‘I’m really tired,’ I told her, filling up the kettle. ‘I’ve been swimming for the first time in ages.’
Jo yawned as she sat down, loosening the tangle of jewellery in the neck of her blouse. I counted two gold double-headed axes, a triple women’s symbol (meaning sisterhood or threesomes, I wondered?), and a star of David with a lambda sign in the middle. ‘I never knew you were Jewish,’ I said, bending closer to see.
‘I’m not, actually; I got it from my last girlfriend. I just like confusing people. Not that the crowd I work with would have any clue what all my metalwork means.’
I took down the mugs.
‘So,’ Jo went on, ‘you seem to be hitting it off with the sister all right.’
‘We’re civil enough,’ I said lightly.
‘What’s she like?’
‘Hard to tell. She’s only been around a couple of days, and most of the time she’s upstairs reading reports.’
‘Has she sussed about you two?’
‘Oh yes.’
‘Well, is she like Cara at all?’
‘Not a bit.’ I scattered Bourbon Creams across a plate. ‘Cara looked most herself when she was naked, right?’
‘Did she?’ asked Jo, adjusting her white collar.
‘I mean, when she didn’t have to decide what to wear, when she could sit on the grass all crosslegged and unself-conscious, reading the paper.’
‘Mmm.’
‘Whereas Kate…I can’t imagine her naked.’
‘Have you been trying to?’ asked Jo lewdly, bending to scratch Grace under the chin.
I ignored that. ‘See, Kate might not say anything very interesting, but she does give the impression that interesting things remain to be said.’
‘Like she’s saving a few for the last minute?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I know the type. It’s an illusion.’
‘No, there’s definitely something there.’
‘Trust me, I’m an expert,’ said Jo heavily. ‘I used to specialize in really fucked-up girls who had nothing to say but gave the impression they had.’
I wetted the tea. Somewhere in the depths of my memory I found the information that Jo took milk and two sugars. Grace was poised in a gingerly fashion on her knee. After I handed over the mug I said, looking away, ‘Nice having you around this week.’
She took a loud swallow and uncrossed her legs. ‘I’d have liked to be more of a friend before, you know, but you never seemed to need one.’
‘Didn’t I?’ I stared at Jo. ‘But I don’t really have any.’
‘Well, you always seemed self-sufficient. Kind of impermeable, what with your busy job, and you and Cara.’
I mulled over this for a minute. ‘When I ring my mother she asks after my job first of all, as if that’s Who I Am.’
‘That makes Who I Am a part-time market research analyst,’ complained Jo.
‘You’re not, are you? I assumed you were a full-time Amazon.’
‘Afraid not,’ she said, burying her nose in Grace’s marmalade fur. ‘Hence the drag.’
‘I wasn’t going to mention it,’ I said.
Jo met my grin, then asked, ‘So have you talked to your mother yet?’
‘Yeah, rang her the other day…Oh, you mean, talked talked. Not yet.’ After a few seconds I added, ‘Haven’t had a chance.’
Steam from her mug was sidling along Jo’s cheek. ‘Why not?’ she asked.
‘Ah, give us a break. I can’t face losing them both in one week.’
‘What’s there to lose, with your mother?’
‘Look…’ I strained for an image. ‘Imagine a clearing in a wood that you come across when you’re about seven.’
‘Those of us who grew up on Charlemont Street…’
‘Ah, it doesn’t have to be a literal wood. Just somewhere private and safe.’ I rushed on: ‘You haven’t been back in years, but when you shut your eyes you can see it perfectly.’
A slow nod from Jo.
‘If you went back now you might find a fox carcass, or they might have chopped down the trees. Whereas if you stay away it can’t be spoiled.’
‘Can’t be enjoyed either.’
‘But I know it’s there.’
‘You don’t, not really; it’s rotting away in the back of your mind.’
‘Ah, don’t give me that philosopher’s bullshit about the cat that doesn’t exist until you open the box and look at it.’ As if on cue, Grace crashed through his flap and out into the yard. I added, ‘Grace always exists.’
‘So have you come out to him yet, or are you just assuming he knows –’
I let out a laugh, and then in a split second was shaking. ‘Why are you pushing me so hard on this, right now?’
‘Is there a better time?’ she asked.
‘I’d have thought you’d have noticed that I’ve more than enough to deal with this week. Look, I’m sorry if I’m not politically correct enough to win the Amazon Attic seal of approval, but that’s the way it is.’ I took a sip of tea and waited till my voice was steady before going on. ‘I suppose you came out to your mother at the age of twelve.’
Jo rubbed the crook of her elbow where the pushed-up sleeve of her blouse seemed to be pinching it. ‘No, actually, I never got around to it.’
I shut my mouth.
‘I always figured Mum sort of knew but didn’t want to know for sure. And then she got cancer. Died nine years ago, and I’ve been coming out to her in my head ever since, but I don’t know if she can hear.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I said weakly.
Jo put her throat back and finished her tea in one long swallow. ‘Don’t waste your time being sorry. Just get around to things, all right? We have damn-all time.’ She stood up and stretched. ‘Tomorrow afternoon then, at the Attic?’
‘I really don’t…’
‘If you change your mind.’
‘I won’t.’ We smiled at each other.
After I had shut the front door I leaned back against the cold radiator and wondered why I was being so ratty. I felt that tightly pleated sensation in my lower belly again. Ah, surely my libido would have the decency to stay away for a few months?
The clouds over the hammock were still dark blue. I went upstairs, shut my bedroom door tightly and lay down on my back on the rug. The floor was satisfyingly hard, lengthening my spine. I felt as if there was a rubber band around my middle; what I needed was a big O. Or even a little O, seeing as I hadn’t long before dinner.
I let my legs fall open. I was lacking in enthusiasm, partly because I was afraid to make myself any more vulnerable, and mostly because to lay a hand on myself felt disloyal to a woman not two days…no, don’t think about it, Pen, you’ve simply got to be a practical Taurean, think about your greedy body instead. The door of the middle bedroom squealed, and Kate’s steps went past and downstairs.
This was no time for experiment. I focused on the blank wall six feet in front of me, the gentle ripple of woodchip. Then I shut my eyes and called up that reliable fantasy of the woman in the black leather jacket who says nothing but looks everything, whose only script is in stares and touches. What I ran was an edited version of this story, leaving out the initial eye-contact across a crowded nightclub and all the minor characters. It was all proceeding satisfactorily – my breathing had harshened, my body had shifted a few inches across the floor, my wrist was tired but steely – when Kate barged in.
Or rather, her shade. The thirty-year-old face looking over the upturned leather collar was hers, altered only by the addition of a wet-lipped smile. I stopped. No good hostess steals her guest’s image and rubs herself against it. I could hear the woman vacuuming downstairs, for god’s sake, quite unaware.
But the Kate looking into my head was not unaware of anything. She began what she was doing again, moving faster, pushing me farther. I tried to convert the image into Cara, but couldn’t visualize the face clearly; all I could do was add a tangled sheet of red hair, and you could still s
ee the dark roots under it. She shook it back and looked at me, then her breath was against my ear, murmuring honeyed insults. You know who I am, she whispered. I was the first, a year before my little sister. I was the very first to make you wet.
Her hair kept changing colour, as I squeezed my eyes tighter shut. The red slipped away, darkened to black, curls flashing yellow and grey and purple, then reverting to brown. Damn her for doing this to me without even knowing it. The dark phantom hair irritated my eyelids, stuck to my cheeks, tangled in my mouth. I went faster. I knew I should stop, but I wanted this to be over, and stopping now would mean not coming to an end, quite an interesting philosophical point there, Pen, don’t you think. I went faster. I didn’t care who I was fantasizing about at this point. I’d have used anyone or anything to get that feeling of release, lift-off like a jet plane dipping upwards, breaking the skin of cloud.
I couldn’t do it. My flesh was shrinking, getting sore now. My clumsy arm was losing circulation. My mind was wandering, chasing two sisters. I sat up. I tried again, pressing harder.
A gentle knock on the door. Fuck her, fuck her, what did she want now? ‘Just a minute,’ I called, shrill. I leaped up, straightened my shirt, and grabbed a towel to wrap around my damp hand. With the other I opened the door. It wasn’t Kate at all, but her father, wearing a red and black diamond tie. ‘I’m off so,’ he said almost gaily.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m dining with a colleague from the Wotherby; I believe I mentioned it?’
‘Oh. Yes.’
‘I won’t be late.’
Why did he have to reassure me about his movements? I didn’t care if the man stayed out all night. My body was cold and flat now. I crossed the landing and washed my hands. I could hear Mr. Wall in the hall below, fussing with his raincoat. I had no right to be angry with him, he hadn’t done a thing. It wasn’t even as if I had plans for dinner; I was full of chips, my tongue still harsh with vinegar. He had a perfect right to escape from the house for the evening. I could hear him whistling a line from some symphony I faintly remembered; it trailed off halfway.
When I heard the door ease shut I went downstairs and almost walked right into Kate. ‘Was that you vacuuming?’ I asked stupidly.
‘Yeah, I had walked some mud into the carpet.’
‘That was nice of you. To clean it up, I mean.’
‘It was a bit dusty, so I opened the windows.’ The tension in the atmosphere was suddenly tangible; it filled the hall like tear-gas. Kate looked down and adjusted her watch-strap. ‘So Dad’s out for dinner, yeah?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I thought we’d eat late, when the chips wear off. I’m cooking.’
‘Something impressive?’
‘Wait and see. Tell you this much,’ she added teasingly, ‘dessert is a gâteau. I won’t steal the last slice this time.’
‘A chocolate one?’
‘Would I fob you off with anything less?’
I grinned back at her. Then I asked, ‘What time’s your plane tomorrow?’
‘Eight a.m.’
‘That’s early.’
She looked up and our eyes met for a second then fell away.
‘Have you done your packing?’
‘Almost. Better finish it now.’
Ten minutes later, I was watering a rubber plant on the windowsill when Kate came back into the kitchen with something folded and blue under her arm.
‘All done?’
‘Nearly. Where’s that box of yours?’ she went on, a little hoarsely.
‘Which box?’
‘Old clothes. For Oxfam.’ On the last word, her face caved in. I watched two creases crack her forehead, her eyes narrow to knife-cuts, her lower lip be tugged down on one side. I had never seen this face lose control before; I was fascinated. It was only when I saw the first tear on the tip of her nose that I recognized this seizure for what it was. I took two steps towards her. A tear fell on the dusty parquet. I could think of no words that would get through the air between us. ‘What? What is it? What’s the matter?’ I said stupidly, hoping some of the syllables would reach her.
The first sound came then, a great wail like a baby’s. Kate began to cough her way through some incomprehensible sentence. I shushed her, told her to take her time. When I reached to relieve her of the blue bundle, she clutched it to her chest and sobbed faster.
‘OK, it’s all right, it’s all right.’
‘It’s not all right,’ she roared, and shook out the folds.
Gradually I recognized them from the rollerskating photo. ‘Are they your dungarees?’ I asked carefully. There was a Rolling Stones tongue badge on one of the straps.
Kate gulped till her voice made some sense. ‘I grew out of them years before I left.’
I waited, then said ‘Yeah?’ There had to be more to it than this.
A huge sniff. ‘I kept telling Cara that they fitted me just fine, I just didn’t happen to wear them very often.’
‘It doesn’t…’
‘I told her she was too short and too fat,’ said Kate, her lips punishing the syllables one by one, ‘and the legs would never fit her. She got Dad to ask me to lend them to her just once, for a youth club disco, but I said no, and when he asked why, I said because they’re mine.’
I kept nodding.
‘I forgot all about them,’ she said, her voice wavering like the flight of some erratic bird. ‘They were folded up in the wardrobe. She never even touched them. She could have had them, if she’d asked me again.’
I took a breath. ‘Cara was probably too big for them by then; she really shot up after you went to America.’
‘I know.’
‘I really wouldn’t worry about it,’ I said gently. ‘Anyway, she had a pair quite like them she got in a sale.’
At this, Kate’s eyes flooded.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t…’ I stepped close, and her head fell on to my shoulder. I let my arms wrap around her, careful as ribbon, and I held her, ready for any sign of resistance. But she sank all her weight into the hug and began to sob again. I couldn’t tell how many minutes passed like this, our bodies balanced in a sort of steeple, before she quietened down. ‘I’m afraid I’ve snivelled all over your blouse,’ she said.
‘That’s all right.’
We stepped apart with blurred smiles. My shoulder was wet; I rubbed at it. There was an awkward pause. Through the kitchen window came a very faint whimper.
‘Grace doesn’t sound very happy,’ said Kate, too loudly.
I leaned out the window. ‘That’s not Grace.’ I couldn’t see anything, but the whine came again.
‘Some stray, then?’ Her voice was still uneven.
‘I’ve never heard a cat make a noise like that.’ The warped kitchen door yielded to my third tug. Kate followed me into the garden, wiping her eyes with her cuff. We stood around looking everywhere but at each other for a few seconds, until the sound came again. It took me a while to pull away enough of the purple-leaved bush to see it. The hedgehog was on its side, motionless, with one leg splayed backwards. It looked flat, not like the plump bristling ones in the cartoons. I could see the loop of blue netting holding its tiny paw in the mud.
Kate’s breath was loud. ‘D’you think it’s dead?’
‘It’s still making that noise, listen.’
‘Wonder how long it’s been lying there.’
Under our gaze the animal began to twitch slightly.
‘Is it having a fit?’
‘I think it’s just panting,’ I told her. ‘I can’t see anything wrong with it apart from the leg.’
‘How do you think you feed a hedgehog? Milk in a dropper?’
I met Kate’s red eyes, appalled. However good for me Hollywood would no doubt think it to rediscover inner peace by nursing a wounded animal back to life, that was the last thing I wanted to take on. ‘I’m bringing it to the vet,’ I said.
A furious rummage through the kitchen drawer produced the
secateurs. The plastic netting proved obstinate, and the hedgehog winced, but at last it was cut free. Using the thick gardening gloves, I scooped it up and into the cardboard box Kate was holding open. She had padded it with torn-up newspaper. Swaddled in headlines, the hedgehog was barely visible. When I had rung around five vets to find one with Friday evening surgery hours, she carried the box to the back seat of the car like a precious relic. ‘Should I come with you?’
I hesitated, unable to think of a single reasonable reason for saying yes. ‘I think I can carry it on my own.’
‘Of course.’
I hadn’t meant it as a rebuff. I searched for a way to change my mind, but all I could come up with was, ‘We’ll eat later, when I get back?’
‘Great.’ The red around Kate’s eyes was beginning to fade. She stood on the drive for a minute, watching me go, or maybe looking at a bird in the garden, I couldn’t tell. By the time I’d straightened up the car she had gone back into the house.
The teatime streets were empty; scraps of paper speckled the grass verges. At one point I got rather lost, because a road name was so swathed in yellow St John’s Wort that I couldn’t read it. Turning the final corner, the road opened out and I caught sight of a most peculiar sunset; dark grey clouds ganged up in a white sky, their undersides burnished by the aftermath of the sun, which seemed to have gone down the chimney of the vet’s house.
Sitting in the waiting-room, which was crowded with everything from dogs and budgies to a lethargic goldfish in a bowl on a little girl’s lap, I resigned myself to a long wait. By the time I got home my stomach would be rumbling. Kate and I could open that last bottle of Rioja and grill a couple of steaks from the freezer. Maybe if the evening was chilly she would have lit a small fire. We could share a disproportionate slice of chocolate gâteau by firelight.
After five minutes I was bored of playing Blink with a senile labrador. The hedgehog hadn’t stirred. The only book I had in my bag was Finding Yourself, so I ploughed into Chapter Five. I skimmed through ‘Using Pills as a Prop’ and didn’t feel the need for the pro-masturbatory section called ‘Self Help, Not Self Abuse’. Oh look, there was the section Robbie had promised me: ‘Homosexuals mourning their partners often carry a burden exacerbated by invisibility and prejudice’, and several other sensible statements I didn’t need to read. Somehow, what galled me most was that if it had been a husband, Sister Dominic would have given me two weeks off. On the other hand, it occurred to me now, watching the widow-type opposite with the fretful tabby grinding hairs into her black wool lap, losing a husband would have been horribly public. I couldn’t have it both ways, I supposed, couldn’t have my closet and bitch about it. The small girl was bent over her goldfish bowl now, peering in the side. I hoped she would not spill its water; I couldn’t take seeing it gasp on the carpet.