The Ballerina and the Revolutionary (11 page)

25

(London, England - 2008)

Living with Roxie and the others was fun. I felt like part of a large and, more or less, loving family. There were arguments, of course, but bad feelings rarely lingered and people said what they meant then got over it or moved on. There wasn’t the need to read between the lines of every conversation, every glance or movement of the body. I felt, at last, that I understood what was happening around me.

The adults were great fun, Matty in particular. When he wasn’t working he would take interest in us all. Roxie and I followed him everywhere we could, to protests, meetings and even to the library. I think we both needed the respect and kindness he offered. Roxie was right. The people in that flat were good people. Nobody undressed me with their eyes and no one called me darling or gorgeous. I was another member of the team, no more and no less. I cleaned and when I needed money I begged or sold drawings. I was both useful and appreciated. I hoped it would last forever.

Then, one day, Max came home in tears. Her brother had been shot by police; they claimed he had a gun, but she insisted that was nonsense. We could feel the anger in the air around us. Our rage had a focus, those murdering bastards in black uniforms. There was only one way to get past this. We would have to make them pay.

When we arrived at the police station, me, Roxie, Matty, Max, Drago, Krim and Frank, we joined the edge of a large crowd. Some of the women wailed loudly. Some people were singing, but the atmosphere was tense, explosive. Without an apology and an explanation things would go bad. I could feel it. I realised the thought excited me.

Officers in Kevlar vests stepped outside the building. Murmurs travelled in waves, back and forth within the crowd. One of the police, the pigs as Matty called them, was making a flapping motion with his hands. I thought he looked ridiculous. He said something I couldn’t hear above the other voices.

‘What’s he saying?’

‘They want us to leave,’ Matty explained.

‘We aren’t, are we?’

Matty chuckled and patted my head. ‘No, we aren’t going to leave, my little revolutionary.’

I grinned with pride and felt twelve feet tall.

More pigs swarmed out of the building. They waved their truncheons, menacingly. From the back of the crowd it resembled a pantomime or a Punch and Judy show. The crowd didn’t move and I couldn’t see what the police could do about it other than speak to the mothers, the sisters, the brothers, the fathers, the shopkeepers and the concerned neighbours. Suddenly, I was jolted backwards and fell onto my ass with a bump.

‘Hey!’ Max shouted and lifted me to my feet.

Bodies were rushing backwards, the crowd expanding outwards. I smelled panic and heard screams, screams of pain and of fury. Glass smashed. Voices were raised in anger and defiance.

‘Come on,’ Max said and grabbed my arm, trying to pull me away from the crowd. Matty was pushing forward. I tried to shake my arm from her grip and follow him. I wanted to help, but more than that I wanted to understand what was happening.

Bodies exploded outwards from the central point, pushing, rushing past us. I moved closer to Max, so she could shield me with her bulk. I started coughing and realised others were coughing too.

Over a megaphone a voice shouted, ‘Disperse.’

From the right another magnified voice yelled, ‘This is a peaceful process. We only want the truth.’

Max yanked my arm and I stumbled back. We stood in front of a shop door as young men swarmed around us. Some had scarves tied around their faces, others peered through the shadows of hooded sweatshirts. The sound of glass smashing echoed through the street. I felt afraid yet exhilarated. I couldn’t see Matty or the others any more. It was just Max and me, sheltered under the awning of a newsagent shop, when a car exploded, a black cloud filled the sky and I screamed.

26

(Bristol, England - 2013)

Chrissie wasn’t there when I went down to breakfast the next morning. The kitchen seemed too quiet, like the feeling you get when your ears pop. Trying to compensate, I knocked cups together and tapped my feet on the stone floor as I boiled water for coffee and rolled cigarettes at the kitchen table. By three o’clock I wondered whether Chrissie had left the house before I awoke. I crept upstairs and stood outside Vivienne’s bedroom, now Chrissie’s room. Images of my mother fucking any number or manner of men, sliced through my mind and my arm jolted back from the door handle. After standing outside the room panting, I went back downstairs.

Steam enveloped me as I poured water over coffee granules. The smell was calming and with a mug of coffee in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other, I grabbed a few moments of peace before facing whatever waited in Vivienne’s room. I kept looking at the clock. Time had never seemed important before. If I had to be somewhere, a rally or protest or even a party, someone would remind me. I noticed a calendar attached to the back of the kitchen door and wandered over to it. It still displayed February. Notes were scribbled all over the page, plans Mother had made. It was probably February when Tomas first wrote about Vivienne’s breakdown. Four months or more had passed since then. During that time I was only vaguely aware of this family; my friends in London were my life. Now I found myself, once again, stuck in this insane asylum, never knowing what might happen next, except this time Vivienne was not my gaoler, but a fellow inmate. I wondered whether this was how Vivienne had felt, whether the same ghosts had haunted her and how she had coped. Any better than me?

I unhooked the calendar, looking for a moment at the ballet dancers in the photograph, so serene yet so sad, their beautiful costumes masking the pain of each movement. I folded back the pages until I reached June. I wondered what day it was and guessed it was Monday and the latter half of the month. In the space under the 21st of June was scribbled Tomas’s birthday. I wondered whether I had missed it, or whether it would be soon. I remembered making arrangements to be somewhere, Scott’s place. Perhaps that was today? I scribbled a note for Chrissie, grabbed my rucksack and headed out of the house.

The day was hot again. Scott led me into the garden and poured a glass of minted water. I saw the tree near the wall, exactly as I had that first day when the bricks became glass.

‘What a beautiful tree. What do all the ribbons mean?’

‘They’re offerings. If I ask for something I give something back. It’s a very old oak. Full of power. Touch it.’

We wandered down the garden path and stood in front of the wide trunk. Scott’s slim hand extended towards it. I watched him, searching his expression for any trace of mockery, but found none. My palms tingled in expectation. The wide branches were full of leaves and ribbons. I reached out to touch its rough bark. It felt cool in spite of the sunshine, shaded by its leafy canopy. Scott smiled in approval and I pressed my cheek against the dragon-scales bark and felt a soft, slow heartbeat, so slow I could hardly distinguish when it began or ended, nevertheless I was convinced I could hear it. Pressing my whole body against the tree, I slow danced with nature. Tears washed my face. Beneath the salty wetness I was beaming.

‘Beautiful isn’t it?’ Scott said. ‘I’m glad you feel it too.’

I moved away from the tree, unsteady on my legs. ‘I’ve never heard anything like that before.’

‘All of nature has a rhythm, a heartbeat if you like. With trees it’s simply slower. Rocks are slower still, but they are just as alive as you and me.’

My face twitched involuntarily in a smirk then I nodded in earnest. His words echoed through the cells of my body, whispering the wisdom of his beliefs. I wondered whether he was mad, but dismissed the thought as lazy. I always wondered whether people were mad, like some strange defence mechanism against things I didn’t wish to understand or accept. Of course, if Chrissie, or anyone, asked me later how I could feel something and know the opposite to be true, I would never have been able to explain it yet at that moment both truths felt comfortable juxtaposing within me.

‘Are you hungry,’ he asked.

‘Thanks, food would be great.’ I lit a cigarette then apologised, fanning the smoke away.

Scott shook his head. ‘It’s fine, go ahead.’

As Scott disappeared inside the house I sat on a carved wooden chair. The warm orange wood glowed with the patina of use. I stretched my feet out in front of me and reached over with my free hand to remove my boots and socks. The breeze tickled between my wrinkled toes as I fell asleep.

I awoke to the sound of cutlery and crockery chiming against each other. The simple lunch of steamed vegetables and rice was perfect. The vegetables were full of flavour and probably home-grown. I complimented him on the food and guzzled two glasses of water. Finished, I sat silently, full of questions and thoughts, but unable to decide where to start. I wanted to tell him about the ghosts, my mother and my newly discovered sister. I also wanted to ask him more about the tree and about what he took from it before he tied each ribbon. Finally, I wanted to share with him my confusion about Chrissie and Tomas, but I couldn’t frame the first sentence.

He remained silent and together we sat in the garden, smelling the herbs and flowers, sharing each other’s time and space but not each other’s thoughts.

When a woman joined us I found myself unsure as to whether she was real or just another ghost.

‘Mum,’ Scott said. ‘This is Crow.’

‘Crow!’ The woman hurried over and took my hand. ‘Vivienne’s kid. Wow, it's good to finally meet yer. How's it goin' over at the Nigh'ingale place? Scott just don't shut up about yer.’

‘Would you like some tea, Mum?’

‘Ooo lovely. Ta, dear.’ The woman settled into the wooden chair next to me and smiled awkwardly. ‘Ahh, that’s perfect. I loves the hot weather, don’t yer? Course we won’t never wanna get back off our asses.’

I smiled and looked out over the garden, nodding. I felt the woman’s eyes on me, but was loath to face her and invite any form of conversation. She continued talking anyway. ‘The Nigh’ingale.’

‘Huh?’ I replied.

She sniggered. It was a rich and dirty laugh. ‘That’s what we used to call yer ma. Never met anyone as lush as Vivienne. Like a movie star. Bet she was a devil t’live with though ...’

I nodded. ‘She’s in a secure mental unit now.’

‘Noooo!’ She gasped. ‘Why?’

I shook my head and blushed. ‘I don’t know.’

She patted my hand. Her smile looked both sympathetic and confused. ‘Oh, by the way I’m Dorothy, but call me Dot or Dottie if you like. Most people think I’m dotty these days ... Oh sorry. That was ...’ A harsh cackle bent her in two for a moment and she punched her chest. ‘Just can’t seem to shake this summer cold.’

‘Did you know Vivienne? When she was a girl, I mean.’

‘Not well, she’s a decade younger than me. Everyone knew of ’er, though. She were just that kinda girl, if you know what I mean. Such a pretty face. She were always doin’ stuff: school plays and the like. Me younger sister woulda known ’er better, of course. She always wore a smile, Viv I means, but I could tell she weren’t too ’appy. All airs and graces, mind you and too finely polished for the likes of us council estate kids. She got into this fancy bally school in Londin and we only saw her in the holidays affer that.’

‘Did she have any friends here? People she’d talk too.’

‘Well there’s that there Clive at the New Age shop. He'd be her best friend, been thick as thieves for years. Scott knows Clive.’

I nodded. ‘I’ve met him. He seems ...’

‘Loud, camp ... but his heart's in the right place.’

Dorothy’s shoulders rose and fell with each breath. When Scott arrived with the tea I saw a complete change in the woman. She sat straighter, her eyes sparkled and her face widened into a smile. ‘Thank you, me lover,’ she said, taking the mug of steaming liquid and sniffing it. ‘Gert lush after a long, hard day.’

‘How was work, Mum?

‘Same ole same ole,’ she said dismissively.

‘What do you do, Dottie?’ I asked.

‘Nurse.’

Dorothy sipped her tea and relaxed into the chair. Scott passed me a black coffee and sat, cross legged, on the grass. I sighed as I felt my eyelids grow heavy again. I thought of Chrissie and my heart raced, my shoulders shook and I stared at the blades of grass, trying to control the adrenaline rush.

‘Look, sorry. I’d better run. Chrissie might be worried.’

‘You can use our phone,’ Dorothy offered.

‘Thanks, but I’d better go.’

‘Okay then. Come back for tea. Scott’s a great cook, though I may be biased. How’s about Thursday?’

‘I, I, I don’t know.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Dorothy asked, staring at me.

I shook my head. ‘Nothing.’ I grinned. ‘I’m crap at making arrangements to do stuff.’

She laughed and nodded.

‘I’ll walk you to the door,’ Scott said.

‘Thank you.’ I stood up, smiled at Dorothy and glanced at the tree. Its branches seemed to open out as if expecting a hug. ‘Actually, you know what? Thursday would be great,’ I said, still facing the tree.

‘Do you want to bring Chrissie?’ Scott asked.

It took a moment for me to answer. Did I want to bring Chrissie? Chrissie would take the focus off me – always the centre of attention and some time away from ... all that would be a relief. Time to think. ‘No ... thank you,’ I said. My eyes met his and he seemed to understand.