I think this is a perfect thing to bring you back on. There’s been a lot of publicity about you being unwell, and this is the right kind of place – gentle – to say you’re all right and working again. The money is not fantastic but worth it anyway for the reasons I’ve said. So don’t worry about work dear, there is any amount of work, and we’re looking forward to getting started.
By the way, on the Songs of Praise front, I had a call from a terribly sweet-sounding young man who works for St Clare’s. He comes from your island up there and he used to know you. When it was suggested you might be working
on the show they’re doing he wanted to make contact. His name is Michael Aigas. He says to tell you he used to work in the television shop. He knows your number up there but said he’d leave ringing you until you were feeling better. I thought I’d tell you about him, as he seemed very nice and spoke very kindly about you.
As I said the dogs are missing you and we can get back to work as soon as you like my dear. We’ve all been frightfully busy here and the news you’re better is the cause of big relief and excitement with all of us. Lots of good wishes have come from people in the business and the Water Rats have made you an honorary member. What about that? Good old Les. Even that old curmudgeon Hughie Green’s been on the phone. The Variety Club want you to present an award in January. So much to be going on with, Maria, we’ll be up and going again in no time, mark my words.
Let us know when you’ll be coming down and we’ll arrange a flight and a car to come and get you.
Best wishes,
Marion
Maria folded the letter, put it in the Yellow Pages, and took the bags of shopping to the kitchen.
For a while she contemplated what Marion had said, then she went upstairs and lay on the bed feeling lighter. Blue shadows fell over the walls from the net curtains, making patterns on the worn paper. The shadows grew darker, the light outside failing now, and a dog barked. She stared up at the ceiling with her eyes more alert, with bones that seemed to rise in her chest as she breathed. She had things to do. She got up and stood in front of the full-length mirror and forgot the time as she looked at her naked body. At first she pulled and pressed it, as if it were clay, then she stood back from it and hated it. She saw a stranger in her eyes and sometimes the look of an animal. She was an owl with brown feathers and moving hardly at all, aware of the big-eyed need for prey, an owl in the forest, its feathers quivering, a solitary bird in the black night ready to swoop down from the trees with wings spread and eyes alive. She went into the bathroom and closed the door. There was no window. She looked at the small soaps lined up on the bath-rack. They made her shiver. Out of a plastic bag she took a tube of Aapri Facial Scrub and unscrewed the orange lid.
She licked the brown stuff and it tasted of soap. It was thick as masticated cereal, the Aapri; with trembling fingers, she applied it to her face in quick circular movements. She looked at the packet after it dropped in the sink.
Aapri Facial Scrub Cream
with ground apricot kernels
deep-cleanses and stimulates your skin.
It removes the dirt, grease, and dead skin cells
that can make your complexion dull and lifeless.
With both hands now she rubbed it over her face and her nose too, going under the chin and up to the hairline, and back again. She scrubbed along the cheekbones and kept scrubbing harder and faster as her breathing became heavy, and as she scrubbed, her eyes were owl-like in the bathroom mirror. She could feel the skin growing tighter and the particles in the stuff rubbing away the deadness and going past the surface of the skin to make it raw. She went faster, thinking soon it would all be rubbed out and maybe another person would appear after the cold water, or else nobody at all, just clean air in front of the mirror.
*
‘So the dog jumps up and takes the pay packet right out of his fucking hand,’ said Giovanni.
‘Language!’ said Lucia.
‘Right out of his hand. And so the dog’s chewing away at the wage packet and the notes are turning to mush. What do you think he does? He sticks his hand right down the dog’s throat and grabs the wage packet, and the dog’s left with a mooth like a bent pair of scissors.’
‘The stories he drags in from the pub,’ said Rosa.
‘All true,’ said Giovanni. ‘He’s a headbanger, that Frankie. Down at the Job Centre they’ve got this thing where if you’ve been on the dole for a while and you refuse to take work they can stop your money. Well, they calls him in. He’s in a queue waiting to go in with the rest of them. They all know that when you go in there they try and get you onto some training shite. So, Frankie – he’s up on all the rules and that – goes in and the idiot says to him, “Well, Mr Drummond, we see you’ve been unemployed now for sixteen years, that’s rather a long time. You do not have a doctor’s line but you say you are mentally unreliable.” Mentally unreliable – that’s what he comes out with. Anyway, the bold Frankie says to him that’s right it’s a terrible problem, and the guy says, “Well, Mr Drummond, is there a history of insanity in your family?” “Oh, aye,” says Frankie, “I’ve a brother that works.”’
‘Away ye go!’ said Alfredo.
‘I’m telling ye,’ said Giovanni, ‘that’s what he said,’
All the table laughed and Lucia looked up at Maria who was busy stirring two pans of white sauce. ‘Are you all right, Maria? Can I give you a hand with these things? Are you hot over there, there’s a fair heat from that oven?’
‘No mammo,’ said Maria. ‘Just you enjoy yourself.’
‘There’s too much noise in here,’ said Lucia. ‘Too many people. I can’t hear the half of what they’re saying.’
‘And that’s not the end of it,’ said Giovanni. ‘Frankie looks at the guy and things are going from bad to worse. The idiot says, “And have you been actively seeking work, Mr Drummond?” “I have that,” says Frankie. “Because the rules clearly state, Mr Drummond, that unless there is a specific line of work you are holding out for, and unless you are actively seeking work in that area, then we are obliged to offer you a retraining scheme and you are obliged to accept it.” “Aye,” says Frankie, “I understand you well enough.” “So,” says the idiot, “you’ve been out of work for sixteen years and the last time you worked you were a roofer in the employ of Messrs Brannigan and Lyle of Paisley.” “Aye,” says the bold Frankie, “they were very unsympathetic employers.” “That’s as may be,” says the guy, “but what line of work are we to understand you have been pursuing since that time?” “Astronaut,” says Frankie. “I’ve always wanted to be an astronaut. I’ve written away to NASA and everything.I’m passionate about it. Ever since I saw thon fella bouncing up and down in his big helmet. I couldn’t take anything else in the meantime. It’s my life’s ambition.” “Well, Mr Drummond, that’s very admirable …’ “No,” says Frankie, “I have been reading books about it for years and it would be distressing to have to consider work in any other area at this time.” “But, Mr Drummond, you’ve chosen a very competitive field. I’m not sure you have the qualifications.” “You check, son,” says Frankie. “They are willing to accept people from all walks of life.” “But Mr Drummond,” says he, “in the mean time, might you not consider something a little more … eh … realistic?” “It’s as real to me as you sitting there,” says Frankie, “and it would break my heart to lose hope of getting into space one day.” “Meantime,” says the guy about to lose the head, “might you not consider a scheme that will enhance your chances of future employment? There’s a very highly regarded metalwork course at the Scotvec training centre at Skelmorlie. Or you could learn typing or perhaps take a course in computer skills. This might prove useful in your future career.” “No thank you,” says Frankie. “I will keep on trying to get work in the field that suits me. Thank you very much.” And that’s it. The guy has nowhere to go. He’s snookered. “Good day, Mr Drummond,” he says.’
Rosa rocked with laughter in the ar
mchair while Alfredo sprayed her hair with Elnett. There are times like that, times when some other part of her reaches out and grabs the moment, and she is great then, laughing her loudest, and when she cries at Giovanni’s stories you’d think nothing in life ever had the power to disturb her.
Maria licked a slither of wet carrot and sucked it at the sink while waiting to take the lamb out of the oven, then she put the piece of carrot back in the basin and breathed in: rosemary, garlic, olive oil. The table was already creaking with salmon and chicken, sausages were going cold next to plates of stuff Lucia said she’d never seen before, hummus and pitta bread, parsnips roasted in honey. Everybody was eating and Maria was putting more on the table. Quiche. Toad in the hole. Green beans.
‘When did you start to cook all these things?’ asked Alfredo, coming over and placing a hand on Maria’s waist.
‘She’s not so keen on Italian food,’ says Lucia. ‘That’s why she’s so thin. This is all rabbit food.’
‘Sit down and have something yourself,’ said Alfredo.
‘In a minute,’ said Maria. She sipped some red wine as if in salute to him then turned back to the sink.
Giovanni’s cigarette bounced in the corner of his mouth as he spoke. He was good at telling stories: whatever the story was about, it came in the telling to seem like a very precise statement about Giovanni himself, about the mad corners of his life and the company he kept. ‘Those Gourock pubs are all Irish,’ he said. ‘In fact …’ He searched in his jacket pocket. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘I tore this wee bit out the Greenock Telegraph.’ He held out a rag of newspaper and spoke in a posh voice. ‘An announcement. “McFeelie’s Bar, Gourock. Due to the sad death of Desmond, the bar, to all intents and purposes, will remain closed during our grief; but so as not to inconvenience our esteemed customers, the door will remain ajar. ‘Tis what Desmond wanted. Thank you. The McFeelie Family.”’
‘Eccchhhhhhhh,’ said Rosa, ‘that’s what they’re all like.’
Lucia stood up to find a water glass.
‘Out of the way!’ said Rosa. ‘Out of the way, mother. I’m trying to take a picture of my wee lassie.’
She was drunk, having fun, but every second her happiness was more encroaching: she would have digs at Lucia or kiss Giovanni with her mouth open. ‘Sit down and enjoy yourself, hen,’ said Rosa. Maria smiled, opened the oven and brought out the lamb.
‘That would feed the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders,’ said Giovanni.
‘It would feed the whole of Argyll,’ said Alfredo.
Maria put it on the table then sat down at one of the chairs herself and pretended to eat some potato. ‘Delicious,’ she said, but they were all pouring the red wine and saying they’d had enough. She took up Lucia’s plate and put some meat on it. ‘There you go, mammo,’ she said. ‘I like to see you having a nice meal.’
‘I’ll have to get my coat soon,’ said Lucia. ‘I can’t stay up at my age the way the lot of yous can.’
‘Just have a nice bit of pudding first,’ said Maria.
‘You’re getting that big.’
‘Big?’
‘Well, you’re getting bigger and smaller at the same time. It’s that nice having you back here. I’ve missed you, hen.’
Maria slid some potato gratin under her knife and fork, then went to the sink and drank a glass of water. She noticed Alfredo was laughing more. He seemed to laugh whenever anybody said anything. ‘This is London food,’ he whispered to Rosa.
‘Happy birthday the both of you!’ shouted Giovanni.
Maria put ice cream and lemon tart and cheese on the table. She looked at Alfredo and gave him one of her professional smiles. ‘Where’s a kiss for your wee mammy?’ said Rosa. Then quite suddenly Maria felt her legs go weak and her head hurt. ‘I always said a wee break would do you the world of good, didn’t I?’ said Rosa. ‘A walking holiday.’ And she ruffled her hair. ‘Let’s put on a wee bit of music,’ she said.
Lucia had finished eating and her hands were clasped in front of her on the table. The two men were laughing and showed a great interest in one another the way laughing men do. Lucia looked at Giovanni and decided he was losing his looks; one of his white teeth was broken, shadows had begun to appear under his eyes and the shine had gone from his hair. He had a woman in Ardrossan, everybody knew it, and one in Largs; women had always been Giovanni’s trouble, he was unable to walk past them, and each one believed in her doomed way that he was put into the world to make her happy. Lucia saw him laughing with Alfredo and returned her eyes to the mesh of her fingers. One thing she couldn’t trust was good looks. Men like Giovanni Corso: they went on as if they might laugh their way into heaven, and lived as if sex was a thing you did on the way to thinking nothing of yourself.
Standing with her back to the taps, Maria, in her black pencil skirt, was passing slowly to another place. Lucia saw that there was a layer of soft blonde on Maria’s face – that face, so photographed, so lit on, and now, in the upstairs kitchen at Victoria Street, the ordinary bulbs sent out a yellow haze to find her, a poor light that trapped itself in the down on her face, making her glow like a sick angel.
‘Are you all right, hen?’ asked Lucia.
‘Absolutely,’ said Maria, and she showed her teeth, which seemed too many, and too wide.
‘That was a fine dinner,’ said Lucia. ‘You could’ve fed the five thousand out of that.’
‘The old songs are always the best!’ shouted Rosa from the living-room. ‘Always the best! Here, mother. This is one of your old favourites. One of the ones belonging to my daddy.’
It sounded as if the crackles were from history, and the pitter-patter of static added much to the purity of the voice, which came into the room now like rain onto a table of crystal glasses. Carlo Buti singing ‘Porta un Bacione a Firenze’ – Carlo Buti, olive oil in the grooves of his larynx, his heart a bastion of ancient loves and provinces – and so it came to seem like music that had travelled far to reach the ears of a single girl. Rosa kicked off her slippers and began to dance on the carpet with a tumbler held up. She was on her own. The men continued to laugh and talk together, but Maria and Lucia were listening to Carlo Buti and found themselves quite frozen in one another’s eyes. The evening air of Lucca circulated for a second in Lucia’s thoughts and she heard this song in one of the squares and the thought gave way to a picture of the music playing at a trattoria in Clerkenwell and in the drift of her stirred memory she heard the sound of ropes unfurling at speed. Lucia stared at the kitchen wall as if an old film were playing there just for her, and she was filled with the charm and innocence of an early enjoyment. She looked at Maria, and distinctly, for everyone at the table to hear, she said the words: ‘I came back for you but the corridors were impossible to pass.’
The song came to an end but Rosa soon found another. In the meantime, Maria continued to smile at her grandmother, not understanding her but offering smiles of consolation. On hearing the words Lucia spoke, Alfredo stood up, took a stiff gulp of wine from his glass, and went into the hall to fetch the coats. Maria pressed a finger into some lamb and rosemary juice and rubbed it round the edge of her tongue, then she drank more water. When Lucia came through with her coat on she hugged Maria at the sink. ‘Will you go back to London?’ she asked.
I’m ready, mammo,’ said Maria. ‘I’m ready to get back to work. I’m better now.’
‘Watch yourself,’ said Lucia, ‘and ring me on the phone. I love it when you ring me on the phone.’
‘Cheerio, mammo.’
‘You have to watch yourself in London,’ said Lucia, showing her age in the way she walked towards the door. ‘It’s not all fun and games in London.’
*
With scalding water Maria scrubbed every plate and surface after they’d gone. Every spoon was washed and rinsed and dried with a towel and put away. All the scraps of food – pounds of cooked meat, uneaten beans, pasta, salads, puddings – were dumped into black bags and carried down to the back of the shop
. By the end the kitchen gleamed and Maria stood back and felt tall and superior as she looked into the centre of its cleanness. The music from the living-room was much louder now; she could hear them laughing and thumping about to pop songs.
She stepped into the cold. As usual, the wind was carrying sea-spray over the railings and into the town. She pulled up the collar of her mother’s raincoat and walked over to the middle of the putting green. Up there at the window, she could see her mother and Giovanni dancing together and kissing. They were at the window and the light was very red behind them. Her mother and Giovanni were in their element and seemed happy. Maria watched as they swayed and let their hands hang loose over one another’s backs. They danced like youngsters, each with a cheek laid down on the other’s shoulder.
She walked out of the town. From higher up she could see the oily-looking harbour with the lights of the pier shivering over the water. She felt empty of everything; there was no food inside her and nothing to hinder her breathing, and walking along the pavement she felt she was somehow above everything. She told herself that no one could stand in the way of her and all the perfection in the world. I am all breathing, all voice, she said to herself. ‘Michael Aigas in London now,’ she said. Then she thought of something else. ‘The Water Rats. I’m not going if they expect me to give any kind of speech.’
The stars shone out as she climbed higher and began to take great gulps of the night air. She saw the meadow and how dark it was at that hour and she felt exhilarated and began to quicken her steps, involving herself with the wind rushing past her, then she began running over the grass and eating air as she moved. The branches were covered in leaves and she could see them floating down and hear the noise of the wind passing through them as she ran, saying to herself the moon was a great lamp, and the dark was falling behind her, past her ears and gone at her heels lifting off the grass. She ran as if the moonlight was something merciful in these non-human hours, the night air opened up and became her, and she could feel it inside as she swallowed more. Up ahead there was every promise, and she ran through the tall trees of the meadow with all her heart.
Personality Page 25