Mountains of the Moon (32 page)

Ding—

Everybody stands up, all of the peoples sitting on the steps.

Ding—

All of the peoples cross the grass.

Ding—

They come around bushes and out from under trees. Everyone is going in, thick up the palice steps. No one even sees me sitting here by the pool, they just walk past. Wonders if I is invisible. I put the wet sneakers on wet feets. The driveway does a swirl around the angels’ pool and then goes off both ways, maybe all the way around the back. Think I has to go and look for some shed or place to sleep.

“Coming for tea?”

I look around cos he is talking to me. Newspaper folded under his arm and soft gray clothes, a beautiful velvit gentleman.

“I hate having tea on my own,” he says. “Would you be my guest?”

I look at the velvit gentleman, poppies broidered on his waistcoat. His hair is dark gray and heavy, shining in the sun like a metal. It flicks up pretty. He don’t magine me saying yes cos his eyes is a shame like holes in knitting. Spects it’s all right.

He smiles and his teefs is nice.

He tucks his hair behind his ear and puts his hand up to help me down. Then his arm is a triangle and I has to put my hand up on it and walk sides him like a lady. I tries to keep my spear tidy. We stop and look up the palice steps.

“How many do you think there are?” he says.

“Pigeons or steps?”

“Steps. Forty-eight,” he says. “Four lots of twelve. The tower is one hundred and forty feet tall and can be seen for miles around.”

True. We stop at the top of the steps and turn around to see how it is, cross the parkland grass and trees.

“This terrace is forty feet wide and stretches east and west for almost a quarter of a mile.”

We go under the middle stone arch and into the palice through arch-shaped doors. The hallway is a shock, sact same colors as Truly Scrumptious.

“Outrageous,” he says.

The floor is chess; got dog-ends squashed all over on it. Stinks bad of piss. Behind the door a man is standing with his nose gainst the wall and his toes curled up the skirting board.

“Don’t mind Arthur. He’s catatonic.”

The wall patterns jump out. Creatures squashed up in boxes. Fox-fish. Kitten-pig. Rabbit-snake. Dog swallowed its own leg makes me get a hick-sick feeling. Int proper.

“Int proper,” I says.

There int no sounds. The velvit gentleman int scared. Smiling, looking up at the ceiling. Blue painted angels flying with clouds, look scared case they fall down.

“The man that built it wanted to make a huge impression but he couldn’t decide what style to have,” he says. “Early Italian Renaissance on the ceilings,” he says, “classical Greek in the middle, and down here, a grotesque, ghoulish mix of Italian, French and Flemish Gothic.”

His teefs is nice, he does a swirl, that’s how come I does one, well.

“Feel sick yet?” he arsts.

“Uh-huh,” I says, “I got ghoulish.”

He puts out his triangle arm and we go up the middle stairs. An old man in a black cloak is sitting at a table on the landing; he’s got a candle and a red apple. My legs is springs, case I int allowed, case he wants to know who I is, case I has to run.

Int real.

The old man in the painting looks surprised, case we is coming up out of the floor.

“Afternoon, Isaac.” The velvit gentleman nods at the painted man.

We turn and look up.

“East stairs or west stairs?”

“West,” I says.

There int no sounds, just our feets on the white rock stairs, small squelching from my sneakers. On the top landing a sign says
Grand Hall
. Every now and then hear a sound, like people screaming down in dungeons. Makes me jump, man comes on the landing from a sideways door. He’s got a green shirt and two books.

Is real. Coming down, smiling cos he’s got glad teef.

“Hello, Anton. Beautiful day. How’s the diamond business?” he arsts.

“Sparkling,” the velvit gentleman says.

I look at the wall-pattern monsters. They got white bulging eyes with black dots and sharp teefs smiling, wicked. Tortoise-fish. Fox-lizard. Don’t know how many there is, thousands, spects. Hare-toad. Red man with claws and sharp wings, stuffing his tail down his throat.

“Hhhuck!”

The men is looking at me. We all look up. The hick-sick sound I done is still going around with angels on the ceiling, that’s how far my guts chucked it.

“Crikey, Mitten?” the velvit gentleman says. He don’t know how come I done it.

“Sorry,” I says. “Fly. Or something.”

The other man is smiling now he knows there int no need for an amblance.

“I see you’ve got a visitor.”

The velvit gentleman looks at me.

“My niece, Mitten,” he says.

My face burns ghoulish pink. Int
Mitten
. Int.

“You’ve come to cheer our Anton up?”

I nod my head.

“I’d best be getting along,” he says. “The library.”

We lean over the banisters to watch him going down.

“A sad, sad story,” the velvit gentleman says.

We don’t go in the
Grand Hall
, stead we turn through the west door where the sad-sad man come out.
Ward 14
says a plastic sign. The velvit gentleman smiles and opens a door for me.

“Battenberg on bank holidays,” he says.

Don’t know what it means. The corridor is dark wooden, fitted together like a puzzle. Our legs cut through stripes of sunshine, don’t know how many doors there is. I spects this is a hospital. Bad smells hiding worster smells. We pass rooms like hospital wards, beds and stuff on chairs and bedside drawers. Some beds has got bodies, buried under pink blankets. The velvit gentleman smiles at me.

“The ladies are this end,” he says.

A cleaner man is in the corridor, shining the floor with a machine. He’s got a stone or something under it cos it’s ripping swirls into the wood. Another man is on his knees, tending to polish, but he int got a cloth. Stripy jarmas on.

“Derek,” the velvit gentleman splains.

A lady comes out from an office, with keys on her belt and a white uniform. I look back where we come, case.

“Saint Lizzie,” the velvit gentleman says.

She smiles, sees us coming.

“Anton!” Her eyes is twinkly. “A visitor?”

“My niece,” he says.

“Wonderful!” she says.

The man on the floor comes crawling over, tends to polish my knees. Still got scabs and grass stains.

“Thank you, Derek,” Lizzie smiles at us. “Better have some tea, Anton, before they take it away.”

“Can you shift him?” the cleaner man says. “He’s in my way.”

Derek crawls over, tends to polish Lizzie’s feets.

“I see you’re ready for bed, Derek?” she says. “Shall we find you a dressing gown?”

He smiles but he int got no teef. Lucky, he don’t know it.

We keep on walking. The corridor gets double wide sudden with a big sitting room, armchairs and plastic chairs and wooden chairs. People sit all wonky, old peoples falling forward and sideways practicing for dead. Some of the people is visiting, chairs pulled up close together, but nobody knows what to say. The other side of the corridor is three round tables with chairs and some people sitting at them. Sees a metal trolley. Sandwiches. Biscuits. Cake. Milk in plastic jugs with colored lids. The velvit gentleman pulls out a chair for me. Another man is at the table. He’s got a sandwich in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Tends we int here.

“Don’t mind Charlie.”

I look at the velvit gentleman, his name is Anton and it don’t sound like English or Anthony. He brings a teapot and does me a cup and saucer.

“Milk, madame?” he says.

Makes me laugh cos nerves. He int French though, don’t think.

“Sugar?”

I look at my plate. Ham sandwich. Egg sandwich. Chocolate cake.

“Not everyone likes Battenberg. Do you like marzipan?” he arsts.

Don’t know. I look at the slice of cake with pink and white squares. Man called Charlie taps his sandwich over the ashtray. Blows out smoke. I got hungry worster than double daggers. Looks at the chocolate hundreds and thousands sprinkled on the chocolate cake. Goes deaf sudden like a faint. I look up at the ceiling, sees angels looking down and monsters in the corners with fangs and pink tongues. On my plate, got cress and wet slice of tomato. Charlie don’t want his cucumbers cos he puts them in the ashtray. Don’t know what to do. In the metal teapot shine I see a little girl.

“Eat it,” she says.

Anton is watching me.

“Hungry, Mitten?” he says.

My stomach does cartwheels, got the taste of staying live. So stuffed with water and food, can’t hardly move. A lady is coming cross the lounge and then cross the corridor, walking like her slippers is skis. Oringe hair and gray roots, coming to me, especial. My legs twitch. But it int me, it’s Anton, she int happy, shoves his shoulder.

“Shut-up. Shut-up. Shut-up,” she says, spitting.

“Shut up yourself you batty old cow.” He smiles ever so nice.

“Shut-up. Shut—” She stops. Don’t know why she come. We watch her go back to her chair. Nurse Lizzie is talking to the peoples, going from group to group. When she comes over her tea has gone cold.

“I’ll have one later,” she says, “when Leonard gets back. Did you show your niece your room, Anton?”

“That would be all right, would it?”

“Yes, of course,” she says.

That’s how come we stand up and put our chairs nice tidy back.

“Bye, Charlie,” I say.

He don’t say nothing.

“I’m right at the far end,” Anton says. Longest corridor in the world filled with the sound of a somewhere man singing in a shower.

We get smaller and darker. Bad smells has all blown down this end. Anton’s door is last on the right side, open. Little room with a bed made nice with blankets and a table sides with the Bible on it. Minds me of me; he int got nothing. But there is a door in the side wall. He puts a key from his pocket in it and turns the lock.

“Nothing is sacred,” he says. “Lizzie and Leonard know of course, they don’t mind me using it.”

Surprises me. This is an end tower room, int square, they done it half a moon, with curving winders waving and shining, all the way. They got flowers being marigolds sploding in petals of colored glass.

“I’m glad you like it,” he says.

I look around the room, still got marigolds in my eyes. Smells of polish and sawed-up wood. He’s got a grandad clock.

“Can you keep a secret?” he arsts.

I nods cos can.

“I got the floor from the East Wing. I fetched it square by square.”

I look at the floor, white light in it like ice.

“It took me a year, nearly killed me.”

“Sorry about the edge,” I says.

“I can’t cut the marble to fit the curve. I thought I’d put sand in the spaces and grow some thyme.”

I listens the grandad clock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock. He’s got a fireplace and a pile of sawed-up chair legs. His bed is wooden in the shape of a sleigh; got rugs on it. I walk long the curve of the winders; look out through marigolds at the back. The shadow of the giant tower is running way with smaller towers. We is taller than cedar of Lebanon trees. The palice has got a terrible wall and rocks that go down steep, to the lane where I came up. Farway fields, green and downhill yellow. Don’t know if the red roofs sitting in the hills is Red Roofs or just farms. Hair stands up, members the trouble I got.

The velvit gentleman gets a pole with a shiny hook and opens the top row of winders with it.

“Listen,” he says.

People sing-songing words like praying.

“In the chapel, choir practice,” he says. “They modeled it on the Vatican.”

I wonder what a Vatican is. He’s got a rocking chair on a rug and books piled up. At the bottom of his bed is a wooden chest with black metal handles and a lock.

“Has you got treasure?” I arsts.

“Yes,” he says. “Soon the sun will turn and start to come in.”

“Like a tide?” I say.

“Exactly. I recommend the rocking chair.”

“Uh-huh.” I sink down in the rocking-chair cushions, make a gentle nice rocking.

The table is a wooden box turned upside down. He’s got a loverly
desk, I spects he sits at it looking out, the arms of the chair is polished smooth from all the sitting and standing up. Nice lamp with green glass. He goes to a little fridge that’s tending to be a chest of drawers. Brings a bottle and two glasses and puts them on the box table.

“I’ve been saving it for a special occasion.” He shows me the label on the bottle. “I’ll just check the corridor, make sure the coast is clear,” he says.

The bottle makes me nervous case it splodes. He comes back, smiling. Don’t know if to tell him, case I int especial enough. Too late—POP makes me jump. Wine does tick-tock in the glasses and fizzes up bubbly. Cold and slippery.

“The sun is coming now,” he says and it’s true.

Marigold flowers come out of the glass and set off marching cross the wall and floor. I dabs my tongue in the wine. Gets fizz in my eyes.

“How long has you been saving it?” I arsts.

He counts on fingers for years.

“Nine.”

“I like your room, all your things is wood and nice.”

“They brought it all in a removal van and left it in the pouring rain, outside on the steps. The champagne bottle was on top of the clock with a label saying
Anton: Ward 14.
It nearly caused a riot. Bob Stanwick ran across the lawn with the bottle like a rugby ball. The others brought him down. There was a scrum; old Arthur broke away with it.” He’s smiling membering olden days. “There wasn’t so many of us then, we couldn’t get away with as much. We were all scared of Vera because she was little and mean and kicked your shins. There was no tea or biscuits for two weeks; she confiscated the bottle and locked it up.”

“Lucky she let you keep your furnitures.”

“She did. It took all day to get it up here. I didn’t have this room then, A-Level is in my old room. It was so small we couldn’t get everything in. We had to lay the wardrobe flat and put the bed on top of it. Either that or move into a shared dormitory, which—”