‘It is quite an undertaking to start loving
somebody. You have to have energy, generosity, blindness. There is even a
moment right at the start where you have to jump across an abyss; if you think
about it, you don’t do it.’
Jean Paul Sartre, Nausea
(1938)
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me
Charles Bukowski, ‘Raw With Love’
in What Matters Most Is How Well You Walk
Through The Fire (1999)
‘The indifference of this Decembral
littoral suits my forlorn mood for I am a sad woman by nature, no doubt about
that; how unhappy I should be in a happy world!’
Angela Carter, ‘The Smile of
Winter’ in Burning Your Boats: Collected Stories (1995)
Take Me Home Again
‘So, Albert, how about it, then? Me
and you tomorrow night?’
‘Sorry?’
‘You’ve not listened to a bloody
word I’ve said, have you? Stop staring at her.’
‘Eh? She has a name, you know.’
‘Well, I’ve heard stories about her.’
‘About Lola?’
‘She disappears, sometimes. Once,
she went missing for a month. Nobody knew where she went. Even the police
couldn’t find her. Then one day out of the blue she came back and her aunty demanded
to know why she wasn’t dressed in black.’
‘Eh?’
‘Well, her father had died and
everyone was getting ready to go to his funeral. She was really close to her
father as well and…’
‘Oh, that’s rotten, Scabby. Why the
hell have you told me that? It’s none of my business. Or yours.’
Albert’s head must have turned towards Lola at least twelve times that
evening. She was sitting at the Colonel’s table, smoking a cigarette. But it
was the way she did it, holding the white tube as if it were a fine watercolour
brush dipped in grey, painting the inside of an ashtray. Then a light tap with
a painted nail and back to those lips. The Colonel was staring at her too
whilst fiddling with his salt and pepper straw moustache. Lola was
gesticulating and whispering to her friend, Gretel. They laughed hard. Gretel
held her stomach and lurched forward, unable to stop her laughter. But at least
she stopped at some point. Lola carried on laughing and laughing and her eyes
were streaming and her mascara was running down her face so much that Gretel
had to unclasp her handbag and draw out a crisp pressed cotton handkerchief
with a G on it, just like Albert’s dear mam used to have, but with a J on it
for Joan, her pride and joy, the one and only present she received from her
well to do sister Ethel, who married that American, and she had exactly seven J’s,
one for each day of the week, which she hung on the washing line on a Wednesday,
making sure each J was on the bottom right hand corner, because what would the neighbours say, our Albert? then
Gretel passed the handkerchief to Lola who screwed it up to make a pointy bit like
a Johnson’s cotton bud and dabbed the corner of her eyes. Then she stopped. Mouth
open. Albert tried to remember a time when he had laughed the hardest. Maybe
when Scabby did an impression of the Colonel patting his imaginary Santa belly
whilst the Colonel looked on from behind the canteen door? Or that Sunday
afternoon when he and his mam were listening to Victor Borge on the crackling
wireless? No, no, it had to be when Scabby first had his head shaved and tried
to pin back his sticky out ears with chewing gum, only for one of them to ping
back into the normal position during an inspection.
Lola looked over in Albert’s direction, so he tried to catch her eye,
but she quickly turned her face away. He gave her a smile anyway and continued
to check his red tunic for any stains. What if they were laughing at him? Perhaps his hair was a mess, or,
God forbid, something smeared on his face. Maybe that chocolate mousse they had
for afters? He had to go and check in the mirror.
Scabby Weeks was the Head of Entertainment that evening. Albert had
recommended him to the Colonel as he was good a raconteur and would no doubt
keep the people entertained at the Mess ball. It was a kind of payback for when
Scabby looked after Albert on the voyage there from Southampton
to Wuppertal barracks a few months
back. Albert was convinced they were going to drown and wondered how it was
possible that a ship of that size could carry all those people? (Don’t forget
what happened in 1912). He thought the same about planes. How on earth could
something so big actually get off the ground? It was a miracle. He was scared
of heights. That’s why he couldn’t have possibly joined the Air Force. At least
it was an easy decision for him. The army training was bad enough, though.
Dropping him in at the deep end and making him crawl on the bottom of the
swimming pool had traumatised him for life. Then he ended up on a ship that
rested on so much water that there was no bottom.
*
The Colonel poured the red wine
into a crystal glass and passed it to Lola, who then passed it to Gretel. On
pouring the second glass, the Colonel sneezed, knocked the glass over and wine
spilled all over the white tablecloth and onto the floor. Lola stood up and
used Gretel’s handkerchief to mop it up. The Colonel held up his palm.
‘Lola.’
‘But, wine drips
onto fl…’
‘Sit. Lola. Sit.’
With a click of
the Colonel’s fingers, one of the waitresses came rushing over to clean up the
mess. Lola sat down slowly and fiddled with the handkerchief.
*
Albert, all present and correct from the W.C. was standing behind a
pillar watching Lola and listening in to the Colonel’s conversation. He rested
his hand on the pillar. It felt cold. A few flakes of beige paint came off in
his hands. His eyes drifted up the pillar to the ceiling, where dust seemed to
hang in the air around the chandelier, not knowing whether to drift down or
just stay there, suspended. In the corner of the ceiling, he could see the tattered
remnants of an old homemade Christmas decoration made out of linked pastel
paper, fastened with a dull drawing pin. His eyes slowly drifted back down the
pillar, going left and right in-between the haphazard maze of beige flakes. At
the bottom, the tip of the Colonel’s shoe shone like a glossy black apple. Albert
thought back to all the hours he spent shining his boots. He never could get it
quite right. So he used to trade his writing skills in return for a shiny boot.
He was good at finding the right words to say to the folks back home. The
Colonel coughed.
‘So, Lola and Gretchen, or Gretel, is it? Whatever. We will be leaving a
bit earlier this evening as The Colonel has a little champagne soiree going on
and you two lucky ladies are part of the select few. We leave at ten. On the
dot.’
Lola
rolled her eyes at Gretel.
‘Well, we go back by eleven thirty.
They lock door. Rules of hostel.’
*
Scabby had promised Albert a slot that evening. He would sing his
signature song that he whistled wherever he went. Scabby was sick of it.
Whistle something else, for God’s sake, Albert, he would say. So he would purse
his lips and out came Stardust; ‘sometimes
I wonder why I spend the lonely night, dreaming of a song, the melody haunts my
reverie and I am once again with you.’ So Scabby would shake his head, as
he had heard that one so many times too that he could whistle it himself,
including Albert’s own accents and emphases.
‘What else do you know about her?’
‘Lola? She’s the Colonel’s housekeeper.’
‘Well, yes, I know that! I want to know where she lives.’
‘How am I supposed to know that? Jesus.
You keep going on and on about her, Albert. Look, she lives in the ladies’
hostel about two miles away from the barracks. The high, grey affair with tiny
windows, looks a bit like the prison in Yorkshire, but
different. Now, stop asking me about her, will you?’
‘Ah, remember the greasy spoon on
Earle’s street, opposite the prison?’
‘Mmm. They did a good cuppa, there.’
Albert and Scabby looked at each
other, not saying anything.
The orchestra prepared for the last act. The prim pianist repositioned
himself on the stool and flexed his fingers. The man on the double bass looked
worried as he slid his finger down the curve of the dark wood and brushed off a
stray speck of dust, which, heavens above, might have interfered with his
performance. Scabby brushed past him and accidentally knocked his elbow,
apologising as he took his position on the stage.
‘And now, ladies and gentlemen’ he said, clearing his throat, ‘may I
introduce you to an old friend of mine, Regimental Sergeant Major Albert
Stockton. Please put your hands together.’
Oh, no, they were all staring at Albert. What if he forgot the words? Or
what if people walked out because he wasn’t a great singer, like Nat King Cole
or anyone. Who was he kidding? One, two and breathe; ‘Take me home again, Kathleen…’ you can do it you can do it you can
do it you can…‘across the ocean wild and
wide…’
When he got settled into the song, Albert tried to catch sight of the Colonel’s
table in-between the bobbing heads of the dancing couples. It was no use, there
were too many people. Was Lola dancing, then? If so, who with? What time was
it? Was it ten yet? …‘I always feel when
you are near, that life holds nothing, dear, but you…’ He did it. The song
was over. Albert walked back to his table to whistles and applause, but found
that Lola had already left.
*
The next morning Scabby came into the canteen with a newspaper under his
arm, a pack of coffin nails and a German/English dictionary. He sat opposite Albert,
who was buttering some burnt toast and reaching into all four corners with the
black speckled yellow paste, just how Scabby liked it. Albert tried to have a
peek over the top of the newspaper, but Scabby held it up even higher so Albert
couldn’t see his face. Albert told him that a plate of toast was in front of
him. A nail bitten hand appeared from under the newspaper, fumbled for a slice
and retracted, scraping off some of the butter on the bottom of the page and
turning it translucent. Scabby’s chomping was getting louder as Albert watched
the black crumbs fall onto his lap.
‘Bloody hell. You wouldn’t believe it! An elephant.’
‘What?’
‘I’ll let you read it yourself. Maybe. In about half an hour.’
Albert scraped his chair back and walked over to stand behind him. Scabby
closed the newspaper, so Albert snatched it out of his hands. That’s what he
was on about. The travelling Althoff circus arrived in Wuppertal
with a four year old elephant called Tuffi. They did a publicity stunt (well,
that’s what Scabby’s dictionary said it was) and made Tuffi travel on the
suspended railway, the Schwebebahn. She didn’t like it in the carriage and she
panicked, broke the window and fell twenty feet into the river.
‘A miracle. That’s it, Scabby. That’s what I’ll do.’
‘What are you talking about?
‘The travelling circus. I’ll ask Lola to go with me tonight.’
‘The Big Top is for kids. Besides, you’ve
never even spoken to her, you daft ‘apeth.’
‘So?’
‘Have you forgotten? We were supposed to be going to that posh community
hall tonight for that violin thingy. Ah, come on, Albert, we only get one
evening off a week, well, apart from last night, which was an exception and…’
‘Exactly.’
Scabby looked at Albert for what seemed like several minutes and then he
flapped the newspaper open and buried his face in a black maze of unfamiliar
words.
*
That evening Albert walked towards the town. The irregular sound of the
rain hitting the pavement was like his own heartbeat, fast, loud, a teasing
trickle and then so God damn hard that it scared him. He could see several
black umbrellas protecting figures in the distance by the iron gates. A small
dog shook his body and cowered in the dry spot between two people who were in
conversation. One figure rested its back on the iron gates and splashed one
foot and then the other into a puddle. The droplets rolled off the immaculate
pink patent shoes. Must have been pre war.
‘Lola?’
She revealed her face from behind her umbrella, nodded, but didn’t make
eye contact.
‘Thank you for remembering me, Lola, and, er, meeting up in this ghastly
weather.’
She tried to hold the hooked stem of her umbrella underneath her arm so
that she could adjust her silk scarf. Albert grabbed hold of her umbrella, so
Lola tied a fresh bow and then pressed in between each finger of her thin
leather gloves. She then tried to straighten her cameo brooch, which was
fastened to her transparent rain mac, but it fell back to the left, as if the
carved lady wanted to gently rest her head. Albert thrust his elbow out and
formed a hole for Lola’s elegant arm. She hesitated, then obliged.
‘Tell me a bit about yourself, Lola.’
‘….My father bred dachshunds.’
‘Sausage dogs?’
‘Sausage? Wurst?’
‘The shape of them. Like a sausage.’
Lola nodded.
‘My father worked down the pit. The pit, I mean down a coal mine. He
used to take a whole onion with him for his lunch. Mam said we couldn’t afford
anything else. He used to peel the brown paper skin off with his teeth and then
take a bite, like it were a Granny Smith, a, er, type of apple, and sometimes
the onion were that strong that it made him cry and he would come home with a
streaky face. It took him at least an hour to wash all the soot off in the tin
bath before he could have his tea, I mean his dinner. He was such a…’
‘I’m thirsty.’
‘Right, well, let’s, erm, look, can you see the smaller tent over on the
right? Perhaps we can get a drink from there.’
As they entered, there was a faint smell of damp clothes. Albert was
transported back to when his mam used to dry carbolic soaped clothes by the
open fire. My, how things have changed since then.
‘Gluwein, Lola?’
‘No. I drinked little bit last night. Doctor say careful, because,
barbiturates for my manic depression.’
‘No need to explain, Lola. …so…how was your evening at the Colonel’s
house?’
‘How you know?’
‘Oh, I just overheard him talking, that’s all.’
‘It was not very good. He is so, selbst wichtigenur, mmm, how you say in
Englisch?’ she said, sticking her nose in the air.
‘Self important? You don’t say.’
‘I just said.’
‘Haha, no, it doesn’t matter Lola, it’s an English expression.’
They sat on the first tier in the Big Top. This was supposed to be the
place where they made people happy. The rain pelted hard onto the tent. The
sound was suddenly masked by a loud blast of up tempo music. A clown appeared.
Around his neck was a placard: Grobianus. A forced red smile was outlined in
white paint. His stripy pantaloons were like fat sticks of seaside rock and his
puffball sleeves glittered with gaudy green spots like polished mould. He was
laughing so much that it infected some of the audience, like a pox. Albert felt
obliged to laugh, but as he looked at poker faced Lola, he decided against it.
The clown clapped his hands and a white horse with a red plume of feathers daintily
trotted towards him from behind the curtain. The clown mounted the horse,
backwards. The music trailed off, as if someone had switched off a gramophone
and the last notes were forcing themselves out, desperately wanting to be heard.
On the back of the clown’s head, embedded in his red wig, sat a singular black
teardrop. Sobbing, Grobianus contorted his arms backwards to dry his fake tear
as the horse walked around the edge of the circle.
‘The horse is in very good condition. Even tail is clean. Where was he
throughout the war, Albert?’
‘The war? Erm. America?
I, I don’t know, Lola.’
‘….’
The clown disappeared and was
replaced by the black haired Bauchredner, who carried a battered suitcase. He
sat on a wooden stool and put the suitcase on his lap. The whole tent was silent.
A muttering sound was coming from the suitcase. The Bauchredner opened the
clasp, stuck his hand in and out popped a dummy of an old man, with a white
beard. Slowly, the dummy looked up at him and made the motion of spitting in
his master’s face.
‘Hey.
Was hast du getan?’
The dummy shrugged its shoulders.
‘Sind sie unzufreiden heute? the Bauchredner
asked, making an exaggerated frown.
The dummy nodded.
‘Warum?’
The dummy shrugged its shoulders.
The Bauchredner fumbled in his suitcase and brought out a large picture
book. With a wide smile and maniacal eyes, he opened the book and pointed to a
picture of a sun. The dummy shrugged its shoulders. Then, open mouthed and
eyebrows raised, he pointed to a picture of a gaily wrapped present adorned
with yellow ribbons. The dummy sat just there and ignored him. Then the Bauchredner
smacked the dummy across the head and its white hair became dishevelled.
‘Hey. Idiot’ shouted the dummy.
The audience laughed. Lola nodded her head, as if in agreement. Albert
didn’t understand German, only certain words, but he gathered the gist of it;
the dummy was unhappy and didn’t know why. Albert watched Lola from the corner
of his eyes. Left leg over right. Right leg over left. Bottom pushed back on
the seat. Head darting around the tent. Finding nothing of appeal, she gazed at
Albert’s hands. It was as if she was counting how many freckles he had. Then
all of a sudden, Lola was hysterical. Just like at the Mess ball. A man in
front of them turned around. Albert tried to stare him out. The man shifted his
gaze back to Lola and raised his eyebrow. Her laughter attracted more and more attention
from the audience, who smiled in sympathetic idiocy. The Bauchredner snarled at
the dummy. No reaction. So he bit the dummy’s head, getting white hair between
his teeth, which he spat out in stages. The dummy ripped open the zip in his
chest, pulled out a knitted heart and flung it onto the floor. The Bauchredner
got up from his stool, letting the dummy dangle from his arm like a corpse and
threw the heart into the audience, who tried to compete with each other on who
could throw it the highest. Albert and Lola were transfixed by the heart going
up and over people’s heads, like a red kite dancing on a stormy day. He reached
for her hand. It was warm and clammy. He felt the strength in her grip as her
laughter escalated even more. There was a tiny cluster of bubbles forming in
the corners of her mouth, so he automatically licked his own lips. Then one man
threw the heart back into the sandy circle. The Bauchredner used the suitcase as
a coffin and laid the dummy to rest, crossing his paint chipped hands and
closing his plastic eyes. He picked up the heart, threw it up in the air, deliberately
failed to catch it and then walked off, swinging the coffin.
‘Idiot,’ said the dead dummy.
As Lola’s laughter began to die down, Albert still had the feeling that
they were being watched. He looked behind him, but all the faces were anticipating
the next act. Felinnia, the Trapezkünstler Extraordinarius ran into the centre
and nearly tripped over, but Albert guessed that it was made to look as if it
was part of the act, like a disappointed gymnast jumping off a beam and putting
one foot out to stop them from falling over. Dressed as a sleek cat with a
black satin leotard and a long tail, her six inch false lashes fluttered to the
beat of the violin music. Fellinia climbed up the rope ladder, which swung from
side to side like a pendulum on a grandfather clock. She forced her body weight
onto the wire for one, two, three,
and did a triple somersault. Albert closed his eyes, unable to look. Lola
touched his shoulder, so Albert opened one eye and looked at her, but still she
wouldn’t make eye contact. Then something small scuttled across the sand. Then
another. And another. Twenty clockwork rats with whiskers, wormy ridged tails
and black beady eyes. One came up close to the barrier. Lola stood up and
rushed for the exit.
Her umbrella was left on the floor next to her seat, so Albert grabbed
it and followed her. He stumbled over boots, brollies, shoes and handbags,
apologising as he passed the long line of strangers. The first port of call had
to be the refreshment tent. But there was just one woman there, filing her
nails. Albert was taken aback when she looked up, as her left eye was made from
green glass and the fake black pupil pointed up in a different direction.
‘Excuse me, but has anyone been in here since the circus started this
evening?’
‘Es tut mir leid, ich spreche kein Englisch.’
‘…Much obliged.’
Albert sighed and listened to the rain. He wondered what he had done
wrong. Why did she leave? He did waffle on a bit. There again, sometimes he
could be a bit quiet. Maybe she didn’t like that. He was only being quiet
because he wanted her to enjoy the show.
Albert opened Lola’s umbrella and braved the rain. As the iron gates
came into view, someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around.
‘Lola? Oh.’
‘Oh? Is that how you greet your old pal?’
‘Scabby, what are you doing here? I thought you didn’t want to miss that
violin concert?’
‘I can change my mind, can’t I?’
‘You don’t even like the circus. It’s for kids, remember?’
‘Well, what else was I supposed to do? Hey, you never got to see Tuffi,
after all, did you? Haha. You’ve wasted your mon…’
‘Wait a minute. Have you been spying on me?’
‘I needed to look out for you. As usual. Eh, I
told you she goes missing, though, didn’t I? She’s crackers, Albert.’
‘Lola, you mean. Well, yes, perhaps you’re
right. But what of it, Scabby? What of it?’
And for once, Scabby was speechless. Without looking behind him, Albert tried
to hurry across the field, but the mud squelched under his boots, making it
difficult for him to get a grip.
Opposite the iron gates, Albert saw a figure sitting in the tiny bus
shelter. A thin line of ghostly grey smoke drifted up to the concrete roof and
waited.
‘Is it something I said? Or not?’
‘War.’
Lola took a long drag and some ash fell onto her mac. Albert stood by
the side of her and blew the ash away. As she tilted her head to take another
drag, he noticed that her hair had darkened with rain-wash.
‘War? What do...’
‘….Rats. Teeth. Blood. Dead flesh rip. Humans. Pavements. Body piles.’
‘Ah, the toy rats at the circ…Oh, Lola. I don’t know what to say. I’ve,
er, tried so hard to block it all out, like. Pretend it didn’t happen. You
know. War and that.’
Lola flicked ash onto the ground and smoothed it over with her shoe
until it became invisible.
‘Do you know, I read a book of quotes, once? A French chap. Bruyère. Not
sure if I’ve pronounced his name right, but I never forgot it. He said that we
should be like children, because they have neither a past nor a future. So they
enjoy the present moment. I am here for you, Lola, right now.’
She looked into his eyes for the first time,
as if expecting more reassurance. And they sat there, nestled next to each
other. They were there for so long that they were oblivious to the noisy circus
revellers that walked past, clutching half deflated elephant shaped balloons, some
arrogantly blowing into shabby plastic whistles pretending to be ringmasters,
one was talking to his hand, which was held up in the shape of a yapping mouth and
another was viciously biting the enlarged ear off a gingerbread clown. And for
the first time in a long while, he felt at home again. And for the first time,
he felt peace, and sensed at one point, that Lola felt it too. He began to
whistle, softly.
