The indiscernible sun slipped below the horizon and their world was plunged into darkness. Andrew zipped up the flap. He bailed some water using the brazier cup and when he was finished he rested his head against the inflated pontoon. He closed his eyes. The only noises were the sounds of the sea slapping against the raft and the distant songs from a pod of passing humpback whales returning to the warm tropical waters of the Equator. Their close proximity unnerved him at first, fearing that a whale could easily capsize the raft, but eventually the songs die away. Andrew savoured the silence until Bull’s nasal symphony piped up, playing long into the night.
Chapter 6: Subject of desire
2034 Two years earlier
Saffron was sitting on the moorings at Maryhill Locks, admiring the myriad of bright colours she had used to repaint the narrowboat. Her friends had just finished installing solar panels, a wind turbine and a water butt. Earlier, she had planted some herbs and vegetables in pots and scattered them around the deck. To her delight, Bull’s boat was now a carbon neutral home. She studied the new moniker
“I hereby name thee, the Wangari Muta Maathai,” she stated.
“I hope he likes it,” said Aisha. Saffron took a step back and viewed her work with a critical eye. She smiled at her and said,
“What’s not to like? It’s beautiful, if I don’t say so myself. I think he’ll love it and if he doesn’t, he’ll learn to love it.” Aisha’s face was wracked with ambiguity. She joined Saffron on the moorings, standing by her side to share her view.
“Its one thing potting up herbs and fitting a few solar panels, but are ye sure he disnae mind you renaming his boat?”
“Oh, he’ll be fine, just fine. If he isn’t, he can paint it back to that dull brown colour,” said Saffron laughing, her head feeling light with the paint fumes.
Earlier, Bull had called to say his flight from Reykjavik had been grounded by a storm and he wouldn’t be home for the vernal equinox. This was a special occasion of renewal and rebirth for Saffron. Normally, she would set aside some time to meditate and evaluate her life, but instead of feeling reinvigorated, she had become upset. She was consumed with a feeling of losing her sense of focus, but more than that, her independence and femininity had been compromised by her feelings for her new subject of desire. She had let her guard down, she felt, she had told him she loved him. Bull had initially panicked, smiled, panicked again and after settling down, said he loved her too. She had discussed her alienation from her causes and he had described her as a small cog in a bigger machine, turning the flow against those who tried to destroy what she believed in. Lately, she felt more like a hamster, treading a wheel, for no other reason than to keep moving. She yearned to be back amongst her activist comrades, casting off doubt and fighting for what she believed in.
The following morning Saffron fed Boris before calling her mother. There was no response. She felt the need to talk to someone that viewed her life from the outside looking in. She brooded for a while and then visited Maurice, a new friend from a photography course she had taken. Saffron pressed the buzzer on Maurice’s entry COM system. She listened to the hypnotic ringing until the screen lit up. Maurice’s face appeared. “Hi Maurice, hope I wasn’t disturbing you?” Maurice ran his manicured hands through his hair.
“No, it is ok.” Saffron watched him turn his back and shut his living room door. He came back and smiled. “What can I do for you Saffron?” She felt awkward for reasons she barely understood.
“Everything is fine Maurice,” she said, “I just wanted to talk to you about illustrations for a book I’m thinking about writing, but it can wait if you’re busy.”
“No, I understand. Why don’t we meet and we can talk. Is the Organic Café on the opposite side of the street ok? Two minutes?”
The Arctic storm had passed and Bull managed to secure a seat on a flight back to Glasgow. When he arrived at the moorings he walked by the narrowboat and then stopped. His head darted around, at first wondering where it had gone and why another narrowboat had taken its place at Maryhill Locks. Suddenly, it dawned on him that this was his boat, but it had been repainted, embellished with solar panels and plant pots. Bull glared at the new name on the boat, mouthing the words. He sighed, thinking that it was bad luck to change the original name of a boat. He exercised a familiar ritual by accidentally banging his head on the companionway before stepping inside the hatch - nothing new here.
He called Saffron’s name, but there was no reply. He collapsed onto the sofa, put his feet up on the Jali coffee table and lit a cigarette. At his feet lay a notepad covered in Saffron’s handwriting. On the first page she had penned a title – a ten point plan for wellbeing and happiness. He flicked through the rest of the notebook, throwing it back on the table when he had finished. He went into the study, located a false drawer under Saffron’s writing desk and withdrew a bundle of letters. He glanced out of the porthole, searching up and down the moorings for signs of Saffron – the coast was clear. He sat down and read.
Later that night Saffron returned to find Bull asleep on the sofa. Beside him, on the coffee table lay an empty bottle of Chinese red wine and a glass. Saffron kissed the lump on his forehead and went to bed alone. In the morning Bull was still sleeping. She went up onto the top deck and finished potting the rest of the herbs. A honey bee landed on one of the painted flowers she had drawn onto the boat. Dizzy with delight she went below to wake Bull with news of the rare sighting. Bull was already awake. He was unimpressed with the honey bee story and asked to her whereabouts the previous day.
“I asked Aisha to leave a message on your Shackle,” said Saffron, didn’t you get it?”
“Obviously not,” said Bull peevishly. Saffron hugged him.
“So you’re not interested in my honey bee? They’re on the endangered species list you know. I do miss real honey, don’t you?”
Bull showed scant interest in Saffron’s discovery and said,
“I miss real beef, real pork and real lamb. I miss real food.” She examined him, standing there in his wrinkled suit, creased from a night spent on the sofa. He was scratching the back of his head.
“I know, it’s a shame you meat eaters are forced to gorge yourself on laboratory processed proteins, but you are where you are.”
“You’re hardly immune from eating processed food yourself. Where do you think your vegetables come from?”
“Not the one’s I choose to eat, but this brings me back to my bee – without them there’s little natural pollination so science has had to come up with an alternative.” Bull said laconically,
“Don’t like bees.” Saffron approached him and placed her hands on his face, pushing his cheeks together so his lips pursed.
“What’s wrong Faerrleah? Why are you scratching – has your little rash come back?” Saffron was now gently shaking his head from side to side. Bull mumbled through contorted lips,
“It would have been nice to surprise you. It’s so horrible to come back to an empty home, particularly when I didn’t recognise it. Who is Wangamamma mafia anyway?”
“Wangari Muta Maathai,” she said correcting him, “she was a Kenyan environmentalist.” Bull mumbled,
“Where were you anyway, and what’s that?” he said pointing to the far side of the room. Saffron’s face beamed. She said,
“It’s a totem pole I bought from the market. It’s amazing isn’t it?”
“I nearly shat myself when I saw that. I tried to call you.” Saffron released her grip on Bull’s face. She told him about her meeting with Maurice to discuss a book she was thinking about writing. Bull said, “Is Maurice in your group?”
“You mean what’s left of my campaign group –most of them have been arrested or in hiding or fleeing the country.”
“I haven’t heard Maurice’s name before.”
“He’s not an activist. He’s a photographer I know.”
“If you had a Shackle I could have tracked you.” Saffron looked horrified. She said,
/> “I’m not a whale, I don’t need to be tracked. For the last time, I’m not wearing a Shackle. I don’t like wearing them. I don’t need constant access to GPS, credit facilities, cyberspace, social networking or gaming. I live in the real world, not a transnational corporation’s virtualised Hades.”
“Jesus Christ,” exclaimed Bull, “if they introduce a curfew and you don’t own a Shackle, you’ll get needlessly detained and questioned by the pigs, until they can verify who you are by other means.”
“I’ll take my chances. I’m not wearing one because it sits nicely with the Government’s neo-feudalist system. So they can profile me and analyse what I buy, where I go and who I meet. Once upon a time we lived in a democratic society – what happened? When did we become so marginalised by the fucks that govern us?”
“The last time I checked we were still a democracy.”
“You’re sweet Faerrleah, but incredibly naive – democracy is the greatest illusion of our time. This country's financial assets are owned by a non tax paying oligarchy, who send their children to non-tax paying private schools where elitist values are re-enforced, while the retrograde class gets tossed on the scrapheap. Our corrupt politicians are in the pockets of corporations, and illegal wars are waged in the Developing World to control energy production, manipulate food prices and prop up the weapons manufacturing industry; all facilitated by a compliant media whose job is to act as vassals for the rich and distract a gullible populace with fabrications and unqualified opinion dressed up as news. How is that fair? How is that practising the principles of social equity or democracy?”
Bull was dumbfounded. He looked at the Shackle on his wrist, and for the first time he saw the symbolism of being tied to a corporate machine, but he had no sage words to offer. He flicked a button on the shackle and a 3D projected image of a newsreader appeared. The voice said, “...riots are now spreading outside London to Birmingham, Manchester, Leeds and Liverpool...” Saffron barked,
“Turn that propaganda shit off. If most of you men averted your eyes from her breasts and thighs and listened to what she was saying, you would realise that only lies come out of those painted lips. She isn't real, she's a computer generated animation. Look, I'm not wearing a shackle. You believe what big tits on your Shackle is feeding you if you want, I'd rather think for myself.”
“It’s for your own protection – the streets are not safe out there.”
“Open your eyes, Faerrleah. You’re beginning to sound like my father and, no offence, but he’s Mr Responsible. I wouldn’t listen to him, so why should I listen to you?” Bull shook his head. He slumped back down on the sofa and pulled one of Saffron’s boho cushions towards his stomach. He squeezed it and said,
“Fine, have it your way, but you said yourself that democracy always reverts to a Plutocracy. So why do you deplore its demise?” Saffron's laugh was a cynical one. She said,
“I remember you thinking Plutocracy was a canine government led by a Disney cartoon character.” “I was being facetious.”
“Were you really?” Bull looked at his feet. Saffron continued, “Look Faerrleah, people in this country fought for centuries to eradicate dictators and tyrants...” Bull interrupted saying,
“Now you’re beginning to sound like my dad.”
“We may still have a vote and free speech, but this is not democracy, not like we should have, not where ordinary people have their say and are listened to outside an election campaign. The government might change its appearance every five years, but the face behind the mask remains the same. A network of privileged elite still make the rules, and the bourgeoisie order is still in place. The defrauding bankers still walk the street, still enjoying their protected status and propped up by public taxes, which used to be spent on the people, while those who protest against injustices like this and the rape of our planet are put behind bars. I wish you would open your eyes.”
Saffron waited a moment to see how he would respond. Finally, she knelt beside him and said, “What’s this all about anyway, something has really gotten into you, and it’s not because I don’t wear a Shackle.” Bull lent forward, brushed the hair from her ear and sniffed. He said,
“I think you forgot your notebook with your ten point plan in your rush to fly off and meet Maurice. It’s lying over on the table.”
“I really wish you wouldn't do that sniffing thing. Why do you do that? Why do you have to sniff everyone? I would like to know.” Bull stood up, barging into the coffee table and knocking the wine bottle and glass to the floor as he left the room. Saffron shouted,
“You didn’t tell me what you thought of the boat? I spent a whole day painting it. And the Solar panels got fitted yesterday.” Bull pretended he couldn’t hear her as he stepped into the bathroom and closed the door.
Saffron made herself a cup of peppermint tea and sat staring out of the galley window biting her fingernails. It was an annoying childhood habit she had struggled to grow out of. She considered Bull's own habit of sniffing people; it initially made her laugh but now it irritated her. She was confused and considered how her relationship with Bull was evolving, and if her ten point plan to wellbeing and happiness honestly reflected her own life. She was surprised at how little of her own advice she was taking. She looked back into the living room and studied the empty bottle, tipped over on the floor. A residual trickle of red wine streamed towards her Myakka hand woven rug. She rushed to intercept the convergence. It was too late.
Later, Bull walked to the galley. He was carrying a fresh shirt and was smoking a brand cigarette. He said,
“What’s so special about him anyway?”
“Oh, he’s just got an amazing life force and natural balance, or maybe it’s just the way he takes off his sunglasses, lights his pipe and says oui. I don’t know but he’s been a good friend.” Bull became churlish. His voice was laced with nervous sarcasm. He said,
“What do you mean natural balance? Like he can ride a bike without falling off? So what? Even I can do that.” Saffron sighed,
“Do you have a problem with me seeing Maurice?”
“I don’t know the guy so I couldn’t comment.” Saffron’s lips curled into a devilish smile. She said, “Your Ying-Yang seems disrupted.”
Bull frowned, “Oh, speak English woman, just for a change?”
Saffron looked at him reproachfully. She sighed heavily and said,
“When you’re not here, I need someone to talk to.”
“You have your mam.”
“Besides my mam,” said Saffron faking a Mancunian accent.
“What about your friend Aisha?”
“She’s leaving for Rome and won’t be back until after the winter.”
“Why don’t you email or video call her? Or use virtual presence?”
“I need people to be actually present, not virtually present. I need to feel their aura. I need to sense things like trust, hope, or even doubt, and you can't do that without physical participation.”
Saffron stood up and walked to the sink to rinse out her cup. She stared out of the porthole, examining the potted herbs on the deck, and then over the ragwort growing in the verge behind the moorings to the diseased ravished trees swaying in the wind. Drying her cup with a dish towel she said,
“I only talk to my mother about the weather and cats. She knows nothing else about my life.”
“But there are no parameters when you talk to Maurice? Is that what you are saying? Do you talk about me?”
“It isn’t like that. We talk about pagan art and spiritualism. He’s from Brittany, they’re very mystical people. We also share our problems and talk them through.”
“And you can’t talk to me about that sort of thing?”
“Perhaps we could, if you were around for long enough.”
“Don’t you think I would rather be here with you? I don’t control the weather. I get just as frustrated as you when I can’t get home.”
Saffron walked into the living room and Bull followed
. She bent down and mopped the spilled wine with the dish towel. Bull inspected Boris’s cage, making a few adjustments to his fake rock and foliage display. Saffron turned to face him, saying,
“You didn’t really explain why someone who works at the Clyde flood barrier needs to go to Iceland.” Bull turned away and pretended to take an interest in the contents of Saffron’s bookcase.
“I was asked to go. The company is selling its technology to their government. I can’t cycle to the Arctic. I used a solar flight to Reykjavik airport but the connection to the places they send me is a different matter. After the storm, I was lucky…”
“Good grief, how naive do you think I am?” Saffron returned to the galley and picked up a salt cellar. Again, Bull followed her.
“The company offset the carbon dioxide they use by buying carbon credits, planting trees and building wind turbines - all tax deductible of course. I don’t make the rules Saffron.”
“Yes, but you play by the rules, don’t you. You’re an ecocrite. You talk about saving the planet, but in essence what are you doing apart from expending a lot of hot air and working for a company that is profiting from the effects of climate change? You don’t even wear your Green Covenanters bracelet anymore.” Bull looked away shaking his head. He said,
“You’re changing the subject and deflecting the spotlight onto me.”
Saffron returned to the rug and started pouring salt on the wine stain. She looked up and considered the man standing above her. Despite who he was, she had managed to reach out to him, even change him. He was gentle and passionate but also stubborn. He would connect with her mentally as well as physically. He was a beautiful kisser, she thought, he must have had lots of practise. A moment of silence passed. He took a draw on his cigarette and finally he turned to her and said,
We Float Upon a Painted Sea Page 7