Didn’t like it? That had to be a crime.
‘Thought it was too babyish, she said.’
Babyish? Even if you lived to be a hundred, you could never outgrow a box like this. She had cherished hers, right on through her teens. Day by day, month by month, the ballerina had come to play an increasingly important role in her life, as confidante, as soul-mate, as the sister she had never had. Tatyana, she was called – a name chosen by her father, which seemed to suit her cherry lips and exotic jet-black hair. And she had needed Tatyana more and more as things got worse at home, believing that as long as the little dancer was standing guard on top of the pink box, life wouldn’t blow apart.
Wrong. Completely wrong.
So in a fit of almost madness, she had chucked the jewel-box out – consigned Tatyana to the rubbish bin, along with all her other stuff. She’d only done it because she was so angry with her mother – with life, with death, with heartbreak – that she didn’t care if she destroyed herself and everything she loved.
Yet here was her soul-mate back again, and looking every bit as perfect as she’d done when they’d first met. Her father had crept into her bedroom on the day of her tenth birthday with a big parcel in his hands, wrapped in fancy paper and tied with a silver bow. ‘For my Sugar-Plum,’ he’d whispered, kissing her on the mouth. She could smell his smell of aftershave and cigarettes; taste his breakfast on her lips: coffee, bitter marmalade.
‘Does it still work?’ she blurted out, finding her voice at last. ‘I mean, is there a key and …?’
‘Yes, three keys in all. I’ve taped them securely to the inside of the lid. That way, they won’t get lost. But I can wind it up, if you’d like to see it in action.’
‘OK,’ she said, feigning a casual shrug. She’d learned long ago that if something meant a lot to you, then best to hide the fact.
As the familiar tune tinkled out, the ballerina began twirling round and round, arms uplifted, face serene. In her mind, Karen was dancing too, holding out her skirt and prancing round the room, as she had done so often as a child. ‘Bravo!’ her father cried. ‘You’re so graceful on your feet. Daddy’s little dancer, Daddy’s little Sugar-Plum.’ He had tied the silver bow in her hair, his hand brushing across her ear, lingering on her neck. His hands were so strong they could unscrew the tightest lids, or mend her bike, or carry her upstairs, as if she were still his little baby. But they were also soothing hands, which could stroke softly down her skin and …
‘Well, I must get on,’ the woman said, retaping the key to the inside of the lid, before stumping off to serve another customer.
Only when she’d gone, did Karen dare to think about the price. A new, unused item was unlikely to be cheap. At least a tenner, she reckoned and she only had six quid left, now that she’d bought the top. Perhaps she could ask for a refund, and wear her old grungy black tonight instead of the sexy leopard-print. Anthony would hate it, but she’d play any stupid game he liked, to compensate.
Finally steeling herself to look at the price-tag, she let out her breath in a gasp. £29.99. Daylight robbery! She strode up to the counter. ‘That jewellery-box – it can’t be thirty quid! That’s ridiculous for a charity shop. I mean, it’s more than it would cost in Debenhams’ or—’
‘It certainly is not,’ Blue Twinset interrupted. ‘As I’ve told you already, it’s brand new, and real leather into the bargain.’
‘No, it’s leatherette – I know it is. I used to have one just the same.’
‘I’m sorry’ – the other sister was now chipping in, her voice rising in displeasure – ‘It’s actually marked “real leather” on the bottom.’
‘Fuck!’ Karen mumbled, going back to check. Yes, the sisters were right, curse them. As a child, she had loved the word ‘leatherette’, which she took to be a female version of leather: soft and pink and tender – all the things her mother never was. Having replaced the box on the shelf, she lifted the lid, as she had done so many times before, to admire the little mirror inside and the nest of tiny compartments on the top. These compartments were empty, but hers had been crammed with trinkets and her store of lucky charms: a shamrock, a black cat, two lucky silver horseshoes and a tiny silver wishbone, each nestling on its couch of cotton wool. She had needed luck, back then – not that it had lasted long. The charms had gone the way of the box: dumped amidst old, soggy, oozing teabags and mouldy, black banana skins.
Next, she opened all three drawers in turn. Empty again, but already she was restocking them with all her childhood treasures: bangles, bracelets, pendants, magpie feathers, magic shells, letters from her father after he’d disappeared from home. Tatyana had protected all the booty, forever poised on tiptoe, as if ready for all comers. The red ballet shoes were tied with ribbons, not real, but painted on. She had longed for her own ballet shoes; yearned to have long jet-black hair, piled up in curls on top, instead of a boring mousy bob. And a scarlet smile, fixed permanently in place, so that she’d be cheerful all the time. Tatyana never had moods, as she did, nor did she hide in the airing cupboard specifically to sulk, or cry for days over nothing. And she never screamed blue murder at her mother. She didn’t have a mother – lucky sod.
She reached out to touch the three small keys taped inside the lid: one for winding up the ballerina, and two to lock the drawers – the first keys she had ever owned, which made her feel wonderfully grown-up. Keys kept secrets safe, and the letters from her father were a secret. ‘Don’t tell your mother I keep in touch,’ he always wrote before he signed his name, adding a row of kisses underneath. He even sent the letters care of Auntie Anne, who, as his sister, could be trusted not to sneak.
Wrinklie Two had just shuffled over and was regarding her suspiciously, as if she were a child with sticky fingers about to do some damage. ‘Well, do you want this, dear, or not?’
‘Could I have it a bit cheaper?’ she asked, blushing as she spoke. Two customers were listening in, which made her feel embarrassed. She loathed the way she blushed still, like a gormless adolescent. She was meant to be grown up, for heaven’s sake, now that she’d left the hostel and was living on her own.
‘We’re not allowed to reduce our prices. It’s against company policy. But we do have a January sale. The only problem is, I very much doubt that a box like this will still be around by then. It’s bound to be snapped up almost straight away by someone looking for a Christmas present.’
‘Could you put it by, while I try to get the cash?’ She had lost Tatyana once already; mourned her ever since. The thought of losing her a second time was like a physical pain.
‘No, that’s not allowed either, I’m afraid. But we’re open till half-past five today, so you might be lucky, if you come back later on.’
How could she drum up thirty quid in just a matter of hours? No good asking Anthony. The only time she’d begged him for cash (when she was behindhand with the rent), he had refused to lift a finger; said he paid for all the booze and nosh, and for the hotel, and that had to be his limit – sorry. But some of her friends might help – Pam, perhaps, or Bridie. It they lent her just a fiver each and she got a refund on the top, she’d be halfway there already.
She rushed over to the counter, where Wrinklie Two had just rejoined her sister. ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ she said, thrusting the bag into their hands, ‘but I don’t want this any more. Could you be an angel and give me the money back?’
‘We don’t give refunds,’ the sisters said in unison, as if they had rehearsed this line before.
‘But I haven’t even left the shop.’
‘Makes no difference. You’ve paid your money and been given a receipt, which means the transaction’s valid. Now, would you kindly move out of the way, dear. This gentleman is waiting to be served.’
‘Thanks for nothing,’ she muttered, casting one last lingering look at the box before marching to the door and slamming it behind her.
Triumphantly she placed the box on the battered chest of drawers. It seemed to transform
the room, so that you no longer saw the stained, uneven floorboards, or the damp patches on the walls, only the posh pink leather and the stylish ballerina. And once she had wound Tatyana up, the air was filled with sweet, silvery sounds that drowned the drone of the traffic and the noise of the kids next door. Now she had her soul-mate back, life could only improve. She would find a better job, and a quieter place to live, maybe meet a girl who’d like to share; perhaps even win the lottery and splurge the lot on clothes.
Self-consciously, she raised her arms above her head and began twirling around the room to the ‘Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairy’. She kept bumping into the chest of drawers and banging her legs on the edge of the bed, but she didn’t care – she was dancing for her father; could hear him calling out ‘Bravo!’, praising her, admiring her. Not until she was dizzy and the whole room spinning round with her, did she finally give up, collapsing on the duvet, out of breath.
It was time to stop, in any case. She was meeting Anthony much earlier than usual, and she still had to change and put on her war paint. Anthony hated make-up. He was always worried about it getting on his shirt and all hell breaking loose at home, but she couldn’t seem to face the world without blusher and mascara.
She was just applying a second coat of Wonder-Lash, when the doorbell rang loud and long. She froze. No one ever called. She was too ashamed of this squalid room to bandy her address about. It must be the police – come to bang her up! She’d assumed she’d got away with it – disguising herself in glasses and a headscarf, skulking in a corner until the coast was clear (one sister in the storeroom and the other serving customers), then quietly sliding the box into her capacious plastic laundry bag and sidling out of the shop. She had heard no cries of ‘Thief!’, no angry footsteps pounding in pursuit, as she had hurtled round the corner and up the hill to her street, yet someone must have seen her, none the less.
The bell rang a second time – viciously, accusingly. She wouldn’t answer, pretend she wasn’t here. She sat utterly still, closing her eyes, as if shutting out the coppers. But suppose they broke the door down? That would be even worse. The landlord would come rushing up, alerted by the noise. He’d throw her out – he detested her already – and she would land up sleeping rough.
Better to brazen it out, tell the cops it had all been a mistake. She’d meant to pay – honestly – but another customer had come up and started chatting, and it had simply slipped her mind. And, yes, of course she planned to return the box – in fact, she was on her way this minute. It was only five to five, so she would have time before they shut.
Jumping to her feet, she darted to the door and flung it open, explanations ready on her lips. No one there. They must have gone down to the landlord to fetch the master key. She could see herself stretched out on the pavement amidst a load of other dossers, smell the reek of beer and piss, feel the cold night air sneaking down inside her sleeping bag to grope her private parts.
Doubling back into her room, she grabbed the box, plunged it into the bag again and hurtled down the stairs with it, praying she wouldn’t collide with the police.
Once outside, she slowed her pace, scared of arousing suspicion. It was dark, in any case. The sun had set an hour ago, and the murky winter’s afternoon seemed to belch out fog and shadows with every clammy breath. The sky hung low, weighed down with greyish-purple clouds that looked as if they were bruised. She had come out without her coat, and her hands were numb already; her feet cold and chafing in her stupid slingback shoes. She kept glancing round in terror, expecting any minute to be nabbed by the police. The bag was banging against her legs, heavier with every step, like a boulder made of lead. The whole thing was pointless anyway. The sisters would never believe her story about forgetting to pay for the jewel-box, yet how could she replace it without them noticing? The shop was shutting any minute, so there wouldn’t be many customers to provide a bit of cover. And of course they would recognize her instantly, dressed as she was in the very top they had sold her.
Her steps faltered to a halt. The plan was naff, so why risk her neck? Yet if she slunk back to her room, the coppers might be lying in wait – and her landlord, too, most likely. Perhaps she could lose herself in the huge building site that had been disfiguring this stretch of road for the last three months or more. The old Victorian pub had been torn down, to make way for a huge apartment block that would eventually stand twenty storeys high. The whole site was barricaded off, but she remembered seeing a couple of gaps where someone small could just about squeeze through. Skulking along the length of the fence, she found the larger of the holes and managed to worm her way in, trying not to graze herself on the rough edges of the wood. She stood precariously on the makeshift wooden platform, gazing down in horror into the vast excavated pit below. It was a scene of total chaos, with no sense of any building taking shape; only sheets of rusting iron, piles of earth, lengths of rotting wood, and great pitted holes filled with muddy puddles. A gang of men, wearing hard hats and fluorescent yellow jackets, was working in the glare of floodlights, their shadows moving eerily like figures in a dream. They seemed dwarfed by the scale of the project – worker-ants surrounded by gigantic cranes and soaring scaffold-towers.
A month ago, she had watched a vicious iron ball on a chain crashing into the brave but puny pub, each vicious thwack removing more of the fabric, until it collapsed in a mass of rubble. Her father’s death had been like that – swingeing blows coming thick and fast, destroying her whole existence, reducing her to rubble. The death itself was more than she could grasp. Fathers didn’t die – not at forty-two; not when you’d hoped to see them again, every day for the past three empty years. How he died was a mystery. People refused to tell her anything, because of what he’d done. Her mother called it criminal, but her mother was so bitter she didn’t understand. He had touched her, yes – stroked her breasts, let his finger slip between her legs – but that was just his special way of showing her how deeply he felt; the outward sign of inner love. And he had never gone too far; never done a single thing she didn’t like or want. He was her lover in the best sense: he loved her more than any man ever could or would. His death had left her naked. And what upset her most was that she hadn’t sent a wreath. If she had known about the funeral, she would have stripped every flower from every bed in every garden in the land, and dispatched them by the truckload.
Furiously she wrenched Tatyana from the bag and hurled her into the chasm. She couldn’t see where she landed – didn’t even care. ‘Good riddance!’ she yelled. ‘I didn’t want you anyway. What’s the point of dancing when my father’s just a box of bones?’
She sank down on to the platform, holding her head in her hands, but immediately straightened up again, straining her ears to listen. She could hear the well-loved tune – the ‘Dance of the Sugar-Plum Fairy’ – ringing out above the site, every note distinct. Impossible. The whine of the electric drills drowned all other sounds; the clank of the cement-mixer; the brute clash of iron on iron. Could she be hallucinating? No, everything was in focus: the sharp metal teeth of the earth-digger, the grey sludge of fresh-laid concrete, the gleam of the scaffolding where it caught the light of the lamps. And the tune was still trilling out, the familiar lilting rhythm as catchy and consoling as it had sounded in her room. Was this her father’s doing, his private signal to her, assuring her he was with her still, protecting her from beyond the grave?
She glanced around, as if half-expecting to see his burly form; hear his gravelly voice, hoarse from all the smoking. He must be there in spirit, guiding and advising her, because her mind was clear, at last, as if a brilliant light had switched on in her head, after months and months of darkness and confusion. Anthony was finished. She wouldn’t be meeting him tonight, or any night. She didn’t need him, didn’t even like him – certainly didn’t like the things he did.
The music rippled on, as she stood, no longer looking down, but up towards the sky, the stars. ‘My Sugar-Plum,’ her father breathed from some
realm, way up high, ‘I’m with you always, my little love – my precious, only bride.’
Fall
‘Good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon,’ she responded automatically, looking up from the bench to see the well-groomed, elderly gentleman who always took his constitutional in this particular part of the park and at this particular hour. They had never exchanged names, of course – nothing so familiar – just recognized each other as lone souls, killing time.
‘Nice weather, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, lovely.’
Was it lovely, she wondered as he strolled on through the drifts of fallen leaves? October had always been her favourite month, but having celebrated her eightieth birthday earlier this year, she was more than usually aware that, beneath its golden glory, autumn was still the season of decay. Her mother, grandmother and great-grandmother had all died at eighty-one, which surely must be more than mere coincidence. She feared something in the family genes that might affect her, too, within the next eighteen months – or less.
Leaning back against the bench, she watched a yellow leaf flutter from the plane tree, then spiral in slow circles, as if it refused to end its life cycle. Every leaf, she’d noticed, fell in a different way. Some slumped directly down in a hopeless sort of fashion, giving up on life. Some were indecisive – vacillating, dithering, unsure of their direction or their fate. Others seemed adventurous, scurrying along the ground, far from their parent tree, or lifting off into the air again, like intrepid little parachutists bellying in the wind. And the trees, too, varied hugely in how they responded to the season. The beeches, for example, had hardly changed in colour, whereas most of the horse chestnuts had turned a brittle brown, and one small, stunted birch had only a few stray leaves left, clinging sadly to its mottled limbs. It was much the same with people. Her two dearest friends, Annabel and Madge, had both been in their coffins now for close on fifteen years.
The Biggest Female in the World and other stories Page 10