26a

by Diana Evans

  “It’s hard to think about nothing. I’ve tried it. You end up thinking about everything and getting stressed out. It’s best to just think of one thing. A good thing.”

  He put his arm around her shoulder. “Sadness comes and goes like seasons. Look at the sea,” he said. “Think about that.”

  They said nothing for a long time. Georgia watched. The sun put diamonds on the waves. Toward dusk, there was a change in color. It astonished her. Toby had fallen asleep with his head back against the wall. On the train home he slept some more, while behind them pebbles melted into concrete, and pastel buildings toppled into the sea. Georgia wrote in her notebook, so that she would not forget: Peace of mind, give me the calm to notice that there is a point along the ocean’s horizon where the watery blue changes to a deeper complexion of blueness. When I cannot think of nothing, I must get away and come and find the sea.

  It was a day that mustn’t end so Toby didn’t go home. They lay down next to each other in Georgia’s room and touched eyes. His gentle mouth; his thin, childish body. The ghosts in the room were only good ghosts who had traveled with them from the West Pier. They told him to be slow. They told her to be calm. He lays me down, it’s far from here, and I am not afraid. Her breath was running away from her toward him and it was very hot; they shared sweat and tongues and legs and Georgia felt that flesh was not enough, she wanted to go beyond flesh. Take me to the water, to the edge, to the edge, lift my clothes, push the covers away, and Toby sank inside. They fit together. It was twoness, it was silence, they had left themselves behind.

  In the hours toward dawn he woke up three times. Each time, he stroked a part of her. Her head. Her leg. Down the side of her waist. “I want to take you away,” he murmured. And fell back to sleep.

  WAIFER AVENUE WAS becoming a quieter place. Bessi was at Digger’s most nights, and when she came home she slept all day. Kemy had started college in Camberwell—where Lace happened to live—and she spent more and more of her time in south London. Her intentions of becoming a dressmaker had not changed; she was, in fact, harboring thoughts of an empire. At college she had begun to experiment with fabric manipulation. She dipped silk into the juice of onion skins, tied it in knots, and watched it turn to caramel. She was also using mango skins and beetroot, which were stunning against the light.

  Ida went out more too, occasionally to church, sometimes to see Bel and Jay in Kilburn, and regularly to her classes in Willesden, to which she had added math and pottery. She had not yet been as far as Tottenham, but she phoned Georgia often to make sure she was eating properly and studying hard.

  A few weeks before Christmas, eager to avoid a repeat of last year’s hostilities, Kemy made a quick exit from Waifer Avenue. Lace had asked her to be his nyabingi queen and she couldn’t refuse. She took everything with her, the posters under the bed, the clothes she didn’t wear anymore, every single thing to do with Michael Jackson, and the photograph of her, Georgia and Bessi in front of the garden fence.

  “I’m the last one here,” Bessi moaned. “I never thought I’d be the last to leave.”

  “You’ll be all right, Smazel,” said Kemy. Then she jumped up into the air and shouted, “No more Mr. Hyde!”

  Aubrey was sixty-three. He had pains in his legs and skin that had fallen down. He told Mr. Hyde he was tired, some nights, and sat with Jack in the sun lounge looking out at stars. “Did you know,” he remembered Judith telling him when he was a boy, “that stars die?” “Do they, Mother, is that true?” he’d asked, amazed. “Yes, Aubrey dear. And just before they die, they’re the brightest that they’ve ever been.”

  The old man drove his youngest girl across London to the other side of childhood. Ida stood at the door and watched them go, while Nne-Nne whispered. They say the youngest child is the strongest child, because she had to make you love her, when you were tired, when you had loved the others first. Kemy had held on to Ida for a long time, to the old red shawl and history. Ida took one of Kemy’s dreadlocks in her hand. “My God, child,” she’d said, “I want you to stop this hair!”

  When Georgia came home to visit she was struck by how empty the house seemed. She sat on the floor in the loft and listened dutifully to Bessi’s reworked version of “Lucia Lover,” and the beginnings of another song she was writing in a grand new effort to get out of Digger’s. Bessi had been talking recently to the resident Spicey Riley’s DJ, Master Spice, and he had given her a profound piece of advice: Make yourself seen. This was now written in capital letters on a card by the mirror. Master Spice had also said he might give her a short slot at the club one night, in front of the music bods, if she was good enough. Georgia told her that she was. And some nights she spent at Waifer Avenue, just so that Bessi would not be on her own.

  They lay in the dark, late at night. Bessi said, only half joking, “I’m surprised you can stand to be away from Toby for a whole night.”

  “He’s got rehearsals—he’s performing in Denmark soon,” said Georgia. “Anyway, we’re not stuck to each other.”

  “Practically. You’re like a married couple, you two.”

  Georgia smiled to herself. “Shall I tell you a secret?”

  “What?”

  “I think I’m in love with him.”

  “That’s a bit swift, isn’t it—after two months?”

  “Three, actually.”

  “That’s ridiculous. It takes longer than that to fall in love.”

  “It didn’t seem to take you very long to fall in love with that Pedro guy in Trinity.”

  “I wasn’t in love. That was lust. He had muscles. I don’t see what all the fuss is about with Toby.”

  Georgia turned to face the window. She closed her eyes and felt older than Bessi.

  Then she said, “There are seasons in my head, Bessi, and sometimes it turns. Toby made it turn.”

  She brought Toby home with her on Boxing Day. They sat close together on the sofa, the way Georgia and Bessi might sit together, and Georgia kept a firm hold on his hand. Frequently she glanced at him, checking he was still there next to her, that he was comfortable. Toby chatted with Kemy a lot about his forthcoming trip to Denmark, and he was obviously amused by Aubrey swearing at his vegetables. Ida kept quiet apart from insisting that Toby eat more turkey stew and potatoes because he was “thin like a teenager.” After lunch Aubrey asked, “What are your plans for the future, then, Toby? You’ll be graduating soon, won’t you?”

  Toby and Georgia touched eyes. “I’ll be staying in London for a while, keep working on my music.”

  Bessi raised her eyes.

  “Toby plays the guitar,” said Georgia. “He’s really good too.”

  “Well, I’m no Hendrix or anything…”

  They laughed a secret laugh, at exactly the same time.

  “I do have a job as well, though,” Toby added, with a hint of sarcasm.

  “He makes clocks.”

  “I help make them, that is. I insert the batteries—”

  “—in the backs—”

  “—not that much to it really—”

  “It’s good for making music,” said Georgia, “isn’t it.” She smoothed the back of his hair. She closed her hand over his knee.

  In the kitchen Bel washed up, Kemy dried. Bessi had disappeared upstairs.

  “I like Toby,” said Kemy, “but isn’t it weird?”

  HE LEFT BEFORE the new year came in. He’d bought a necklace of amber beads and placed it around her neck. Georgia concentrated hard on her studies and tried to forget that he was gone. There were other distractions: She and Bessi were almost twenty-one and Bessi was planning a night out at Spicey Riley’s to celebrate, seeing as she could get a discount on account of slaving next door, and more important, Master Spice had virtually promised her a slot.

  It was a Saturday night. In the afternoon it drizzled as Georgia made her way from Seven Sisters to 26a. Without Toby, it had been a blue week with snatches of yellow and a moment of orange. She had gone out and bought a set
of coloring pens. In orange, she had written a letter to Toby. It said, There are always so many questions, Toby. How does someone live with all these questions?

  The loft was full of thumps and sisters and clothes and Soul II Soul. Bel had brought her red spike-heeled shoes, four feather boas, and everything she owned that glittered and clung. Bessi was standing hazel-eyed before the mirror and trying on a silver strapless dress with her white boots. “Hello, twin,” she said. “It’s going to be a night.” She threw her head back and laughed the loud laugh. “Have some bubbly, go on. We are women.”

  Kemy, in her underwear and dreadlocks, gave Georgia a glass and filled it. “We’ve been waiting for you,” she said. “Bel’s doing eyes. You and Bessi have to wear something silver.”

  “But not exactly the same thing, innit,” Bessi said.

  “Yeah,” said Georgia, “and I don’t want to wear anything short.”

  “Come here, Georgie,” said Bel. “Your eyes are the best.”

  She coated the lids in orange and blended it into green while Georgia sipped champagne. “You’re good at colors,” she told Bel, and closed her eyes. Kemy took a picture—Bel’s enormous black hair, Georgia’s face turned up. She called it Rose and Mystic Bel.

  Georgia had eaten no dinner before she left so that her stomach would be flat. She put on a pair of shiny trousers and a crop top with tassels. Bel checked the afro puffs and slipped beads on the ends of plaits. There was much deciding and twirling and not being sure and changing and in the end there were four of them in feathers, bare-shouldered—the silver twins, their eyes in the shadows of green. Because of twenty-one, Aubrey ordered a cab and as they left Ida stood in the doorway and told them not to talk to boys. “Bel, make sure,” she said. “Oh Mum,” said Bel in her red shoes. “They’re women!”

  As the city came for them, Bessi whispered to Georgia in the back of the cab.

  “I’ve got something for us.”

  “What is it?” said Georgia.

  “It’s acid.”

  “Is it? What for?”

  “For being twenty-one. I want to take it with you. It would be amazing with you.”

  “I’ve never had any. Is it nice?” Georgia checked.

  “Together it will be nice. It will be extra extra.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “From someone at work.”

  “Oh.”

  “Shall we?”

  The West End was arriving. Streetlights and shadows and London’s crooked beauty were crossing over Bessi’s face. “Shall we?” she said.

  “All right,” said Georgia, “a little bit.”

  “A tiny bit,” said Bessi.

  They went straight to the toilets in Spicey Riley’s and shared a cubicle. Bessi gave Georgia a quarter of a tab of something silver to put on her tongue. “Will you stay with me?” asked Georgia. “Yes, sweet,” said Bessi. Together they swallowed and went out into the crowd.

  Fluorescent lights put snow on people’s faces, on their eyelashes, and electricity in their teeth. The floor was transparent and pools of light showed through. Beer trembled whitely at the top of beer. The dancers bopped and swayed against the scintillating lights. “Ladies! On the floor!” boomed Master Spice, and Bessi winked at him as she passed. Women swept by in their moonlight best, shoulder straps black and needle thin, hair thick with perfume, lips full, open, blazing with gloss.

  Bel and Kemy were being what-ya-sayin’d by two men, one in leather trousers and the other in a suit and unnecessary sunglasses. Kemy was asking him why he was unnecessarily wearing sunglasses in the dark. “Can you see anything? I bet you can’t even see me. Will your eyes fall out if you take them off?” The man was chuckling. He looked at Georgia and Bessi approaching and said, “More sisters! Where did they come from?” Kemy put her arms around Georgia. Bessi and Bel were moving out toward the dance floor with the leather trousers following. Kemy said, “There’s four of us, and three of us are triplets, aren’t we, Georgie.” The man’s sunglasses flashed. For a moment he looked exactly like Jimi Hendrix. Georgia didn’t feel any acid yet. But she heard herself think, He must be hot in those glasses, and another Georgia think, He must be hot in that suit.

  She saw Cynthia and Jo walk in and shake off their coats. “Happy birthday!” said Cynthia in a silky voice, and kissed her. The music got louder. Half an hour later, Anna arrived in the veil of her long falling ginger hair. And Reena, with a man much taller than her, then a friend of Kemy’s, two friends of Bel’s. They all were chattering and laughing with electric teeth. On the dance floor the dancers became witches, stumbling and cackling across the pools of light.

  Spicey Riley’s thumped.

  The voices, the music, the lights and the dark slowed down.

  Gladstone walked in wearing his dressing gown. He was bald now. He moved toward her through the lights and the witches and disappeared into her.

  Where have you been all these years? she thought to him.

  He said, In the house. In the empty house. It never goes away.

  Georgia felt her arm being pulled. “Come and dance with me, love,” said Bessi. She followed her white boots out to the witches. They danced to Shabba Ranks’s “Mr. Loverman” and the rhythm in their bodies was the same. Their shoulders twitched in the same direction, they shook their hips on the same side of the beat; what one body did the other must follow. Kemy and Bel came back from the DJ booth laughing. Master Spice cleared his throat between the beats. “Gotta special request going out to da twins, twenny-one today, happy birthday, twins, and here’s a tune for you!”

  Bessi threw her hands in the air and squealed. She twirled to the music and Georgia thought she looked like Diana Ross, her hair foaming over her shoulders and the tiny dress shimmering. Her mouth was wide open. Bessi threw up her arms again and brought them down around Georgia.

  “Can you see it?” The music was loud but Bessi was only whispering. Georgia could hear her clearly.

  “The grass?” said Georgia. “Yes. Over there.”

  “It’s pink!” Bessi laughed. “A pink field, and butterflies, hundreds of them! Can you see it? I knew it would be wild together. We can see the same things!”

  They ran up the rosy hill to a large tree alone in the field. It had thick leaves and a swollen trunk. They climbed up it and sat in the branches and the sky was kind and blue. They heard the tree whispering and singing and did not know what it meant.

  “I love you,” said Georgia. “Let’s stay here.”

  On the dance floor, Bessi started jumping around to Chaka Khan. “Come and dance, dance with me, Georgie!” she shouted, and Georgia climbed back down from the tree. Bessi’s smile was wider than Georgia had ever seen it. She was laughing her very loud laugh but now it seemed to be coming from somewhere else. It turned into a giggle with two mouths. Georgia looked back over at the cool pink field. The butterflies had disappeared. In the distance, she saw two little girls moving toward her. They were doing cartwheels down the hill.

  They stopped giggling, and concentrated on cartwheels.

  When they arrived they stood on the dance floor. A space emptied around them. Georgia could see clearly now, their white dresses and the same face, holding hands. One of the hands was burned.

  “I know you,” said Georgia.

  “Yes,” they said. “You do.”

  Georgia looked back at Bessi and pointed at the little girls. Bessi laughed and twirled. There was the sound of drums, and inside the drums, a double heartbeat. The lights beneath the floor were headlights, icy suns. The little girls stared at Georgia, their dresses sweeping full in the wind, although the air was very still. They smiled sweetly and Georgia felt blessed.

  She said: “Is it nice where you are?”

  “Yes,” they said, in only one voice. “It’s the best bit.”

  Georgia giggled. “Isn’t it,” she said.

  A restful breeze slid across her face. She heard the distant sound of fire. One of the girls turned and whispered to t
he other.

  Holding hands, they faced her.

  “Look what we can do.”

  Their smiles became wide and unsweet. Too wide. Georgia didn’t want to look but she couldn’t help it. She couldn’t turn her head to get Bessi and she couldn’t speak. One little girl opened her mouth until her face disappeared. Then, into the black space, the girl with the burned hand climbed. There was no mess. She didn’t say good-bye.

  Georgia cried for a moment.

  She said: “Are you Ode now, or Onia?”

  “Yes,” said the little girl.

  “Does it hurt?” said Georgia.

  “Yes,” she said. “But we forget.”

  Georgia cried again.

  “If I ever wanted to,” she said slowly. “Could I learn it too?”

  The girl turned away and walked up the hill. They looked back once, and whispered: “You already know.”

  SHE WATCHED THEM until they were out of sight. The field and the tree were beginning to blur and there were other people, very close to her, other voices and the loudest one Bessi’s, which sounded strange and labored as if it was being stretched. Just before the tree disappeared completely, Georgia saw someone walk out from behind it, a woman with thick black hair wearing a pair of red shoes, and reaching out her arms.

  “What is it?” said Bel. “Why are you crying?”

  Bessi’s voice sang louder. Georgia lifted her arms and held on tightly to Bel. When she opened her eyes she saw Bessi on the other side of the pools of light, holding a microphone. Her mouth was contorted. The silver of her dress had lost its shine. Georgia watched her, struggling through her Lucia song, and she felt that she had not seen her for a long and irretrievable time.

  A HEADACHE CAME like a new country and stayed there. The back of her neck exploded, volcanoes erupted at her temples, lava boiled across her face and seeped into her ears. It left her when she was asleep. She dreamed that she was in the boat, lying back, and drifting toward the mountain. The sun shone down on her dress—a white dress, with a yellow belt. She gazed up past seagulls and into the silver mist, and felt it falling down upon her eyes.