Seahorses Are Real (14 page)

They pass, like ghosts, out of the town; and it recedes into the distance like some ancient oil painting put out to weatherbeat, to mature under apple trees the way Van Gogh did it. They have never been this far before on foot – it is an adventure, it is altogether different from the park and pretty cottages with their year-round tulips in vases behind windows, their crazy paving and garden gnomes that sing in the rain, fish for trout, wheel barrows, crouch on toadstools – though they hardly dare so much as breathe if you ever care to approach. Everything real here is imagined in this strange, surprising mist that cons you into non-belief then conjures an epiphany out of a stone, startling and absurd as a pigeon out of a hat, a silk handkerchief: nettles tall as soldiers; fireweed out of blackened earth; the grave of Anna Czumak (who suffered much in this life) marked by a smattering of frost, like icing sugar, and a simple wooden cross (like the lines of crosses on Caldey Island where the monks have slipped back into the soil that fed them and gave them essence of gorse and heather, which they bottled in perfumes for the tourists that come to their gift shops for sachets and pot-pourris, fudge and ice cream, never the crosses and the stillness); a fox in the pose of fantastic Mr Fox, waiting for his picture to be taken by the sun: two yellow eyes, foreleg raised, a greasy gibleted grin on his chops…. Not a sound. Not a sound except their voices and their footsteps which have acquired a new freedom in this rock-strewn land – home to wise owls, little grey rabbits, secret voles and lonely tramps sleeping rough under midnight, starlight, moth and bat-soft light. Not a sound except her heartbeat keeping a new rhythm to the jigging of the haversack on the back of the man she could no more part with than she could fly to the moon… this strange, surprising notion in this dawn just breaking; this truth just being felt.

The leaves in the wood are almost blinding – it is difficult to know where to put their feet. The climb is slow and ponderous with many turnings in order to catch their breath under pretext of admiring the view; many jokes about rations, miles to go before they can eat, levels of physical fitness; many antics on the red-gold slippery leaves, leaping and skating with the abandon of children, of cartoon characters; many mock heroic savings of worms and snails from puddles and pools…. She is glad he ripped her out of warm oblivion to meet this new day which is just like one of her dreams. They have decided the top is Lothlorien and they must reach it before the light comes over the hill and into the meadow other­wise... otherwise... but she cannot think of anything bad enough to happen. Nothing in this world can catch her today. It is enough just to walk, look about, feel the blood flow crimson round her stopped-at-the-doll's-house body. It is enough just to be far away from the town; feel the sadness kept at bay by the sound of a robin singing, his smile, the sky. No need to call their names one by one by one in Latin, Double Dutch, Romany, Yiddish, Cantonese. No need to stand in fairy rings, blow dandelion clocks, spin widdershins round blue moons and hollow trees at noon, clutching sprigs of white heather, golden harps, a silver tin whistle, mother-of-pearl star. No need to step a foot beyond the confines of her soul – stay still for they are here, in her heart, in her eyes, in her smile, in her hair, in her sudden surprising laughter, their frail, transparent wings fluttering in and out of her fingers, like eyelashes against a cheek, like a butterfly kiss. Wherever you are they are there. They are combing their hair in pocket mirrors of dew; Chinese skipping with gossamer rope and blades of grass; threading old moonbeams into their clothes; posting their mail in woodpecker holes; sweeping their mushroom and mulberry homes with dustpan clouds and feather brooms; catching the rabbit warren underground tube – for Camden Town and Primrose Hill; some are waking up the flowers – a little chore for them like cleaning their teeth – and after all these years, after all these storm-blasted, wasted years, these years of futility, pain and despair, she can hear them whispering back through the soft grey mist; she can hear them whispering back to her over the years: ‘campion, speedwell, periwinkle, wood myrtle. Silene dioica, Veronica chamaedrys, Vinca minor...'

He feels it too. She is alive again. The lines have gone from her mouth, from her eyes. She is like the girl he first met, her tall neck shimmering over the crowd, far above the rest. There is a possibility of hope, of happiness in the soft blue irises of her eyes. He is magically transformed in those eyes…. He is her rock, her shelter; he will protect her from the wind and rain, the storms and snows. She will grow old in his arms.

He has stood by her in the dark places and now he is taking her into the light. At the top of the hill they will see the new day, the new beginning. He takes her hand. She is ready.

‘World Number 426' it had said on the box, ‘Fragile' – though it looked tough as old boots to her. She shakes it gently just for fun and just to watch it settle again, the snow falling soft as enchantment on the small white house, the small green lollipop tree.... Outside is pitchy black except for the fireworks going off nineteen to the dozen, illuminating the heavens, the moon, a stray trotting dog and their own small corner of the street. The flat is warm and cosy, smelling of lavender, marigold soap and shampoo; and dimly lit by a pink scented candle (in tribute to the night), the landing light over the stairs and the anglepoise lamp glowing over the settee where David sits reading a thriller, her own small jumble of pens and paper, lists and library books piled high on a cushion at his feet. This is the time she likes best – when the day is almost done, the dirty dishes washed and stacked; and she has just stepped out of the bath, her face and hair squeaky clean, her old pink dressing-gown tied about her waist, padding about on slippered feet, putting things in order, setting things straight, with nothing to worry about or look forward to but sleep. She places the snow world back on the window ledge and peeps behind the curtain, watching a rocket tearing up into space, a waterfall cascading over the town in silvery drops, a giant yellow moonflower bursting out of the lake to blossom in an instantaneous death.

‘They sound like Rice Krispies,' she remarks at his reflection, fingertips wiping the pane already misted up with breath. ‘I liked Snap best. The boys were Crackle and Pop. Snap was the cutest of the bunch, I think, and wore a stripey scarf.'

His reflection grunts, looks up, smiles vaguely, goes back to its book; she grins inwardly, wondering whether to tease him by telling him the ending, having read the last page, but deciding instead to leave him to it: the undercover federal agents, bombs and assassins, the girl called Cheyenne who rode her man, did all manner of extraordinary things to him and was in fact a spy. (It stuck out a mile – the way she cried, looked away furtively, worked in a bank. No girl called Cheyenne would ever work in a bank!)

A couple pass by, hand in hand and loitering, stopping now and then to stare and point at the fireworks; they seem so small down there on the street, underneath the spacious sky and everlasting stars. Sometimes she is overwhelmed by the smallness of things, her own life dwindling and shrinking to something less than an atom, her mind and body melting and dissolving like a boiled sweet on a radiator, like sugar in tea – though not tonight! Tonight it is all beautiful: her life, her love, the man and woman hand in hand, the stray dog trotting homeward, David reading his thriller under the glowing lamp, for they are all connected, united, wrapped up in a destiny majestic and trivial as a moon­flower bursting out of a lake.

She scrambles up onto the sofa, tucking her feet under­neath and arranging the cushion within easy reach. She is full of plans and she jots them down one by one on a little scrap of paper: jobs to apply for, trips to be made, skin regimes to try, books to read, music to listen to, a hundred-and-one little chores about the flat; childish dreams and ambitions to fight for. A smile hovers moth-like about her lips and now and again she dips at random into one of the library books, mouthing the words of a sentence she likes or writing it down on a separate piece of paper under the heading ‘Spiritual Growth'; her mutterings and exclamations of excitement and surprise entirely lost on David who carries on reading regardless.

‘‘‘A man cannot stand in the same river twice.” Hmm.' She sucks on her pen, thinks for a while then painstakingly writes it down in her open, angular handwriting. She turns a page. ‘‘‘If you want to know the ending, just look at the beginning.''' She repeats it louder for David's sake, half thinking it may be pertinent, half teasing him. ‘‘‘If you want to know the ending, just look at the beginning.'''

‘Ah.' He smiles vaguely without turning and then, hearing her laughter, looks up. ‘What?'

‘You...' she ruffles his hair with a smile that belies the look of reproach in her eyes. ‘I tell you what... you know when I was in the bath....'

‘Yeah.'

‘I could swear I heard Ratty scampering about in the kitchen.'

‘Probably.' He shuts his book and a playful gleam enters his eyes. ‘He was trying to get a gander at the fireworks through the window. His little feet were hopping about near the cookie jar. I heard him squeaking “Send 'em up, Mister! Send 'em up!” I says to him, “Look here now Ratty. There's this beautiful bird what lives in this flat – beautiful bird she is – and she ain't too keen on your meddlin' ways.” Well, he did something then, I won't say what it was but it wasn't nice, it wasn't pleasant – got me dander up a bit to be honest. So I says, “Whoa there little fella, whoa there now. I'm a giant peace-loving sort of rat, but you're starting to stress my head up.” He got a bit uppity then, started weaving about the table aiming little kicks at the cookie jar. I took it to mean he was goading me on, egging me on to give him a pop, so I stepped up to the table – eye to beady eye we was – and I don't exactly know what happened but the next thing I knew he had me in a half-nelson. And, well, to cut a long story short... he's got the run of the kitchen.'

‘How come I didn't hear any of this?' she enquires dryly, raising an eyebrow.

‘You were too busy lathering yourself up and whatnot. Besides, the whole conversation was conducted in Italian.'

‘Italian? You can't even speak French!'

‘
Je suis... je suis une voiture
. Oh 'eck.'

‘Oh, go and have your bath!' She lobs her old pregnancy book at him and he dives off the sofa and out of the room in what is presumably an assassin-type roll.

‘Poor old Cheyenne,' she shouts after him, puffing out air to stop herself grinning. ‘Dear oh dear, she dies in the end, doesn't she. Poor old Cheyenne.'

‘Spoilsport!' he shouts through from the hallway, pretend glum fashion. ‘Spoilsport!'

Stretching herself out in his warm, vacant space she goes back to her books and her lists. These words. These words that will transform her life if only she can believe hard enough. These words, these lists, these bits of dreams on paper like caraway seeds in cake; if only she could utilise them, swallow them down in soups and stews and cassoulets, string them bead-like onto a necklace, tie them up with her laces and hair, imprint them on her very soul in delicate silvery lettering. These words, how they tempt her into a future, twinkling with vistas of hope and happiness. These good, fine words that will banish the bad from the dark, grey lining of her soul. She scribbles them down as fast as she can, for the more good words she knows, the more the bad ones will fade and disappear – it stands to reason. It says so, more or less, on the back of the book:
Transform Your Life in Five Easy Steps
. No need any more for doubt or despair. No need to escape into childhood books where good and bad are washed down with ginger beer and midnight feasts, lacrosse and the French mistress Mademoiselle Dupont, baked apples and ponies that win rosettes at Wembley for the show-jumping class and Best Turned Out. Those words are of the past, of solace, retreat. These words, these good fine words she is reading now are the magic incantations of the future. Her future. Her cake filling up with caraway seeds.

David whistles in the bath, topping her dirty water up with more hot and she smiles and listens for a moment or two, her tight cold heart expanding a little in this soft, safe, bright night where the fireworks are flying over candyfloss crowds with a snap, crackle and pop. It is quiet apart from that, sealed up in their cramped little rundown flat where the rats play Monopoly under the pipes and the yellow-green mould draws sunflowers on the ceiling (though by next week, even tomorrow, they may be manholes or hollyhocks). But not tonight! Tonight they are sunflowers bursting with life, and she jumps up suddenly in her old pink dressing-gown, kicks off her slippers and dances across the room, her shadow gigantic over the walls and astride the pin-tacked world map. She stops before it, closes her eyes and twirls her finger just for fun and just to watch it land again on some ancient green island in blue paper seas, some black dot on the horizon of a foxing yellow continent, some unknown destination in a faded pink metropolis; then goes spinning back like a top across the room to peep behind the curtains at the smoke-filled night and shake the snow world just for fun and just to watch it settle again in a blanket soft as cocoa-filled dreams and deep as a sleep of enchantment. David is singing, now, in the bath; she takes a pen, leans over the table and writes in her gratitude diary: