The Private Parts of Women (29 page)

‘No.'

‘Get that off you and we'll have it mended. You can't go out like that, not round here. Where do you live, anyrate?'

‘Nowhere,' I replied. ‘I had a house, it was my parents'. But I left. There was a woman staying there, a woman who sold her baby.'

‘Sold her baby? What do you mean,
sold
it?'

‘She said she hadn't. I put her up when she had nowhere to go. She said I stole her husband's things, he's dead. Died of drink, only I don't think he was her husband at all. And then she had a baby, I was there. I saw him being born, and … and then he disappeared. And she said, she said I took him, as if I would, as if I would take a baby and strangle him. She accused me.'

‘Steady on, girl. You never did it, of course you never?'

‘No, of course not. She must have sold him, she must have.'

‘Yes.'

‘Poor women do such things.'

Doll laughed, a high-pitched laugh, odd in a woman with such a deep voice. ‘You don't have to tell me what poor women do, darlin', I'm what you might call an expert.'

The door-bell rang, and she got up and twitched the curtain. I saw her pass across the mirror. She stood with her head on one side, listening. The front door was opened: a female voice, a male voice, a female voice, a laugh, the door closing, two pairs of footsteps on the stairs. Doll smiled, settled back down.

‘Only selling your baby …' She pursed her lips. ‘That's beyond the pale, anything where nippers are concerned. There's sin and there's sin, see.'

I nodded. ‘But she accused
me.'

‘So – you thought you'd top yourself?'

‘No, not just because of that … I am very strange.'

‘You're telling me. So, are they after you – the coppers I mean?'

‘No, no, nothing like that. I just wanted to leave it all. It all went sour. I hate that house.'

‘Ada, you never
had
nothing to do with it, did you?'

‘No!'

‘All right, all right. So long as that's straight. So what do you want to do now?'

She poured more tea from the brown pot. She poked the fire so that it collapsed in on itself and added another scuttleful of coal. I saw that she was handsome in a massive way, her hair too black to be God's handiwork alone, her face deeply lined but still pleasing because of her frequent smile.

What did I want? I didn't know. Only never to see that house again, nor Mary and Harold. Only, if I was not to die, to start again.

I thought I could start again by pretending to be Ada, a very different woman. I thought if I pretended hard enough, maybe I could
be
her.

The cat jumped on to Doll's lap. She blew across the surface of her tea. ‘So Ada,' she said, ‘let's think. You was on your way to the pearly gates when you was unexpectedly held up as you might say.' I nodded. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the coldness of the water rinsing away to nothing but there was too much life in the room, the fire crackling, the cat purring, Doll's chair creaking, the sounds of movements and voices elsewhere in the house. The door-bell rang again and Doll waited to hear the four feet on the stairs before she continued.

‘Now, if you had had it, you'd of required no baggage. No cash, no clothes, no shoes, no nothing.'

‘That's right.'

‘But you're still here. You've got nothing have you? And even that's ripped. Get it off, girl, go on. I've seen it all before. I'll get it sewn.'

I took off my skirt and stood in my stockings by the fire while she took it to be mended by one of the girls.

‘So what are you going to do?' Doll asked when she returned, listening for a moment to footsteps descending.

‘I don't know.'

‘Nice legs, anyrate.' She held out a silky dressing-gown for me to put on, but then she caught sight of my tattoo. ‘What in hell's name's that?' She bent down to look. ‘Blimey …' she touched it with her forefinger. ‘Beautiful,' she said, and then she began to laugh, landing back in her chair with a big puff of air. ‘You in your bleeding uniform. Miss Butter Wouldn't Melt … I've never seen a nicer one than that … nor in a nicer place … What they wouldn't pay …' she started, sobering. Then, ‘No, don't worry … this is a clean house, proper house, all that works here works willing.'

‘I don't know where to go,' I said, and then, to my horror, I began to cry. It was repulsive, my face all stretched, hot tears like wet insects scurrying down my cheeks.

‘Here …' Doll sat me down again. My shoulders shook. I don't know how long I cried for but I felt I could have cried for years. I didn't know how I would ever stop.

Next thing, she'd taken me to a small box-room. Tiny, nothing in it only a narrow bed. There was a small window, no curtains, full of black sky. I was still crying when she left me there to sleep. I hadn't washed and I felt filthy, my hands smelled horrible, all the traces clinging to them of the terrible day. Even when I'd stopped crying my breath came in shivery gasps and I lay filled with disgust for myself, for everything in the world.

But I felt, also, as I calmed down, something else. I felt relief. Because now someone knew me. Doll had seen my tattoo: she had seen me cry: she had heard me speak in Ada's voice and my own. I hadn't said about my money, that I was rich, so that was a sort of lie. She thought I had nothing, that I needed help. But I liked that feeling. I wanted to be helped.

I lay in the narrow lumpy bed, afraid that I would roll off. I had no idea what the morning would bring. It was as if I had come to the edge of the world, as if the world was flat and there was nothing solid ahead of me, only clouds, only gauzy grey. I strained my eyes into the clouds until I slept.

All night there were goings on in the house, the door-bell ringing, feet on the stairs, voices, laughter, movement. But still, I slept. And I dreamed too, in vivid snatches as if a hand was flicking through a bright picture book. Most were nonsense. But one, I remember still. It was Mary and Harold's wedding, only the man called Harold was another man altogether, a man called Frank who looked like the man who stared at me in the street. All through the wedding he kept his eye on me and I knew I was his and that after the wedding it was me that he would carry to bed. During the singing, Mary removed her blouse to show her breasts and a wreath of lilies was tattooed around each nipple. She came towards me and said, ‘These are for you, Trixie,' and when I touched them, the milk flowed like two streams.

Out of the bath and by the fire, all shivery in my dressing-gown that I've had for donkey's years. I thought I'd never get out, the water getting colder and colder and my skin going blue. Gave myself a fright, drifting off. You can die in a bath, old dears do die. Hypothermia, or drowning. You have to watch yourself, living alone with nobody to care whether you're alive or dead.

Something not right.

Please let it be all right.

BOY

I am getting out

I am

Just you watch

That fat old woman

And the other one

She thinks she can keep me in

If I had wanted to get out before

I would have

But now I am ready

And Trixie and Ada will have to let me be

It is my turn to be

I will out

She will crack

They will be sorry

Watch out

When I'm about

FILM STAR

I found a lighter. What is that other hymn, the one I used to like? Oh I know.
He who would valiant be, 'gainst all disaster
. A lighter, candles for light and warmth. One of them is nearly finished, just a spike of black wick, a hollow where the wax has run down. She'll have to come up. I am uncomfortable, cold, thirsty. This is almost embarrassing it is so, so stupid.

I opened the wardrobe. It was not easy. It is a hideous thing. How did it get up here? Too big for the stairs, too big for the door. Impossible as a ship in a bottle. Grotesque. If it was an animal it would be a … it would be an amphibian, a giant toad squatting. There were no matches anywhere else so I thought I'd look inside it. The wood is almost black. I wonder if it's ebony? Double doors – locked. I crashed against them, pulled and rattled, pushed against one door with my foot and pulled the handle until the lock gave way.

The door swung open and I shuddered. A blast of cold, stale, masculine air came out, masculine because it smelled of pipe tobacco but sweetened with old perfume. Coats and dresses hanging up, crammed, crushed together, shelves of crushed and tangled things, a fat brown-paper parcel. I stuck my hands into the dark cloth shadows to feel the textures: velvet, satin, tweed and fur. Because I was so cold, I slid a mink coat off its hanger and put it on. I despise people who wear fur, but the light silky weight of it, the slithery perfumed lining made me feel … I don't know, it seems so stupid and anyway I'm drunk, three sheets to the wind, my dad would have said, but it made me feel glamorous.

Reflected dimly in the mirror, wrapped in the black fur with my spiky white hair, I looked like a stranger. The cold fur started to warm me. Stuck to the pocket lining, I found an old peppermint. I put it in my mouth, teased off the fluff with my tongue.

I went through the other pockets of the garments in the wardrobe; found coins – pre-decimal mostly – lipsticks, dead flowers, sweet papers, a tortoiseshell comb. In the jacket of a hairy tweed suit, I found a pipe, half an ounce of St Bruno and a square silver lighter. I flicked and flicked it, and to my relief eventually it lit so that I could light the candles. The candlelight flickered on the dusty mirrors and on the black skylight. The light made the darkness darker. The edges of the room disappeared, the edges and the corners.

I felt so odd, detached. Again I had the feeling that I had strayed into someone else's dream, or tumbled into the clutter of a subconscious not my own. I was warmer in the coat and the candles gave enough light to see by. I banged and shouted. But the noise of my voice calling like that made me more scared.
Let me out
…
Help
… Scary and ridiculous. Also fruitless. She will come in her own good time.

I went back to the wardrobe, I was fascinated by all those old clothes, shoes on the bottom, crammed shelves at the side. I took the garments out, one by one, to look. The dresses were nearly all black: chiffon, velvet, lace, and many of them were torn. One was of a dark crushed velvet, like red wine. I wondered what Richard would think if I was to wear anything so sexy. It has a low neck. I couldn't work out how it would fit, where the shoulders would come. I thought I'd try it on. She's locked me in. I've nothing to do. I should keep myself occupied. I'm swimming in gin and quite numb. My fear, the thought that I'm trapped, has receded. The image of my children in a bright balloon of domestic light at the end of a telephone wire bobs there, somewhere above me, but separate.

I took off the coat and shivered out of my jeans and sweater. I wriggled into the dress, the velvet clammy against my skin, slowly warming. I had to take off my bra because the dress has no shoulders, it scoops round the top of my arms. When I looked in the mirror, I almost laughed I looked so preposterously sexy. I looked, despite my awful hair, quite stunning. I've never worn anything like it, it is a film star dress. It clings to my body, emphasising the line of my hips and thighs, the round slope of my belly. My breasts glimmer white above the low neck and my shoulders look lovely, I have never noticed my shoulders before. How round, pale and smooth they look above the long tight-fitting sleeves.

Trixie is so big how could she ever have worn it? Though she is not so tall … not much taller than me, just solid. Once perhaps it might have fitted her. The dress is very old, a bit rotten under the arms, one of the side-seams coming undone showing a peep of white skin through a dark velvet slit.

I picked up Trixie/Ada's wig and pulled it on over my own hair. It is warm and slightly scratchy. Black hair makes my face look even whiter, with the mass of hair I appear frail, my face tiny and … what is it? Piquant. I went through the collection of caked lipsticks till I found a usable one and filled in my lips with vermilion. I smell of animal fat, grease and old perfume. And gin.

I am frustrated that there is no one to see. I want Richard to see me. I look so sexy I turn myself on. A shivery, scary excitement. I can feel my heart beating against the velvet of the dress. On one of the wardrobe shelves I found a tangle of fine stockings, real silk with seams at the back, and a suspender-belt. I've never worn stockings, only tights. Richard once asked me if I would, if I'd wear white stockings with no knickers when we went out so that only he would know, but I'd been angry and scornful and worn jeans instead. But here in the attic, with the sensation of pale, cool silk against my thighs, one foot up on the bed, fiddling with the little rubbery catches, I'm sorry. I'll surprise him one day. I will be his fantasy which is also mine which I am in. Or someone else's. I took another swig of gin and shrugged the coat back on. I posed in front of the mirror, smiling film star smiles, pouting seductively.

But then I had the feeling that the mirrors weren't only reflecting, they were watching too, judging. The mirrors were voyeurs. Did I really look so sexy or did I only look absurd? I went cold, the realisation of where I was and what was happening came back. I felt as if I'd been slapped.

I went back to the wardrobe to pick up my clothes. Once again, my eye caught the brown-paper parcel. I opened it. The dust that rose from between the paper folds made me sneeze again. In the parcel were old fashioned boys' clothes: trousers, a blazer, a shirt, a cap, all quite moth-eaten, indeed, dead moths fell out when I held up a pullover and small grey live ones fluttered towards the candle flames.

I do not understand. Though it's none of my business. Maybe she had a son once? Why would I know anyway? I should parcel them back up again. I should put my own clothes on before she comes back. But I am sleepy. I should never have drunk that gin. I am dizzy. What if she never lets me out? I ate some of the sugared almonds, the sugar has gone powdery and soft but the nuts are all right. I throw a few lilies out of the bed, lie down and cover myself up.