The Way Out (6 page)

He looks at her standing there with her hands raised above her head, breathless and indignant. ‘What?
What
are you on about?'

‘The thing is,' she plunges on, aware she's maybe overdone the Auk thing but still hopeful it'll all pan out, ‘before I know it, I'm having a whole bunch of feelings about Auckland after all.' Her eyes feel hot and there's a tightness inside her throat. She knows she's close to becoming ridiculous but feels precariously self-righteous. ‘Those poor trusting Auks, what chance did they have? With their big stupid-looking beaks and useless stubby wings.'

‘Is that not a Dodo?' He smiles, hoping she'll join in.

She swallows, blinks twice in quick succession and looks at the skylight. ‘I am trying here! I'm trying to explain how I feel.'

‘About Auckland?'

‘…'

The rain fizzles against the skylight, like a dying firework.

Bingo Wings

‘Bar doesn't open till six, love. You may as well have a seat.' The barmaid with the yellow hair was blunt but not unfriendly.

‘That's okay, I'll just wait here, thanks.' Dora knew, as soon as the shutters clattered up and crashed out of sight, there'd be a stampede for the bar. Some of these old dears might look sweet but they'd elbow you right in the tits to get in front.

She shifted her weight from one foot to the other in her queue of one and wondered about the mice. Everyone knew fine the place was infested. She didn't mind sharing, as long as the cheeky wee bastards stayed out of sight till the bingo was finished.

‘Come on, ladies. Time you opened up. You've a customer waiting.' Colin sidled up to Dora. He was a little ferret of a man with spots on the back of his neck that glistened under the lights like boiled sweets. ‘Got all your books, Doreen? I think you might get lucky tonight!' He nudged Dora theatrically in the ribs and winked. ‘I have Caller's Intuition.'

‘Oh aye?' Dora raised her eyebrows at him. ‘Better make sure and call my numbers then.'

‘For you, gorgeous? Anything.'

She was more than twice his age. It wasn't as if she minded that fact, but pretending like she was still a young thing? Some of the other old biddies loved it though, got all giggly and excited. She busied herself rummaging in her handbag. Colin went off to look for a more receptive audience and the shutters rattled up.

Up in the balcony, the usual crew were installed at their table. Dora laid down the tray with their order of drinks and crisps.

‘Nice one, Dora,' said Jim, taking a deep pull on his pint and sitting back in his chair. He'd get himself a sly whisky at the bar later when it was his round and Mary would pretend to be none the wiser. Mary and Jim were good at being married. They had a natural ability, the way some folk were good at singing or dancing. It was a gift. The way they accommodated each other reminded Dora of a kind of old-fashioned waltz, each of them anticipating the other's moves. There was a grace about them that couldn't be hidden by any amount of brown cardigans or puffy ankles.

Alec was there too. Mary and Jim's grown-up son wasn't quite all there in the head. Poor soul. His lips were always wet and his clothes, although clean, looked like they'd been corkscrewed onto his body. Sometimes he would get agitated and start shouting and Mary had to miss her game to take him out of the hall until he calmed down. A lot of folk tutted at her for even bringing him. But what was she supposed to do? He might be a grown man, but she couldn't leave him on his own at home.

Dora handed Alec his lemonade and watched as he settled to sucking on his straw, eyes slightly out of focus, completely contented, like a baby with a bottle.

‘Has she phoned then?' asked Mary, through a mouthful of cheese & onion crisps.

‘No, not this week. She'll be busy. The time difference, and her working shifts, it's hard for her to find a good time. Doesn't want to wake me up in the wee hours just for a chat.' Angela was a nurse and worked hard at it. She'd always been a caring girl, always wanted to help others. Dora pictured her cycling to work in the Australian sunshine, barbecuing dinner on the
beach, poised on a surfboard at the crest of a wave, her black hair streaming out behind her like a banner. No wonder she didn't have time to phone. Dora understood. Like the song said, if you loved someone, set them free.

She poured half of her bottle of stout into a glass, arranged her books on the table and tested her dabber on a scrap of paper, making a trail of red dots.

The first games of the night passed without so much as a line for any of them. Dora waved away Jim's protestations that it was his round and hurried back down to the bar, eager to beat the break-time rush. She felt restless this evening and wanted to be doing something. She passed Jim in the press of the crowd streaming down the stairs on her way back up, no doubt using a pretend trip to the toilet as cover for his quick whisky. At the table, Mary was trying to pacify Alec who'd got himself in a bit of a state. He was hunched over, making a mournful keening sound that made something clench and twist in Dora's chest.

‘I'll just take him for a walk around the bandits,' said Mary. She chivvied Alec, who was a good foot taller than her, out from his seat and led him by the elbow towards the stairs.

Dora sat on her own and looked out over what had once been a dance floor, back before everyone had televisions and computers to keep them busy. There had been a revolving stage on a massive turntable at the far end. When one band finished their set, the whole thing would revolve, and a fresh band would strike up the next number as they swung into view. Non-stop dancing. That was the Palais' claim to fame and a lot of folk took to it like it was an order, staying on the floor for hours, sweating and spinning till they couldn't walk or think in a straight line.

The polished boards were now covered by a greasy carpet with a geometric design, the space filled with rows of
Formica tables and chairs, all kept in their place by thick metal bolts through the legs into the floor. Near the ceiling, the old chandeliers and mirror balls that used to spill a confetti of light over the dancers below, had been replaced with blank white globes, like dead planets. Life had moved on.

The memories this place sprung on her at times disconnected her from the here and now, as if time itself was some kind of puzzle she'd never be able to solve without going mad. All the same, being at the bingo was still better than sitting at home, waiting for nothing to happen. It always did. Then that nothing would become a something – an emptiness that pressed in on her, making her heart race and her hands shake. That was when the other, darker thoughts would creep out of the corners and torment her with detail.

The lights dimmed as Colin again climbed the steps to the caller's raised podium. The chatter died down. People coughed and shifted their feet in nervy anticipation.

Saturday nights were serious money, the sort of money that could change a person's life, if you wanted it changing. Their club linked up with a dozen others across the country and all the prize money was pooled, so your chances of success were much lower but if you did win, the jackpot was far bigger than on an ordinary night. Enough to take a good long holiday in Australia, as Mary had pointed out more than once. Like Dora hadn't worked that out for herself.

The silence stretched tight as all heads turned towards the podium. Colin was obviously savouring his moment as everyone hung on the very edge of his silence. He delivered his line with gravity. ‘Eyes down for the National Game.'

The electronic board mounted on the wall at the far end of the hall lit up in a simulated star burst which dissolved to reveal
a grid within which the lucky numbers would be illuminated as they were called.

‘Sixteen. One and six, sixteen.'

She scanned her card for the number.
Never Been Kissed
. Colin was under orders from club HQ not to use the lingo. More games could be played each session without the frills. But Dora remembered them all, whether she wanted to or not.

She remembered walking into the Palais de Danse on her sixteenth birthday. Like stepping inside a giant hollowed-out wedding cake at Christmas – all creamy columns and layered balconies decorated with pink and white mouldings, the edges trimmed with lights.

Charlie only had a couple of years on her but seemed much older. His swaggering walk, Italian suit, the hank of black hair, heavy with Brylcreem. She knew he got into the fights that broke out in the dark recesses under the balconies where a dangerous current of young men circled like sharks. He would have cuts on his knuckles, maybe a graze on his face, a hint of swelling around his mouth. Somehow this only made his gentleness with her more overpowering. She'd been such an eejit. Never been kissed, right enough. When he dipped his head down to her and spoke softly, rested his hands on her waist, she'd felt a fierce desire to be a damn sight more than kissed. If this was love, it wasn't about hearts or flowers. It was all hot breath and sinew and need.

‘Seven and eight, seventy eight.'
Heaven's Gate
.

She'd gone outside for some air. Really she was looking for Charlie.

Outside, the front of the Palais was a large rectangular slab of art deco with thin leaded windows and a triangular gable over
four columns. Behind the façade, the hunched barn of the main hall squatted like a shameful secret.

‘Dora! Over here.' He was leaning against the side of the building, smoking. His face flared in the glow from the burning tip of his cigarette before falling back into darkness. ‘Come on, I've got something to show you.'

Around the back of the building, among the empty crates and rubbish bins, they slid together into a darkened doorway marked Deliveries Only. A hand at the small of her back pulled her in close, another slid under her full skirts. There was a small thud as the back of her head bumped against the metal door.

‘Four and one. Forty-one.'
Life's begun
.

Back inside, as they slow danced, her head on his shoulder, breathing in his smell, her limbs seemed not to be joined to her body in the same way. The springs under the dance floor no longer supported her as she moved but seemed to work against her, causing her to lurch and sway, to cling to Charlie. Thinking of the potential consequences made her feel queasy. But everyone knew the first time was safe. They'd be more careful in future.

‘Two and eight. Twenty-eight.'
In a state
.

The pain was more than anyone could ever have warned her. It rose up in dark red waves that swamped her completely. ‘Pain' was too small and weak a word for this force. It was bigger than her, bigger than the room, the hospital, something separate and unstoppable. Her mother walked over to the window in small precise steps and stared into the darkness with her lips pressed together.

The numbers kept coming and Dora stamped them off one after
another. She glanced up at the podium. Soon the game would be over and Colin would be reduced once more to making smutty innuendoes to get attention. He would stay up there all the time if they'd let him, Dora thought.

Her card was filling up as if Colin was reading the numbers over her shoulder. She felt sweat prickle on the back of her neck. Her sense of being on the edge of something increased. She pressed her forearms down hard on the table, trying to get a grip without making it obvious she needed to. It felt as if the whole balcony was tipping forwards into the hall in the direction of the café at the far end, where the revolving stage used to be.

The whole affair had been managed by two hand cranks, one on either side of the stage. ‘Watch this,' Charlie had whispered in her ear, then walked that walk of his towards the stage. Dora watched as he and three of his pals took hold of the cranks, two men to each, and started working them as hard as they could. The stage began to turn, slowly at first, then with increasing speed as the Johnny Kildare Orchestra went into the closing bars of ‘I'll be Loving You Always'. The band leaned in against the spin, tried their best to look as if nothing was happening, and kept playing. They were half way round when there was a grinding noise and the stage left its runners altogether, tipping the band off into a flailing pile of tuxedoes and instruments. Cheers went up from the crowd. Charlie and his mates sped past, an irate brass section close behind.

‘One and three. Thirteen.'
Unlucky for some
.

There was no reason to think Angela
wasn't
nursing in Australia. No reason at all. Certainly no reason to imagine she'd ended up a druggie, like those lassies in the flats, shacked up with some arsehole who beat her up, or with ten kids she couldn't feed that got taken off her one by one by the social, or
giving hand-jobs to men who avoided eye contact and swore at her when they came, or beaten and dumped in a ditch with her own bra twisted around her neck, eyes wide open, staring at the sky for days, weeks, without anybody noticing she was gone. And all of it made possible because she believed her own mother didn't want her, had never loved her. But that wasn't true at all.

What was true and what wasn't didn't make much difference to what happened to a person in life. It hadn't to her, or to Angela – if that was even her name now, wherever she was, whoever she was. Adoption was easily done in those days. Happened all the time – the product of ignorance and prejudice. She wasn't anything special. She just thought too much. That'd always been her problem. Left to her own devices, her mind invariably wandered back to the well-worn track of whatever happened to her girl. Hoping everything worked out for her, hoping she had a good life, hoping she didn't think too badly of her. Hope was a bastard, but it was also the only thing she had that couldn't be taken off her. It was both her escape and her prison; life support and life sentence. It pulled her through the years, days, seconds, gifting and cursing her from breath to breath with a string of empty promises. Without it she'd hardly be human.