Their lips talk of misch.., p.8
Their Lips Talk of Mischief, page 8
‘Oh God.’
‘Exactly.’ I jiggled Lily a little. I was looking down on Aoife below me, much as Lou and I had looked down on the little television set that night of the Brighton bombing in October.
‘Look how happy she is with you, and you were so scared of her when you first came here.’
This was very true. I now understood why many insecure and self-doubting people love to be parents. The baby’s utter dependence upon you and your duty to it impart a certain automatic self-righteousness, a simple, humble sense of worth. You are given purpose to love them.
At first I’d just been terrified of physically harming Lily: dropping her or letting her head snap backwards, or choking her on her bottle. Then – I suppose just by dint of the fact Lou and I, when not in The Bells, were always around the flat rather than out working – I’d patiently learned to sterilise and prepare bottles, lift her and feed her with the plastic spoons. Changing nappies was far less traumatic than I’d been led to believe – cat trays are worse – and I’d put her down to sleep some nights when Lou and Aoife were bunched up together on the sofa. As Aoife supervised, I’d even bathed her. I loved the sound of the cupful as I held her head up and allowed the water to gurgle around her ears and over her tiny crown in a corny baptism. What a look of concentration on her face as the water trickled past her ears and tickled in at the back of her neck. She was listening! I loved the dough-soft feel of Lily’s pale skin.
‘Do I get to be Uncle Douglas now? Eh, Lily?’
‘Course you do. Doesn’t he, Lil?’ Aoife suddenly stood. She sat folded up in that sofa so long, all day, I forgot each time how tall she was just in socks. She was now beside my face and suddenly pecked me on the cheek and I had to hide a flinch.
Her skin, usually without blemish, now looked devastated just by the crying; creased in welts and blotched beneath her coloured irises. Yet her hair was ruffled so she looked passionate and recondite. As she moved towards the hall door I physically hurt with each step she took away from me.
‘It was me who said we shouldn’t get married in the church but that was— because.’
‘Because what?’
‘I was nineteen and pregnant and not married. I’d scoffed at the Church since I was teenaged. Seemed hypocritical to go straight back to ask them to marry me.’
‘Well, that’s honourable, but if you baptise Lily and at least say you’ll bring her up Catholic, they’ll let you marry there like a shot.’
‘Yes. But I’d need to make confession and go to Mass. That’s quite a lot to confess. It’s a bit embarrassing. All the things I’d have to say to the father.’
‘Oh, I think he’ll have heard worse. Even if you have doubts, why not just do it? You can have doubt and still do something without wholly endorsing it. You’re still a Catholic. The Church has obligations to you as well.’
‘Does it? I’m sure it’s a one-way thing. It’s a covenant and I doubt about getting Lily involved. Even when you don’t really believe, like me and Lou, you still sometimes might believe.’
‘Do you believe? That sins are absolved; that the tomb was empty on that day?’
‘Every Christmas I do.’
I laughed. ‘Not at Easter?’
‘Both Christmas and Easter would be a lot of believing.’
I laughed again. ‘And Lou? What does he want? For the wedding?’
‘Haven’t you two talked about it in the pub?’
‘Eh? No.’
‘I thought you would have done.’
‘That’s kind of private. Between you and Lou.’
She sighed. ‘Sometimes I wish Lou wasn’t Catholic. Deep down, Caths’re all sort of on the same wander back to themselves.’
‘Have you never had a relationship with someone who isn’t? Wasn’t a Catholic?’
Weirdly, she did that thing she did the night we talked in front of the nude photograph of her in the bedroom. She looked at Lily as if the infant could understand. ‘I haven’t really had many. Relationships. I did with an actor. Ben Torrance. Benji. When I first came to London.’
Benji. I despised him.
‘He’s getting quite a lot of great work now but really, he nearly killed me.’
‘What? Not drugs?’
‘Oh God, no. I’ve never ever tried to take any drugs. Just he was full of beans and up all night at late hours and at parties. Talking. You know?’ She lowered her voice and spoke with a ghastly astonishment. ‘Goodness me. He ate oysters one after the other. I only lasted two weeks as his girlfriend. He was taken aback. I knew it was finished and he was all upset. I wanted someone a little less enthusiastic about life. Lou was just the ticket.’
I laughed. Lily coughed once on my shoulder and burst out crying. ‘Oh no.’
‘Oh dear. Give her. Give her.’
‘No. You go wash your face,’ I said.
She just smiled and went out the door as I jiggled Lily up and down. Then Aoife’s long almond head appeared round the door again and above the volume of Lily she called out, ‘Don’t tell Lou that.’
‘What?’
‘About the actor who ate oysters. You don’t know how mad jealous Lou can be.’
7
‘And is Cunningham abroad?’ Lou called from the other side of the closed door.
‘Nay. He slumbereth yet,’ I responded – as usual – horizontal upon the camp bed.
‘Air mail.’
The letter flew in.
In the mornings it was the custom at Conrad Flats for Lou to toss the meagre pieces of my mail up through the smashed glass pane above my closed door. Envelopes would flutter down and land upon me in my camp bed. All I’d ever received were my library card, then book reminders from Ealing Central and once, after I’d sent her one, a postcard of Croick Church in my mum’s handwriting: Is This Your New Address? Is it a High Rise? Seeing if this works before I send anything on? Phone. Christmas? Mum & Dad x.
Shamefully, I had not given them the Conrad Flats phone number, so I wouldn’t be forced to talk to my parents in front of Lou and Aoife.
Lou’s voice contained some kind of triumph as it claimed, ‘Good news. At last. Victory is assured,’ and I heard him plod back up the corridor in his socks, to make our first coffee of the day in the metal cafetière.
I sat up directly and looked at the envelope. It had been torn open. It was addressed jointly to Lou and me. Headed notepaper from a huge London publishing house.
Dear Mr Smith & Mr Cunningham,
Thank you for your very amusing letter of the 6th.
Of course I am always happy to consider new and innovative work from young writers. However, it is not just original fiction we handle in Fulham Road. There is often some journeyman work knocking around which clever youngsters may perhaps be interested in? Why don’t you both pop round here one day for a quick interview? Belle my assistant’s number is above and we can carve out a time which suits us all.
Tobias (Toby) Hanson
‘The portals of the Kingdom are yawning,’ I yelled. Then I myself yawned. Next door I heard Aoife turn over in bed, groan and sweep the covers up. Or down?
After the coffee, wearing Lou’s raincoat, I marched directly on the British Telecom phone box at the bottom of Bollo Lane. Not one of the old red GPO boxes, but one of the new chrome bastards: adhesive logos plastered on huge sheets of glass. Privatisation was due in December, as we all knew from the vast, wearying, limitlessly funded advertising campaign. The first of the postwar family silver was up for sale. I didn’t foresee Lou or Aoife, or many in Bollo Lane, profiting much from this new collectivism.
Inside, the phone box smelled of urine as usual. As it still would when it was privatised, but for the moment that stink of urine still belonged to the British taxpayer. I didn’t have any money or means of paying for the call.
‘Operator? Excuse me, operator, but this is a disgrace. I have a fully charged phonecard right here and it refuses to give me credit. This is the fourth occasion one of your phonecards has utterly failed on me and I have to speak to my mother in Scotland, urgently.’
‘Sorry about that, sir. There have been some teething problems with the phonecard.’
‘Teething problems? Teething problems. They have a fifty per cent failure rate. I need to phone my mother and because of British Telecom, I’m unable. Might I remind you that you are still a publicly owned utility providing a public service. Telephone calls. And I’m unable to make one because of your reckless, headlong rush to privatisation.’
‘Where are you calling from, sir?’
I gave her the box’s phone number.
‘Have you tried from another box, sir? It could be a fault with the actual box.’
‘Listen clearly, operator. I am not obliged to trek around London testing out your phone boxes. I have purchased a phonecard and entered into a contract with you. I either want connected now or I want information on how to obtain a full and immediate refund on this useless card. Don’t tell me just to return to the shop where I bought it. I can’t even recall where I bought it. Can I speak to your vast superior?’
There was a pause.
‘And you’re calling to Scotland?’
‘I’m trying to. And urgently.’
‘Can you give me the number please and on this occasion, sir, we will connect you.’
‘Oh. That’s really very generous of you. Thank you very much indeed, operator.’ I quickly gave her my parents’ home number.
‘Hiya, Mum. How are you?’
‘Howdy, stranger. How are you?’
‘Just jim-dandy.’
‘Your father’s out in the garden already. Will I run and get him?’
‘That’s okay. Don’t bother him. Look, Mum. I’m awful sorry but I’m running that little bit short for next month. You couldn’t send me a wee swift cheque. And not tell Dad. Could you? Say for sixty. Or a hundred. Even cash would be better. And my shoes are needing mended in time for Christmas.’
‘Shoes. But aren’t you coming home for Christmas?’
‘I really want to. But there’s the huge rail fare and I’d planned on getting down to some extra, extra hard study.’
‘And how are things at college?’
‘University, Mum. Aye, things are okay. They’re working me hard.’
‘So how come you aren’t staying at your old digs? What’s this new place you are in now?’
‘It’s a lot cheaper, Mum. And better for studying.’
This was met with sceptical silence. ‘And you’re needing new shoes. Already?’
‘Aye, these ones, the front of them got a wee bit squashed. By a London bus. A double decker. I just had my feet too close to the edge of the pavement. You’ve to watch yourself down here.’
This was met with more sceptical silence. ‘You sound a bit all-het-up; are you all right, Dougie?’
‘No, no. I’ve just got a wee bit of a sniffle coming on. Aye. It’s coming on really quick. Might need to get something from Boots.’
‘I hope you got a good waterproof jacket with that last cheque I sent you?’
‘Oh. I got a great one. Yes. A nice sensible one from Marks and Sparks. Or was it C&A’s?’
‘Oh, that’s good. That’s very sensible. Yes.’
‘Aye. Thanks for that last wee cheque. Look, Mum, I’m sorry, I’ve been so busy playing catch-up with my studies, but don’t you worry.’
This was met with a third sceptical silence, though this time I was sure I could hear the angel voices of a conversation on another line very, very faintly. I looked up at the ceiling of the phone box. The fluorescent lamp was illuminated – in broad daylight. A waste of public money.
‘I hope you’re not getting carried away with any silly lassies now. You can’t afford to be gallivanting around with lassies at a time like this in your life.’
‘No. Yes. Well. Wouldn’t dream of it. That’s the pips just about to be going, Mum.’
‘Okay, dear. Thanks for phoning.’
‘I love you, Mum. Thanks. Don’t sound so weary. Things’ll be okay.’
‘God bless, Dougie. Take care of yourself down there and work hard at your studies.’
‘God bless, Mum. Love to Dad.’
‘I’ll sort you out for the shoes.’
‘That’s great, Mum. Thanks. Love you.’
8
In Abby’s flat you came in the front door and immediately ascended stairs with banisters and blank walls on either side of you. After her doorbell rang, I went down these stairs alone in my tight, dramatic shirt and drainpipe Levi’s.
‘Yes.’
He was so young. I had been expecting someone older.
‘Housing benefit claim?’ He had no briefcase; an active clipboard in his grasp, so he had a car and had driven here. Unless he’d strolled over, taking the air. And from where would such a one be officed?
‘Come in.’
Together, with him behind me, we ascended the stairs and he suddenly and cheerily called out, ‘This is nice.’ He sounded like an optimistic estate agent trying to convince me to rent the place. I turned and smiled nervously at him.
At the top of the stairs he looked down at his clipboard. ‘Miss— Abingdon Barbour is here?’
‘Barbour. I haven’t seen her today but I think she is. I asked her to stay in because I know you have to meet with her and I definitely heard her moving around in her room earlier. She’s very busy. Comes and goes a lot. She has the room at the rear and this is mine.’
I gestured to the door of the front room. I turned and looked at him closely for the first time. I’d refused to have my ear pierced but I’d gone so far as to wear a signet ring on my pinkie. One of Abby’s bits of costume jewellery.
I opened the door, walked to the centre of the room and held out my arms. ‘In spring it’ll be nice with all the trees. Miss Barbour’s room is through the back.’ I dropped my voice into a hiss. ‘I’m not allowed in there. Not sure if you will be, I should say. She’s a bit— Well, she’s theatrical.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded quickly.
‘And she’s a fashion model.’
‘Oh.’ This appeared to cheer him up. ‘Well, I’m afraid it’s a real necessity of the inspection that I view the whole of the property.’
‘Sure. If I can ask: what is it you’re actually checking on? I don’t understand.’
‘Well, we’re just checking that the information you’ve provided on your application form is all in order. That you’re sharing a dual tenancy property at the monthly rent you’ve stated.’ He looked either way around the room. A habitual tic, doubtless picked up from back in the bitchy open-plan office. ‘We have to.’ He leaned forward confidentially.
I craned toward his neat, small face as if listening for something burrowing in woodwork.
‘Sometimes, unemployment being what it is, we get husbands and wives and each are claiming the full rental amount of the same property.’
I frowned and pretended to be puzzled. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Well. Say the total rent of somewhere is two hundred pounds. The husband comes and claims to be paying two hundred and then the wife comes and claims she’s paying two hundred and the government issues four hundred pounds a month. Don’t tell anyone but our computer system works on National Insurance numbers, not on home addresses. It’s crazy.’
‘Oh. That’s very deceptive of people.’
‘Another problem is that when one partner is working and one isn’t, some pretend they aren’t even married or living together in a relationship, so one can claim half the rent from us at housing benefit. The government can’t subsidise relationships, can it?’ He shrugged.
‘Oh, I see.’ I crammed on the small-town accent as softly as I could. ‘That’s awfully dishonest, then.’
‘Exactly. It’s fraud.’ He smiled welcomingly.
I said, ‘Well, Abingdon and I are definitely not married.’
He chuckled and raised his eyebrows in a cheeky manner. ‘Yes. It’s a formality, really, Mr Cunningham.’
‘Douglas.’
‘Douglas. Where is it you’re from? That’s a Scottish accent, isn’t it?’
‘A very small wee village in Scotland. So different up there, if you know what I mean? So exciting down here.’
‘Yes. It was like that for me.’
‘Aren’t you from London?’
‘Can’t you tell by my accent? I’m from Hereford.’
I shrugged, smiling.
He licked his lips and looked around, taking in the elaborately prepared room for the first time. I thought having the Bette Midler album to the front was just too obvious so it was only sticking out behind the Benjamin Britten one. I’d snobbily presumed Lou was overestimating the cultural awareness of the Department of Health and Social Security inspectors. The Christmas lights round the window. Gore Vidal essays with the pink triangle on the cover, the several copies of Gay News that Abby had obtained – all scattered in a seemingly random manner by the made-up sofa bed with a colourful silk cover on it.
‘Right. So there is just one bedroom?’
‘There’s two. This is my bedroom.’
‘Yes.’ He nodded, looking down at his form. ‘Can I sit here?’
‘Sure.’
He perched himself daintily at the desk. Good old Abby’s two or three copies of Playgirl were theatrically shelved right there, with the spines facing him. He seemed far more concerned with chalking up the business on his clipboard.
‘So you’re signing on as available for work in Ealing?’
‘Yes.’
‘And how long have you been resident here?’
‘Twenty-seventh of September.’
‘And have you a copy of the lease signed by Miss Barbour?’
‘Yes.’ I stepped to the desk where the photocopies were and handed them over.
He looked at them and announced in a neutral voice, ‘Miss Barbour is free to sublet the property under the conditions of her lease. Okay. Possible to speak with Miss Barbour?’
I stepped into the lobby with the skylight above me and called, ‘Abingdon. Sorry to bother you but that’s the gentleman from housing benefit’s here to see me. Can you have a word, please?’
