Ruby and the Stone Age Diet (12 page)

‘Why is it banal?’

‘Because you stare at people doing things in canyons and don’t know what they’re doing and really that is a very obvious image and not original at all.’

I am hurt, despite having no idea what she is talking about. The amount of times I have helped Ruby with her hair, not to mention her sandwiches and putting in her diaphragm, she could be more polite than to call me banal.

She starts writing a letter.

‘Is it to your genitals again?’

‘No. This one is to my orgasmic response. I am really fucked off at my orgasmic response. Sometimes it is pathetic. I am going to give it a good telling off.’

‘I want to write something too.’

‘How’s your orgasmic response?’

‘All right I think. I haven’t had much use for it recently. I don’t think I could write it a very interesting letter.’

‘How about writing a hippopotamus story instead?’ says Ruby. ‘That would be nice.’

We have no food and I am hungry.

‘Why don’t you go round the shops for some chocolate?’ asks Ruby.

‘I am scared of the werewolves. Yesterday they almost trapped me at the bus stop.’

‘Right. You better just wait till daylight.’

Ruby is surrounded by bits of paper and magazines and seems pleased with herself.

‘Maybe I could risk the shops anyway. Do you have any money?’

‘No. But we’ll be rich after our contact article rocks the nation. I’ve sorted out the ads to reply to. Here’s your bundle.’

There are about fifteen, mostly from sex magazines, a few from other things with contact columns. I read them.

‘Do you notice anything about your ads?’ asks Ruby.

‘No.’

‘Right. I’ll help you write some replies. Go and get those photos you had taken last year when you weren’t looking such a shambles as you are now.’

Still hungry, I go out to rehearse with Nigel. He tells me our drummer has left the band to go to acting school instead. We will have to postpone our gig again.

‘I wanted to play my new song to Cis.’

Nigel has brought his drum-machine so we can rehearse on our own. It is a small drum-machine, an out-of-date model that cost him thirty pounds from the second-hand shop. All it does really is keep a beat. Compared to some drummers, however, this is not too bad.

We are rehearsing in a makeshift room downstairs in a squat that we rent for four hours at a time. The microphones will not stay on the stands so we have to tape them in place and sometimes the amplifiers stop working, but it is convenient and very cheap.

I get on well with Nigel. If we could find a drummer we would be a good band. No one would care if we were a good band and, playing the sort of gigs we would get, no one would ever hear us. But we would still be a good band.

Rehearsing is fun sometimes. Putting your guitar up full and thrashing it takes your mind off everything else and there is always the thought that today’s rehearsals might be tomorrow’s big success. And sitting round on rickety old chairs in a shabby rehearsal room smoking cigarettes between playing is fun as well.

Carrying my guitar home through Brixton is a little worrying. If someone stole it off me I could not afford another one. I like my guitar. It is a Burns, an unusual old British make. Actually it looks better than it sounds, but it has a nice aura.

Walking home I carry on a conversation with Cis in my head.

‘It’s cold tonight. Can you feel the drizzle? We can cut through this road here. It’s quicker. Yes it is, really.’

I imagine her smiling, willing to go along with my shortcut although she doesn’t really believe in it.

These imaginary conversations go on all the time.

I have the sudden inspiration of calling on Cis and telling her I’m locked out. She will be sympathetic about this and let me sleep on her couch, or rather her mother’s couch, as that is where she is living just now. Her mother answers the door and refuses to let me in and tells me not to come back. I head on home and cut through the little park, past some trees.

Ruby is standing beside a tree. Her feet must be cold in the damp grass, unless they have become immune to all feeling.

‘What are you doing, Ruby?’

‘I’m seeing what it is like to be a tree.’

I stand beside her for a while. Nothing much happens.

‘I think this is a little boring.’

‘Yes,’ agrees Ruby. ‘I had hoped for better.’

‘Should we go home? I’m hungry.’

‘There isn’t any food. But we can have some tea.’

We walk home, holding hands.

At the bottom of our tower block I think I see Cis but she is holding hands with Fanfaron, God of Electric Guitar Thieves, so we run up the stairs as fast as we can. The police would never be able to protect us from the God of Electric Guitar Thieves, and anyway there is never a policeman around when you need one.

Next day Cis phones me up and screams down the phone for a while and then she sends me a letter telling me how much she hates me. I am pleased to hear from her. I wonder if she would like me to send her some flowers.

Ruby is quite sympathetic when I tell her all about it. Domino is with her and they seem to be back together again and outside the next block the old woman is having a friendly conversation with Ascanazl, ancient Spirit Friend of Lonely People. She has made him a cup of tea and is telling him how hard it is to manage on her pension.

He tells her that she should have joined a private pension plan while there was still time.

I phone up the people we hire our PA off to tell them our gig is cancelled again and they are quite annoyed about it and say I have to send them some money anyway or they will sue me.

I wonder if they are serious. I do not want to be sued. I go to ask Ruby what to do but she is busy fucking Domino and I sense that she will not want to hear about my PA problems right now. Another important question springs into my mind however, so I go into her room where Domino is lying on top of her.

‘Ruby, about this contact article, I have replied to all these gay adverts and I am not gay. Is this not a bad thing to do?’

‘Well, you never fuck anybody these days so it doesn’t really make much difference, does it?’

There is some logic in this.

‘But they are bound to sense something is amiss.’

‘Amiss? That’s a funny word.’ Ruby pushes Domino away and sits up, quite interested.

‘I’ve never heard you say amiss before.’

‘I must have picked it up somewhere. Perhaps Cis said it. Do you think Cis—’

‘Will you get the fuck out of here!’ screams Domino, who is probably wanting to get back to fucking, although as he doesn’t live here and I do he has no right to shout at me. But I leave anyway and spend some time looking after Cis’s cactus. I have a book called
How to Take Care of Your House Plants
that came free with six bottles of bleach and I am following its advice assiduously. If Cis was to walk in the door right this minute she would be proud of the way I have looked after her plant, although there is no sign of a flower.

Then I give some care and attention to Ruby’s cactus, although she is at this moment fucking Domino there doesn’t seem much need to help their relationship along.

I wonder if I killed her plant would Domino go away? I would like that. But I would not like to hurt Ruby.

I decide to make a sign.

I get some paper and write on it ‘Cis’s potted plant,’ but I don’t know where the apostrophe should go in Cis’s because it is always a little confusing when the word ends with an s.

Back in Ruby’s bedroom Domino has his head between Ruby’s legs and she is looking like she is quite enjoying
herself, but when I ask her where the apostrophe should go in the word Cis’s she edges away from him a little to give the matter some consideration.

‘C-I-S apostrophe S,’ she spells out for me, hand on Domino’s head. ‘Anything else?’

‘Do you know where the Sellotape is?’

‘I think it’s in the kitchen drawer.’

‘Thank you. While I’m in the kitchen, do you want me to make you some tea?’

‘Not this minute. In a little while.’

Domino has a terrible scowl on his face and seems to be shaking. I get back to making my sign. I do not really like Domino. I letter the sign with infinite care and Sellotape it onto the pot and I am very pleased with the result. When I give it some water and three carefully-measured drops of plant food I am sure I can hear it saying thank you.

‘Grow me a little flower,’ I say to it. ‘I am fed up with not being able to eat and thinking that every person I see is Cis and being sad all the time. And it’s all your fault.’