The Ballerina and the Revolutionary (15 page)

34

After lunch we sat in silence again with steaming cups of green tea clutched in our hands. My body felt weird, as if by indulging one animal need others were nudging me to get my attention. I thought of Vivienne - that would be her answer - a quickie to restore balance. An alien heat burned between my legs and I wondered if I needed to pee, knowing this couldn’t be desire. I never felt desire, only unease and bewilderment when the thought of sex flitted through my mind, flirting with my senses was something I ought to try one day. As always, I pushed and squeezed the thoughts away before they could take hold and make me nauseous, but they refused to leave, settling there, spreading fingers outwards, making my stomach tingle and my bound breasts strain against the swaddling bands beneath my shirt. I sipped my tea, focusing only on the taste and warmth. When I looked up at Scott’s face, he had turned away and was staring out of the kitchen window. My eyes traced the curve of his ear beneath his hair and saw the light flutter of his pulse in his throat. Closing them, I breathed deeply and took another sip of tea.

‘How’s Madala? I’ve not seen him today,’ I said, trying to break the tension.

‘Hmm, sorry I was thinking. He’s good thanks. Probably out hunting.’

He turned towards me and I felt his body ache as if he fought a desire to touch my face. He looked down at his cup then back into my eyes. My thoughts betrayed me and I imagined him doing it, reaching out to stroke my cheek, brushing his lips against my mouth. I trembled and realised I wanted to be in his power. I wanted to shirk all responsibility for a minute, an hour, a day, a year, or perhaps forever. He held back, perhaps as frightened and confused as me. I realised if he did caress me I wouldn’t resist, or at least would try not to push him away, try to stay calm and in the moment. I didn’t want to resist. In fact I wanted to be unable to resist. If I could do this, things would be clear again and we’d stop bumping into each other like dodgem cars at a fairground. We could move on.

I saw a question form on his lips and wondered what he wanted to say. ‘What is it?’

He looked confused and embarrassed.

‘Penny for ‘em.’

‘You don’t have a path,’ he said.

My eyes widened and all the strange tingling, burning sensations fled from my body. ‘What?’

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean to insult you.’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about. If it was an insult it missed its target.’

‘Your life, all those things, terrible things, you went through in your childhood, they’re all here.’ He moved his hands around my face and shoulders, inches away from my body. ‘Your aura.’

‘Okay.’ I scowled at him.

‘Everything has led you here: back to Bristol, to your mother and that house.’

I nodded and felt my scowl dissolve.

‘But there is no path away from the house. I’ve tried to see one, but it hasn’t formed yet. I’m, I’m worried about you.’

He looked at me. Did he think I would end up like my mother - alone and insane or dead? I knew that wouldn’t happen. I would return to London, to my friends and the cause, my fight for justice, peace, equality, but first I wanted to read those diaries and take my journey through the dream world. I wanted to understand my past before I faced my future.

‘Maybe you shouldn’t go back there,’ he said. ‘At least not until I’ve smudged it for you.’ He seemed to sense my question before I asked it. ‘Cleansed it,’ he added by way of an explanation.

‘I have things there I need to do,’ I told him. ‘Anyway, where else would I stay? Here?’

He looked away.

I grunted and fidgeted, awkwardly shifting my weight in the chair. My body felt heavy and cumbersome. ‘Maybe we should get one thing straight. I don’t want to have sex with you any more than you want to have sex with me.’

He looked at me and smiled. ‘You think I don’t want to have sex with you?’ A laugh stirred in his throat. ‘I’m celibate. I don’t ... it’s because I’m a shaman. I’ve been celibate for years. So long I can hardly remember any other way. It helps the magic, but don’t think it’s easy around you. I’ve loved you in dreams, before the first time we met. I thought that was understood.’

In dreams?

‘You too? You were there? I fucking knew it.’ My cheeks glowed with warmth at his words and I felt free, knowing I could love him and be unafraid. He could be my brother or my friend, but he would never be my lover. I could be myself, laugh wildly and let my body move the way it wanted to move - without fear and with only the faintest kernel of sadness.

He noticed the change in me, stood up and stepped backwards to give me space. Filling it, I unfurled like a fern reaching from the shadows towards sunlight. Stretching and moving around the kitchen, I felt light on my feet. I wanted to dance and spin, for a moment, in an awkward pirouette then grinned at Scott. Never before had I revealed this side of myself, not to him, not to anyone - the child and the prepubescent - full of love, pure, whole, sexless love.

I talked without a break, checking every now and again I still held his attention. He sat cross-legged on the cool vinyl, his chin resting on his arched fingers and watched me, silently. His eyes wide open, he saw me now, really saw me. To be seen for the first time felt exhilarating and I told him about my life as a child, how my concern for my mother had later become hate and resentment, how I had felt trapped and controlled and how I had escaped to London. I told him about each of my London friends in loving detail, making their faults into virtues then I described Tomas’s obsession with our mother and his increasingly dramatic letters as he pleaded with me to come back to Bristol. I detailed my arrival and my meetings with each ghost in turn, starting with my shameful mother. I even told him about my dreams: the stag, him and the woods. He looked as though he wanted to ask about the dream, but I couldn’t stop talking and cut him short before his words were articulated. I explained about Chrissie and about our mixed up feelings for each other that led to her leaving for London, and I told him how powerless I felt sometimes, a problem for my adult self, but my child self comfortably acknowledged the feeling and was able to accept it. I described the discovered birth certificate and my unknown sister, the way Tomas would not listen when I tried to tell him about both and my sense of wonder at the possibility of another sibling. I didn’t know if she was alive or dead and I desperately wanted to meet her. Finally, I told him about the last time I saw my mother and those words of love expressed on what was to be her death bed, her insistence I read her diaries and my fear about what I might find inside them. Vivienne knew Tomas would not be able to handle the truth inside those pages, but would I be any stronger?

At the end of my fast-paced soliloquy I paused for breath. Scott was still watching me, entranced and unmoving. Was he expecting more? There was no more? Or was there? I smiled, so wide I thought the pressure might split my cheeks. ‘So here we are: the shaman and the anarchist, two unfashionable souls who find something precious in each other to love. I love you too, Scott. I can admit it now that I’m no longer running away from you.’

He stood up and stretched out his body. As I watched him the sexless child shrank back to make way for the woman, but our choice had been made and accepted. I left him with a chaste kiss. He asked me not to go back to the house, but I insisted it was where I had to be.

The diary lay open on my bed. I picked it up and started to read. “I knew something was wrong even before I opened the front door. I shouldn’t have left them with him, but they are so young. Much younger than I had been and I thought they should be safe. As I walked into the drawing room I saw him in his usual spot. His head tipped back and licking his lips. The sight of him made me shudder - the leery, old wolf.

“I heard the children sobbing. They were hiding under the dining table - my old spot. They wouldn’t tell me what happened, but as I walked towards him I saw his hand still lingering in his lap.

“I know what I have to do. I will protect them.”

I heard footsteps in the attic, something heavy being dragged across the floor, and the chink of glass hitting the boards. It’s not real, I told myself, but it was real - a memory replayed, not understood then, but fully realised now. Oh mummy!

It was after midnight, but I ran to him anyway. I wondered whether I locked the front door - fuck it, I wasn’t going back. The diaries in my backpack weighed me down. Perhaps I should burn them, but I decided to take some time to think about it first. The streets were quiet, incessant drizzle keeping marauders in their homes and those few bodies who were leaving the late-night lock-ins slouched quietly towards home, heads bowed. I ran, unimpeded by any other living person.

Scott looked sleepy as he led me to the kitchen and offered me tea. I asked for somewhere to sleep and he showed me his room.

‘I’ll sleep on the couch,’ he said.

I realised that wasn’t what I wanted. Not tonight. Not with this dark memory curled up inside my soul. I wrapped my arms around him, pinning his arms to his sides. I couldn’t reach his mouth, the difference in our heights too great, but stretching up I kissed his shoulders and throat. For a moment he remained still: frozen into the statue of gatekeeper then he bent over and fixed his lips to mine and I managed to lose myself for a few blissful moments before teeth clashed together and he pinched my nipple too eagerly while fighting with the fly of my trousers. I moved in a daze and before I realised what was happening we were on the bed. I wrapped my legs around him and he filled my emptiness at last for a few brief moments until it was over and I sat up, feeling soiled and ashamed. He gathered his robe, staring at the floor while I lay back on the bed and turned away from him. I listened to his forlorn footsteps as they receded from me.

When I was certain I was alone, I grabbed my knife from my bag and pricked my thighs with its point, sucking breath between clenched teeth. Blood slipped and slid between my thighs, but my wounds stung less than my pride. Eventually I fell asleep. The stag visited my dreams, but I threw stones at it to chase it away.

That morning, I lay awake listening to Dorothy and Scott’s movements around the house. Hearing the dull blah, blah, blah of an edge of conversation, I assumed I was the subject at hand. I didn’t want to get up; getting out of bed would involve seeing them. I just lay there, cursing my choices. Why had I forced myself on Scott? I knew his reasons for celibacy; he had explained them to me quite clearly, so what right did I have to make him break them? I had raped him or as good as. I felt ashamed, torn between a need to apologise and a need to escape. I reached for the knife again, but my hand wavered above the backpack as I wondered whether I could, should face this in a different way and talk to him. My stomach rebelled as fear and nausea gripped me.

There was a hesitant knocking at the bedroom door. I remained silent, hoping to be left alone, but the door inched open and Dorothy’s face peeped around the edge. I watched through the veil of my eyelashes as the woman frowned and closed the door again and I was left alone with my shame and self-pity. I grabbed my knife and started cutting. One step forward, two steps back.

35

Even after carving the pain from my skin, I still prickled and couldn’t lie still. I knew I shouldn’t be there. I had tainted the place, tainted Scott. I was more like my mother than I’d realised. Panicking, I decided to creep out and wondered where I should go. The idea of returning to the house frightened me, but at the same time it held an aura of inevitability. I was sure Tomas wouldn’t let me stay with him and I doubted I’d feel more comfortable there anyway. The small amount of money he had given me had almost run out. Soon I would need money for food and how would I make the trip home. Would Tomas drive me back to London? Did I want to return to the squat? I wasn’t certain of anything, least of all that, so I decided to return to Vivienne’s house. I thought again about the diaries stuffed in my backpack and crammed in my bedside cabinet, plus the many more scattered around the house like skeletal leaves, a dead memory of things past. After reading about my granddad, and how that made me feel I didn’t feel ready to read further.

Vivienne killed her father or forced him to commit suicide, because he abused me and Tomas. She'd found me under the table, her table, the one where I found her note. She had wanted to be his last victim, that meant he had abused her too. He had stolen her innocence and done the same to her children.  I couldn't remember it, but I knew it was true. I considered burning the records – the diaries and the birth certificates alike. What good could come from knowing more? But I was afraid, not only of never knowing peace, but also of letting Vivienne down. If I burned them all, these buried memories, would I be consumed by the same fire?

Anyway, I couldn't burn them, not without first knowing what had happened to my sister.

I gathered my things and tiptoed out of the house. If Scott heard me leave he did not challenge me. The air outside was full of mist and chill air bit at my face, a shock after the recent hot summer weather. I lit a cigarette.

The hallway was full of unsettled energy, welcoming me back. The air seemed to sniff me, trying to explore me, know my secrets and understand the change in me. I met it with a defiant stare and strode to the kitchen. Realising I hadn’t drunk coffee for over twenty-four hours, I made myself a cup and guzzled it greedily, enjoying the scratch of roughly-ground grains in my throat. I made another and sat cradling it, smoking. The house might have been frightening, but I belonged there. Its memories were mine, mine and my mother’s, and to move on I needed to face them all, even the diaries. I opened my bag and touched one of the cool covers then withdrew my hand, leaving it there, waiting. I needed sleep first.

My bare feet crushed moss in the shadow-filled forest. Movement ahead – a stag darting between the trees, I did not follow it. The stag held no secrets for me to explore, not today. Its coat looked tarnished and its eyes never met mine. I touched the bark of a tree instead. The wood felt like skin and I jumped back, shaking my hand as if it had burned me. I knew I must not touch the old, rotten flesh. I knew it was wrong, but it bent towards me, closer and closer, crowding me, jeering at me, until I turned and fled.

The ringing of the borrowed mobile-phone woke me.

‘Hullo,’

‘Hi Giz, it’s Tom. We’re just trying to sort out the funeral and the reading of the will. The will’s gonna be read today so we can know Mum’s wishes. Do you wanna come?’

He was still calling me Giz. The idea of correcting him yet again felt too exhausting to contemplate. ‘No thanks,’ I said, sinking into the pillow.

‘Are you sure? Look maybe you should be there. You’re in her house after all. You need to know what’s gonna happen.’

‘Why can’t you tell me later?’

I heard him shuffling the phone in his hands. His breath grew quiet, muffled then he was back again, whispering. ‘We may have conflicting interests, Sis. Cathy wants to sell the house.’

I nodded. The news did not surprise me. ‘I don’t see why it’ll make any difference if I’m there. I won’t leave here, not until I’m finished. But, it’s okay, Bro. It shouldn’t take long. Then I’ll be on my way home and all this will be yours.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

I hung up and got out of bed. If I planned to stay in Bristol longer I’d need to do some shopping. I checked my money and found only a couple of pounds. I would need to start earning soon. If Cathy wanted me out it was unlikely Tomas would keep paying me to stay. There were a few art supplies in my bag so I could go back to painting tourist’s portraits or I could just sell some things; after all it would be far quicker to rifle through Vivienne’s jewellery, one or two things should raise enough to tide me over and they were mine anyway, really.

Vivienne’s room looked empty as if it knew all that had happened and had given up waiting for its mistress to return. Hunting for a jewellery box, I opened wardrobes full of beautiful clothing; almost all of it was purple or black. I found my mother’s ballet shoes, sniffed them and held the soft leather against my cheek. Nanny’s story of the ballerina and the revolutionary filled my head with images of Vivienne dancing for the queens and kings she had described. How beautiful and graceful she must have looked. I start to cry. Cradling the slippers, I rocked to and fro and gulped back wails before they could escape, wails full of regret and sorrow. Mummy was gone and I could never get any closer to her. I tried the ballet shoes on and laughed. My feet were tiny inside them and I felt like a child again, wearing my mother’s footwear, expecting to be punished if discovered. Lifting my feet, I left the shoes on the floor and continued searching for jewellery. I opened the lid of a puce-coloured leather box and a prima ballerina sprang into life, pirouetting in the mirror. Swan Lake chimed as I dug through the jumble of gold and silver. No rings, they would be missed. Not that pendant either, it was her favourite. I found a watch, a Cartier that looked as though it might be made of gold. Perfect. I grabbed tissues from a frilly box and wrapped it carefully before sliding it into my backpack. Now all I needed to do was find a jeweller.

‘And you say it was your mother’s.’ The jeweller’s face glowed in the reflected beauty of the watch, kindly yet suspicious.

I nodded. ‘It was a present, but now I need money more.’

He looked me up and down. ‘It’s a nice watch, but the market is slow at the moment. I could only offer you one hundred pounds.’

I knew I could get more. His kindly face looked sly after all, but I accepted the exchange.

Food bought I made my way back to the house. Scott was waiting outside the front door.

‘Do you ever wear shoes?’ I asked him. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I brought my box of tricks, to clean the house ... Remember?’

I brushed past him to unlock the door. ‘Yes, yes, of course. Come in.’

I led him into the kitchen and switched the kettle on. ‘Tea?’

‘What kinds have you got?’

‘Tetley,’ I answered. ‘Or coffee.’

‘Just hot water, please.’ He opened his box of tricks that was really a bag and brought out a large bundle of twigs tied with string that reminded me of a mauled bridal bouquet.

I brought his water and my coffee to the table and lit a cigarette. ‘What’s that?’

‘Herbs. We burn them to cleanse the house.’

‘Okay. How long will it take?’

‘An hour maybe. It’s a big place.’

I shrugged. ‘True.’

I passed my lighter to him and he set light to one end of the bundle. The smoke was pungent and it made me cough. He blew gently on the flames until they dulled into gentle embers. The smoke grew thicker. He took a sip from his mug and stood up. As he walked around the room, leaving trails of smoke in his wake, he whispered words that sounded random to me. A few of them made sense, but not many.

He left the kitchen and wafted into the hallway. I stayed behind and opened the door to the garden. The air stung my eyes and I wanted to breathe something that didn’t stink of burning sage.

The sun shone through gaps between low white clouds. I realised I hadn’t been in the garden since Chrissie had left for London. We had tended to this garden together, tried to grow new life, sowing seeds in the earth. It seemed pointless now Vivienne was dead. I heard laughter and scanned the perimeter wall, looking for visiting ghosts or lost children and found neither. I wondered whether I was making a mistake. I had learned so much from the spirits in this house, most of it painful, all of it important. Most important of all I had learned to forgive my mother.

I stepped inside again and listened for Scott’s footsteps. I heard him above me as I entered the dining room. He must have been in my room, purging it of bad memories and toxic energy. I felt sceptical and wondered how a few whispered words and some herbs could change anything, but the dining room did seem brighter, lighter and less oppressive than before. If nothing else, perhaps the scent would clear my head.

He moved from my room and I followed the sound of his footsteps across the hallway. He was in Vivienne’s room now. I could hear him through the kitchen ceiling, treading lightly.

I returned to my coffee. It had cooled a little, but was still drinkable. I imagined the soft squeak of his soles against floorboards were my mother’s. That she was gliding about her room as graceful as ever, getting ready for a night of entertaining some infatuated gentleman. That was all she ever seemed to do, when she was not flirting with death, she was always dancing or making love. I swallowed an uncomfortable lump in my throat and realised I had envied her, both for her beauty and the ease with which she spoke to people, enchanting them. She had been a lot to live up to, my brother’s perfect woman, deeply flawed though she was. She was also impossibly magnificent.

I heard the stairs creak and realised Scott was returning. When he reached the table again he stubbed out the herbs in a pewter bowl. ‘That’s the smudging done.’

‘What now?’

‘I guess that’s up to you. The house has been purified. If you really want to journey into the dream world you can do so today.’

I stared at him.

‘You’ve decided not to?’

I shrugged. ‘I haven’t thought about it, not really. I thought after ... you know ... well I didn’t expect to see you again. Look Scott ... I’m sorry. What I did ... what I did to you ... that was wrong.’

He smiled at me and nodded. ‘I forgive you.’

I sighed and tried to communicate my gratitude through my eyes. We were silent for a moment as the ache of understanding was salved. ‘So, no more ghosts?’

‘They should quieten down for a while at least, but we’ll need to keep cleansing the place. I can teach you how.’

‘I doubt I can stay.’

‘Why?’

‘My brother and his wife want to sell the house.’

‘Will you go back to London?’

‘Probably.’

‘That’s a shame. Just when I was getting used to having you around.’

I smiled and placed the palm of my right hand over the back of his left. ‘Thank you.’

He nodded and picked up his mug. ‘We can chat about it another day.’

Excitement burned my chest. ‘I want to.’

‘Yes?’

‘Yes. I want to take that journey. I don’t want to leave without answering certain ... questions.’

‘Great. I’ll set things up in the living room. Come in when you’re ready, Crow.’

I smoked another cigarette before I followed him. My heartbeat quickened. I didn’t know what I was about to do and the adrenaline rushing through my body cautioned me against stupidity. I didn’t listen.

‘What are you trying to find out in the dream world?’ he asked.

‘Why I am the way I am. I feel like a piece of me is missing. Perhaps it’s my mother.’

‘Perfect, we’ll start there. I’ll guide you. You can go as slowly or as quickly as you wish. There are no rules except those you set for yourself. I’ll get you to sit or lie here and I’ll count slowly, from one to ten. Feel yourself relax. I’ll describe a tranquil place and you should imagine yourself walking there, along a path through woodland, until you reach a clearing. You’ll enter a sacred space. You’ll know it when you’re there,’ he told me. ‘It’s a safe place to start your journey, or you can stay there a while: plant a tree, build a house or just sit and think. When you’re ready to move on, you’ll see a pathway ahead. Follow it. Keep walking until you meet your spirit guide. Greet it warmly, it is an old friend. The love you show it will make your time there more special and more useful. The guide will appear in the form of an animal.  Tell your spirit guide what you seek. It’ll lead you to a gateway. Some gateways lead downwards, these can look like caves or lakes. Others lead upwards: ladders or mountains to climb. You will need to journey upwards to find your fragment. When you see it you will know, but it might be well hidden and it might take you many journeys to find it.

‘I’ll call you back when it’s time to return. I’ll count backwards from ten then you’ll wake up. If you want to come back before I start counting go to your sacred space. From there you should be able to return yourself. If not you’ll be safe and comfortable until I call you.’

‘Can a sacred space be a mountain range?’ I asked.

‘Usually it’s a woodland clearing or a cave, but I guess it could be anywhere.’