Other People (19 page)

'She was my first love,' he began. 'In every sense my first love. You'll always love your first love, they say. They don't lie. She broke my heart.'

'I'm sorry,' said Mary.

'It's all right. It's fixed now, I think,' he said, and smiled again. 'It was unforgettable too. I mean the good things were unforgettable too. She was tremendous to be near— funny, very exciting, very expressive. Wild as hell, of course.
Very
passionate.' Michael allowed himself a full ten seconds of sultry-eyed reverie at this point. It might have lasted even longer if the complicated telephone on his desk hadn't suddenly parped out.

'What?' he said. 'What? Borneo. I mean Winnipeg. Carol—no more calls, okay?'

'But what was bad about her?' Mary asked.

'Insecurity, I think. For all her brains and looks, I think she was really desperately insecure...'

... Big deal, thought Mary as Michael chatted contentedly on. Insecure. Is that all. Who isn't? What did people do and say about what they said and did before that kind of word came along?

' ... and as soon as she started caring about someone, and I mean really caring like she did about me, a part of her turned against them—or against herself. She had to fuck it up, and by humilating herself in some way.' He winced. 'She did some terrible things. Wow.' He whistled. 'Some terrible things.'

'What sort of things?'

'Oh you know. There aren't really many ways for people to behave badly. It's quite a limited field really. They can taunt you and fuck other people and get drunk and vicious and so on. She did all that a lot. She hit me once, quite hard too, while I was asleep. That takes some doing, I'd have thought.'

'Yes,' said Mary. She found herself sharply affected by this man and she couldn't tell why. At the moment, for instance, she was wondering just how much doing it would take to give Michael Shane a good punch while he lay there dreaming about himself. What's happening to me? she thought. And then she knew. She was remembering Michael Shane. But not with her mind—not with her mind.

'What was the worst thing she did?' asked Mary.

He leaned forward, examined her for a few worrying seconds, and said, 'I'll tell you'—as if this willingness singled him out for originality and nerve. Perhaps it did. Mary listened. She was feeling hot again. Michael had stopped looking at her, and a gleam of wretchedness showed in his young face. He didn't seem to have told this part of the story before. And now she could tell how old he really was.

'Have we time? Yes, we have time ... I'd been writing a play, been writing it the whole year I'd been with her. About this guy who seems to have everything, but really he's—Anyway. It probably wasn't that good. It probably wasn't
any
good. We were alone in the country in this cottage I'd borrowed. I was reading my play through, correcting it—that was the idea. One day she locked herself in my study. I was banging on the door. I heard the sound of paper being thrashed about—there was an open fire in there. She whispered through the door that she was going to burn it. My play. Her voice was mad, not like her at all. She knew I had no copy. There was no reason for it or any thing...'

'I'm sorry,' said Mary, without volition.

'I started pleading with her through the door. I could hear the fire crackling. By the way it's not what you think. This has a trick in its tail. She started reading bits out. Bad bits, in a terrible voice, my voice but... a mad voice. It lasted an hour. You know—"Now we come to Act II, Scene Two, when Billy says—", and she'd read out some phrases in the terrible voice. Smoke was pouring out underneath the door, even ashes. It lasted an hour. Then she let me in. The play was gone and the grate was overflowing. It was hell in there. I could hardly see. She was pointing at me and giggling.'

'I'm sorry,' said Mary. She delegated a part of her mind to concentrate on not saying sorry again.

'There's more. We had an incredible fistfight, with fists. The only time I've ever hit a woman. She gave pretty well as good as she got, by the way. That lasted about an hour too. When we were too bushed to hit each other any more and I was lying there sobbing and moaning, she said that she hadn't burnt the play after all. The play was in the other room. She'd been burning the blank paper. I'd never felt happier in my life. We got drunk and went to bed, ran around the house naked. Oh, man. Wonderful girl, intense girl, I thought—this is living. But it's not living. It's the other thing. Very soon afterwards I realized something. She must have known that play
by heart.
She must have hated it
by heart.
Can you imagine? A week later / burnt it. We ended about then. I thought I was going queer for about a year afterwards. After her, women look transparent. They
look
transparent. They aren't of course,' he said, and looked at Mary.

'So—so that was the worst thing Amy ever did?'

'To me, yeah. Mind you, this was
way
back. This was before all her really heavy numbers. This was kid's stuff. She was nineteen. Ah, Carol. Yes, no, bring him in.'

Mary stood up. She noted incuriously that something had happened to her legs; they were numb and tingly, especially in the calves, not legs at all, just a vanity of legs.

'I wasn't surprised by what happened to her,' he added conversationally. 'I don't think she was either, not by then. Thank you,' he said to Carol and got to his feet.

Mary turned. Carol came forward, tentatively offering a sheath of pink paper. Behind her in the doorway a tall young man bobbed about.

'Ah, this is the dope on the Eritrean thing, right?' said Michael. 'You'll never guess what these jokers are trying to do now. Hi, Jamie,' he called as he started reading.

'Hi,' Jamie called back. 'Hey,
Mike...
'

'Well goodbye, Mary,' said Michael. He shook her hand. 'It's been nice talking to you.' His eyes returned to the pink paper. He said, without looking up, 'Carol, I'll need you on this. Jamie. Why don't you see Mary out?' • • •

Before we go any further, let's just clear up two rather crucial inaccuracies in Michael's dramatic tale—two telling distortions that probably result from imperfect memory,
amour propre
or simple disbelief.

The first point is this. Michael says: 'I thought I was going queer for about a year afterwards.' Now that's mis-leadingly put. Actually, Michael was right. He did go queer—and he stayed there too. He never went back to not being queer, not really. He sought shelter from the luna r tempest, and never went out to face the wind and the rain. From my own dealings with her, I'd say that this was what Amy was probing for in Michael Shane.

The second point concerns that play of his. Its title, incidentally, was
The Man Who Had Everything
—and it wasn't
that
awful, just very conscientious and very mediocre. Michael says: 'A week later
I
burnt it.' This isn't strictly true either. Doesn't he remember? Is he still blinded by smoke and his own ball-broken tears? He burnt it, but she made him. He didn't want to, but she made him. She did. Oh, she did.

• • •

Mary followed Jamie through the outer room. He closed the door after them and turned to face it with his hands on his hips. 'Scumbag,' he said with finality.

Mary watched. Jamie started talking to the door as if it were a person and he wanted a fight with it. She had seen this writhing, sidling style in public houses, just before trouble broke out.

'Oh, Mike, you fucking cocksucker. Well I got news for you, man, cos I'm fucking fuckin out! Cos I don't
fuckin need it, manl'
He turned to Mary with a wriggle. She started moving down the deserted passage and he came after her. 'You know what he makes me do?' he said shakily. 'Makes me g;o to fucking
Sketchley's
to pick up his safari suits! The little scumbag's safari suits! He treats me like
shit.
I don't need this! I got
stacks
of dough.'

'I'm sorry,' said Mary, 'I'll go out by myself.'

'Oh it's nothing to do with
you,'
he said, halting and turning to her with aghast kindness. He was long, thin and slightly twisted, like his hair. The skin on his narrow face was girlish pale. He had hot blue eys, hot eyes, and lips that trembled with some imminent defeat or triumph. 'I'll see you out. I
want
to see you out.' They walked on. 'What do I care? What do I care? Oh that fuckpig,' he said thickly, and Mary thought he was going to start crying at last. 'I'm cracking up.'

He paused and ran a thin hand across his forehead. 'Christ! I really
am
cracking up ... I suppose it's quite a relief in a way.' He clasped his hands together and looked up at the light with his hot eyes. 'Pray, oh pray, pal,' he said.

'Don't crack up,' said Mary.

'What?'

'Don't break.'

'Who are you anyway?' They walked on. He was looking at her with great interest, his face clear now. 'What were you doing with that little scumbag?'

'I came to ask him about a friend of mine.'

'And why do you wear these shitty
clothes?'
he asked with concern. 'I mean, you talk all right and everything.'

'They're all I've got and I haven't enough money to buy new ones.'

'I've got lots of money,' he said with pleased surprise.

'Well done,' said Mary.

'Do you want some?'

'Yes please.'

'Here.' He took a damp matted wad from the back pocket of his jeans. 'How much do you—here, take this lot.'

'Thanks,' said Mary.

'Your eyes,' he said. 'Something's happened to you, hasn't it.'

'I'd better go now,' said Mary. They were in the empty hall.

'No don't. Okay then—fuck off! No don't! Don't you want to see me ever again?'

'Well I would like to, yes.'

'Here, give me your number then.'

He offered her a pen and paper, and Mary wrote down Norman's number. 'Bitch,' he whispered as she did so.

'Goodbye then,' said Mary.

'Goodbye. Hey look, this is a bit embarrassing—but could you lend me some money? For a cab?'

Mary took the money from her bag. He had given her a great deal, she now realized—two or three times what she earned in a week. 'Are you sure you want to give me all this?' she said.

'Oh yeah. Just lend me—a couple of quid'll do. I'll pay you back. What's money anyway? It's only time, after all, as they keep telling me here.'

'Goodbye then.'

'Goodbye. Think of me,' he said. 'And don't break.'

16

• • •

Second Chances

Mary never knew how poor she was. Poor Mary, she never knew.

She has grown used to cheap chafing skirts, their imposture exposed by all natural light. Her complexion, it pains me to say, shows signs of submission to the ravages of unvarying fried food, and her hair has to fight to hold its brilliance in the kitchen mists. She still has the quality, the expectancy, the light; but it's getting to her, all this, of course it is. She has grown used to the poverty of Alan's smell, and to the poverty of his mind. Poor Alan, poor thing; but then they are all poor things where Mary lives.

Now she knows. She thought that life itself was poor. Now she knows it needn't be—not poor, not poor in that way. She thought that money only happened in books. Now all day she feels that sense of exclusion and tearing eagerness she felt as she sat at the poolside: she too wanted to swim and play, and knew she could if she only dared. Little Jeremy's report-card said 'very poor'. Already! thought Mary. Poor little Jeremy, poor little thing.

Life is interesting, life has a lot to be said for it, but life can be terribly poor. Mary knows that now. She has seen enough of the well-kept people, scowling in shops and cars. She doesn't want their money; she only wants their time. And the changing light is telling her something about the poor and winter.

• • •

Mary waited for Alan in her bed. This was the only time she ever had to herself. That wasn't much, was it? That wasn't much time? She heard his steps on the stairs and shook her head. She had made up her mind.

Alan opened the door. As usual, he seemed to want to say something, but he didn't or he didn't dare. He moved sideways-on to the foot of the bed and began to slither from the clutches of his dressing-gown, not knowing quite where to look. The moon and the window framed him in their square of light: his churned porridgy hair, the unstable eyes darting downwards, the suddenly revealed defence-lessness of his white shoulders.

'Alan,' said Mary from her bed. Alan dropped the dressing-gown to the floor, his arms at his side, his head bowed—he was ready.

'I can't have you up here at night any more. I can't have you in my bed any more. I can't. I hope you understand.'