thank you so much for the delightful pic!) and I promise to come and see you both before he starts school!

  The booklet is yellowing, musty. Its unadorned cover bears the title: Magdalen Mothers, and is subtitled: ‘An Account of Work in East London with Prostitutes and Their Children. Authors: Laetitia Gardener and Harriet Martin, 1927’.

  Harry!

  Started to look at the pamphlet, when Danny popped in with Mattie, both of them in a good mood, grinning at one another. He’s taking him down by the Kelvin to see if they can catch a glimpse of ‘that fuckin kingfisher’! Matt’s going to have a very salty vocabulary for one so young! But it’s sweet of Danny to give me a chance to read. Come to think of it, it’s a lovely day for the river. L. & H. can wait; I should still be able to catch up with Danny and Matt if I run…

  November 2004

  This’ll be Elvis’s second Christmas. The first he’ll know about but; he was too wee last year. Already this year, when my da picks him up and takes him to the window, he points to the Christmas lights in the house across the road and says, Pity.

  Aye, you’re right there, son. Pity the scheme’s got so little goin for it, the Christmas lights go up at the start a November.

  I’m sittin on the sofa behind them, wi my book open on my knee, watchin the pair a them. He’s tryin to say pretty, Da, I says.

  And my da turns round and smiles. Is that so? he says. Well, bless my soul. Is that so, Matthew? Pretty? Eh? Pretty? And he shoogles him up and down and Elvis shrieks and laughs.

  That’s his right name, Matthew, after Laetitia’s father, but I still canny call him that. He’ll ayeways be Elvis to me. It’s cause a the shock a black hair he was born with; it doesny matter what way Laetitia brushes it, it ayeways ends up in an Elvis quiff.

  I was mad at first when my ma offered to look efter him a couple a days a week. I couldny understand it.

  We’re helpin the lassie out till she gets on her feet, my ma says. And, anyway, look at him; look at they long dark lashes lyin on his cheeks; who could resist him?

  Me. I could.

  I would get in fae school and there they would be, the three of them, playin happy families. Danny too, sometimes, dependin on his shifts in the pub. My ma sings to Elvis when she’s trying to get him to sleep, even though she canny
sing to save hersel.

  … My brown-eyed boy, she sings. Sha la la la lalala…

  It’s pure excruciatin! And Elvis’s wee face sits on her shoulder, quite content, when she walks about the room, his mouth poutin, like he’s tryin to say somethin, or he’s just gonny burst into song alang wi her.

  Farkhanda’s as bad. She thinks he’s dead cute. If my da or Danny’s no there, she comes in and takes off her hijab; she’s allowed to do that in front of Elvis, cause he’s a baby. He loves her long black hair. When she holds him, he gets his fingers all caught in it and it takes ages to disentangle him. He hangs on, the wee bugger, willny let go. I don’t let him near my dreads.

  At first, when he came, when he was a new baby, I showed her his Elvis mouth. You stroked his cheek when he was lyin sleepin in his pram and his mouth would go up at that side, into a wonky Elvis grin. Skew-whiff. Farkhanda laughed her silvery laugh and tried the other side. Same thing. My ma caught us at it and laughed as well, at the same time she was tellin us off. But it’s dead obvious, they all think he’s like Elvis too.

  When he’s greetin loud and willny stop, Danny sings, You ain’t nothin but a hound dog, Cryin all the time. And that quietens him down. One day, I came in and caught my ma and da dancin slow round the livin room, Elvis between them in my ma’s arms, sleepin, his head on her shoulder, hair all quiffed, and my da wi his arms round the baith a them, singin ‘Love Me Tender’. Pure gie you the boak!

  Who’s King? Danny says, and picks him up and birls him round. Eh? Who’s the King? And Elvis laughs and screeches and skirls.

  Nearly as good a pair a lungs on him as you, hen, my da says.

  It’s Julian collectin him the day, so I’ll be disappearin into my room till he’s came and went. Maistly it’s Laetitia picks him up; Julian sometimes. I try to be out when it’s his turn, but it’s hard to predict. Now and again even Danny comes ower for him, when he’s no workin, and takes him back on the bus to Julian and Laetitia’s. His tongue’s still hangin out whenever Laetitia’s around. Wouldny put it past him to go on the Trisha Show and ask for a DNA test. He’s on a hidin to nothin but. Birds of a feather, Danny; you said it yoursel. I didny think he would be that interested in the wean, but he pure dotes on him.