by Patrick Gale
The revelation for Arthur, confirmation of what Shirley had known all along, came on the second day at the hospital, when a woman called in on the ward to see Shuna. She was unnaturally tall, with an astonishingly unlifelike red wig and thigh-length, leopardette, high-heeled boots. And she wore a perfume which lingered, cutting through the hospital smells long after her brief, tearful appearance, and spoke to father and mother alike of moist, unspeakable things. After she left, Arthur, staggered, finally found his tongue.
‘Who in Christ’s name was that?’ he asked Karl as she slunk away up the ward, for all the world like some pagan goddess bestowing dubious blessings. Karl had seemed utterly unfazed, kissing the woman tenderly on the cheek and leading her to the bedside with a kind of courtesy.
‘Oh, that was Ange. Angela. She and Shuna work together. Used to, I mean.’
‘But she’s a…! You mean my daughter was…?’ Arthur had a rich vocabulary of insulting terms, especially for women, but for once in his life he seemed unable to name names. Karl helped him out.
‘Yes, Mr Gilbert. Shuna was a sex worker.’
And Arthur must have believed him because he was too crushed to pick a fight.
It was funny how names changed the way one looked at things. Sex Worker had an utter lightness in Shirley’s mind. It was truthful, unadorned; a woman’s description. Sex was work, hard work where Arthur was concerned, a strenuous matter of puffing and panting and getting hot and flushed and sticky and trying hard to concentrate and not let one’s mind make that fatal drift onto wallpaper choice and obstinate claret stains. She had been not a little relieved when he granted her an early retirement about the same time he had his degrading little fling with Mary Dewhurst at the golf club. Shirley was sure that Arthur was more appalled at his late discovery of how his daughter had paid for her generous Christmas presents and fancy imitation fur coat than at her cruel and senseless early death. Sure of it. But she did not greatly care. As her mother used to say: it did not signify.
It took them a long while to drive the short distance across the park and even longer to find a parking space. London had been taken over by cars; smelly, useless things.
‘It gets worse every week,’ Karl told her as he failed a second time to snatch a parking space and Shirley imagined car upon car clogging the already scarcely mobile queues until a day was reached when no more cars could get in or out of the place. It would become known as the Great Standstill or Smoggy Tuesday. People would die from the poor air quality, children preferably, and finally something would be done, something sensible like persuading men it would not hurt their sexual prowess to ride a bus occasionally.
Shuna’s flat was in an unexpectedly leafy square with big plane trees, a well-kept residents’ garden and glossy front doors. As she clambered up out of Karl’s Mini she realized she had expected something sordid; wailing children in rags, women drunk at noon, surly menfolk with too many rings. This amused her and she laughed softly.
‘What?’ Karl asked.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just being silly. Is this hers?’ She pointed down to a basement with a tub of flowers outside the door.
‘Yes.’
‘I should know the address,’ she said, ‘but she didn’t like me to write. I rang sometimes, when Mr Gilbert was out, but I always seemed to get other people — that Angela probably — and I don’t think they passed on my messages. Here.’ She pulled out the keys. ‘You do it.’
Karl took the key ring, looked at the fob, and smiled sadly. ‘I bought her this,’ he said. ‘In San Francisco.’
‘Where the bridge is?’
‘That’s right. It’s not really a key ring.’
‘Oh? It makes a very good one. Is it for napkins or something?’
‘No. No, it’s a…a…’ Karl seemed uncharacteristically bashful.
‘Is it something rude, Karl?’ Shirley helped him out.
‘Yes,’ he said, grinning. ‘Very.’
‘Well that’s nice,’ she told him. ‘She must have liked that.’
‘She did.’
As Karl turned to unlock the door, Shirley looked at the swinging hoop again, unable to stop herself wondering what on earth such a thing could be used for that would not be extremely painful. He opened the door and she followed him in.
‘Good carpet,’ she noticed aloud. Shuna had liked carpets as a child, had spent hours rolling around on them as she read or watched television.
‘The rent’s paid until the end of the month. We’ve been paying it for her while she was too sick to work. So it’s not a problem.’
‘You and your guardsman friend?’
‘No, no.’ He smiled. ‘The charity.’
She nodded, beginning to take in her surroundings, the calm colours, the lack of pictures or ornaments, the single, big potted palm behind the sofa. Arthur had been right — it was little more than a bedsit — but it was a very comfortable, well decorated one. Shirley now felt the presence of her grown-up daughter intensely and was shy before it.
‘It’s very tidy,’ she told Karl in a stage whisper, as if Shuna were just around the corner. ‘She never used to be tidy.’
‘Oh, er, I’ve been cleaning for her.’
‘That’s kind of you.’
‘Not really. I like to clean.’
‘You’re very good at it. Shall I make us both a cup of tea?’
‘Yes. No. You sit down. I’ll do it. Oh God.’
He had paused, his hand on the kettle lid, and quite suddenly was overcome, hunched over the fridge. Shirley touched his shoulder gently. He turned and she drew him to her.
‘I’m sorry,’ he stammered. ‘It suddenly hit me.’
‘Don’t,’ she said. ‘It’s all right.’
He cried heavily for about ten minutes. It came over him in waves, little surges of grief that she could feel in the tightening of his arms about her. He smelled of leather, soap and man; she liked that. Apart from his brief hug in the hospital, she had not held anyone in years. She did not think she had ever held someone in a leather jacket. She let her fingers stray over its rich, studded surface and stroked the back of his head, where his hair was cut so short she had glimpsed a little strawberry mark underneath it. When he felt better and pulled gently away from her to blow his nose, she felt as relieved as if she had wept too.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said. ‘I should go.’
‘Must you?’
‘I ought to pop into work, just to check on the mail and things…Can I pick you up later?’
‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘I’ll probably find my own way to the station when I’m ready.’
‘My number’s by the phone there, in case,’ he said. ‘You can take it with you and ring me from home, if you’ve a mind to.’ He kissed her softly on the cheek and left. Nice boy.
She made herself a cup of tea. She explored the flat. She lay on Shuna’s bed, even slipped between the sheets for a few minutes. She ate some chocolate biscuits from a tin and played a tape of strange music that was in the machine by the bath. Then, feeling she should do what bereaved relatives do, she reluctantly opened the big fitted cupboard, found a suitcase, and began folding clothes to take to the local charity shop. Shuna had developed a good eye for clothes, that much was swiftly evident, a good eye and expensive taste. They were of a size, and Shirley tried on a jacket and coat or two, wondering whether she would ever dare wear something with a famous Italian label and run the risk of Arthur’s guessing where it had come from. Then she took out a hanger with the strangest garment on it she had ever seen.
It was black, and so glistening that Shirley though at first it was a black plastic dustbin liner draped to protect something precious. Then she realized that the black plastic was the thing itself; the dress, garment, whatever. It was quite thick, almost like leather, and shiny as a taxicab in the rain. It appeared to be a kind of all-in-one or catsuit, not unlike the things she had seen ice-skating men wear on championships televized from Norway. It had long sleeves and long legs. It was
shaped with reinforcements to form a pointy bosom and, strangest of all, had built-in pointy boots and long-fingered gloves. Shirley could not resist putting one of her hands into a sleeve and into the empty finger pieces. It was extraordinary. The plastic clung to her, seeming to become an extra skin. There was not a breath of air inside. It fitted her arm exactly and shone so, even in the dim light from the window on to the area steps, that it was a surprise not to feel wet. She turned to look in the mirror, fascinated as she flexed and turned her fingers and forearm this way and that. Then, as she pulled her arm out, the garment gave off a sudden scent that might have been Shuna’s very essence. With a little gasp, Shirley dropped it on the bed as though it had stung her. She stared at it for a moment, then tried to resume her packing, but its gleaming blackness burned a hole in the corner of her vision. It would not be ignored. At last, it proved too inviting and she found herself stripping entirely naked. One could see at a glance that this was not a garment for sensible underwear.
Shivering with anticipation, she slipped first one foot then the other into the leg pieces and down into the boots, happy that she and Shuna had shared a shoe size, then her arms, then her shoulders were encased in the sinuous, clammy stuff. She slowly fastened the big, black zipper that ran up its front from groin to neck, marvelling at the way it caused the contours of the thing to reshape her own. She had always been proud of her trim figure but no one could withstand age and gravity entirely. As the zip reached her chest, she let out a sigh, feeling her breasts first clasped then lifted upwards and outwards by the curiously pointed cones. Something was stuck in the neck, though, forming an unflattering bulge at the back. Wincing, she reached in over her shoulder and tweaked out a thing that looked like a cross between a matronly black bathing cap and the balaclava helmet she had once knitted Shuna. She hesitated for a moment then saw herself in the mirror, saw how her body had been taken over, transformed and her head left grotesquely unaltered on top. Taking a deep breath, she pulled on the headpiece, grimacing at the queer pull of the plastic on her cheeks and she tucked in the loose strands of her short, grey hair.
Now she looked back in the full length mirror and was afraid at how easily she had become something else. ‘Oh, Shuna,’ she breathed. ‘Shuna, my dear.’ But she was exhilarated too. The leg pieces squeezed and caressed her thighs in a way Arthur had never done. The new silhouette it gave her was entirely flattering. Astounded, she drew nearer for a closer, more critical look and saw how the mask had hidden her lines, emphasizing instead the best features that remained, her deep blue eyes, her strong little nose, her still full lips. Lipstick. It needed lipstick. She sat at Shuna’s dressing table, pulled open the drawer and found some expensive French stuff and smeared a rich, true crimson about her mouth. Then she stood up, wandered around the flat a little and wondered, sadly, why time could not be frozen for a while, to postpone the mournful necessity of packing up and hurrying for a train.
Exhausted by her sleepless night, her grief and her confusion, she sank onto the sofa and, almost at once, fell into a deep sleep. When the telephone rang, she jumped up from the cushions like a surprised thief. She hesitated then, deciding it would be either Arthur or Karl, answered.
‘Hello?’
It was a woman’s voice. Cultured. Like a voice announcing symphonies on the radio. ‘Time to work, my pet?’ it asked.
‘Er. No. Sorry. I think you’ve got the wrong number.’
The woman sighed. ‘Come on, darling. Wake up. Are you free to play?’
‘Oh,’ Shirley stammered, confused. She wondered how much she should tell. Any caller who still knew nothing could hardly be counted an intimate. ‘Shuna isn’t here. This is her mother.’
The woman laughed. ‘Oh come on, lovey! I haven’t got all day.’
‘No, honestly. It really is.’
‘Listen. He’s a really easy number. One of our regulars. The Wimp. Straight up and down for you. Whang, whang, no bang and you’re laughing.’ The coarse words sounded doubly suggestive in such a plummy mouth.
‘No, you don’t seem to understand. Shuna is…Well, she’s…This really is her mother.’
The reply came quick as a blade. ‘You’re wearing the suit, aren’t you?’
‘I…I…’ How could she deny it? ‘Yes,’ she boldly confessed. ‘I am. It’s lovely.’
‘He’ll be up in a couple of minutes, darling. It never takes long. Then we can talk.’
The woman hung up. Shirley stared at the telephone receiver for a moment then began to panic. She hurried over to the wardrobe and continued throwing things into bags. This was insanity. She had not slept. She was in shock. She was hearing things. The telephone probably had not rung at all. She would finish packing, catch the train home and make herself a nice cup of hot, frothy malted milk.
The doorbell sounded. Shirley choked a cry then stifled her fear with common sense. There was nothing for it but to be totally honest. She would answer the door and tell the man it was all some grotesque clerical error. He would take one look at her in any case and see she was only somebody’s mother. It was only when Shirley tugged wide the door and saw the immediate look of terror on the face of the burly, balding man before her that she remembered she had not changed back into her own, reassuringly motherly clothes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said at once.
‘What?’ she asked. ‘No. Honestly. Please listen. I’m the one who should apologize.’
‘It’s not safe out here, love,’ he muttered in an undertone and darted past her in to the flat.’
‘Now, please! Look here,’ she began. A woman was pushing a pram past on the pavement, leading a little girl who peered down into each basement as she passed it. Horrified, Shirley swiftly shut the door and turned to find her caller cringing on the carpet before her.
‘Please, no,’ he said. ‘Please don’t hurt me! I’ll do anything. Anything!’
‘Get out,’ she said, deciding that firmness was the only way to handle such an impossible situation. ‘Get up and get out.’
‘I’ll try to be good next time. I promise. Please.’ Grovelling he reached out towards one of her shinily booted feet and grasped the ankle. Without thinking, she kicked out and struck him on the chin in self-defence.
‘Oh. I’m so terribly sorry,’ she began but he was reaching out for her feet again and she stamped on his hand. He gasped then cried out with what she now realized was pleasure. So she stopped apologizing. Too her disgust she saw that, though still on all fours, he had reached down and was rubbing a hand between his legs.
‘Stop that,’ she said. ‘Stop it at once!’
He looked up, his face pink and as unappealing as Arthur’s when he had been drinking and began to tell off-colour jokes.
‘Make me,’ he said, and the challenge was half a plea. He was still playing with himself. Shirley felt sick and slightly faint. The suit was becoming intolerably hot. It was out of the question for her to run out into the street asking for help dressed as she was.
Then it struck her. She did not need to run because she was not afraid. The man was pathetic. The suit itself seemed to lend her power. She smelled again her daughter’s scent in her nostrils and her mind cleared. She knew, with a sigh, what she had to do. It was laughably simple. Letting the man’s piggish grunts and whimpers feed a clean anger that had begun to burn in her clutched and moulded bosom, she strode back to the cupboard, picked up the thick, black riding crop she had noticed hanging in there and turned to face him. His face lit up with pleasure.
‘Please,’ he begged her. ‘Please, no!’
‘Oh shut up,’ she said, and smacked him across the back, very hard. He yelled.
‘Don’t make so much noise,’ she spat. ‘What will people say, you disgusting little man?’ and she hit him again. He was a big man, like Arthur, and could have killed her quite easily with his fat, hairless hands had he wanted to, but he cringed and whimpered, utterly in her thrall as she struck out again and again. She hit him for the years of whi
te Crimplene cardigans, for the decades of watching Arthur mow the lawn, for her wasted bloom and her vanished joys, hit him for Mary Dewhurst, hit him, hardest of all, for the way he and Arthur and stupid men like them had taken away from her the only person she had ever really loved.
It took only two minutes, three at the most. In the brief span from her first smack across his back to his subsiding in muffled ecstasy — ‘Don’t you dare dirty the carpet!’ she hissed — Shirley Gilbert travelled further from the certainties of 66 Hollybush Drive than Saint Christopher could ever have safely carried her. By the last smack, she had stopped being angry and begun to enjoy herself.
Tired with her effort, she sat on the sofa arm, watching her visitor closely. He slowly lurched to his knees, and onto his feet. His face had cleared. He no longer looked beseeching, merely drained of necessity and she realized with a shock that she had made him comfortable. She was obscurely proud.
‘Thank you,’ he muttered. ‘Thank you so much.’ His voice was no longer wheedling but almost manly and she felt a pang of apology rising in her breast. Then he reached into his wallet, took out several bank notes, put them on the table and left without another word. No sooner was the door shut than she ran after him, shot the bolt on it and set about feverishly tugging off the catsuit. She washed her face and hands, patted herself dry with a fluffy white towel, then finished packing the suitcase. She repaired her face and hair, dabbed on some scent and tried to ignore the riding crop and mound of sweaty black plastic at the foot of the bed.
Then the doorbell rang again.
‘Who is it?’ she called out, querulous.
‘It’s all right,’ said the plummy voice she had heard on the telephone. ‘It’s me. Ange.’
There was a spyhole in the door. Frowning, Shirley peered through it and saw it was the towering siren who had visited the hospital. She opened the door. Angela was dressed almost quietly, in a beautifully tailored linen suit and scarlet blouse.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’d better come in.’
‘Thanks,’ said Angela, poised as an air stewardess. ‘Mind if I sit? My dogs are killing me.’ She coiled her impressive length onto the armchair and kicked off her bright red court shoes.