True Things About Me A Novel (Deborah Kay Davies) (13 page)

Behind the wire mesh of the cage window vivid moving scenes were playing out. I made myself more comfortable, and peered in: tiny elephants crashed through emerald palm trees. The scenes were soundless, but I could tell the elephants were trumpeting, or whatever they do when they’re stampeding through a forest. Each elephant had a sparkling jewel on its forehead, and sweet painted feet. Then the elephants became bundles of monkeys darting through ruined palaces at unbelievable speeds. In the second window dancing girls in purple saris whirled around, their miniature hands atwitch, their black lips like strange new moons.

As I watched the pictures changed. Ravishing, naked people with perfect, glistening bodies were torturing captives. Blood and entrails wormed their way through the rabbit hutch straw. Things were being done to the pinkest, most perfect-looking babies. I could hear faint screams, and from the little babies the most heart-wrenching sounds. I was unable to unhook my fingers from the wires of the cage. I had to stay and watch, even though I was shuddering with horror. Then the scenes faded, and I got up. Before I left I bent down to have a final look. Two huge, benign-looking rabbits were sleeping inside.

I ran out of the garden, and saw my car. It had a broken mirror, and a dent in the driver’s door, but it was mine. I felt the bonnet; it was warm, as if there were a big, living heart beating inside. The driver’s door was ajar, and the keys were
in the ignition, so I climbed in. I loved it inside my car. I decided to go home. I kept checking the speedometer; I wanted to stay around thirty. I was trembling, and icy with sweat. I caught sight of my face in the rear-view mirror, stretched into an immobile grin, and almost crashed. Maybe that wasn’t me, I thought. Maybe a maniac was in the back of my car.

I parked in front of my house. It was a miracle, but there I was. The sky was lightening, but all I yearned to do was get inside, lock the doors, close the curtains, and snuggle down into my bed. I was incapable of lifting my head from the steering wheel. I thought I could hear a siren continuously sounding. There was someone banging on the car window. One of my do-gooder neighbours was gesticulating to me through the glass, only I couldn’t hear a thing with the mad siren wailing away. He was getting redder and redder so I straightened up, and wound the window down. Immediately the siren stopped, and I realised it had been the car horn, activated by my stupid head on the wheel. I climbed out, and pushed past him. I couldn’t tell what he was clucking about.

My parents were in the kitchen, wearing their fleeces, drinking tea at my table. Mum had done some cooking. Before you ask, my father said, we got your spare key from Alison. We came round last night but you weren’t here so we tidied round a bit for you, my mum told me, and tried to hold my hand. Want a nice cuppa? Your father brought his mower, didn’t you, Daddy? He spruced up your lawn. My father took a sip of tea. I stood in the doorway. We came
back this morning. We were so worried about you. Well, honestly, she said eventually. The very least you could do is say thank you.

I began to laugh again. I didn’t want to but it was as if the sound emerged from my mouth in an endless squawking hiccup. I think anyone would have done the same; the look on my parents’ faces was enough to make a depressed gibbon guffaw. I could see my poor mother staring at the wound on my leg. I knew she was dying to get at it with Savlon and plasters. I doubled over, and slid down the edge of the door. Get out, both of you, I screamed. I hope you drop dead. Get out of my life and never come back.

I plan my menus

I WATCHED A
lot of TV, there was nothing else to do. He liked me to be available, so I didn’t go out much. And I found it freeing, somehow, to know my aged p’s weren’t going to pop up at inconvenient times any more. It gave me more space, more scope. Things seemed simpler. Even so, one day, after about a week of not seeing them, I stood still in the bedroom, and felt my heart flip and right itself as I realised how much I loved the silly old things. I was stricken by knowing it, seared by the picture of them patiently waiting in the kitchen. Pottering around; mowing and baking, trying to be helpful. I nearly broke down and blubbed when I thought how upset and sad they would be about the way things had turned out. But it was no good going there. I had stumbled through some sort of security door that could never be opened from my side. So I briskly made the bed and opened the window. The curtains rippled on a breeze smelling of freshly cut grass, and I felt ready for action.

At the supermarket it was blessed business as usual. Was I a tiny bit unhinged, loving the supermarket? I always found it spiritually uplifting, drifting round amongst the orderly racks and labyrinthine aisles. I loved lobbing nice things into my trolley. Anything you wanted there was a huge sign, guiding you. Today they had Hammond organ arrangements of middle of the road pop songs surging through the store. It was the final, perfect touch. I bought the ingredients to make a chicken curry, and had fun choosing the accompaniments before getting engrossed in the stuff for a beef casserole, then spent some time in the wines and spirits section; I thought I’d better stock up on booze. I tried not to speculate about where he was, or what he had been doing at the party without me.

I was nervous I might bump into my parents. There’s nothing they like better than a good shopping expedition. At every bend I expected to see them, maybe in their Pacamacs, string bags at the ready, peering at the ingredients of something they would never dream of eating, their bifocals at that particular angle needed in order to see. But no, they weren’t shopping today. I felt disappointed, bereft almost. If they had been there I’d have hidden from them, of course.

In the café I wasn’t sure what to eat; there were so many choices. But also I wasn’t hungry. The idea of eating seemed far-fetched. When I tried to recall when I had last eaten I was shocked. Nothing came to mind. I knew I’d spat out a sausage in a crowded kitchen. Then I remembered eating
cheese and a bread roll, how delicious they’d tasted. Maybe I was still digesting those brownies. I knew I’d eaten after that, otherwise I would be dead by now. Weirdly I could almost hear Alison telling me to eat, so I settled on a baked potato and some apple juice. When the meal came the potato was crowned with a jagged head of chilled, pale yellow, quasi-cheese fragments. It was as if an alien had tried to simulate a tasty earthling snack. I pushed the bits off, and nibbled forkfuls of cool spud, watching the queue for the café till.

The back of one of the waiting women was familiar. She was surrounded by a milling team of children. A boy of about twelve was touching the doughnuts and licking his hands. Some of the very small ones were actually swinging off her coat. She ignored them all. Finally, as I watched, she seemed to switch on and notice something. With a surprising economy of movement she slapped the twelve-year-old across the side of his head, and pushed the little ones aside. Then she coughed that familiar cough, and I knew she was the woman from the party loo, the same woman I had seen at the scratched door when I tried to find his house. I felt as if I’d been electrocuted. Why was I bumping into this woman? Was I following her without knowing? Or was she following me?

I hid behind my menu, riveted by the woman and her children. I remembered the way she’d taken the note I handed her. How she’d said she couldn’t promise anything. Her total lack of interest. And then, at the party, how she’d asked me if I was OK. The boy she’d struck was sitting at a separate
table from the main group, sulking and wiping his eyes. I could see he’d been crying. They all looked dishevelled and not very clean, but his trousers were halfway up his legs and his trainers had no laces.

Then I realised; he was the boy who’d been sat in my lounge, on my sofa, watching football on my TV. The boy with the whispery voice. My scalp began to twitch and stretch; I thought how twilight zoney it all was. Maybe the universe was checking me out. Even trying to warn me, or something. The other children were bolting down bowls of chips with what looked like gravy on top. He wasn’t getting any. I could almost have felt sorry for him, if I hadn’t been so freaked out. Wait, I told myself, calm down; perhaps I was having one of those days when everybody seems familiar. I looked at the other people in the café. No, I didn’t recognise anybody. But still, it couldn’t be the universe or whatever. The universe didn’t give a shit about me. Nobody did. I was terrified though. It was like being in a film where you don’t know you’re being stalked, but the audience does.

I don’t know how I got out of the café. I slung the groceries into the boot of the car, and sat behind the wheel. I couldn’t think straight. My mind was as smooth and flat as the baize of a billiard table; the things I needed to think about kept sliding away like gently nudged billiard balls. What was I doing? Did I imagine a beef casserole would reorder my life? I don’t know how long I sat in the car park before finally deciding to go home and wait for him. Then
we could talk things through, come to some understanding. If I didn’t like what he had to say I would finish with him. All this stuff was a sign. I had to sort my life out. It was that simple.

I cook up a storm

FOR TWO WEEKS
I thought about how I was going to tell him. I carried on doing things. He was in my house with me. Then he would go out. The days were like a series of black and white snap shots. In, out, black, white. Sometimes I went to town, but I didn’t buy anything. I felt mesmerised by my own life. On the day I’d got home from the supermarket I’d tipped all the food into the freezer. A few times I remembered the chunks of beef and chicken, waiting in the frozen dark for me to do something with them. At last I realised at least I could do some cooking. That would be a start. Finally I got them out of the freezer.

The next afternoon I was alone. I’d been alone for three days. His phone was off, he didn’t call. I had a couple of glasses of red wine, then embarked on making my casserole. The spirit of Delia hovered over me in the kitchen. Yes, yes, she soothed, mmmm, yes. And may I just say what an amazing, shit-hot cook you are? She even commented on the way
I browned the meat in small batches. Oh Delia, I told her, of course. We don’t want them to frigging steam, after all. This is all about caramelisation. La la, and thrice la, she sang, swooping and banking up by the fluorescent light strip. It verily is. And no, dear, we frigging do not. Then I heard someone at the front door, so I opened the window wide for her to fly out before I answered it.

In the hallway I felt my heart thumping in my throat. Through the frosted glass panel loomed the shape of a man. I knew it couldn’t be him; he never knocked. But my legs wouldn’t move, so I had to lean forward, and hope they’d catch up with my body. Somehow I plodded to the door and opened it. A goofy-looking youth wanted to read the meter. I cannot say if I hugged him. I hope not, but can’t say definitely that I didn’t. I did insist he show me some ID; anything to keep him from leaving quickly. Unfortunately he didn’t look as if he’d be much use in a crisis; far too weedy and trembly.

Are you new at this? I asked him. He was fumbling for ages in his little shoulder bag. Only you seem a bit scared. It’s not as if you’ve got to construct the thing, you know. Just read the numbers. Excuse me, please, he said, and pushed past. Show me where your meter is, if you wouldn’t mind. Oh dear, I’m sorry, I said, following him along the hall. Have I hurt your feelings? No, madam, you have not, he told me. In comparison to some houses I visit you are quite polite. And whatever you’ve got in that oven smells good. I could
have cried, it seemed such a nice thing to say. I didn’t know you worked on a Saturday, I called after him as he walked away, but he didn’t respond. Why should he? It was a stupid comment to make.

After he left I went into the garden. The grass was looking neat, and I noticed a row of begonias my dad must have planted when they came round. The patio chairs had patches of rust on them. I sat down. Out here the sun winked into the small puddles. Under the laurel bushes, in its strong little box, nestled my lovely stash of money. In the oven the casserole gently bubbled. Birds hopped on the table and looked sideways at me, then flew away. I could hear their wings whirr. A breeze rhythmically lifted my hair, and dropped it back against my face. I began to feel I was the only human being left in the world. Empty houses, silent streets, abandoned cars, childless schools, all stretched out from my garden in every direction.

I was already completely over the idea of the casserole, but I checked it anyway, and peeled potatoes. I laid the table, and put out some candles. It was almost evening when he came back. He seemed subdued. Something smells good, he said. I gave him a glass of wine, and he sprawled on a chair in the kitchen. I asked him if he was okay. He said he had the bitch of all hangovers. He drank his wine quickly, and poured another. Hair of the mangy dog, he said, and raised his glass. I strained the potatoes, and added butter and warm milk to them. He asked me what I was doing. I’m making creamed
spuds, I said. He told me he didn’t know how you did that, so I showed him. He stood beside me, and listened as I explained. Then I gave him a taste. Shit, he said, that’s amazing.

I lit the candles, and opened another bottle of wine. Everything was peaceful. We sat together in the warm kitchen eating the casserole and potatoes. He had seconds. I looked at him as he sat drinking his wine. He was beautiful; his broad shoulders, his strong, brown neck. The perfect shape of his lips. Your hair is getting long, I said, and got up to stand behind him. I asked if I could comb it for him. If you like, he said sleepily. As I combed his blond curls I tried to frame the questions I’d rehearsed. It was impossible. He dropped his head back onto my chest, and I bent and kissed his forehead.

He said he felt like chilling on the sofa. I went to the bathroom, and locked the door. I looked at myself in the mirror above the sink, and slapped my laughably rosy cheeks. What was I doing? A person couldn’t just come and go like this. Couldn’t invade someone’s life without an invitation. Abandon someone at a party. Gatecrash a family funeral. I sat on the loo, and rubbed my eyes until all I could see were crimson blobs. I thought about other things he’d done to me. Things I had let him do. They weren’t good things. He wasn’t good for me.