by West Camel
His ire whipped at Sam, stinging him.
‘See – it’s not about Nigel at all; it’s about you being gay and not having kids, isn’t it? But you’re getting some idiot beaten up, or whatever it is this Mel’s going to do to him, for getting your ex-wife pregnant. And then you call yourself a poof, but you still have to prove to everyone that you’re some big man protecting what’s his.’ Sam could feel himself trembling.
Derek was scouring his head and face with both hands, digging his nails into his scalp. He finally stopped, his ears covered. Even in the evening light he was florid. He fixed Sam and spoke, marking each word with a stronger accent. ‘I – don’t – care – about – her – any – more.’ He tapped the table with a finger, with all his fingers, with a slap. The glasses shook.
Sam blew out air, as if he could extinguish the roaring flame with a dismissive puff.
The braces burst: ‘For fuck’s sake, Sam,’ Derek lurched to his feet and swept his arm across the terrace. ‘All this lot know I’m a poof now. Don’cha?’ The two spat syllables rang over the river. Some people hunched and ducked.
‘And look. Look!’ Derek wrenched the ring off his finger, and lunged towards the balustrade, flinging his chair aside with one hand and tipping a table over.
The people near by sprang up and cried as their drinks splashed and glasses shattered on the floor.
Derek threw the ring – slinging his arm behind his head, then straightening it in front of his chest. The ring left his hand and caught the last of the evening light until it hit the water and disappeared.
He swung back, huge and dark against the sky. ‘What else do you want?’
Sam was frozen. He should be marching off, following the curved wave of figures that were slipping quickly away from this tormented monster, its legs spread and arms braced to stop the sky falling in. But the question bound him to the chair. What did he want? He blinked at Derek’s muscular scowl, the big torso heaving with frenzied breaths. He desperately wanted to feel that hot power, but he knew that it would scald him. So what, then? What did he want?
Something flickered and fidgeted, protesting. Sam let his head fall on one side, propping it up by placing his hand above his ear, and looked up at Derek from an angle.
‘Call Mel off. Tell him to leave Nigel alone.’
Derek’s arms were still crooked, held away from his body.
‘Jesus Christ alive! Who the fuck do you think you are, telling me how to run my life? You’re just some piece of arse I picked up in an alleyway.’
‘So that’s it, then.’ Sam tried to keep his face still, but his heart was racing. Derek’s eyes were wide and white; he snatched up his glass. Sam scrabbled his legs, but they seemed caught up in the rungs of the chair. He braced for sharp pain, for blood, and could see that Derek was braced too – in crazy hesitation. They held each other’s stares for a long, agonised moment – each seeming to serpent around the other without finding a grip. At last Derek roared and slung the glass after the ring, lurching away before it reached the water. The glass hit the surface with a smack, but the liquid, moving slower than the glass and catching more light than the ring, hung in the air in a stretched, wet arc, before pattering into the river in a brief rainfall.
Derek was gone, a pool of wreckage showing where he had been. White patches of froth floated on the dark, rocking waves. Sam watched them until the last bubble disappeared.
Chapter 16: Anne
Anne collected the finished dress from Deborah the afternoon before the christening. Deborah folded and smoothed it ceremonially before placing it in a bag and handing it to her.
That night, Anne put the dress on and stepped into the cheap, high-heeled shoes she had bought from a market stall. She had no long mirror, so she turned on the ceiling light in the living room and studied her reflection in the glass of the balcony door. She looked smart; reasonable; correct. The orange details Deborah had added to the collar, sleeves and belt lent an air of ritual – exactly what someone should wear to their grandson’s welcome to the community, Anne supposed. And she thought that she understood a little of Deborah’s reverence for the dress. But her face was vague in the window – she could not see into her own eyes, and she did not identify the blurred figure floating outside as herself. She couldn’t remember how it was to be clean, clear-headed and well dressed around her family.
Walking to the church the next morning, the coolness on her exposed legs worried her, and she was alarmed when she thought that only a thin strip of fabric separated her crotch from the outside air. The skirt seemed to be riding up her hips and she looked down several times, expecting to see the hem creeping above her knees. Standing at the crossing in Church Street she told herself that women wore skirts and dresses all the time; but this was little help, and she looked at her watch, considering dashing back home. She had some black trousers and a clean jumper somewhere; she could wipe the make-up off her face and become smudged and insignificant again.
But that would be wasting all Deborah’s efforts. The lights changed and she found herself crossing the road, as if Deborah had a hand on the small of her back, pushing her into the world that she herself was no longer part of.
The cobbles and patchy tarmac in Crossfield Street were difficult to negotiate in the heels, and the smell of the hairspray Anne had used to tame her mousey mop combined unpleasantly with the old perfume she had sprayed on her neck. She slowed down and looked across the green at the church on the other side of the wall. The bench where she had first seen Deborah only a few weeks before was just ahead. She flopped down onto it, twisting the ends of her hair and tugging at the dress to cover her bare legs.
What would they do if she didn’t turn up? She could hear her mother’s voice: ‘I knew she’d do something like this’; and to Julie, almost accusing: ‘I told you, didn’t I? Don’t expect her to just come like a normal person.’ Julie would affect nonchalance: ‘I don’t care. She’d just show us up anyway.’
They wouldn’t delay the service. But they could send someone to her flat; someone who would rap on the door while she bit her lips in front of a silent TV. It would be Mel. What would she do if he tried to get in? A few strands of hair came away between her tightly pressed thumb and forefinger; it was only when she looked down at them tangling in her hand that she noticed the pain in her scalp.
The church was behind her; in front of her, the railway viaduct stretched out on both sides, its arches filled with garages and workshops – where people made livings and metallic banging sounds, and got themselves filthy dirty, so on special days they could dress up and go to christenings and be proud and knew that they had done the right thing.
Deborah had sat just here, in the middle of things; and her house on the creek was surrounded by activity – warehouses, industrial units, college buildings, brand-new apartment blocks. Yet, as her absurd announcement over the sewing machine had proved, she was a massive distance away from it all – far out on the edge, at the end of a thinning, straining line. Anne had been out there too at one time, teetering on the brink. But she had brought herself back, had returned home and given herself another chance. Something it seemed that Deborah no longer had.
Anne sat up. She could do this – she was wearing the right clothes; she was on time; she was alert and intent. She rose, smoothed out her dress, touched her hair lightly and began to walk alongside the churchyard wall towards the High Street, trying to hold her head up, not look at her feet, take longer strides and forget about her chilly knees. She tripped once on a raised paving stone, but pressed on, trying to ignore her aching toe.
Reaching the High Street, she turned back on herself to enter the churchyard and nearly knocked into Deborah, who was standing just outside the gate, looking at the group on the church steps. Anne let out a small yelp of surprise, as if finding Deborah here was something extraordinary. Deborah returned her greeting with a satisfied inward breath, taking her hands and holding her at a slight distance in order to scrutinise the dr
ess, correcting the collar and turning Anne like a mannequin to examine the back.
‘It works quite well with the long sleeves, doesn’t it?’ she said. ‘Just one thing.’ She undid the belt and Anne realised with the release of her belly that she had knotted the strip of orange fabric too tightly. Deborah plucked at the skirt and Anne instantly felt more comfortable as it settled down over her body. ‘There now,’ Deborah smiled at her workmanship, ‘lovely.’
‘Why don’t you come?’
‘What, to the christening?’
‘Yes. As a thank-you. You’ve done me such a big favour.’
‘Well, I suppose I could just sit at the back and watch. You know me; no one will even notice I’m there.’
Anne’s shoulders drooped and her smile weakened. It was true – all tied up in the business of the day, her family probably wouldn’t notice Deborah. But Deborah would believe that it was the work of that damned motif, that somehow it had erased her, extending her life beyond their attention. Anne wished she had cut it up while she had had the chance.
One of Deborah’s hands was still in hers, and she seemed to be hiding behind the gatepost, peering around it at the growing crowd on the steps. Anne pulled herself upright again. ‘You’re coming.’ she said. ‘No arguments.’
She led the way down the path, holding Deborah’s hand firmly; holding herself straight and strong. And she began to feel a pleasure at the click of her heels on the smooth flagstones. One or two heads turned towards her as she approached the steps. Someone waved wildly and called her name, following it with a tuneful ‘Oo-oo’ – Aunt Janice, beaming in a cream suit. Then someone else – her cousin Steve – strode down the path to meet her.
‘Fuck me, Anne! You’ve scrubbed up well. What happened?’
The woman with him cuffed his arm. ‘You’re looking lovely, Anne, really blooming.’ She leaned in for a kiss, her coated lips puckered. Anne felt her face flush and let them take her arms and escort her up to the main group. Deborah was left standing at the bottom of the steps, but before Anne could do anything about it, Aunt Janice had twisted around and pounced, gushing attention onto her – kisses and a too-tight hug.
‘Anne, I haven’t seen you look so smart and healthy since … well, since before you were married.’
There was a mumbled chorus of agreement, although Anne thought she caught some awkward glances and was grateful when the attention began to turn to other new arrivals. Janice, however, still held her arm tightly – perhaps to prevent a sudden escape. Or maybe it was simply affection. Anne buzzed gently at the thought: not the full rush that took her over in those first seconds after a fix, but that companionable warmth that lasted an afternoon. She searched among the loudening crowd for Deborah, wanting to share it with her. She found her camouflaged against a rain-stained gravestone and managed to smile and raise her eyebrows reassuringly. It was unfamiliar, caring for someone like this. It was not something she had ever done for her mother; not even for Julie; and never for Mel, at least not since that day when she had lost the first baby and had sat on the grass in the scorching sun.
The group seemed to raise its collective voice, and heads and burning cigarette ends turned towards the gate. Filling the space between the posts was Mel, Rita and Julie behind him, fussing with Tom and some item of baby clothing. Mel’s big head turned slowly on its thick neck and the heavy, blank face appraised the crowd on the steps. He was too far away for her to be certain, but Anne thought his eyes were focused on her, the cold current of their gaze dousing the glow she had felt for the past few minutes, telling her that nothing had changed – about him, about her, about anyone present. This was his realm. And in a rush, she wished she hadn’t come.
‘Rita’s wearing a hat!’ Janice spluttered, gripping Anne even tighter. ‘I could’ve worn a hat. Hats are for weddings, aren’t they?’
Anne would have liked to care about her mother’s hat, but she didn’t reply – Mel was growing larger as he walked down the path. She slipped her arm out of Janice’s grasp and retreated behind her. She could see the green of his eyes now. He wore the smile – so blank it could be read as any one of cruel, mocking, ironic, sincere. She knew everyone around her was experiencing the same uncertainty, and as he ascended the steps he automatically became the centre of attention, figures almost bending before him, desperate to please. But it seemed that he was placid today, so their homage turned into flurries of coos and kisses for Rita, Julie and Tom.
But with her defensive wall of bodies disintegrating, Anne was now exposed to Mel’s steady advance. Her back was to a pillar; she could slip behind it, scamper around the other side and be off down the path before he could reach her. But it was too late. He shot her a look. ‘Alright, Anne?’
All her earlier discomfort returned; the wind had picked up and chilled her legs as far up as her thighs. Her eyes felt sticky from the make-up. If only she had worn something dull, he would not have been able to spot her so easily.
‘Not bad. You?’
He stood two steps below her, so that their eyes were at equal heights; it was strange not to have to look up at him.
‘I’m always fine – you know that, Annie.’
His face almost brought Kathleen’s name to her lips; but she said nothing, worried that she would betray Kathleen’s request, even in a few small words of sympathy. He took the two steps up and stood close, almost brushing against her. She thought he saw her unease – he always knew when she was holding something back from him. But then, indicating the huddle around Julie and Tom he said, ‘Proud day for us, eh?’
Anne had to clear her throat to reply. ‘Yeah. He’s a lovely little boy.’
Mel’s face flickered. Was he thinking that they should have stood on these steps with a pink-and-cream Julie, swathed in a lace christening gown?
‘The father’s not here, then?’ Mel slung her a stare, playing with something in his pocket.
‘I don’t know who the father is, Mel; I asked Julie once, but I didn’t get anything out of her.’
‘She won’t tell me either. I’ve tried everything short of slapping her one. Obviously black though, isn’t he?’ And he gestured towards Tom, whose skin was a dark chestnut against his christening gown.
‘Don’t matter, does it?’ Anne was surprised at herself, and kept her eyes on her grandson.
‘Suppose not. As long as he keeps away from her I don’t care,’ replied Mel.
But Anne knew he did care; and she also knew that he had, not a desire to control everything around him, but a need – it was his fuel. There was a new scar beside his eye; wide and smooth, it pulled the lid down slightly, making it look as if he were narrowing one eye in suspicion. He puffed some air out through his nostrils; she thought she felt the heat of it on her face.
‘Your mum knows. Denies it, of course, but I’ll have it out of her one of these days.’
Anne felt a sudden, new concern for Rita: would Mel really threaten her? Perhaps he had already. She stood in the centre of the group below, large and animated, the only one wearing a hat, her big glasses flashing, her face fixed in a wide, genuine smile. But Anne’s concern skipped swiftly to Deborah; she was standing just behind Rita, still leaning against the gravestone, studying Mel carefully. His gaze seemed to be directly in line with hers. Had he seen her? Anne’s stomach lurched as she realised what a mistake it had been to ask Deborah to come, to pull her out of her safe, detached world into this one, where Mel was boss.
Three men in new-looking suits arrived and stepped up to Mel to shake hands, huffing out grunts and clapping backs and shoulders with him. Their bodies formed a new wall, trapping Anne between the pillar and Mel. They greeted her too, placing their hands on her upper arms, as if she were still his wife, finally brought back home. She nodded and smiled meekly. But she wanted to push between their suited arms, leap down the steps and bundle Deborah away before everyone saw her. Before Mel hushed them all and, pointing a thick finger, asked, ‘Who is that?’ Before Deborah, scalde
d by so many eyes, sang out, ‘I’m with Anne. I made her dress’, or, ‘I took her out sailing’, or, ‘I found a magic bit of stitching right here beneath your feet’. They would all shake their heads and raise one eyebrow, ‘That Anne, eh? Nothing changes.’
She rocked on the top step, placing her hand on the white pillar at her side. A man she had known as a girl was gabbering away to her about her father, his dry tobacco breath wafting over her face. She imagined Deborah’s words ringing over the graves as the two of them fled, ‘I can’t die. I can’t die!’ And pulling from her grey bag that crazy strip of fabric with its enthralling motif, brandishing it in the air as they ran.
But Mel had not seen Deborah; and Deborah remained quiet and still. A banging and shuddering behind her woke her up; the church doors opened and the priest stepped out. Anne gripped the smooth stone of the pillar, sweating and trembling a little.
‘We’re ready for you, if you’d like to step inside,’ the priest said, but got no response.
Mel needed to raise his voice only slightly to attract the group’s attention. ‘Come on, you lot.’ And he led the way into the church.
Within seconds of arriving at the barn-like hall a few minutes’ drive from the church, a flock of aunts, friends and cousins had swooped on the back door of the car that held Anne, Julie, Mel and Tom.
Anne saw that Lia was among them, loudly insisting that she hold the baby – she had to practise now that she was expecting. It was only when Anne had escaped the claustrophobic heat of the car, and was making her way alone to the entrance of the hall, that she realised what Lia meant. She grunted at her own stupidity. At last Lia had what she had yearned for with Derek all these years.