Love in a Blue Time (7 page)

Celestine was nudging him and trying to say something in his ear.

‘You want what?' he said. Then, ‘Surely … no … no.'

‘Bill, yes.'

He liked to think he was willing to try anything. A black eye would certainly send a convincing message to her father. She smiled when he raised his hand.

‘I deserve to be hurt.'

‘No one deserves that.'

‘But you see … I do.'

That night, in that freezing room, he did everything she asked, for as long as she wanted. He praised her beauty and her intelligence. He had never kissed anyone for so long, until he forgot where he was, or who they both were, until there was nothing they wanted, and there was only the most satisfactory peace.

He got up and dressed. He was shivering. He wanted to wash, he smelled of her, but he wasn't prepared for a cold bath.

‘Why are you leaving?' She leaped up and held him. ‘Stay, stay, I haven't finished with you yet.'

He put on his coat and went into the living room. Without looking back he hurried out and down the stairs. He pulled the front door, anticipating the fresh damp night air. But the door held. He had forgotten: the door was locked. He stood there.

Upstairs she was wrapped in a fur coat, looking out of the window.

‘The key,' he said.

‘Old man,' she said, laughing. ‘You are.'

She accompanied him barefoot down the stairs. While she unlocked the door he mumbled, ‘Will you tell your father I saw you?'

‘But why?'

He touched her face. She drew back. ‘You should put something on that,' he said. ‘I met him once. He knows my wife.'

‘I rarely see him now,' she said.

She was holding out her arms. They danced a few steps across the hall. He was better at it now. He went out into the street. Several cabs passed him but he didn't hail them. He kept walking. There was comfort in the rain. He put his head back and looked up into the sky. He had some impression that happiness was beyond him and everything was coming down, and that life could not be grasped but only lived.

I tell you, I feel tired and dirty, but I was told no baths allowed for a few days, so I’ll stay dirty. Yesterday morning I was crying a lot and the woman asked me to give an address in case of emergencies and I made one up. I had to undress and get in a white smock and they took my temperature and blood pressure five times. Then a nurse pushed me in a wheelchair into a green room where I met the doctor. He called us all ‘ladies’ and told jokes. I could see some people getting annoyed. He was Indian, unfortunately, and he looked at me strangely as if to say, ‘What are you doing here?’ But maybe it was just my imagination.

I had to lie on a table and they put a needle or two into my left arm. Heat rushed over my face and I tried to speak. The next thing I know I’m in the recovery room with a nurse saying, ‘Wake up, dear, it’s all over.’ The doctor poked me in the stomach and said, ‘Fine.’ I found myself feeling aggressive. ‘Do you do this all the time?’ I asked. He said he did nothing else.

They woke us at six and there were several awkward-looking, sleepy boyfriends outside. I got the bus and went back to the squat.

A few months later we got kicked out and I had to go back to Ma’s place. So I’m back here now, writing this with my foot up on the table, reckoning I look like a painter. I sip water with a slice of lemon in it. I’m at Ma’s kitchen table and there are herbs growing in pots around me. At least the place is clean, though it’s shabby and all falling apart. There are photographs of Ma’s women friends from the Labour Party and the Women’s Support Group and there is Blake’s
picture of Newton next to drawings by her kids from school. There are books everywhere, on the Alexander Method and the Suzuki Method and all the other methods in the world. And then there’s her boyfriend.

Yes, the radical (ha!) television writer and well-known toss-pot Howard Coleman sits opposite me as I record him with my biro. He’s reading one of his scripts, smoking and slowly turning the pages, but the awful thing is, he keeps giggling at them. Thank Christ Ma should be back any minute now from the Catholic girls’ school where she teaches.

It’s Howard who asked me to write this diary, who said write down some of the things that happen. My half-sister Nadia is about to come over from Pakistan to stay with us. Get it all down, he said.

If you could see Howard now like I can, you’d really laugh. I mean it. He’s about forty-three and he’s got on a squeaky leather jacket and jeans with the arse round his knees and these trainers with soles that look like mattresses. He looks like he’s never bought anything new. Or if he has, when he gets it back from the shop, he throws it on the floor, empties the dustbin over it and walks up and down on it in a pair of dirty Dr Marten’s. For him dirty clothes are a political act.

But this is the coup. Howard’s smoking a roll-up. He’s got this tin, his fag papers and the stubby yellow fingers with which he rolls, licks, fiddles, taps, lights, extinguishes and relights all day. This rigmarole goes on when he’s in bed with Ma, presumably on her chest. I’ve gone in there in the morning for a snoop and found his ashtray by the bed, condom on top.

Christ, he’s nodding at me as I write! It’s because he’s so keen on ordinary riff-raff expressing itself, especially no-hoper girls like me. One day we’re writing, the next we’re on the barricades.

Every Friday Howard comes over to see Ma.

To your credit, Howard the hero, you always take her somewhere a bit jazzy, maybe to the latest club (a big deal for a poverty-stricken teacher). When you get back you undo her bra and hoick your hands up her jumper and she warms hers down your trousers. I’ve walked in on this! Soon after this teenage game, mother and lover go to bed and rattle the room for half an hour. I light a candle, turn off the radio and lie there, ears flapping. It’s strange, hearing your ma doing it. There are momentous cries and gasps and grunts, as if Howard’s trying to bang a nail into a brick wall. Ma sounds like she’s having an operation. Sometimes I feel like running in with the first-aid kit.

Does this Friday thing sound remarkable or not? It’s only Fridays he will see Ma. If Howard has to collect an award for his writing or go to a smart dinner with a critic he won’t come to see us until the next Friday. Saturdays are definitely out!

We’re on the ninth floor. I say to Howard: ‘Hey, clever boots. Tear your eyes away from yourself a minute. Look out the window.’

The estate looks like a building site. There’s planks and window frames everywhere – poles, cement mixers, sand, grit, men with mouths and disintegrating brick underfoot.

‘So?’ he says.

‘It’s rubbish, isn’t it? Nadia will think we’re right trash.’

‘My little Nina,’ he says. This is how he talks to me.

‘Yes, my big Howard?’

‘Why be ashamed of what you are?’

‘Because compared with Nadia we’re not much, are we?’

‘I’m much. You’re much. Now get on with your writing.’

He touches my face with his finger. ‘You’re excited, aren’t you? This is a big thing for you.’

It is, I suppose.

All my life I’ve been this only child living here in a council place with Ma, the drama teacher. I was an only child, that is, until I was eleven, when Ma says she has a surprise for
me, one of the nicest I’ve ever had. I have a half-sister the same age, living in another country.

‘Your father had a wife in India,’ Ma says, wincing every time she says
father.
‘They married when they were fifteen, which is the custom over there. When he decided to leave me because I was too strong a woman for him, he went right back to India and right back to Wifey. That’s when I discovered I was pregnant with you. His other daughter Nadia was conceived a few days later but she was actually born the day after you. Imagine that, darling. Since then I’ve discovered that he’s even got two other daughters as well!’

I don’t give my same-age half-sister in another country another thought except to dislike her in general for suddenly deciding to exist. Until one night, suddenly, I write to Dad and ask if he’ll send her to stay with us. I get up and go down the lift and out in the street and post the letter before I change my mind. That night was one of my worst and I wanted Nadia to save me.

On some Friday afternoons, if I’m not busy writing ten-page hate letters to DJs, Howard does imagination exercises with me. I have to lie on my back on the floor, imagine things like mad and describe them. It’s so sixties. But then I’ve heard him say of people: ‘Oh, she had a wonderful sixties!’

‘Nina,’ he says during one of these gigs, ‘you’ve got to work out this relationship with your sister. I want you to describe Nadia.’

I zap through my head’s TV channels – Howard squatting beside me, hand on my forehead, sending loving signals. A girl materialises sitting under a palm tree, reading a Brontë novel and drinking yogurt. I see a girl being cuddled by my father. He tells stories of tigers and elephants and rickshaw wallahs. I see …

‘I can’t see any more!’

Because I can’t visualise Nadia, I have to see her.

So. This is how it all comes about. Ma and I are sitting at breakfast, Ma chewing her vegetarian cheese. She’s dressed for work in a long, baggy, purple pinafore dress with black stockings and a black band in her hair, and she looks like a 1950s teenager. Recently Ma’s gone blonde and she keeps looking in the mirror. Me still in my T-shirt and pants. Ma tense about work as usual, talking about school for hours on the phone last night to friends. She tries to interest me in child abuse, incest and its relation to the GCSE. I say how much I hate eating, how boring it is and how I’d like to do it once a week and forget about it.

‘But the palate is a sensitive organ,’ Ma says. ‘You should cultivate yours instead of –’

‘Just stop talking if you’ve got to fucking lecture.’

The mail arrives. Ma cuts open an airmail letter. She reads it twice. I know it’s from Dad. I snatch it out of her hand and walk round the room taking it in.

At the bottom Nadia has written: ‘Looking forward to seeing you both soon.’

Hummmm …

Ma pours herself more coffee and considers everything. She has these terrible coffee jags. Her stomach must be like distressed leather. She is determined to be businesslike, not emotional. She says I have to cancel the visit.

‘It’s simple. Just write a little note and say there’s been a misunderstanding.’

And this is how I react: ‘I don’t believe it! Why? No way! But why?’ Christ, don’t I deserve to die, though God knows I’ve tried to die enough times.

‘Because, Nina, I’m not at all prepared for this. I really don’t know that I want to see this sister of yours. She symbolises my betrayal by your father.’

I clear the table of our sugar-free jam (no additives).

‘Symbolises?’ I say. ‘But she’s a person.’

Ma gets on her raincoat and collects last night’s marking. You look very plain, I’m about to say. She kisses me on the head. The girls at school adore her. There, she’s a star.

But I’m very severe. Get this: ‘Ma. Nadia’s coming. Or I’m going. I’m walking right out that door and it’ll be junk and prostitution just like the old days.’

She drops her bag. She sits down. She slams her car keys on the table. ‘Nina, I beg you.’

Heathrow. Three hours we’ve been here, Ma and I, burying our faces in doughnuts. People pour from the exit like released prisoners to walk the gauntlet of jumping relatives and chauffeurs holding cards: Welcome Ngogi of Nigeria.

But no Nadia. ‘My day off,’ Ma says, ‘and I spend it in an airport.’

But then. It’s her. Here she comes now. It is her! I know it is! I jump up and down waving like mad! Yes, yes, no, yes! At last! My sister! My mirror.

We both hug Nadia, and Ma suddenly cries and her nose runs and she can’t control her mouth. I cry too and I don’t even know who the hell I’m squashing so close to me. Until I sneak a good look at the girl.

You.
Every day I’ve woken up trying to see your face, and now you’re here, your head jerking nervously, saying little, with us drenching you. I can see you’re someone I know nothing about. You make me very nervous.

You’re smaller than me. Less pretty, if I can say that. Bigger nose. Darker, of course, with a glorious slab of hair like a piece of chocolate attached to your back. I imagined, I
don’t know why (pure prejudice, I suppose), that you’d be wearing the national dress, the baggy pants, the long top and light scarf flung all over. But you have on FU jeans and a faded blue sweatshirt – you look as if you live in Enfield. We’ll fix that.

Nadia sits in the front of the car. Ma glances at her whenever she can. She has to ask how Nadia’s father is.

‘Oh yes,’ Nadia replies. ‘Dad. The same as usual, thank you. No change really, Debbie.’

‘But we rarely see him,’ Ma says.

‘I see,’ Nadia says at last.

‘So we don’t,’ Ma says, her voice rising, ‘actually know what “same as usual” means.’

Nadia looks out of the window at green and grey old England. I don’t want Ma getting in one of her resentful states.

After this not another peep for about a decade and then road euphoria just bursts from Nadia.

‘What good roads you have here! So smooth, so wide, so long!’

‘Yes, they go all over,’ I say.

‘Wow. All over.’

Christ, don’t they even have fucking roads over there?

Nadia whispers. We lean towards her to hear about her dear father’s health. How often the old man pisses now, running for the pot clutching his crotch. The sad state of his old gums and his obnoxious breath. Ma and I watch this sweetie compulsively, wondering who she is: so close to us and made from my substance, and yet so other, telling us about Dad with an outrageous intimacy we can never share. We arrive home, and she says in an accent as thick as treacle (which makes me hoot to myself when I first hear it): ‘I’m so tired now. If I could rest for a little while.’

‘Sleep in my bed!’ I cry.

Earlier I’d said to Ma I’d never give it up. But the moment
my sister walks across the estate with us and finally stands there in our flat above the building site, drinking in all the oddness, picking up Ma’s method books and her opera programmes, I melt, I melt. I’ll have to kip in the living room from now on. But I’d kip in the toilet for her.

‘In return for your bed,’ she says, ‘let me, I must, yes, give you something.’

She pulls a rug from her suitcase and presents it to Ma. ‘This is from Dad.’ Ma puts it on the floor, studies it and then treads on it.

And to me? I’ve always been a fan of crêpe paper and wrapped in it is the Pakistani dress I’m wearing now (with open-toed sandals – handmade). It’s gorgeous: yellow and green, threaded with gold, thin summer material.

I’m due a trip to the dole office any minute now and I’m bracing myself for the looks I’ll get in this gear. I’ll keep you informed.

I write this outside my room waiting for Nadia to wake. Every fifteen minutes I tap lightly on the door like a worried nurse.

‘Are you awake?’ I whisper. And: ‘Sister, sister.’ I adore these new words. ‘Do you want anything?’

I think I’m in love. At last.

Ma’s gone out to take back her library books, leaving me to it. Ma’s all heart, I expect you can see that. She’s good and gentle and can’t understand unkindness and violence. She thinks everyone’s just waiting to be brought round to decency. ‘This way we’ll change the world a little bit,’ she’d say, holding my hand and knocking on doors at elections. But she’s lived on the edge of a nervous breakdown for as long as I can remember. She’s had boyfriends before Howard but none of them lasted. Most of them were married because she was on this liberated kick of using men. There was one middle-class Labour Party smoothie I called Chubbie.