Vacant Possession

  It had been raining earlier; the air was still damp, and there were puddles underfoot. Clyde had a torch. Slicing through the clammy night, the beam buried itself in her new coney coat, nuzzling at the dark-brown fur. She saw her face in one of the puddles, a white moon, a globe. There was a smell of vomit and chicken curry. Cats cried like human babies from the wall of an old washhouse. She put her back to the plum-coloured brick, waiting for him to catch her up.

  Clyde thought his luck was in. She could tell that from the way his long face split in an uncertain grin, and from the way he fumbled at his flies. He lowered the torch beam decorously. She reached forward and took the torch from him, tickling the back of his hand in a flirtatious way with her long nails. Her face downcast, she turned the beam full on Clyde’s exposed genital equipment. Clyde darted back. “Shy?” she said; half challenging and very coy. She reached out with her right hand for what he had on offer. A thin wail rose to join the noise of the cats. For good measure, she hit him with the torch on the side of the head. It was surprisingly sturdy, she thought, for plastic; she would keep it as a souvenir. Clyde backed off, folding his long body in half and retching onto the cobblestones. He flailed his arms and upended a dustbin with a clatter. Its entrails spilled out across the yard. From inside the club, Sam-7 and the Alkali Inspectorate ground their rhythms into the smoky air; off the beat, Lizzie stamped on Clyde’s fingers. From way across the town she could hear the sound of a train rattling across the points, the 1.10 A.M. sleeper from Manchester Piccadilly to London Euston. Fearing that the damp might bring Lizzie’s hair out of curl, she took her chiffon scarf from her pocket and shook it out. She saw the stars through it, the fuzzy and rose-pink constellations, so lost and far away, all shot through with the Lurex in the weave. Her blood was up. She knotted it under her chin as she clicked along the street.

  She was only a quarter of a mile from Napier Street when she met Mr. K.; and it was all over quickly. She was not surprised to see the familiar shape trundling along, enjoying the amenities of the small hours. For a moment she forgot that it was Lizzie who was out, and she almost called to him. They came face to face at the street corner. It was clear at once that he shared Clyde’s misperceptions; he thought that she was an amenity herself. He raised his stubbly head, and she saw the loneliness and hunger in his eyes. Bugger this for a game of coconuts, she thought. He put out a hand, so she bit it. It was quickly and unreflectingly done; a few clumps with her doubled fist, while the torch beam blinded him. She was not stronger than other women, but quite free from their dread of inflicting pain. “Mater Amabilis!” he cried, as her platform sole seemed to displace his kneecap. He did not resist; it was as if he felt he had it coming. Refuge of Sinners, Health of the Sick. The red nails came at him out of the dazzle. Morning Star, Ark of the Covenant: at first her blows seemed to make no impact on his larded torso, but gradually his knees began to sag. Tower of Ivory, Cause of Our Joy: grunting with effort, she pounded the ribs in the region of his heart. Virgin Most Merciful, Mirror of Justice: he gagged and staggered up against the wall, hunching his spine and throwing his arms over his head. Queen of the Apostles, Gate of Heaven: soon she would stop, either from boredom or fatigue. But her stamina was remarkable. She was treading on his feet now, one two, one two, like a storm trooper. Singular Vessel of Devotion, Mystical Rose, Tower of David, Mother most pure, ora pro nobis; not quite at the Hour of Our Death, but now, please, while we are bleeding in the gutter and it can still do us some good.

  Colin’s dreams now lay in ruins; also, it was necessary for him to move his bank account. He called into one or two, picking up leaflets about mortgages and saving schemes, furtively eyeing the cashiers to see if they appeared libidinous. Standing in the High Street, he found himself clutching a sheaf of dark purple leaflets entitled “Our Executor Service.” Hastily he stuffed them into a passing litter bin, looking round to see if he was being observed.

  When he arrived home, Dr. Rudge was just leaving. Sylvia, bundled into her combat jacket, was seeing him off at Florence’s gate. It was 4:30 P.M., blue and cold. He let himself in at the front door. Suzanne was hanging about in the hall, probably waiting for the phone to ring.

  “Did Jim call you?” he asked.

  “Yes, he called.”

  “So you know what happened?”

  “Yes, so I know.” Her voice was listless. She crossed her arms over her belly. “I can’t follow all the—permutations. It tires me. My back aches.”

  “Have you told your mother?”

  “No, what’s the point? That’s up to you.”

  “Yes…thanks.”

  “Only, if you start rowing, I’ll have to leave. I can’t stand it.”

  “I don’t think that will arise.”

  “You’re not going to tell her about Isabel?”

  “She probably knows. I think she does. Oh, not the name…but that there was somebody. I’m not sure that Isabel being Jim’s wife adds a new dimension to our problems. It seems to, when you first think about it, but…it’s not incest or anything, is it?”

  “No, it’s not that. Well, I hope you can sort yourselves out.” Suzanne nodded distantly, as if they were only slight acquaintances. It was good of her, he thought, not to take up a moral stance. “It’s kind of weird,” she added, as she lumbered away.

  Sylvia came in, rubbing her blue hands. “Oh, there you are, Colin. I’ve had a rotten day.”

  “You look all in.”

  “She’s shouted and raved for hours. You know what it is now? She keeps pointing at Lizzie and saying that her name’s Wilmot. She says she’s called Wilmot and she used to live next door.”

  “This is next door.”

  “I know that. I’d worked that out. There was never anybody called Wilmot living here, was there?”

  “Not that I remember. I only remember the Axons. They lived here for years.”

  “Yes, Evelyn and what’s her name, Muriel. You’d hardly mix those two up with anybody else. I never knew Evelyn’s husband. What was he called?”

  “Clifford. Clifford Axon. Florence would tell you.”

  “Perhaps he had a friend called Wilmot.”

  “I don’t think so. He was an eccentric. He spent all his time in the garden shed. What did the doctor say, then?”

  “I reminded him of what the hospital told us. That if we got desperate they’d offer her a bed. He wasn’t very sympathetic. He didn’t seem to think we were desperate.” I have often been desperate, Colin thought, but no one ever offered me a bed. “He told me this awful story about some people he knows who’ve got a demented mother and a handicapped fourteen-year-old in a council flat on the eighth floor. He said, there are two of you ladies. I told him I had commitments. Do you know what he said? He said, ‘Charity begins at home.’ I could have choked him.”

  “Is Florence back? Is Mum on her own?”

  “Just for a few minutes. It won’t hurt her. He said we could get the children to help. Can you imagine? He doesn’t know our children. I have to pay Lizzie to stay with her every time I go out to the CAB.”

  “Perhaps Francis could arrange the odd parish helper.”

  “Everyone’s gone on the peace march,” Sylvia said. “And here I am, stuck at home. Anyway, he’s given her some more sedatives, he says they’re strong.” Her gaze slid away from Colin’s face; it came to rest obliquely, at the side of his head. He took her arm.

  “I expect we ought to talk some time, Sylvia. We can’t continue like this, exchanging the occasional word wedged up behind the front door.”

  “I never have time to sit down. Your mother, and Suzanne—it’s driven everything else out of my head.” You need leisure for an unhappy marriage, she seemed to imply. “But I can’t go on like this.”

  “No?”

  “No. There are half a dozen community projects to be set in train.”

  “I’m worried about Florence,” he said impulsively. “I think the strain’s too much for her. I think she might—”

&
nbsp; “What?”

  “No. Nothing. Never mind.”

  Jim Ryan said to his wife: “I suppose we could adopt it?”

  “Adopt it?” she said. “I’d rather drown it.” She looked at him; her voice and expression suddenly altered. “Besides, there’s no need now.”

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Come here. Feel.”

  “Feel what? What are you doing?”

  Carefully she laid the flat of his hand against the front of her body, keeping it covered with her own.

  “I thought it was my liver,” she said. “But it can’t be, can it?”

  “How did it happen? After all this time?”

  “I have no bloody idea.”

  “You’d better go to the doctor,” Jim said. He was alarmed. He almost felt that it was not a natural occurrence.

  “He’ll tell me to stop drinking.”

  “You’ll have to stop. You’ll damage it.”

  Isabel smiled into his face, madly and slyly. “You never know,” she said, “who’ll be damaged most in the end.”

  Muriel met Sholto. He looked haggard; his feet were damp, and his clothes were wearing out. “Still holding down your job?” he asked. She nodded. “You’re doing all right, Muriel. Still going in disguise?”

  “Yes. But not for long now.”

  “You don’t still hold this changeling crap?”

  She said, “I’m lonely, Sholto, out here in the town. Sometimes I’d like to climb back into my head. I’d like to sit on my bed and double up, and slide right down my own throat. Do you understand?”

  “I’m finished with Crisp,” Sholto said, not listening. “He’s turned criminal. And you—I don’t want to know. You’ll be taking babies out of prams at the supermarket.”

  “They don’t have prams,” Muriel said. “They strap them into those buggy things, or carry them on their backs. When I look at Miss Suzanne, all the words get tangled up inside my head, all those words you showed me on that pot head. In my mother’s day, Sholto, we had a special room in our house. In that room my mother said there were things would pick the flesh off your bones. Where did it go to, that flesh? It isn’t dead. It must be somewhere.”

  “You murdered that poor old bugger at the hospital.”

  “It wasn’t murder. It was an execution. He didn’t do well by me, Sholto. I could have been a married wife by now. He did it all without a by-your-leave. He never gave me a bouquet. Single red roses, that’s what you give a girl.”

  “Now you’re driving that Polack mad; or whatever he is.”

  “I don’t drive. They go by themselves. He says there are men on the streets with poisoned umbrellas. He says there are countries where women walk round with black curtains over their heads. And that there’s a man called Castro, and they sent him exploding cigars. He says they have factories where they make diseases.” She blinked. “I never told him any of that.”

  Sholto glowered at her, out of his little rat’s face. “When I met you, Muriel, I asked you if you was mad, or stupid. You said you was both. It took us in.”

  “I’m all gone to nothing.” She hit her fist against her ribs, bending over as if to muffle the hollow sound. “Those ghosties have sucked the life out of me. Mother set them on. I’ve stopped expecting her. I think they’ve sucked her up too. Now there’s only the changeling left.”

  “What you are is wicked,” Sholto said.

  Behind her thick glasses, Muriel blinked again.

  “Do you know,” said Sylvia, as she poured her muesli, “that in the past two years, according to a recent opinion poll, one in four of the population visited a canal?”

  “Really?” Colin yawned. “Any particular population? It can’t be Venice, I suppose.”

  “You know what I mean. In England and Wales. In fact, twenty-seven per cent. That’s more than one in four.”

  “Stranger than fiction,” Colin said.

  “Now of these people, seventy-one per cent went for a walk. Eight per cent went fishing. Seven per cent hired a boat.”

  “That still leaves a number unaccounted for. What were they doing?”

  “One per cent went swimming,” Sylvia offered.

  “I wouldn’t fancy that in our canal.”

  “Exactly the point,” Sylvia said. “We’re going to have a community canal clean-up.”

  Colin looked at her warily over the top of the newspaper, and sank down a little in his chair. He thought that his mother had tired her out, but she seemed to be getting a second wind. He heard her speak of sponsorship and job creation and government schemes, and how the probation service would bring along strong young recidivists, and the Sea Scouts and the Brownies would pick up the litter from the banks. He ducked his head well below the holidays page. Exclusive villa parties, he read, wind-surfing, houseparties on the water’s edge. Barbados, Crete, the Algarve. Love Nest for Two by Sardinia’s Sandy Beaches. Cheap flights. Cheap flights, free escapes. Cheap flights without leaving Coketown. “Hard Times,” he said to himself.

  “Of course they are,” Sylvia agreed. “But this stretch should have been done two years ago. It was scheduled. I’ve got to get on to the Inland Waterways Board. Of course, it’s Francis’s idea really, but he’s got a lot on at the moment. There’s this man picketing the church.”

  “Good God,” Colin said. “Is he violent?”

  “No, not so far, he’s just a nuisance, but he does make threatening motions with his banner. He tries to stop people going in to Francis’s services. You know when we had that Christians Against Rate-Capping meeting? He stood outside howling abuse. If it goes on Francis will have to get the police in, and that’s against his principles.”

  “Yes, I see the problem.” A November morning pressed its cold grey face against the kitchen window. No wonder he often felt that someone was looking over his shoulder. “Oh, well. It’s not as bad as any of ours.”

  But Sylvia did not want to talk about the family. She did not mean to be deflected. Sylvia made progress; it was only his mind that went round and round endlessly, revolving the same problems. Isabel: my God, how miserable she must be. How frustrated, how agonised inside. Had he not some responsibility there? Supposing he had left his family all those years ago, would Isabel be different now? What if? And what if?

  I could do with being two people really, he thought; people who could live quite alternative lives, and meet up from time to time to compare notes. I am incapable of a decision, and always have been; I wait for circumstances to make my decisions for me, and just as I pray for resolution, so I dread it. Act, and you might as well be dead. Action is the great abortionist. It wipes out freedom. It terminates desire.

  “And then there was the chromium-plating plant,” Sylvia was saying, “pumping out acids year after year. And the dye works. I can remember a time when there were weeds on the canal, but now there’s just an inch of scum on the surface and that awful smell of rotten eggs. Francis says that there’s no oxygen in it at all. The water doesn’t move, and there’s a couple of feet of poisonous mud at the bottom. The walls are collapsing in. It could be damaging our health. He says there could be literally anything at the bottom of that canal.”

  Since Dr. Rudge’s visit, Mrs. Sidney had sunk into a twilit world, sleeping for twenty hours of the twenty-four, surfacing only occasionally to ask for the Lord Chamberlain. It was much more peaceful, but unfortunately—and perhaps because of her new sedatives—she had become doubly incontinent. Florence had rung the hospital, but they said that, with Christmas coming up, and the long-range weather forecast being what it was, they could hardly think of taking her in before next May. Since then, disaster had struck.

  It had made the national news: FIRE HAS BROKEN OUT AT A GERI ATRIC HOSPITAL IN THE MIDLANDS, TRAPPING STAFF AND PATIENTS IN A FIRST-FLOOR WARD. FIREMEN WHO EVACUATED VICTIMS FROM THE FORMER WORKHOUSE SAID THAT ESCAPE ROUTES WERE GROSSLY INADEQUATE. A PUBLIC INQUIRY HAS BEEN CALLED FOR.

  When Florence heard, she went upstairs to her
mother’s room. She stood by the bed with her arms folded, watching the withered eyelids flutter in drugged sleep. “That could have been you,” she whispered.

  Dr. Rudge came by. “Lucky escape,” he said.

  “If you say so, Doctor.”

  “Oh, come come, Miss Sidney. You want your mother with you for some years yet.” As he coiled his stethoscope into his bag, Dr. Rudge looked sharply at her expression. He was a bald, tubby man, who prided himself on being humane; but really, there were no geriatric beds, and that was that.

  Florence had run downstairs after him and followed him into the street. “I can’t go on,” she wailed. “Dr. Rudge, listen to me.”

  Dr. Rudge stopped in surprise, bouncing his car keys on his palm. “But you’ve got the district nurse, Miss Sidney. Be thankful for small mercies.”

  “But I can’t manage! The smell! And the way she wakes up and thinks she’s at Marlborough House! It frightens me!”

  “You have domestic help, I understand.”

  “She keeps abusing her! She says she’s the daughter of the woman who used to live next door. She accuses her of holding seances. It’s horrible. It’s worse than May of Teck. She’s totally and completely mad.”

  “Really, pull yourself together,” said Dr. Rudge. “You know we’re promised a geriatric unit for 1990. Go in, Miss Sidney, it’s starting to rain. And I do have other calls to make.”

  “But I can’t go on.” Florence’s voice rose into the damp afternoon. “Don’t you understand? We can’t take any more, any of us.” Two women, coming back from the Parade, rested their shopping baskets on a low wall and watched attentively. The Deakins, elderly people from down the road, were peeping out from their porch. Dr. Rudge cursed under his breath, and felt in his overcoat pockets for his prescription pad. He scribbled on it and ripped the page off.