True Things About Me A Novel (Deborah Kay Davies) (2 page)

I found myself in the toilet. For God’s sake, I said in the cubicle. For goddy God’s sake. I sat on the loo with the lid down and started to laugh. My laugh had a shake in it. In the echoing toilet it sounded eerie. That made me laugh even more. Then I cried. Someone used the loo next to me so I cried silently. There was a sound of rustling, and I stopped to listen. Then a genteel fart. Excuse me, a voice said, as the flush went. I giggled feebly until my sobbing stopped, and went out to wash my hands and repair my face. There was a handwritten sign over the basin: Beware. Dangerously hot water. The ink had run so it was like some spooky warning from a mirror in a horror film. I used the cold tap. Right, I said. Now for my gran.

I kissed her forehead. She used to smell of Coty face powder and polo mints. She patted my cheek. How are you, my little love? she said. Her eyes were like tiny chocolatey berries. I told her all about the blond man. I described him in detail. She gazed at me and faintly smiled. When I told her about the car park and the taxi, her eyebrows moved. I thought she might have winked. Gran, I said, I feel really bad. But nobody’s perfect, are they? Right? She squeezed my fists with her warm hands. I felt calmer.

I told her it seemed like some sort of turning point. What do you think? I asked. What should I do now? Not see him again? Her nightdress was trimmed around the neckline with rosebuds, and a plastic slide held her hair away from her face. I waited. She opened her lips and began to make the sounds of a chicken, quietly at first. I dropped her hands. Then she threw her head back and started crowing like a cockerel. She had little claws that plucked the bedclothes. I couldn’t move. The nurse appeared and touched my shoulder. You should go now, she said, and gave me a shake. It’s time for her meds.

I am abandoned by my mother

AFTER MY VISIT
to the nursing home I couldn’t sleep. Poor old Gran, she would have hated to be herself now. I remembered the sound of her high heels clacking around her kitchen. She wouldn’t have been seen dead wearing slippers, let alone a hair clip. All night my eyelids were stretched round my bulging eyeballs. In the morning I felt as if I’d aged five years in the dark, so I decided to go to the surgery.

My usual doctor was away. I saw a locum instead, a gorgeous-looking Asian woman. It was difficult to tell how old she was. I imagined she must be somewhere between twelve and forty-five. Not twelve, of course, that was ridiculous. But still, she might have been. She didn’t take her eyes off her computer screen. Yes? she said. Problems? No, I said. I’m really, really, really great. How are you? She finally looked at me. What can I do to help? she asked flatly. I told her I needed something to make me sleep. She frowned. Have you had sleeping pills before? she asked, and
returned to the computer. Finally she gave me a prescription.

I busied myself around the house for the rest of the day. I had an old film on DVD I’d been meaning to see, so in the afternoon I sat down to watch it. Things start off with this very beautiful woman, who seems normal; innocent and good. But soon you realise she’s crazy. Her husband writes plays and she stalked him into agreeing to marry her by pretending to be mad about the theatre. It was one of those films where the viewer knows things long before the people in the film do. Eventually she drowns her trusting new husband’s sweet, crippled brother and destroys her own unborn child, because she’s jealous of any attention her beloved gives to anyone else. Then, after plotting to incriminate him in her death, she poisons herself. All because he’s found out what she’s done, and is going to leave her. As she dies of poisoning, lying there against the pillows like a dark angel, she tells him,
I’ll never let you go, never, never
. God, she was evil. But you had to sympathise with her somehow; she definitely knew what she wanted. Although I couldn’t understand what she saw in him; he was a complete drip, and he had improbably groomed eyebrows.

I turned the TV off and began to think about the car park again. I saw myself slipping out of my shoes. Taking off my underwear. He had helped me. I remembered the cold air moving up inside my skirt, the feel of his muscular back and the way he sort of stooped over to grab my mouth with his.
I thought about holding him in my hand. I took some of the tablets and went to bed. I couldn’t stop going over it all. When I thought about how he’d grunted as he pushed his penis inside me I felt a buzzing sensation between my legs, accompanied by a delicious little flip.

In bed I kept trying to find cool places on my pillows. Then I fell asleep. I dreamed I was out with my mother. I was a child; she loomed over me as we walked. She was singing a hymn to herself in time with the rhythm of our steps. We passed a dark alley, its entrance partially obscured by trails of ivy blowing in a non-existent wind. My mother pushed me into the alley. I could still hear her singing. There was a line of rubbish bins along the wall. In slow motion a huge black bear with blood on its teeth reared up out of one of the bins. The bin lid stayed on its head like a stiff flat cap. It lunged at me and scooped out my stomach with its curved claws.

I heard my spine snap. Splat went all my organs on the floor. My middle was crimson and empty. I felt the cold air playing on the raw, hot flesh. I screamed for my mother, but she didn’t answer. She just went on singing and swinging her handbag out in the sunlit street. I woke up half out of bed, breathless and covered in a film of perspiration. I stood under the shower and then wrapped myself in an old towelling robe. Downstairs I poured some apple juice and sat at the kitchen table until it got light.

I serve unusual nibbles

I BEGAN TO
hover near the cupboard where I’d slung my damaged leather jacket. You’ve got to deal with stuff like this, you silly girl, I said out loud. I had been reading a magazine article called ‘Moving On, Moving Up’. I knew it was all crap, but somehow I couldn’t stop thinking about my jacket. I lay on the bed and talked to myself. What was the matter with me, anyway? There were lots of perfectly nice, normal girls who did stuff in underground car parks all the time. Nobody judged them. They had a giggle about it with their mates around the photocopier for God’s sake.

But I thought about my jacket. I remembered how long it had taken to save the money. The soft, butterscotch-coloured skin. How it felt light and cool, though it protected me perfectly from the cold wind. Its intoxicating smell. I thought about the knubby wooden buttons with their metal shanks. Everything’s ruined now, I said.

When I opened the cupboard door, the wholesome, throaty
smell of leather poured out. I stepped back and breathed in deeply. The smell was peaceful. It reminded me of the school satchel my cousin Daniel had handed down to me. There were strange bits of writing on the strap; ragged, scratched-in symbols. They were the things Daniel had done. So it was new to me, but not new; it had been to school before. The leather was soft and shiny in the places Daniel had worn it. I remembered my school beret being snatched off my head as I’d walked up the drive for the first time. But no one had wanted the old satchel that I loved. That little girl wouldn’t have gone down into an underground car park when she grew up. She was not the sort of girl who would spoil a valuable coat for nothing.

I looked at the sleeping tablets on the bedside table. I’d emptied them out of their plastic strips and put them in a little bowl. It was funny how they looked like the courtesy mints you get offered in some restaurants. I picked up the bowl and offered it to my reflection. Do have some, won’t you? I said in the voice of Judith Chalmers, my gran’s favourite travel presenter. Take a handful, feel free! I promised myself that after I’d looked at my poor coat properly I’d take some and sleep for days. I walked round the room, and read my magazine for a bit. I’d bought it because of the caption on the front cover, announcing an article about a woman who’d been knocked out by a frozen oven chip.

There were other discarded things in the bottom of the cupboard, so I rummaged until I felt the jacket. The lining
was slippery and chill to the touch. It wasn’t as heavy as I’d thought. I spent some time arranging it on the crumpled duvet. It seemed too small for me to wear. More like a little girl’s coat. Or the flying jacket of a tiny, old-fashioned, aerostunt pilot. I felt it with my hands, like a blind girl might do, and thought how I would never wear it again. I flipped it over, and pushed my fingers inside the cuts. I heard someone sobbing. The lacerations looked as if they’d been inflicted by an animal.

I advise on sartorial issues

ALISON ASKED HOW
long my leave was going to last. And why I’d suddenly taken it. I felt too tired to say anything. She held up a sheeny black dress and said, What d’you think? Is it me? Try it on, I said. Who can tell when it’s on the hanger? I followed her into the communal changing room. Is this leave thing about last week? You might as well know I’ve forgiven you for your desertion, she said. Though I don’t approve, of course. I will say just one thing at this juncture: I can’t understand what came over you.

Juncture? I said. Juncture? What sort of poncey word is that? Juncture is not a word I ever thought I’d hear fall from your ruby lips. Whatever, she said, posing in the mirror. Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing with this juncture business. It won’t work. Her reflection gave me a mean look. Stick to the point, she said, turning to face me. I was silent, so she sighed, narrowing her eyes, and started to tell me about the party she and Tom were going to. She said it was Tom’s head
office do. A chance to meet his boss, and she really needed to make a statement. She reached down inside the front of the dress to reposition her breasts. Hoick those puppies up, I said. Her reflection looked at me. Have you been listening to me? she asked. Only I have the feeling I’m boring you.

I slid down the wall and sat on the changing-room floor. Obviously chairs were obsolete. Alison was adjusting the dress round her hips. I hope you are taking note that I’m using superhuman restraint in not insisting on a detailed account of your impromptu evening with Mr Blond, she said. What’s Tom wearing to this? I said. Will he have his tits out as well? Alison gave me a look. I could see she was counting up to ten. I’m sorry, I said. Actually I gave Mr Blond the elbow not long after you went. I could tell he was bad news. Oh God, I’m so relieved, she said. So you’re not seeing him again? I thought of how he’d banged the taxicab roof and walked away. Definitely not, I said. I’m not that desperate. Her reflection gave me a kind look.

She did a twirl in the black dress. I’m not sure about this bias cut thing, she said. Where do you stand on bias? Darling, I said, nowadays, if it’s not bias I refuse to give it the time of day. Even my bra is bias cut. And the gusset of your knickers? she asked. Double bias with extra bias at the back and sides, I said. You really are in a weird mood, she said, and squinted at her behind in the mirror, then at me with a questioning look. Before you ask, I said, your bum looks positively microscopic. Actually, where is your bum? I’ve got a
vibe you don’t like this ensemble, she said, but one happens to think one looks hot, so one’s going to have to buy it at this juncture. Sod the expense, I said, one should always go for it.

I make people materialise

SUDDENLY I ACTUALLY
wanted to see my parents. When I got there things were just the same. I sat down and had a cup of tea with my mother. I asked her how she was. The clock in the hall ticked familiarly, its wheeze still detectable. Musn’t grumble, she said. Though you’d love to, my dad’s voice added from the hallway. Any news on the boyfriend front? she asked, not looking at me. I may have, I said. Immediately she was riveted. Well, she said, I just hope he’s a nice boy. You’ve always been so trusting. She patted my knee. But that’s a good fault, of course, she said. My father’s mild voice drifted in from the kitchen this time: There’s no such thing as a good fault, as you well know. Faults are bad. That’s the way they are. My mother smiled at me. Oh well, you understand what I mean, don’t you, darling?

She wanted to know about my boyfriend. I told her he was five years older than me. Dark, straight hair. Actually, I said, he has these improbably well-groomed eyebrows. She
thought for a while. But that’s good, she said, the groomed aspect, I mean. So many young men are too casual about grooming. He’s not gay though, is he? I’m not sure, I said. Only time will tell. I told her he was a writer. I didn’t know I was going to say that, but it sounded good as soon as I did. It’s quite sad really, I added. He has this really sweet younger brother he’s devoted to, but the poor boy is disabled.

I began to see my boyfriend clearly. He had nice hands. He was absolutely mad about me. I’m meeting him tonight, I said. Well, I’m happy for you, she said. It’s about time. No offence, darling. You know I love you. Miraculously, as I looked at him, my boyfriend’s hair turned blond and started to tighten into curls.

I said I’d stay for lunch. In the kitchen my mother held my chin in her hand and scrutinised me. You look a little peaky, she said. Are you eating properly? I know you snack, but do you sit down and actually eat a meal? I told her I was feeling under the weather. Is that why you’re off work? she asked. God, Mum, I said, do you pay someone to snoop on me? I am an adult, you know. She ignored me and went on to say how glad she was I had a friend like lovely Alison. She’s so sensible, she said, turning her back on me so I could tie her apron. Anyway, you’re a very lucky girl, you know. So is Alison, I said, to have lovely me. She gave me a busy hug. Well, of course, dear, she said. That goes without saying. Now I have to get on. Things won’t cook themselves.

My dad took me out into the garden. He wanted to show
me the bronze fennel. I love it, I said. The delicate fronds were woven into a glinting series of loose nets. At the heart of each net was what looked like a big fuzzy caterpillar. We both stooped down to check them out. They were actually the still-sheathed buds, almost ready to shake themselves into life. We sat on a garden bench and I ran my fingers through the swaying plant. I told my dad it felt like ropy, damp hair. Almost like a mermaid’s. He had a feel. You’re right, it does, he said. I could always tell my father things like that, when we were on our own. I rested my head on his shoulder, and held his rough, gardener’s hand. I was about to say something when Mum shouted for his help. Got to go. Duty calls, he said, saluting, and left me.