Dancing Girls (12 page)

Right now though there’s neither love nor anger, no resentment, it’s a suspension, of fear even, like waiting for the dentist. But I don’t want him to die. I feel nothing but I concentrate, somebody’s version of God, I will him to exist, right now on the vacant lawn of this castle whose name we don’t know in this foreign town we’re in only because dead people are more real to him than living ones. Despite the mistakes I want everything to stay the way it is; I want to hold it.

He sits up: he’s heard voices. Two little girls, baskets over their arms as though for a picnic or a game, have come into the grounds and are walking towards the castle. They stare at us curiously and decide we are harmless. “Let’s play in the tower,” one calls and they run and disappear among the walls. For them the castle is ordinary as a backyard.

He gets up, brushing off bits of grass. We haven’t visited the house yet but we still have time. We find our break in the wall, our pathway, and slide back down to sea level. The sun has moved, the green closes behind us.

The house is further than it looked from the village. The semi-road gives out and we pick our way along the stony beach. The tide is out; the huge bay stretches as far as we can see, a solid mud-flat except for the thin silty river that cuts along beside us. The dry part narrows and vanishes, we are stranded below the tide line, clambering over slippery masses of purplish-brown rock or squelching through the mud, thick as clotted cream. All around us is an odd percolating sound: it’s the mud, drying in the sun. There are gulls too, and wind bending the unhealthy-coloured rushes by the bank.

“How the hell did he get back and forth?” he says. “Think of doing this drunk on a dark night.”

“There must be a road further up,” I say.

We reach the house at last. Like everything else here it has a wall; this one is to keep out the waves at high tide. The house itself is on
stilts, jammed up against the cliff, painted stone with a spindly-railed two-decker porch. It hasn’t been lived in for many years: one window is broken and the railings are beginning to go. The yard is weed-grown, but maybe it always was. I sit on the wall, dangling my legs, while he pokes around, examining the windows, the outhouse (which is open), the shed once used perhaps for a boat. I don’t want to see any of it. Graves are safely covered and the castle so derelict it has the status of a tree or a stone, but the house is too recent, it is still partly living. If I looked in the window there would be a table with dishes not yet cleared away, or a fresh cigarette or a coat just taken off. Or maybe a broken plate: they used to have fights, apparently. She never comes back and I can see why. He wouldn’t leave her alone.

He’s testing the railing on the second-storey porch; he’s going to pull himself up by it.

“Don’t do that,” I say wearily.

“Why not?” he says. “I want to see the other side.”

“Because you’ll fall and I don’t want to have to scrape you off the rocks.”

“Don’t be like that,” he says.

How did she manage? I turn my head away, I don’t want to watch. It will be such an effort, the police, I’ll have to explain what I was doing here, why he was climbing and fell. He should be more considerate. But for once he thinks better of it.

There is another road, we discover it eventually, along the beach and up an asphalt walk beside a neat inhabited cottage. Did they see us coming, are they wondering who we are? The road above is paved, it has a railing and a sign with the poet’s name on it, wired to the fence.

“I’d like to steal that,” he says.

We pause to view the house from above. There’s an old lady in a garden-party hat and gloves, explaining things to an elderly couple.
“He always kept to himself, he did,” she is saying. “No one here ever got to know him really.” She goes on to detail the prices that have been offered for the house: America wanted to buy it and ship it across the ocean, she says, but the town wouldn’t let them.

We start back towards our room. Halfway along we sit down on a bench to scrape the mud from our boots; it clings like melted marshmallow. I lean back; I’m not sure I can make it to the house, whatever reserves my body has been drawing on are almost gone. My hearing is blurred and it’s hard to breathe.

He bends over to kiss me. I don’t want him to, I’m not calm now, I’m irritated, my skin prickles, I think of case histories, devoted wives who turn kleptomaniac two days a month, the mother who threw her baby out into the snow, it was in
Reader’s Digest
, she had a hormone disturbance, love is all chemical. I want it to be over, this long abrasive competition for the role of victim; it used to matter that it should finish right, with grace, but not now. One of us should just get up from the bench, shake hands and leave, I don’t care who is last, it would sidestep the recriminations, the totalling up of scores, the reclaiming of possessions, your key, my book. But it won’t be that way, we’ll have to work through it, boring and foreordained though it is. What keeps me is a passive curiosity, it’s like an Elizabethan tragedy or a horror movie, I know which ones will be killed but not how. I take his hand and stroke the back of it gently, the fine hairs rasping my fingertips like sandpaper.

We’d been planning to change and have dinner, it’s almost six, but back in the room I have only strength enough to pull off my boots. Then with my clothes still on I crawl into the enormous, creaking bed, cold as porridge and hammock-saggy. I float for an instant in the open sky on the backs of my eyelids, free fall, until sleep rushes up to meet me like the earth.

I wake up suddenly in total darkness. I remember where I am. He’s beside me but he seems to be lying outside the blankets, furled in the bedspread. I get stealthily out of the bed, grope to the window and open one of the wooden shutters. It’s almost as dark outside, there are no streetlights, but by straining I can read my watch; two o’clock. I’ve had my eight hours and my body thinks it’s time for breakfast. I notice I still have my clothes on, take them off and get back in bed, but my stomach won’t let me sleep. I hesitate, then decide it won’t do him any harm and turn on the bedside lamp. On the dresser there’s a crumpled paper bag; inside it is a Welsh cake, a soft white biscuit with currants in it. I bought it yesterday near the train station, asking in bakeries crammed with English buns and French pastries, running through the streets in a crazed search for local colour that almost made us late for the bus. Actually I bought two of them. I ate mine yesterday, this one is his, but I don’t care; I take it out of the bag and devour it whole.

In the mirror I’m oddly swollen, as though I’ve been drowned, my eyes are purple-circled, my hair stands out from my head like a second-hand doll’s, there’s a diagonal scar-like mark across my cheek where I’ve been sleeping on my face. This is what it does to you. I estimate the weeks, months, it will take me to recuperate. Fresh air, good food and plenty of sun.

We have so little time and he just lies there, rolled up like a rug, not even twitching. I think of waking him, I want to make love, I want all there is because there’s not much left. I start to think what he will do after I’m over and I can’t stand that, maybe I should kill him, that’s a novel idea, how melodramatic; nevertheless I look around the room for a blunt instrument; there’s nothing but the bedside lamp, a grotesque woodland nymph with metal tits and a lightbulb coming out of her head. I could never kill anyone with that. Instead I brush my teeth, wondering if he’ll ever know how close he came to being murdered, resolving anyway never to plant
flowers for him, never to come back, and slide in among the chilly furrows and craters of the bed. I intend to watch the sunrise but I fall asleep by accident and miss it.

Breakfast, when the time for it finally comes, is shabby, decorous, with mended linens and plentiful but dinted silver. We have it in an ornate, dilapidated room whose grandiose mantelpiece now supports only china spaniels and tinted family photos. We’re brushed and combed, thoroughly dressed; we speak in subdued voices.

The food is the usual: tea and toast, fried eggs and bacon and the inevitable grilled tomato. It’s served by a different woman, grey-haired also but with a corrugated perm and red lipstick. We unfold our map and plan the route back; it’s Sunday and there won’t be a bus to the nearest railway town till after one, we may have trouble getting out.

He doesn’t like fried eggs and he’s been given two of them. I eat one for him and tell him to hack the other one up so it will look nibbled at least, it’s only polite. He is grateful to me, he knows I’m taking care of him, he puts his hand for a moment over mine, the one not holding the fork. We tell each other our dreams: his of men with armbands, later of me in a cage made of frail slat-like bones, mine of escaping in winter through a field.

I eat his grilled tomato as an afterthought and we leave.

Upstairs in our room we pack; or rather I pack, he lies on the bed.

“What’re we going to do till the bus comes?” he says. Being up so early unsettles him.

“Go for a walk,” I say.

“We went for a walk yesterday,” he says.

I turn around and he’s holding out his arms, he wants me to come and lie down beside him. I do and he gives me a perfunctory initial kiss and starts to undo my buttons. He’s using only his left hand, the
right one is underneath me. He’s having trouble. I stand up and take off, reluctantly, the clothes I’ve so recently put on. It’s time for sex; he missed out on it last night.

He reaches up and hauls me in among the tangled sheets. I tense; he throws himself on me with the utilitarian urgency of a man running to catch a train, but it’s more than that, it’s different, he’s biting down on my mouth, this time he’ll get blood if it kills him. I pull him into me, wanting him to be with me, but for the first time I feel it’s just flesh, a body, a beautiful machine, an animated corpse, he isn’t in it any more, I want him so much and he isn’t here. The bedsprings mourn beneath us.

“Sorry about that,” he says.

“It’s all right.”

“No, shit, I really am sorry. I don’t like it when that happens.”

“It’s all right,” I say. I smooth his back, distancing him: he’s back by the deserted house, back lying on the grass, back in the graveyard, standing in the sun looking down, thinking of his own death.

“We better get up,” I say, “she might want to make up the room.”

We’re waiting for the bus. They lied to me in the general store, there is a hotel, I can see it now, it’s just around the corner. We’ve had our quarrel, argument, fight, the one we were counting on. It was a routine one, a small one comparatively, its only importance the fact that it was the last. It carries the weight of all the other, larger things we said we forgave each other for but didn’t. If there were separate buses we’d take them. As it is we wait together, standing a little apart.

We have over half an hour. “Let’s go down to the beach,” I say. “We can see the bus from there; it has to go the other way first.” I cross the road and he follows me at a distance.

There’s a wall; I climb it and sit down. The top is scattered with sharp flakes of broken stone, flint possibly, and bleached thumbnail-sized cockleshells, I know what they are because I saw them in the
museum two days ago, and the occasional piece of broken glass. He leans against the wall near me, chewing on a cigarette. We say what we have to say in even, conversational voices, discussing how we’ll get back, the available trains. I wasn’t expecting it so soon.

After a while he looks at his watch, then walks away from me towards the sea, his boots crunching on the shells and pebbles. At the edge of the reed bank by the river he stops, back to me, one leg slightly bent. He holds his elbows, wrapped in his clothes as though in a cape, the storm breaks, his cape billows, thick leather boots sprout up his legs, a sword springs to attention in his hand. He throws his head back, courage, he’ll meet them alone. Flash of lightning. Onward.

I wish I could do it so quickly. I sit calmed, frozen, not yet sure whether I’ve survived, the words we have hurled at each other lying spread in fragments around me, solidified. It’s the pause during the end of the world; how does one behave? The man who said he’d continue to tend his garden, does that make sense to me? It would if it were only a small ending, my own. But we aren’t more doomed than anything else, it’s dead already, at any moment the bay will vaporize, the hills across will lift into the air, the space between will scroll itself up and vanish; in the graveyard the graves will open to show the dry puffball skulls, his wooden cross will flare like a match, his house collapse into itself, cardboard and lumber, no more language. He will stand revealed, history scaling away from him, the versions of him I made up and applied, stripped down to what he really is for a last instant before he flames up and goes out. Surely we should be holding each other, absolving, repenting, saying goodbye to each other, to everything because we will never find it again.

Above us the gulls wheel and ride, crying like drowning puppies or disconsolate angels. They have black rims around their eyes; they’re a new kind, I’ve never seen any like that before. The tide is going out; the fresh wet mud gleams in the sun, miles of it, a level
field of pure glass, pure gold. He stands outlined against it, a dark shape, faceless, light catching the edges of his hair.

I turn aside and look down at my hands. They are covered with greyish dust: I’ve been digging among the shells, gathering them together. I arrange them in a border, a square, each white shell overlapping the next. Inside I plant the flints, upright in tidy rows, like teeth, like flowers.