by Isla Dewar
Martha agreed. ‘Calm.’
But she wasn’t calm. ‘Lady, what lady? What was the lady called?’
‘Dunno,’ said Evie. ‘She was Jason’s mum. She wore a floaty dress thing and no shoes and beads and when I asked for a chocolate biscuit she said she didn’t keep poison in the house.’
‘Well, you can have a chocolate biscuit when we get home.’
‘They didn’t have a television either. When I said it was time for my programmes the lady said I’d have to miss them. She wouldn’t have a set because the stuff they put on corrupts people.’
‘And what did you say to that?’
‘I asked what corrupts meant.’
Martha said, ‘Ah.’ Again.
‘Am I not going to school, then?’ Evie noticed they’d driven past the road and were heading home.
‘No. Not today, sweetie. I thought we’d have time together. Did you have breakfast?’
‘Yes. It was chewy stuff like uncooked porridge with bits in. They eat a lot of things with bits in.’
‘Ah,’ said Martha. Trying to sound relaxed, casual. ‘You know you shouldn’t go off with strangers.’
‘But he wasn’t a stranger. He’s my dad and I didn’t go off with him. You phoned the school and said he was coming.’
Martha tensed. Her knuckles whitened, gripping the steering wheel, shoulders hunched. ‘I did?’
‘Yes,’ said Evie. ‘You phoned and said you’d been delayed and my dad would pick me up and take me home. You said he’d drive a Volkswagen and he had a beard and he’d be wearing a denim shirt. And he was and that’s how I knew him.’
Martha said, ‘Ah.’
They pulled up at the door. Evie jumped out and ran up the path. ‘Is Murphy here? I want Murphy.’
Charlie said he was back at home. ‘I’ll get him later.’ He turned to Martha. ‘Give me the keys. I have to go and see Bernice Stokes and tell her I’m not working for her any more.’
‘No,’ said Martha. ‘I need the car to go and get my mother. Then I’ll need to shop. I don’t think we’ve any food in the house. Then I’ll need to cook. Or, I thought you could cook. You’re better at it than me. Then, perhaps as you’re cooking, you could shop, too, then you’d know what you have and could cook accordingly. Actually, I want to stay with Evie. So you could get my mother while you’re out shopping.’
It was Charlie’s turn to say, ‘Ah.’
He paused, considered his day ahead, and said, ‘Might I remind you that I’m your boss?’
‘You’re only my boss in the office. But right now we’re not there, so I can tell you what to do.’
He picked the car keys from her hand and said, ‘OK.’ Today was not a day to argue.
He went home, showered, shaved, cleaned his teeth and made a decent cup of coffee. He was restarting his day, getting into his proper routine. It made him feel more optimistic that everything would go well. He took Murphy for a brief walk before dropping him off at Martha’s. ‘It’ll do Evie good to have him to play with. He’s a calm sort, soothing. He likes wildlife programmes on telly.’
He shopped not knowing what to buy. So he got too much. He decided the best celebratory meal for a family would be fish and chips with champagne. He went to the Italian deli to get bread and decent cheese. He debated pudding and decided something fruity would be healthier than something chocolate. He put his shopping in the back of his car and felt pleased. He was looking forward to unloading his goodies in Martha’s kitchen. He hoped she’d smile and declare his purchases wonderful. She might even say, ‘Well done.’
He got into the car, waggled the gear stick, frowned and thought about Martha, his love. He wanted her. But she came with baggage – a child, a mother, a tangle of guilt, memories and secrets. When it came to winning her heart he feared fish and chips, champagne and some sort of fruity pudding would not do the job. He needed to impress her with a grand gesture and wondered if the bookshop he frequented had a volume entitled How to Win a Woman’s Heart Without Promising to Buy Her a Car.
Sophie was dressed and ready to go. She was sitting by the side of her bed looking agitated. ‘Where the hell have you been? I’ve been waiting for hours. Did you find Evie?’
‘Yes, Evie’s at home. And I’ve been shopping. Martha told me to get some food.’
‘Did you go to the shop I told you about?’
‘Yes. You’ll get the full story when you get home.’
She bade goodbye to her fellow patients and the nurses, and indicated to Charlie that he should take her arm. ‘I’m stiff and sore.’
He drove slowly. Sophie complained. ‘Can’t you go any faster?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘There are other cars about.’
‘They are mostly on the other side of the road and nowhere near you.’
‘You never know. One of the drivers coming towards me could suddenly sneeze or have a stroke or a heart attack and veer over and bang into me. I need to be going slowly to lessen the impact. You never know what’s going to happen.’
This struck a chord with Sophie. She said nothing more. But bored with travelling at a snail’s pace, she painfully twisted in her seat and examined the shopping bags in the back.
‘What did you buy?’
‘Food. Usual stuff. Milk, bread, potatoes, butter. I got fish. Thought we’d have fish and chips, everybody likes that.’
‘You’ve got wine. Champagne. Three bottles.’
‘We don’t have to drink it all. You could keep a bottle for another day. It’s a celebration. Evie’s home and you’ll be home. Catastrophe over. And Martha’s been stressed. This will cheer her up. She might even be happy.’
‘You want to make Martha happy?’
‘Yes, of course I do. She’s lovely when she’s happy.’
‘You like Martha, then.’
‘Yes, I like Martha.’
They were driving along Portobello High Street. Sophie had her hands folded in her lap and was staring at Charlie. ‘That’s very posh champagne.’
‘It’s a special occasion.’
Sophie said, ‘Hmm.’ She sniffed. ‘You don’t just like Martha. You’ve fallen in love with her, haven’t you? Oh, you silly boy. Now that’s a catastrophe.’
‘I suppose you heard what I said to Jamie,’ said Martha.
‘You were whispering awfully loudly and angrily,’ Charlie told her.
It was nine in the evening and she and Charlie were alone on the sofa in front of the fire. She sat legs curled under her. She was barefoot. Sophie and Evie were in bed. Evie had school tomorrow and Sophie had declared herself exhausted. ‘All I did was lie in bed. I don’t know how hospital takes it out of you, but it does.’ She’d shuffled from the room, giving Charlie a fierce behave-yourself look as she went.
They were finishing the second bottle of champagne. Martha looked into her glass. ‘I shouldn’t have said that. I was angry with him, really angry. I wanted to hurt him. It was wrong of me.’ She blushed. ‘I have no idea who Evie’s father is.’
‘None at all?’
‘It could be one of three people.’
‘Jamie’s one of them?’
‘Yes. I was pregnant. I was scared. I didn’t know what to do. I thought he wanted me. So I asked him to marry me. I wasn’t totally truthful about my motives, though.’
‘He probably did want you.’
‘He wouldn’t have if he’d known what I got up to.’
‘What did you get up to?’
Martha smiled. ‘Everything our parents told us not to do. I keep remembering me swaggering about with my thumbs hooked over the back pockets of my jeans, boasting about us being the queens of rock’n’roll.’
‘Good boast, I like it.’
‘We wanted to be like the boys. It didn’t occur to us to play on our femininity. Boys had the best toys. They had all the fun. They got to play guitars and sing while girls looked on and adored them. So we went all blokey. Except we had tits and
squeakier voices.’
They joined a tour. The other bands amazed Martha. They were skinny-voiced youths offstage, and gods under the lights. They spoke Glasgow or Aberdeen and sang New York or San Francisco. They wore sunglasses indoors.
‘Everyone could see Grace was going to be a star. And that was my downfall.’
‘Your downfall? How come.’
‘Well, all the boys wanted to screw her. Even if it was only to brag about it after she hit the big time. But she was way out of their league so they settled for her backing band.’
Charlie said, ‘Hmm.’
‘I loved the attention. Being wooed by boys who had their eye on the main chance was exciting. They had their lines all worked out and I fell for them. I thought I was cool. And I got my comeuppance. Didn’t I?’
‘You got Evie. You got something good.’
‘I know that now. But back then being single and pregnant was a disgrace, a scandal. I was terrified. So I told Jamie he was the father. I hate myself for it. I mean, marriage is huge. It’s meant to be for life. I cheated him of his freedom.’
‘No. You just acted out of fear. And I’m sure Jamie wanted to marry you.’
‘No, he didn’t. He felt trapped. He buggered off. Can you blame him?’
Charlie thought that perhaps he couldn’t. His best plan was to change the subject before Martha broke down. ‘Did anybody become a rock god?’
‘Nah. They’re all accountants or plumbers, insurance agents or car salesmen now. But with interesting stories to tell.’
‘So, who was Evie’s father?’
‘Jamie or Alan or Bernie. There were only three. I wasn’t that bad.’
‘Whoever it was must be OK. Evie’s a joy. She’s bright and funny and she’s going to be a looker.’
‘She brought my mother and me together. We drifted after Dad died. She went into this cocoon of grief and I was obsessed with death. I used to lie underwater in the bath hoping to drown. I’d hold my breath till my lungs felt they were bursting. But I always shot back up gasping for air. I’d cut myself too.’ She rolled up her sleeve, showed Charlie a row of scars running between her wrist and her elbow. ‘Mum caught me once with my head in the oven. I wasn’t trying to kill myself. I didn’t really want to die. I just needed to know what death was like, so I could tell her it wasn’t that bad. I played rock’n’roll. I got battered and bruised in an old van, I changed into my stage clothes in the back rooms of pubs and youth club cloakrooms. I didn’t wash enough. I ate junk food. The other girls thought maybe they’d get famous and if they didn’t they’d go to university and have a good time before having a career. I just wanted to make a lot of noise.’ She stared into her empty glass.
‘Do you want me to open the last bottle?’ Charlie offered.
‘God, no. I can never decide if I like champagne. I like the thought of it, the anticipation of it, the sight of the bubbles. But then I drink it and burp.’
‘You’re meant to sip, not swig.’
‘Ah. It’s my misspent youth, downing pints of beer and showing off.’ She put her glass on the floor. ‘I think I’d prefer a cup of tea. I must be getting old.’
‘Do you want tea?’
‘Yes, why not. I’ll make a cup.’
They moved to the kitchen. Charlie sat at the table while Martha filled the kettle. He asked what happened to Grace.
Martha shrugged. ‘She got a recording contract. Made a single that got to number twelve in the charts. So the company spent money on her – clothes, photo shoots, interviews, that sort of thing. A tour. She did a tour with other bands. The Beatles were on it. She wasn’t top of the bill. Then her next single only went to number twenty and her album flopped. So she got dropped. She didn’t make much money. Rock stars who fade away never do.’
‘I suppose they don’t. So, you don’t know where she is now?’
‘I heard she went to LA, and then she lived in Thailand for a while. Moved to Paris. Just rumours. It’s a pity because she was good. Bluesy. Two or three years later and she might have been big. Grace Slick, Janis Joplin came along, she was up there with them. I still hear her records now and then. They say she was the start of it all. When they heard her, people knew what was coming. But where is she now?’ Martha shrugged.
She brought two mugs of tea to the table, sat opposite Charlie.
He smiled. Actually, he had a hunch he knew exactly where Grace was. But now was not the time to mention it.
‘It was rough and grubby and all that. But being young was magical. Magical.’ She said it twice, that’s how magical it had been. ‘I remember a night we slept in the van. Middle of nowhere. And the night was soft and warm. Millions of stars and we picked up some station on our radio. They were playing Ray Charles “The Night Time Is The Right Time”. And I danced on my own. Twirling and twirling, watching the stars go round. I was utterly, joyously happy.’
‘Where was that?’
‘I’ve no idea. Somewhere between Plymouth and Inverness. I just remember the moment.’
29
Bellow
There were words Charlie did not include in his vocabulary. They included relax and enjoy. He didn’t do either. He didn’t know how. Relaxing was a mystery. How did you do that? Relax in the bath? He showered. Relax in front of the television? Usually when he sat down to watch it, something awful was on. Relax with a drink in front of the fire. He’d tried this but sitting still was a problem. He tended to drum his fingers and look round the room. This led to his spotting things that needed done. And he couldn’t relax while staring at an untidy pile of books or a thin film of dust on the table. Relaxing was hard work.
He sighed considering this. It was the middle of the night, indigestion time. He’d known even as he ate the fish and chips and drank the champagne that his body would object to the over-indulgence. Right now he felt that his mouth was coated in grease and millions of gassy bubbles were coursing through his system. They would in a very short time arrive at their exit point and explode into the room. Murphy would raise his head, prick his ears and look at him with disdain. Charlie thought this unfair of him. He envied Murphy. The dog had enthusiasm. Everything he did, he did with zest as if it was his favourite thing to do. The dog enjoyed himself.
Enjoyment was elusive. Charlie wasn’t sure about it. What did a person do when the enjoyment was over? Say, he ate a scone and liked it. Did he have a second scone to prolong the moment? The thing about enjoying yourself was that you didn’t notice it when it was happening. So you didn’t enjoy enjoying yourself, you enjoyed thinking about it afterwards.
He supposed that the onset of his inability to relax or enjoy himself had come at that moment in the pink room when he was reading the pink letter and breathing in the thick floral scent that lingered. He’d stepped outside his life and started living as an onlooker. Now he had to beware of pink. It was everywhere. There were thousands of pink things in the world that could remind him of his loneliness, uselessness and inadequacies. A chap couldn’t relax or enjoy himself with a lurid scent and a vivid colour to avoid.
Martha was different. She’d faced her truth. She was never going to be Gene Vincent. She couldn’t rock like Chuck Berry. She wasn’t sexy like Elvis. She’d been a fool. It was time to quit.
‘God, that must’ve been painful,’ Charlie said to Murphy, who was lying on the rug beside his bed. ‘Me, I’ve always accepted failure. Never expected anything else. I’ve had it easy.’ He heaved himself onto his elbow and punched his pillow. ‘Can’t get comfy. Of course, being pregnant would have influenced her decision to quit. To be honest, I don’t know if you can take a version of “Pistol Packin’ Mama” seriously if it’s sung by a woman heavy with child.’ He paused, thought, ‘Then again, why not? Maybe that’s why you’d be packin’ a pistol.’
He rolled onto his back, put his hands behind his head, stared into the gloom and started to idly sing the song. ‘Bugger. This will be running round my head for days now.’ He threw back his blankets.
‘Can’t sleep. Too much stodgy food, champagne and heavy confessional conversation.’
He dressed – jeans, shirt, thick jumper and running shoes. A swift getaway might be called for. He wheeled his bike outside and stood a moment appreciating the air and the silence and chided himself for not doing this more often. The world was perfect when there was nobody else about.
The song was still in his head as he cycled. Tyres humming over tarmac, hardly a car on the road – if only it was always like this. Night air on his face and a song he didn’t totally dislike bouncing in his brain.
It was after four when he cruised into the Grassmarket. He wheeled his bike along the pavement, looking into doorways. He was checking the slumbering bundles. He knew not to shine the torch he’d brought into any faces. Sudden light woke doorway slumberers and he’d learned the hard way to let sleeping tramps lie when a man, taller and stronger that he was, had roared out of his wrappings, pinned him to the doorway wall and held a knife at his throat.
Now, he looked at feet. They were a good indicator of the sex of the sleeper. He was looking for a woman. Women tended not to be violent. But they had a huge and lively stock of swear words. Chrissie Lewis would be fine, though. She’d have a working knowledge of curses. But he doubted she’d use them.
It was just a hunch that Chrissie was living on the streets. He knew that destitute people often returned to their hometown. He supposed they found it easier to sleep in familiar doorways and parks. And, during waking hours, which alleyways to wander to keep safe and to avoid people who’d known you in better times.
He searched every doorway and back yard, where the entrance wasn’t blocked with a locked gate. Then he moved on to the Royal Mile. He knew of neglected overgrown areas behind buildings where homeless people spent the night. But none of the breathing huddles was Chrissie.
He stood knee-deep in weeds. Behind him grey buildings, and only a few windows lit. It was mostly small flats up there. Some of the flats had been divided into several smaller flats. Charlie thought it inevitable that in time these buildings would become fashionable. They were in the heart of the tourist area between the castle and Holyrood Palace.