The Lesser Bohemians (30 page)

Out into seven. Quarter past at most. The dandelions turned to clocks as I straggle down his path. Bundle through the old gate. Wretchedness making its meal of me. But if I look back I know I’ll see him and, because I won’t spare myself one hurt, I do. And there he is. Cigarette smoke and light rebounding all across his pane as he looks down at me. So I wipe my nose on my wrist and turn away. But I know he’ll watch until the end, until I am completely gone. Then all on his own, in that room without me, begin his life again.

God tortures me with morning, scourging eyelids red. Flatmate nerring Imagine in the bathroom. Fuck him anyway. And me. My brain drilled through. How much did we even drink? Stomach sore from? Oh. Puking. Pink like blood but just vermouth. Bags. Still out in the hall. Arms. Still in their sockets. What have I to do today? Get up and be alive.

Better find somewhere, Flatmate says wet at the door. Won’t be long until the water’s off then it’ll be rank in here. Have you somewhere? Yeah, going to bunk with a mate, suppose you
thought you’d      I did but fuck that. Maybe I’ll leave my stuff at school and after the summer have a look. Now I have it. I’ve a plan. See, my brain still works.

But a hard day to night

Draw the blankets round but that’s not him. That’s cigarettes and burning skin. And under it? No. Don’t look for him. Put your head down to sleep. But when it starts, the brain sets off. Going with the thought of      so many much   before what I did. Straightened out on his bed, naked and laughing with him. One of the two in that good oxygen, taking it hard down into the lung and so glad of each other then. Think of It’s alright to be shy with me. Everything was alright with him. I could do no wrong until      Now I’d like to wake up but the dream keeps going. In through the red and onto cutting off my fingertips. Shearing to the bone. Laughing too. Presenting as My gift to you, my love. Who’d not want me? And when I do wake I’m still all aberrant eyes. So sure he was just here. No. Fingers still attached, more’s the pity. Some stranger at the glass and hide under the duvet because these nights will be too long.

Go instead to the rich imperfect days. One week to the end of term. Cold water showers jagging my back. See the sun shine and walk my way in it through the bowers of Kentish Town. Intent in each moment. Do not think. And in my Juliet bed gown let the words do the work. Come, gentle night, come loving, black-brow’d night, Give me my no it makes me sick. Now only stand and forget the text. His keeping still, the very best paralysis. Okay stop, the Director says What the fuck’s wrong with you tonight? But I am another girl and beyond
caring about fucking my own self up. This is a stupid play, I say then walk out. And I don’t even care if they make me stay that way. Chalk Farm is poisoned for and to me. Go sit out on the bench and watch little boys from the estate behind making cheek with some Third Year lads I could fucking have you, and you, and maybe you. Then roaring as they’re chased off down the road. I would laugh if I cared. I don’t though. Or want to be here. Or see the point. Go to get my things. Hey, the Director appears I want a fucking word with you, what was that in aid of? Nothing, leave me alone. Oh no, and I’m shoved into the study room. You don’t behave like that in my rehearsal room so you better make this good. With no will to lie then, or for disaster more, I dwindle a sullen I split up with my boyfriend. What trite that sounds, for it contains no trace of what he was to me or how it is to lose someone again. Well you’re a fucking disgrace, the Director says. Don’t ever bring your personal life to rehearsal again, do you hear me? Work. That’s what this life means. If your leg’s amputated halfway down Wherefore art thou fucking Romeo, you keep going, do you understand? And there is a thread. Pull it. Pull. If he knew what you’d done he’d kick you up the arse as well. But further beyond. Remember yourself. All you came here for. So I go back inside. And some sense starts up again.

Moving out tomorrow, Flatmate says You shouldn’t stay here by yourself, it might get weird. Why don’t you bed down at a mate’s? No, I’ll stay. It’s not much longer now.

A candle is mine in this vigil of night. Smoke and now can’t be burns enough. Even not alone, yet too quiet. City creepy below. Passers on the walkway. Faces at the window. Just sit inside in
the electric-less dark and try at keep trying to breathe. Touch the places where he slept. Who is he thinking of tonight? Marianne, I suppose, and that’s right. She was first anyway. She’s probably also somewhere in London tonight thinking of him or that misbegotten life. The idea of it going suddenly square in my brain, like seeing into them. All the years gone since they spent that week in bed. Since they made their daughter and became he the devil, and her, for years, only what she stole. Bone picked and bleached clean of what they once felt. And now will that become me as well? Remembered, lying on his bed with some new girl, as too young to be serious about? I missed her of course but now I know she only blew off the dust for you. Am I already gone to the past? Gotten off his body by someone else? So many years to be apart ahead. But maybe one day we’ll cross paths in a Safeway’s. This is my wife, he’ll say And this is our son. And I’ll look at the little boy whose hand he holds tight and see him in there but none of myself. Hear him telling his wife Eily and I went out for a bit, way   back   when. Then it’ll be off with them, back to the life I’m not in. How have I so easily gotten so much wrong? But whistling down from the blue night it comes: I had not grasped that the sun still rose after I love you. Maybe he missed that also. So neither of us was careful enough and broke it before we’d understood. But as he thinks of her tonight I hope he also does of me. Sees beyond the hames, the screaming and the keys to my imperfect love that was meant utterly.
And he was right, that was the wrong way to finish.
Tomorrow I will be myself again.

Kwik Save boxes. I help pack. Bit sad to leave, Flatmate offering his spliff. No thanks, how’s your eye? Nearly healed, shame too, it would’ve looked great for the Agents’ Showing. I was
all prepared. ‘I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I could been somebody. Instead of a bum, which is what I am.’ Not a bad Brando as Brandos go but there’s a horn blowing down on Patshull Road. That’s me, he says, slinging his hook. The next few minutes in and out. Lugging his telly and what he’ll nick. His mate helps with the sofa – That’s for the fucking bailiffs, you’ll be alright without it, won’t you? And when he’s done gives me a hug. It was a good laugh living here, here’s my mate’s number if there’s trouble. His mate shouting Come on man. I’m double parked! Better go. See you Friday. Okay then. I go back to the kitchen and watch them pull around. Salute to his and watch until he is gone. His future Tufnell Park. Turn the tap. Water runs. Good. So turn it off again.

Pleasant after sunshine, Camden getting towards night. Carrier bag sweat on me and his front door still broke. Quieter than usual. No telly blares. I go on in but, top of the stairs, sounds trickle out from his room. Voices. A man’s. A girl’s? Listen but too low to      company or something else?
You have come this far. But if it is?
Just knock anyway. Quiet. What? he shouts and when I don’t respond What do you want? I knock again. Who the fuck is it? I   it’s   Hi   it’s me. And the silence it goes into. Has he heard? It’s me, I say again. Then hear him cross but he only opens a crack. Look, not tonight. Just for a minute, I say I haven’t come for a fight. A struggling moment of      Please? Fine, he says Come in, but you can’t stay long.

Already going when he opens my heart stops with shock. Thinner I’d thought of but not starving almost. Worse than I knew you could get in a week. His grey eyes gone black back. Skin dry and white. The shirt hanging off him. Jesus you look awful.
Why did I say that?
Thanks, he smiles at the floor. I close
the door behind and the next awful is the state of in here. All the boxes open or turned out on the bed. Desk. Armchair. Ripped and emptied. Everywhere. Everything. Curl-cornered scripts. Tapes and clothes I’ve never seen. Even the video that’s always packed. Records. Postcards. New old photographs. Frittered with fag ash and blanched in splashed tea. Dirty cups all about. Only his suit, freshly cleaned, looms in its plastic on the back of the door. Oh my God what happened in here? He looks around dully and lights a cigarette. Ah, just wanted to go through some stuff. His eyes, behind his glasses surveying the wrack, sodden with tiredness So what can I do for you? Did you leave something here? Might be difficult to locate right now but if you tell me      No    I didn’t come for that   Jesus      you look terrible, how long since you ate? Eily, he says What do you want? Sorry, sorry, the reason I’m here was just   to bring you these, and offer the carrier bag. What’s in there? Minstrels and some bread and some eggs. He smiles a little then sits on the bed, starts unpacking it Thank you – just looking at them – That’s very thoughtful of you. Well, I know Marianne’s tomorrow and      I know what you’re like and      I thought you might want some company tonight, actually, when I was outside, I thought I heard someone in here. What, some girl? No I don’t know. Well there’s no one but me. Then we look at each other through the misery of the place. Hard to believe a month ago this was where we were happiest. Thanks for the offer Eily but really, I’m fine.
The state of him though
Please, I don’t like the thought of you being alone, or what about Rafi? He’s away look, I’m fine. Thank you for bringing these and taking the time but      if you could just go – and standing again – Maybe we can have a drink later in the summer      once everything’s calmed down. But his slowness is so unnerving I don’t want to
leave. Let me make you some toast? Put the kettle on at least. Ah no Eily, come on I’m busy and I’d rather be by myself. So for it. Go for it. Nothing left but to say Are you having a relapse? Having a what? I look at the video player A relapse with   you know. He looks from me to it, understands, then starts to laugh. What’s funny? He keeps going. Getting it all out. The anger in it. So much, until he’s laughed himself still. Why were you laughing? Because I’ve only now realised there’s not one thing I’ve managed to accomplish in my life with dignity. What do you mean? He laughs some more. It’s just embarrassing, disgusting really, to think you know that about me      feel you have to ask   but fuck it is funny. Don’t say that, I didn’t mean it that way. No, I know, he says Apparently I’m just clinically incapable of not humiliating myself. He stops then and gives a strange sort of smile Don’t worry though I’m not      having a relapse but      thank you for asking anyway. What are you doing then? And the smile wipes off. He leans over a cassette player then presses. Hiss pours, with nothing until a man says Gracie, give us a song? I say That’s you? He nods. Sing for Daddy. That’s it. Into the mic. Into there. Good girl, and a little voice Baa baa black sheeps. Sometimes he joins in. Very good Gracie. Can you sing another song? No! Not one more? No! she shouts. Jack and Jill? Do you know that one, Grace? No! laughing at her own boldness with him. Some laa-ing close to the mic, then further off. No Gracie, give me that. Give that to Daddy love. That’s Daddy’s work. Squealing now like she’s running. And the look on his face. There’s an Ooop! He turns to me She slipped on a cassette. Then crying and Did you hurt your hand? Wiggle it love. Like this. That’s it. I think it’s alright chick. And the tape clicks off.

I’m sorry, I say. Don’t worry, he shrugs It wasn’t an
unreasonable conclusion, this place is a mess, then drops himself back on the bed. Did you just come across them? I was looking them out, hence the crap everywhere. I sit down beside Why? In case     to remind myself   if there’s any funny business tomorrow     if she wants the letters to stop     I need to remember what I’ve already lost and    not give in. Covering his face then, he suddenly goes down. What’s wrong? He sinks further so I stroke his arm. I’m just a bit down tonight, he says Tomorrow I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine again but tonight      is pretty hard. And I can’t bear this. I hate it. The desolation in him, spread out across this filthy room. My part in it. His own. Let me stay with you, I say. He shakes his head I couldn’t do that. Just as your friend, just for tonight and we won’t talk about what happened. I won’t try to change your mind. I’ll leave first thing and     if you let me stay with you      Stephen I promise I will let you go. But if you stay Eil, how will I ever get rid of this? he says. Rid of what? I ask. All this fucking love, and at this his voice goes out from under and tears start falling down. Quick he heels them off but there’s only more so he hides behind his hands to damp their noise. Then tries to sit himself up and be right. But he cannot yet. And I’ve never seen him cry. He looks so young in it. I can almost see the child he was with the busted lip and not knowing there would be worse. Or that half-destroyed boy, two years younger than me. Or the young man with his daughter on his knee not realising how short that time would be. All here in this man who tried to offer me the very best he had. I climb onto the bed and wrap my arms around him. Oh Stephen, oh my love, and he lets me take him. Awkwardly we hold onto each other then, tight. His skin and bones showing the other side of love we’ve arrived at. Not hate. I see it now, and so clearly tonight, that the opposite of love is despair.

In a while he sits up. Wipes his face on his sleeve Sorry about that. You alright? He nods, blows his nose, embarrassed I think, but says Listen Eily, if you really don’t mind, some company would be good. Great – I get up – Something to eat? Yeah, I’m fucking ravenous, you wouldn’t make scrambled eggs, would you? I would. And already he’s closing himself up neat but that’s fine now he won’t be alone.

You shouldn’t say that, you know. What? he asks opening the Minstrels and vaguely tidying up. All that stuff about yourself. But he’s busy shovelling the sweets in and just shrugs. What about work? Plenty of actors would be delighted with half of what you’ve achieved. Fucking work, he says – chewing a massive amount of chocolate – I’m so sick of it Eil. What do you mean? Sometimes I think it’s just bled me dry. You know, I started rehearsing ’Tis Pity the week after David died. Someone dropped out and the director was a mate and      I needed to be doing something so I agreed. But after David      it was like someone had taken a hammer to me. For months I felt like that. Sometimes still. But I went straight into it and worked like a dog. It gave me somewhere to hide, I suppose, but that play every night      what it’s about      by the time the run was over I was at the end of myself. And I realised all those years of trying to keep myself still, keep myself well, I’d just been ripping out of my insides which was fine except there’d been nothing going back in. I knew something needed to change or I’d just stop and then what would I do with myself? So I decided maybe it was time for the script. I’d been thinking about it, on and off, for months. Nick said he was interested so I started it and within a week there you were. Apparently I thought I’d let love in. He laughs a little now and picks chocolate shell from his teeth. But anyway. Anyway. Well, the eggs are ready
and when I serve up he eats away like a wolf. These are great Eil. There’s more in the pan. Aren’t you having? I already ate and you clearly need it Stephen. I know, it’s ridiculous, he says I can’t believe I still do it myself. Christ, when I was a child I’d have done anything not to go hungry but now      food’s the first thing that goes.