Seahorses Are Real (13 page)

The whole business had been gone into ad infinitum: it was something or nothing, a release, just a scratch, it would heal, there would be no lingering memento of their argument. There had been other cuts and lesser arguments (and cuts, she suspected, she didn't even know about – I fell against the wall at work, he told her once. Fell against the wall, my foot!). It was hard to reconcile his happy-go-lucky nature with these acts of self mutilation (it didn't fit into her picture of him as her rock, her stalwart, the vice that held her as she reshaped and worked on herself) and she traversed the dichotomy tentatively, shamefacedly. What had she done to him? What had she done to the shy boy with the wide smile, who wore his Tony Hancock t-shirt back to front, ordered pizzas, brought her flowers, played the guitar and made her laugh? She hadn't meant – of course she hadn't meant – and then came the gaps and the buts. She was ill, she was depressed, she couldn't help the violence – it gushed out of her like warm blood; it sprouted, mutated, catapulted, escalated; changed direction cool and easy as a zephyr breeze.... He, on the other hand, could control how he reacted – there was no need to go plunging a knife in his arm the way Ivy had plunged it into the flowers. (She saw the act as a bow against strings, to the sound of Rachmaninov – it was always Rachmaninov.) It showed, moreover, a distinct lack of respect, for if he couldn't look after himself, he could never look after her. If he wavered they were both in the soup. He was meant to be a safe place, a buffer, taking the knocks, taking the scrapes for her sake; not taking her anger and running with it, doing a whole nine-yard little sprint of his own! That wasn't the deal, that wasn't the deal at all. It displeased her to think he could hurt her by hurting himself, though she consoled herself with the fact that she hadn't actually wielded the bread knife.

Her intentions were good, her intentions were honourable – she was almost sure of that. It was simply a question of transforming intention into action, of bridging the gap, of not being fazed by the chasm at her feet. It would take some time of course: there would need to be a set of practical little steps; a succession of right choices one by one by one; a detailed and disciplined planning; a putting of theory inch by inch, hour by hour, week by week into practice. She must stay aware of the danger signs: take the barometer of her moods by the hour; consult her mental workings like some old almanac; nip the badness in the bud before it flowered; hide the old hag's pointy hat and broomstick not to mention flaming cauldron; catch herself on the downward slope before she snowballed out of control. She must bear in mind at all times that he was a precious vessel, a beautiful thing to be cherished, respected, handled with care. She would mend her ways. In the middle of an argument, she would shout out a word like ‘Holocaust' in an effort to bring perspective to their small, pathetic domestic crisis. In the middle of an argument, she would think of something humorous they'd done together months ago, waggle her tongue, thumb her nose in an effort to defuse their small, intense domestic crisis. In the middle of an argument she would think of her mother dying, of stiff upper lips, of pulling-up socks, of living for the day and cutting ties with the past. (Though how on earth did you do that? What were the nuts and bolts of it? Did you take all your stuff to the jumble – her used-up scent bottles; how could she bear to part with them? Did you shave your head and reinvent your life? How did you prevent yourself re-piecing the jigsaw again and again and again when it was so easy to say ‘There, there, that piece goes there: the outsize molar, the wart on the nose, the pointy, whiskered chin.') In the middle of an argument she would take deep breaths, count to ten, remind herself there was no hag, that she was the hag, that she was responsible for everything she did and that she and she alone could reach across the gap, could stop herself detaching and sailing like a balloon to the top of the room.... She would get some ointment for his arm, she would feed him home-baked delicacies until his chin sank into his neck: arctic roll, treacle sponge, trifle, meringue, upside-down pudding. She would roll out pastry with a milk bottle. She would wash her hair, make the bed, spring clean the flat, trap the rats, cut out the old and dirty mould, sparkle up the windows, elbow grease the stove. She would make plans, make lists, write out her dreams, collect stamps, Toby jugs, anything she fancied, dig out her old poetry book from school and read aloud the way she used to; listen to David playing his guitar – patiently, good humouredly; comment favourably on his performance in bed at night, lying awake beneath the stars and the pigeons on the chimney. She would deceive reality into thinking she was well; her soul so very old and half dead with despair would galvanise itself just a little; and she would rise – wouldn't she? Couldn't she? Like a phoenix from the ashes. She would let the littlest chink of hope in – not a new blinding dangerous sun but a crescent moon perhaps. A piece of crescent moon would do, for now, to hold on to.

And those moments – those moments of wonder (that would all come true) would stand in her memory like fixed stars – all alone, self-contained, still seeming and yet spinning with infinite quiet motion; there, soft, in her memory, stars to chart a course, a life by. (Amazing how they lived for billions of years, waiting for man to tinker his way through the Ice Age, the Stone Age, the Bronze Age, the Rocket Age, until the moment he was able to look through his telescope at that star looking back, saying cheese and exploding.) This moment. This feeling. This forever-now eternity.

After the downpour everything is glowing, trembling, catching rainbows. She points out a skylark (so she says), a strangely-coloured stone, a bit of graffiti, a bend in the stream. They laugh unrestrainedly at nothing, at everything, everything yet nothing touches them. They linger hand in hand, stroll, smoke the breeze, catch the rays of an Indian summer in a little old park in England on a Sunday afternoon.

Benches are full: occupied by dozing, impervious grand­fathers, umbrellas, packed lunches, bags of conkers, sodden scarves, skateboards and footballs and faces under newspapers, behind headlines, doting mothers, feet splayed, with babes in arms; but they manage to find one all to themselves in the middle of the flowers. (Picking flowers she'd been taken. He'd swooped right out of the blue and carried her off – it is well to remember; and for a while there is an urgency, a slight desperation in the way she cranes her neck, tilts her eyes, opens her mouth a little too wide in gasps of excitement, surprise – she is living on borrowed time. She must drink it all in, every second full gulp; cram each moment into her mouth for when she has to return.... He, at least, is happy to forget that one day she will have to go back because for him each day is freshly stamped, new created, with the dew still on it; he is grateful, simply, for one of her smiles.)

How the birds sing after the rain! The sun has opened everything up: a Dulux dog steps out of the clouds, light streams through the trees in ‘Beam me up Scotty' columns, shirtsleeves roll up, smiles come out to play. The tiny carousel is going full blast in a corner of the playground, pulsating to the music and the screeching chains of the swings that are going full swing. Rival gangs of boys on bikes eye each other warily over the monkey bars: do spins, do skids, show off, do wheelies, do ‘Bet I can, Bet you can't, Bet I can infinity,' no hands, spit gum, chuck petards. A little girl blue hula hoops all alone on the grass and a tiny helmeted boy on a minuscule bike careers past shouting obscenities. Everyone is out, taking the air, as they must have done in the pleasure gardens of Vauxhall and Ranelagh in the eighteenth century. A gaggle of girls teeter and giggle a little way away from a pride of young males, lounging, indolent, aloof for now – though they will pounce, come in for the kill with the dusk. (Parasols in Georgian times were also no defence against young bucks leaping fences into the ‘dark walks' in the dark.) A ruffled-up couple startle up behind the hedge at the snap of an approaching twig.

‘I always wanted a Grifter,' he announces suddenly out of nowhere amidst the flowers, his mouth twitching at the tiny helmeted boy who is circling the girl, now, in hula hoops of his own, still shouting obscenities, ‘but my parents couldn't afford one. My dad kept threatening me with a Bomber but in the end I got a second-hand Commando!'

The sun glints down on the flowers, on her skin, on the screeching chains of the swings, on the ice-cream man getting cabin fever in his van, on the tiny carousel going round and round. She could stay here forever, in this park, in his arms, on this bench, which is a rock in a maelstrom of colour. The painted horses plunge and dance, throw their riders off onto shadows complex as Byzantine artwork on the ground. An energetic dad kicks a football too high at his large, too slow, unprepossessing son. ‘Too slow,' he barks horridly, his dreams clearly thwarted. ‘Too slow.'

‘What a fate!' she smiles back at him, not sure who she means but thinking how wonderful it must have been to have parents who wanted to buy you a Grifter but couldn't afford to... and suddenly he is telling her small, arbitrary, nonsensical things, things she has tried to wrestle out of him over the years… here, now, in this park, on this bench which is a rock in a maelstrom, he is giving them up to her quite naturally, freely, of his own accord....

How the smell of Cardiff in the morning is so distinctive because of the brewery; how he loves the rain, the hills, the valleys of Wales; how he likes to walk in cities at night; how his grandfather (who always kept Mackeson's stout and porridge oats in the cupboard) had died knowing his grandson had got to university; how his sister went through a stage of mixing ice cream and cherryade; how a little boy at primary school had eaten crayons and counters, pissed in the hatstand and told him a virgin was a woman who hadn't done it; how he always thought ghosts were like photographic negatives, borne out of certain climatic conditions; how he'd dragged his parents round museums as a child, boring them half to death….

These words pouring out of him one Sunday afternoon (what a strange, earnest little thing he must have been) in the golden light of an Indian summer (she was quite safe here in that warm golden light) in a park in little old England on a bench which is a rock in a maelstrom of colour.... The blue roans, dapple greys, dark bays and palominos snort, cavort, prance and bow, graceful as ballerinas; and the flowers (asphodels, surely, asphodels which grow in the Elysian fields) nod drowsily in the sun.

(Oh Hades, whispers the breeze.)

They make their way through the grubby streets in the light of early morning. Nobody in their right minds could possibly be up yet except the blackbirds, the postman, the lonely street-stall hawkers; and he, scorning the stale warmth of the sheets, cosy teapot, egg-and-bacon Saturday morning treats, strides ahead intrepid, resolute, arctic explorer in his own mind no doubt, Strider, Gandalf; hobbit more like with those feet of his clumping along in his worn-out boots. (Why didn't he ever take them to Doctor Barnardo's?) And she, lagging behind, a little irritated, a little tired, fighting the scarf about her neck, old receipts and shopping lists blowing about her pockets, her toes so cold she could snap them off like twigs. ‘Let's get up early,' she'd heard him call through the grogginess of sleep, ‘let's get up early and wake up the flowers, the way you used to....'

That was a long time ago, she'd wanted to point out to him, and even then... but she didn't have the heart to and so now, here she was, in this grey, freezing mist, struggling along past ‘Valhalla', ‘Bedouin Cottage', ‘Heart's Rest', past the Darenth stream slipping away silent as a secret, in the deep, crisp, even steps of her ha ha Lord and Master.... It must have been like this on that first day, in that first dawn of creation – the world a silent, freezing greyness ready to be lit, ready to be spoken. Had He drawn them forth one by one, spinning them out of his lonely breath in Latin, Double Dutch, Romany, Yiddish, Cantonese? Did his echoes go forth and multiply, down the Grand Canyon, up the Zambeze, round Cape Horn at a rate of knots? Did any disappear off the Marie Celeste (though the table was set, the feast in place) enticed underwater by the sonar of dolphins and humpback whales singing? Did any get lost in space, still hurtling round and round, holding their breath, orbiting the angels and the barrier of sound?

He'd taken a risk – ripping her out of warm oblivion the way he did. She met reality hard; he should know by now that she met reality hard. It was only in dreams, she'd confessed to him, that she could escape the confines of her stopped-at-the-doll's-house body, her lank hair, marshmallow eyes; only in dreams did she set out on walks with the hazel stick her father had cut down for her as a child; only in dreams could the past be redeemed, could she play God with her soul, make wishes come true, do cartwheels, backflips, do the splits, shoot goals in netball in bionic slow motion, her limbs free and easy, her mind clear as water; only in dreams could her anger set itself free to soar harmlessly, twist the air, skim slow toads and blue irises, power stations and church steeples; only in dreams could she absolve herself.... It could have gone either way – he was too well aware of her sudden hostilities, surprise turnabouts, slow steps to compromise, random bursts of aggravated violence, not to have known that it could have gone either way. She had lain suspended for a while in the weightlessness of limbo, in the space between two moments, waiting for something inside to protest; but the tender warmth of his voice, carefully packed haversack, cheese and onion rolls, bottle of squash, the way he nudged her gently but firmly into her clothes, even the tilt of his chin, all brought her down, touched her heart, told her he was taking her with him whichever way the dice fell, whichever way the wind blew – hat, broomstick, warts and all. And just for once and just because... she would let it be, let it happen, like that strange, sad, slow dance with the hands, the eyes closed, where one partner leads, the other follows. Ebbing and flowing. She would follow, eyes closed, flow.