The Joyce Girl

by Annabel Abbs

  One Sunday morning, as I sat in the parlour sewing my mermaid cap, carefully pulling the needle through the stiff shiny fabric, Beckett arrived to walk in the Bois de Boulogne with Babbo.

  “Are you joining us?” He slid his long, thin body onto the sofa beside me. Mama was brushing Babbo’s coat in the hall and Babbo was hunting for his scarf and gloves.

  “I can’t, Sam.” I gave the needle a sharp tug. “I have so much sewing to do and I need to practise my routine again. I haven’t practised at all this morning.”

  “Oh.” Beckett looked at me. No – not looked, he stared at me for far longer than was polite, and my heart began to skip and my blood began to bound under my skin.

  “The Bois de Boulogne will be beautiful now – the daffodils and crocuses and catkins. Not as beautiful as Ireland, of course, but it’ll cheer Babbo up all the same. We’ve been rather cooped up recently.” I pushed the needle slowly through the fabric, aware of Beckett’s eyes burning into me. “What have you been up to, Sam?”

  “Not much,” he replied, guardedly. “Tell me about your dance. Mr Joyce says you refused to dance the River Liffey.”

  “I’ve only seen it once and it was so dirty and covered with filthy hovering fog. I couldn’t. Not even for Babbo. Is he terribly disappointed?”

  “He’s stoical. What is your dance?”

  “It’s a secret. Only Babbo knows. But I’ll tell you this – one of my legs will be completely naked,” I said, lifting my eyes and coolly meeting his gaze. “I’m not telling you any more than that. It’s going to be a surprise.”

  “Naked?” he repeated.

  “Just my leg. So that the other looks like a tail.” I was about to say, again, that it was a secret and he’d have to wait for the big night, when he reached out and ran his fingers down the side of my face and along my jawbone, as if he was quickly tracing a line there. The surprise of it made me give a little mewling sound but when I turned towards him he’d drawn back his hand with such haste I wondered if I’d dreamed it. And then Babbo appeared in the doorway, cane in hand, asking if Beckett was ready.

  “Yes, Sir,” said Beckett, jumping to his feet. He moved towards the door and only then did he turn back and look at me. And I knew I hadn’t dreamed it. His eyes had a hungry abandoned look, like the eyes of a beggar child. He gave one of his half-smiles and said, “I’ll see you next week, at Giorgio’s concert.”

  I nodded and tried to concentrate on the movement of my needle. But as soon as I heard the front door close, I threw my sewing to the floor and began spinning and twirling round the parlour, my arms wide and my head back. Oh – that touch! The roughened tips of his fingers on my cheek. The charge of emotion that had coursed between us. And soon I would be teaching him to dance, holding him in my arms, feeling his body sway against mine. I wrapped my arms around myself and swooped past the window. Wild euphoria washed over me, as it had at my last performance. And it struck me that being in love with Beckett was not dissimilar to dancing – the breathless sense of invincibility, the feeling of time and space falling away.

  “Lucia! What are you doing? You know you’re not to dance in me best parlour!” Mama stood in the doorway, her arms folded on her chest. “Giorgio needs peace for his vocal exercises, so stop this dancing right now! And why is your bedroom full of old slices of potato?”

  “Oh Mama,” I said, breathlessly. “I’ve just experienced a moment of utter perfection.”

  “Some of us are trying to recover from surgery.” She scowled. “So that’s enough ‘utter perfection’ for one day. Now clear up the potato from your bedroom and get on with your sewing.”

  “It’s for my eye.” I slung myself back onto the sofa and ran my fingers down the side of my face, exactly where Beckett’s fingers had been. “Kitten said I should put cold slices of potato on my squinty eye. It’s an ancient remedy.”

  “What hogwash!” Mama came into the parlour, picked up my sewing from the floor and gave it to me. “And you better stop thinking about your eye right now. How can we be paying for you to have surgery when we’re begging money for your father’s eye operations?”

  “Have you ever had a moment of pure joy, Mama?” I asked, running my fingers down my left cheek again.

  “Sweet Jesus! All this dancin’ on stage is makin’ you vain and selfish, Lucia.”

  “Have you?” I persisted. “You must have had a single second of complete bliss. When you met Babbo?” I reached for a cushion and hugged it suggestively to me.

  “You know nothin’ about the real world!” To my surprise Mama’s eyes were blazing. She yanked the cushion from me and began beating it with her hand. “You know nothin’ about men! You know nothin’ about what I had to do to keep this family together! And you have the gall to talk to me of bliss!”

  I shrank back into the sofa, wounded and speechless.

  “I’ve seen you moonin’ over Mr Beckett. And you need to be forgettin’ about …” She paused and then spat out her next words. “… joy and bliss and perfection.” She whacked the cushion so hard it shot out a thick flare of dust. “Men are animals with appetites. Just remember that when you’re smirkin’ about ‘pure joy’.”

  “Why are you always so horrible?” I shouted, tears pushing at the corners of my eyes.

  “I’ve worked bloody hard to raise you nicely. And look at you! Paradin’ round in front of your father – and on a public stage – half naked. In Ireland only strumpets prance on stage with no corsets and their legs showin’.” She punched the cushion again and then flung it on the sofa. “And all this blarney with visions! In Ireland only crazy nuns have visions. So you better make your mind up – are you a nun or a whore? Or is it Joan of Arc you are?”

  “Babbo understands. Just because you’ve no creative spirit, no genius. You’re nothing but a chambermaid. I don’t know why he ever married you!” I leapt from the sofa and hurled the cushion at her. How could she be so hateful! I rubbed my eyes with my knuckles, as a tear rolled down my cheek.

  “Oh I could have been a dancer all right! If I hadn’t been beaten, and taken from school, and put out to work changin’ filthy sheets!” She stooped for the cushion but as she did so, she gave a cry of anguish.

  “Mama? Are you all right?” I rushed towards her. She had eased herself down onto the edge of the sofa.

  “Yes, yes, Lucia. That I am. ’Tis a pain from the surgery.” She clutched her abdomen and I wondered if I should apologise. I’d never spoken to her like that before.

  “Sorry, Mama.” I looked at my hands and as I did so all her words came back to me. Strumpet. Whore. That’s what she thought of me. She hated me. My dancing – the thing I loved best – was a source of shame to her. I waited for her to apologise. Surely a mother should apologise for saying things like that?

  A hush fell over the room. And then she heaved herself up from the sofa and shuffled out, saying she was going to lie down.

  I tried to think about the touch of Beckett’s fingers on my face. I tried to re-live the moment his eyes met mine, that moment of utter perfection. But it was too late. Mama had ruined it.

  * * *

  I didn’t want Mama’s angry words festering inside me while I practised, so I tried to forget what she’d said. I put it down to her still being in pain after her surgery. And when that wasn’t convincing enough I told myself she was traumatised at having lost her womb. Finally, I told myself she was jealous. But to no avail. Her words repeated on me as if I’d eaten rancid food, disrupting the rhythm of my dance and upsetting the smooth sequence of movements I was trying to master. It wasn’t her accusations that plagued me but her cryptic reference to the things she’d done to keep our family together. What had she meant?

  I could tell she was still cross with me because she sniffed ostentatiously whenever I referred to my dance. And if I mentioned Beckett, she scowled and turned away. But she said nothing – and I knew it was because she didn’t want to upset Giorgio. The air at Robiac Square was crackling with tension bec
ause of his debut at the Studio Scientifique de la Voix, where he had been studying Voice with the acclaimed Professor Cunelli.

  When the evening of Giorgio’s debut finally arrived, his nerves were thoroughly shredded. Mama and I tip-toed round him while he stood in front of the mirror running through his scales.

  As he sang, Babbo (who had almost been a professional tenor and still fancied himself one after a few drinks) made his views very clear. Every time Giorgio hit a wrong note my father let out an unnecessarily loud sigh. If he was in Giorgio’s line of sight, he’d shake his head with theatrical abandon. As I danced I reflected on this and realised that Babbo had rarely forbidden Giorgio anything. Instead he sighed and looked mournful or used carefully chosen words that made his desires implicit and incontrovertible. Sometimes he sat in stony disapproving silence, his wordlessness speaking volumes. It was different with my dancing, of course. For me, he stroked his little beard or played with the end of his moustache, always nodding and tapping his foot, sometimes humming and clapping the rhythm, or scratching down a few words in his notebook.

  And now every time Babbo sighed, Giorgio stiffened. Which made his voice creak like an old rocking chair. Eventually Mama came in and told Babbo to go and get changed, to put on his flowered waistcoat and his jacket with the purple silk lining.

  “And you, Lucia. You can be changing into that new frock I bought you. Mr Beckett will be here any minute.” Mama took Babbo’s arm and steered him out of the room. Giorgio immediately collapsed onto the sofa where he lay prostrate, with a cushion over his face.

  “What if my voice doesn’t come out right? What if my throat seizes up? What if I get my nervous cough? Oh God! Why am I doing this? Why?” Giorgio pushed the cushion from his face and looked at me despairingly. Then he swung his body round until he was sitting upright, and ran his hands through his hair before remembering Mama had oiled it in readiness for his performance. He seemed so vulnerable and frightened I felt a rush of pity for him. He was like my old Giorgio again, Giorgio before he became money-obsessed and Mrs Fleischman-obsessed.

  “You’ll be fine.” I sat beside him, took his oily hand in mine and stroked the marbles of his knuckles with my thumb. There was a distinct undertone of liquor on his breath which worried me. Monsieur Borlin told us repeatedly never to drink before a performance, not even to calm our nerves. But then I thought of Babbo who always sang perfectly after guzzling several bottles of wine.

  “I won’t! Father’s completely un-nerved me. Help me, Lucia! You’ve done far more of this stage stuff than me.” He sniffed and blinked and for a horrible moment I thought he was about to cry.

  “Take lots of deep breaths before you go on stage and imagine you’re singing to me. Or to Mama.”

  “Is that what you do?” Giorgio’s voice wobbled.

  “Yes, that’s how Monsieur Borlin taught us to conquer our nerves. He also told us to imagine the audience naked.”

  “Urgh!” He shuddered. “That might be a step too far. Imagining Father and Mother naked.”

  We laughed and, briefly, fleetingly, it was like old times when we were the best and closest of friends. Before Mrs Fleischman stole him away. Would she be there tonight, I wondered? No surely not. Surely he wouldn’t risk exposing their affair tonight? Not on his big night. Or perhaps she’d slip into the back row and then slip out before she was spotted. And thinking of her reminded me that Beckett was coming. I felt a delicious shudder of excitement run down my spine.

  “The truth is I’m not the sort of singer Babbo wants me to be.” Giorgio pulled his hand from mine and stood up awkwardly.

  “You’ll be fine,” I repeated.

  He shook his head. “You’re a great dancer and I’m a second rate singer. And any fool can see that.” He pressed his fingers against his mouth as if he didn’t want to talk any more. And as he did so, I smelled the drink on him again.

  “Just remember my tip,” I said. “Promise?”

  * * *

  By the time we were all sitting on the hard wooden chairs at Professor Cunelli’s studio, I was so overwrought I could barely sit still. I tried to think about the ambitious footwork I’d choreographed for the finale of my mermaid dance, running my feet through it under the chair. But even that couldn’t distract me. Beckett sensed my jitteriness and pressed my forearm reassuringly.

  “Don’t worry, he has a wonderful voice,” he murmured.

  “For the love o’ God, will you sit still, Lucia,” Mama hissed. “I can’t concentrate and your chair squeaks every time you wriggle. Sure he’s only singing. You’re more likely to distract him with your carryings on.” She glowered at me then re-arranged her hat and looked round the audience to see who was there. I followed her gaze, expecting to see Mrs Fleischman in her sable coat. But there was no sign of her. Perhaps Giorgio had asked her to stay away, either for the sake of his nerves or to preserve his dignity in the event of any vocal humiliation.

  By the time Giorgio appeared, I was ready to explode with worry, convinced he’d drunk himself into a stupor backstage. As he announced the two pieces by Handel he was to sing, my hand shot out and grabbed Beckett’s. I reddened when I realised what I’d done, but it was too late by then so I squeezed hard and prayed that Giorgio’s debut would be faultless. I knew my hand was clammy and damp but I didn’t care.

  Giorgio cleared his throat, nodded to the pianist and opened his mouth. His first note warbled slightly and he stopped. The pianist stopped. My fingers dug into the soft cushions of Beckett’s palm. Giorgio cleared his throat again. He nodded to the pianist and opened his mouth. But instead of singing he gave a small yodelling sound, then a little spluttering cough. Babbo and Mama were both sitting rigidly, like a pair of chisels. I gripped Beckett’s hand even harder and prayed silently for Giorgio. Professor Cunelli appeared on the stage with a glass of water. Giorgio drank it, handed the glass back and cleared his throat again. He looked out into the audience and, surprisingly, I saw a glimmer of a smile on his face. He gulped, nodded to the pianist and opened his mouth. And this time there was no fissure in his voice, no irritating nervous cough – just beautiful deep notes, one after another, filling the studio until the air throbbed.

  When he finished and the applause had died away, Beckett showed me his palm, marked with a line of red crescents.

  “My nails?” I asked, horrified.

  Beckett laughed and then showed his hand to Babbo. I heard the word ‘stigmata’ as the two of them chortled like school boys.

  Relieved that Giorgio’s performance had been a success, I shifted my chair closer to Beckett’s. He was too busy chuckling with Babbo to notice, so I sat quietly relishing the warmth of his thigh, its clean muscular hardness against mine. There was something reassuring, comforting, about his physical proximity. Bizarrely, the words of Kitten’s Pa floated into my head. Only married women are truly free. And I wondered if this was what he meant … that love provides the scaffolding of life. Would Babbo have written his masterpieces without Mama? But if that’s what Kitten’s Pa had meant why hadn’t he said ‘only married people are truly free’?

  Giorgio’s arrival put an end to my musings. After much back-slapping from Babbo and hugging from Mama, she asked him why he’d smiled at the audience after drinking his glass of water.

  “Lucia told me to imagine the audience naked.” He grinned as he fished for his cigarettes. “So I did. And if that doesn’t get you going, I don’t know what will.”

  “Where are we dining tonight, Jim?” asked Mama, leading the way out of Professor Cunelli’s studio and onto the boulevard.

  “Fouquet’s.” Babbo turned and raised his cane in the direction of the Champs-Élysées, letting it swish through the air like a samurai sword. “For a continuation of the celebration of Giorgio’s oration.”

  “How about peroration, Mr Joyce?” suggested Beckett.

  “Ah, I think recitation might be more exact, technically.” Babbo turned to Beckett and clapped a claw-like hand on his shoulder. “Bec
kett, you understand me so completely I am beginning to wonder if some sinister form of witchcraft is afoot.”

  “Which craft might that be, Sir?” Beckett asked with mock curiosity.

  “Has elle sinned, perchance?” And Babbo chuckled with such unbridled glee I found myself chuckling too, although I had no idea what the two of them were talking about.

  “In God’s name, will you two never stop this blather?” Mama linked her arm through Babbo’s, smiling even as her eyes rolled up into her head.

  Beside us the lights from the barges and fishing boats reflected on the black water of the Seine, moving and rippling in the evening air. Pale shreds of mist hung above the river and on the far bank a brace of ducks stood, their heads twisted into their feathery bodies. I thought about my mermaid dance, the way I planned to thrash and flick my tail. Perhaps it was too forceful. Perhaps I should move more like mist. Floating and drifting.

  “It’s mesmerising, isn’t it?” Beckett was at my shoulder, following my gaze.

  Yes, I thought. That’s how I want my dance to be. Mesmerising.

  * * *

  Kitten rushed into the dance studio, laughing and panting and waving a piece of paper at me. The Bal Bullier competition was just a few days away and I was practising day and night.

  “It’s the final list of judges, Lucia!”

  I stayed where I was, rooted to the spot and mute.

  “Charles de Saint-Cyr and Emile Vuillermoz!”

  Both were highly respected dance critics and I felt a tremor of excitement run through me.

  “But wait for the rest.” Kitten paused dramatically and then reeled off the names of some of the most eminent artists in Paris. “Uday Shankar, Marie Kummer, Djennil Annik, the musician Tristan Klingsor. But there’s one more.” She posed like a statue, eyes wide.

  “Who?”

  “Madika! The final judge is Madika!”