The Ballerina and the Revolutionary (2 page)

4

The journey, from London to Bristol in Tomas’s Volvo, seemed to take forever, yet somehow we only had time to talk about how Melissa was getting chubby now she had started on solids. The subjects of Vivienne's health or my return home were, apparently, verboten. So it came as a shock when Tomas dropped me outside Vivienne’s house.

‘Hang on, why the fuck, have you brought me here? Listen, I’ll just kip on your floor, Bro.’

‘Oh Giz, I’m sorry, we don’t have room. Mum’s house is empty.’

‘How many times? The name’s Crow now, not Giz, not Giselle – Crow, and anyway ... empty ... where’s Vivienne?’

‘In the hospital. I wrote ...’

Of course he did.
I shook my head and pressed my fingertips to my mouth, holding back a stream of obscenities.

‘Look. See how it goes. Just for one night,’ he negotiated; his voice oozed confidence. ‘If it doesn’t work, I’ll sort out a B&B for you, if you want. I’ll pick you up tomorrow, when I finish work.’

He handed me a small bundle of keys and a mobile telephone. ‘Here’s the keys and Cathy’s mobile in case you need anything. Our number’s stored here, see. I almost forgot ... here, take some money for food.’ Thrusting two crisp ten pound notes into my open palm, he turned to leave.

I stood there, confused, too much information too quickly. My brain needed chance to catch up. ‘Tom,’ I called after him.

He turned and smiled.

‘Want to stay for a cuppa at least?’

‘I’d love to, but Cathy and Melissa. I better check they’re okay. See you tomorrow, Sis!’

‘It’s just Crow,’ I grumbled. ‘Crow.’ But he wasn’t listening. He was already indicating to pull away.

Fuck!
Home for two minutes and already I felt powerless. I couldn't find the strength to argue with his logic, so instead I waved goodbye. It was getting dark and the building loomed bigger than I remembered, silhouetted against the blood-red and violet sky.

A flash of blue in one of the windows reminded me of the eyes in my dream, but it was just the reflection of Tomas’s car.

The paved path to the front door was hemmed in by walls of grass on either side. The late-spring garden was heavy with flowers; roses and geraniums fought with dandelions and cow-parsley for supremacy. Grime covered the windows.

My chest felt tight and adrenaline surged through my nerve endings preparing me for fight or flight. My hand shook as I reached toward the keyhole. I placed my left hand against the door, steadying myself, not wanting to fall. The wood seemed to vibrate as if I was feeling the rapid heartbeat of the house itself. I pressed my forehead against the narrow glass panel at its centre. I had to do this.
Do it for Tom.

I opened the door and edged inside, wiping my feet on the mat before stepping onto the parquet floor beyond. It was a generous hallway; a space designed for welcoming guests, laying open the entire soul of the house. Except, all five doors joining it were closed and I felt I was intruding.

I wandered into the kitchen to make coffee; my feet found the way from memory. Beyond the dirty window lay the garden in which I'd played as a child. Forgetting the coffee, I unlocked the back door and stepped out. Birds and grasshoppers filled the fresh air with the sound of their chirping.

Little had changed, although the grass was longer. The swing in the far corner squeaked a soft greeting, the wooden shed glared its warning and the vegetable garden was so full of life it reminded me of an Amazonian jungle. I smiled, remembering times spent digging this earth with my Nanny, before she died. The memory was so vivid; I could see it just in front of me. Almost close enough to touch.

In the empty garden, knelt a white-haired lady and beside her, a small girl with black wavy hair - me. We were digging up weeds together, talking animatedly, so close our arms kept brushing against each other.

‘Look, Nanny.’ I held up a fat, wriggling worm and giggled.

‘If you pop the worm here, in the soil, he’ll help Nanny’s flowers grow.’

‘Why?’

It was my favourite word when I was three. Why does the worm help the flowers to grow? Why is my skin brown while yours is white? Why do you love me more than Mummy does?

Nanny patted my hand.

‘Why are you crying, Nanny?’

‘Just a touch of hay-fever, darling.’ She wrapped her arms around me and sniffed my head.

‘Your Mummy’s feeling better now. She’s coming tomorrow, to collect you and Tomas.’

I clung to Nanny's thin body, burying my face in her floral blouse.

‘Mummy’s very excited about seeing you, sweetheart. She really misses you.’

I let go of my grandmother, and walked, slowly, to the far corner of the garden then sat down on the earth, facing the wall.

‘Giselle, darling, come here. Let me give you a kiss.’

I didn’t move. I heard Nanny groan with pain as she stood up; one arthritic knee locked and she stayed there for a moment her body shuddering, gathering strength before she pushed her legs into a stronger position. She hobbled across the lawn and sat on a bench to my right.

Tapping her lap with her palms, Nanny called out. ‘Shall I tell you a story, Giselle? Shall I tell you the story about the ballerina?’

Unable to resist the lure of my favourite fairytale, I toddled over, climbing onto Nanny’s lap. She stroked my hair as she recited the story. Her touch calmed me.

‘Once upon a time there was a beautiful little girl, with hair the colour of ravens’ feathers, eyes the shade of rain-clouds and skin like newly-fallen snow. Her mother was as wild as the deer, but she wanted a different life for her daughter. So she left her in the arms of a man and woman who could not have children of their own.

‘The little girl grew into a woman, as tall and graceful as the willow tree. She became a famous ballerina and travelled the world, dancing for kings and queens.

‘One day, a man told her she was not meant to be a ballerina at all. He said she was a river, able to bring life and freedom to the people of his country. They fell in love and travelled the mountains of his homeland together. He was a freedom-fighter and they ran hand in hand, giving hope and love to the poor.

‘Soon the ballerina discovered they were going to have a baby and they were happy. But, they lost each other in the mountains. She searched and searched, but never found him. Heartbroken, the ballerina returned to her family.

‘When the baby was born, she was every bit as beautiful as her mother, but with the sun-kissed skin of her father and eyes like coal. The ballerina looked at the baby through a veil of tears. She was the image of her lost father. While the ballerina could not show it, she loved her daughter very much.’

Shocked by the vividness of the memory, I stood still, gripping my forearms. I listened to the sounds of life: bird, insect and human, within and outside the garden walls. I sniffed. I couldn’t forgive Nanny for dying. She had left Tomas and me alone with Vivienne. I had been a child, unprotected and unloved, or so it had felt. I shuddered, unfolded my arms and reached into my pocket. I rolled and lit a cigarette, but felt too tired to finish smoking it, so I threw it onto the patio and wandered back into the house.

It was only nine o’clock, but I felt a stupor I couldn’t seem to shake, as though the house itself was draining my energy. I was here because Tomas asked, but where was he? One step forward, two steps back.

As I carried my bag upstairs, the paintings on the wall seemed to move around me. The cold, grey eyes of Vivienne’s portraits watched me, judging me, as they always had.

I wondered about my old bedroom. Would it be as I left it: a shrine to the child who stormed out six years before, vowing never to return? More likely it would be full of boxes or paintings.

My old bed waited inside; the covers had been changed to pristine white cotton and broderie anglaise and the walls had been repainted in soft lilac, but I recognised it as mine and embraced its familiarity. My old indie band posters and line-drawings were gone; replaced by framed press-clippings and theatre posters of Vivienne as a young prima ballerina. I wrinkled my pierced nose in disdain, remembering how beautiful Mother was, and how vain. Vivienne’s long black hair was bound tightly in the images - flawless. How many times had I wanted to strangle her with that hair? I rubbed my head and snorted. Lifting the pictures of Vivienne off the walls, I stacked them together in the wardrobe, before taking off my Doc Martens and curling up in bed, fully dressed and, as always, ready to run.

5

‘Nanny. No don’t go. Don’t leave me ...’

I woke with a start. My head jerked from side to side as I looked around the room, trying to remember. Sitting up, I felt the soft bed beneath my legs. The room was brightly lit, in spite of the still drawn curtains. I recognised my childhood chest of drawers. Everything came rushing back and I started to cry.

Not willing to be weak for long, I reached inside my bag and drew out a five inch blade, sheathed in black leather. Part protector, part controller: a replacement parent. The cut I made across my forearm was short and shallow, but enough to calm me.

Pain always calmed me: the explosive pain in my jaw when a police shield hit me or the pain of binding my body, altering it to reflect how I felt on the inside. The agony of watching people I loved get hurt, move away, die, all of these disconnected me from my thoughts, thoughts that hovered in waiting whenever I felt a move towards contentment or self-acceptance, thoughts I wasn’t strong enough to face. Two steps forward, one step back.

The modern bathroom, full of perfumed soaps and expensive shampoos, offered me the first hot shower I had experienced in months. I thought about my arrival the day before. Part of me felt trapped, pushed into coming here by my brother. While the other part felt curious, eager to meet my niece and Tomas’s wife. The hot, running water was definitely a bonus, but I wasn’t certain I could stay for long. I would meet my brother’s family, poke my head around the door to Vivienne’s ward then return to London. I didn’t feel I owed Mother anything.

Gradually, the stroking of my soapy hands over my body, tracing scars across my arms and thighs, calmed me. I stepped out of the shower and dried myself roughly with a large white towel, wincing as it rubbed against bruises. I replaced the bandages around my chest and put on a clean t-shirt.

I sauntered into the kitchen. Finding a jar of instant coffee, I made a bitter tasting cup, rolled a cigarette, smoked it and decided to use some of Tomas’s money to go grocery shopping.

The local grocer’s was quiet and I bought the few items I needed, quickly. I glanced up and saw a wiry, blond man walk past the shop window. His long hair was unbrushed. I couldn’t see his face, but he seemed familiar. The checkout girl coughed, attracting my attention and I scowled at her. Paying the glossy, impatient girl, I grabbed my bag of shopping and hurried after the man.

In spite of his relaxed gait, I had to run to catch up with him. As I got closer, I noticed his feet were bare and caked in mud. Needing to jog to keep moving at his pace, I tried to ignore the pain of the shopping bag slamming against my leg; tins of baked beans dug into my calf each time it hit me. Adjusting my hold on the bag, I was distracted for a moment and lost sight of him.

I raced to the next corner, hunting for him. Light traffic whipped by at a steady pace. I studied the signposts: Redland Crescent and Clifton Road. I remembered the parents of a school friend had a big old house on Clifton Road and wondered whether they still lived there then checked myself. What would I say to them?

I looked around, but the man had gone. I balled a fist and shook the shopping bag aggressively. A low, frustrated growl rumbled in my chest. Across the road, I spotted a rank of shops - a post office, a hair dresser called Top Style, a purple fronted shop bearing the legend Healing Ways, a greengrocer and a chip shop. Intrigued by the purple shop, I picked my way through a break in the traffic and across the road. Crystals, in the shop window, caught and refracted light into a myriad of dancing rainbows, self-help books nested below them between stacks of tarot cards. I noticed an advert stuck behind the glass: “Crystal healer, medium and clairvoyant - Vivienne Nightingale.” A mobile number was listed below her name.

I sighed. Everything always came back to Vivienne. I walked inside the shop, just to check whether the blond-haired man was inside. A smiling, bald man in a red satin shirt appeared from behind a beaded curtain. I blushed, glanced around the shop then left.

The heavy smell of fish and potatoes frying made my hollow stomach ache and groan in protest. I rested the shopping bag on the floor and tried to tame my hunger with a cigarette, but it didn’t work so I headed back to the house to make lunch.

6

Tucked between the wall and the kitchen table, eating beans on toast, I thought I heard footsteps in the room above - Vivienne’s room. At first I assumed it was the sound of old water pipes shaking until I heard the sound again, more clearly than before. Hackles up, I silently put down my cutlery and pulled the knife from my bag. I slipped off my boots and crept up the stairs.

Portraits loomed over my head. I shrank beneath the weight of their stares. My ears grasped echoes of resentful whispers and I hung my head in shame. Ashamed of what? I couldn’t remember, not really, perhaps it was purely that I wasn’t more like her.

I faced her door, shaking with fear, expecting her to rush out at any moment, screaming my name or slapping my face. I concentrated on my breathing, trying in vain to calm down. I was grown up now. She couldn’t hurt me anymore.

Mastering my fear, I opened her bedroom door and inspected the empty room. Vivienne’s huge bed crouched in the corner like a monster ready to pounce. Shadows lingered at the edges, a dark audience to mother’s regular performances. The air smelt stale. It reeked of old perfume, sweat and sex.

I marched to the wardrobe and opened the door. Frills burst forth from its bowels. I moved soft, delicate fabrics and checked behind them. No one lurked there. I pulled back the curtains and opened a window. Sunlight poured through the smeared glass, bouncing off Vivienne’s full-length mirror and flooding the room.

Breathing slower now, I sheathed my knife and strolled to the bedroom door. Already the air smelled fresher. I turned around as I reached the hallway, glancing back at the rich fabrics and heavily patterned wallpaper - a true boudoir, a shrine to her pleasure. I sighed and moved to walk away when something caught my eye. Turning back to the room, I watched as the décor altered.

Subtly at first - the colour of the light-shade, a change of carpet then everything looked different. And there was Mother, centre stage, on the bed, naked, legs splayed and mounted by a huge man. Her flushed face fixed on me and I was a terrified ten-year-old girl once more.

‘What do you think you’re staring at?’ Vivienne demanded.

‘Maybe she wants to join in,’ the oily-voiced stranger suggested.

My body shook. The man didn’t break his rhythm as he spoke. His flabby body still pounded between Vivienne’s thighs. Mother’s eyes looked cold and empty. I shook my head, denying what I saw, and turned away in horror. I fled to my own bedroom, chased by my mother’s laughter.