The Inner Evolution of Geena Grappelli

Chapter One

Il Matto

A young mortal walks onwards towards a great fissure. If she falls into the canyon, it is the end, for at the bottom there is only non-existence. With her back to the sun, she faces her own shadow, hot rays burning the back of her neck. At her heels ambles her dog. This puppy is her animal nature, snapping at her heels, urging her on to encounter the unknown of the abyss.

This is THE FOOL. She lives in a life of fantasy. She is passive, impulsive, and subservient to the law of chance. And she will persist this way until an accident shocks her into confronting her situation. Only at that moment will she turn away from the chasm.

Heathrow airport, London 2001

Licking a strawberry ice into which hair strayed, Barbara fixed grey eyes on the gold chain her mum was fingering nervously as Mrs. Rossi prayed for a flight protected by the blessed lady.

“Don’t worry mum, you’ll be there in no time. Bet they serve really cool food.”

“What do I care for food?” She swayed from side to side precariously, like a tree in a great wind. “Per l’amor dei Santi! It meant nothing to Saint Sebastian...I am going home at last!” Her soul cried out in victory before her face crumpled into saggy lines of fear. “Last - that word - pray it’s not an omen - our Lord ate the Last Supper and then -”

“Come on mum. Look, over there - it’s Steve - he’s got a teddy bear. Ah, that’s nice, he’s given it to that child.”

 “Oh, my precious but rough lapis lazuli, cradled in the rocks of life. How will you ever hang beautiful and glowing on the gold chains round our Saints’ necks. Why do you not join your old mother - think of the joy it would be to serve the Virgin! I had a dream that she raised her head in floods of tears, and looked straight at me, at me, and said ‘Come my child.’ How it would make my happiness complete to take my sweet, innocent baby, back with me. But youngsters have no imagination.

“So, my raw stone, let Steve cherish you now, polish, shape, round you to perfection. You are so foolish - and messy - all hair in your face. Why don’t you let me curl it neatly? Ringlets and ribbons, you were the pride of Wayden with your honey skin, your cherub’s face shining in the window of Jonson Photographs. You were so cu-u-ute!”

“Don’t squeeze my cheek please, it hurts. You’ve made me drop my ice-cream.”

Her mother grabbed Barbara’s thin shoulders with her plump ringed hands.

“Promise me you’ll take care. Don’t let everything slip out of your grasp. This world is full of uncertainty and horror. Pray - that the plane stays in the air, held up by Gabriel’s gossamer wings, guiding me to my birthplace. How I regret that you, Barbara, weren’t born there. You’ll never know what it feels like to be one of us, with the passions, the pain and the perfection we hold in our breasts. We, we are not like other people.”

“Mum, don’t start singing that song again.”

But Mrs. Rossi’s spirit had already soared far, laughing with her ancestors, worshipping at the feet of the Holy Shrine. There, on the green hills of home, she was once more a fresh girl, dark hair swinging down her pale back in a plait filled with flowers, holding hands with Sylvia and Mario, warbling the sweet song of peace, truth and togetherness. And it was a miracle - the Holy Lady was smiling at the young dancers who spiralled on the grass in an orgy of lilies and marguerites. But - Mario and Sylvia were long gone, and there was left, only a daughter shuffling from foot to foot, embarrassed by her old mother in this cruel, hard, London. Mrs. Rossi raged against the unfairness of life. She would crack the heavens open with her roars.

And this child wasn’t even Mario’s daughter. The poor little blossom had sprung from a ruthless back alley near Thornton Heath station, a chance encounter with an English devil that stank of the demon drink. But Mrs. Rossi had pride; both in her religion and her ability to keep a secret.

Barbara was playing with a pink angora cardigan, pulling the fluff off in little clumps creating an annoying mess.

“Look mum, they’re boarding now.”

For aeons Mrs. Rossi had dreamed of this cherished moment when the plane’s engines would roar and rise up into the blue ether to carry her home. But her faith in modern technology was weak, and she clutched her rosary tight, praying for her flight to be held aloft by wings of angels.  Yet the crocodile row of legs, arms, jackets, bags and heads was disappearing in an unstoppable torrent. Mrs. Rossi was swept downstream, far from the city she had never loved. On the runway beyond, the grey jaws of the jet plane were calling “Feed me, feed me!” She was giving herself willingly to the arms of destiny, to return her to the mountains and streams of her true spirit. This was goodbye.

“I love you Barbara! - and remember, don’t mock the eternal glory. That way lies damnation and the parching fires of sulphur!”

“Okay mum. Love you too.”

Mrs. Rossi’s voice rose above the river of heads, but was gradually lost in the wash of bodies, flowing out to the world beyond. It was funny to hear her get quieter and quieter.

Blinking tears away, Barbara felt another hand on her shoulder pulling her into his protected harbour.

“Never mind my little marmoset. Steve’s here. At least we can get married now, without all this family rubbish. A nice simple ceremony, that’s what we want, isn’t it? Lighten up, stop this crying.”

She rested against his jacket. At least she wasn’t going to be left alone. And what’s more, the most embarrassing mother in Wayden was gone. No more histrionics in the street or plastic mother of god shrines in the garden. Even gnomes would have been better. At least they did something, fishing, smoking pipes or pushing wheelbarrows, instead of looking down with a pious expression. Barbara’s mum had totally identified with the blessed lady,  “Holy mother, divine serene lady, queen of heaven...”

From this day on Barbara’s house would be a habitat heaven. Art-deco kitchenware. Two-seater sofa - coral with Moroccan cushions. She would open cans of chunky soup and packets of powdered potato. Meals would be simple and sweet. And hubby Steve would love it, because she cooked it and he loved her. At the weekend they would buy an occasional take-away  Chinese or Indian. Maybe they’d have babies - what fun  taking them to the park, going to the one o’clock club. She put her hand in her cardigan pocket and pulled out a crumpled tissue.

“That’s disgusting, Babs. Throw it away. Take mine.” Steve passed her a thick cotton handkerchief with his initials monogrammed on the corner. She blew her nose loudly and then tried to return it.

“That’s all right,” said Steve, “You can keep it for now. Wash and iron it before you give it back.”

Ironing! No way was she going to do that. Irons were nasty, clunky, boiling things, hissing dangerously from their steaming pores. If you wanted a crease these days, you got Sta-pressed. She smirked to think how soon she would have him wrapped round her little finger, just like the old days, when mum had dad at her beck and call before he stepped off Wayden Bridge on his way to work that fatal morning.

“I’m telling you,” said Steve as they left the airport, his arm now firmly circling her shoulders, “Things are going to be great from now on, just you and me. You’ll look back on the day your irritating mother left us in peace as one of the best in your life.”

Barbara leant on Steve as they left the airport ready to start afresh together. A bright new dawn was peeking its pink head over the horizon of life. The future beckoned rosily to the young lovebirds whose tender expressions were causing all those who saw them in the airport to feel sick with envy. Eyeing their green faces, Barbara smiled an extra-strength, double-cream self-satisfied simper.

***

“Fuck, blast, shit, cunt,” Steve was going crazy. The olive socks to match his suit were missing and he had to leave in under twenty minutes. Barbara was frantically trying to dig them out of the linen basket. If she couldn’t find them, she couldn’t wash them, and she needed to clean and iron them to make her the perfect Mrs. Watts.

The Watts’ marriage had taken place only a week after Mrs. Rossi’s departing flight. No guests, only Alisha, Mike and Pete for witnesses. Best friend Alisha procured Barbara’s lovely chiffon dress from Miss Selfridge. She was the Wayden top expert at crotching (sticking designer dresses in her knickers through a slit up the side of her skirt). Alisha fixed Barbara’s pale brown hair in a bun decorated with small white flowers. To keep Barbara’s wayward strands in place she used an inch of hairspray, and iced it with sprays of gyp, designing the overall impression of a fancy wedding cake.

“You look well fly.”

“Yeah, guy.”

“Nah man, never thought it would be you to be the first one to hitch up. Go girl.”

Steve and Barbara were a good-looking couple, despite the obvious age gap, and she had the photo to prove it, mounted proudly in its silver frame in 8 Azimuth Crescent.

Steve had bought the new house with hard cash. Dead centre in newly developed Docklands, it perched profitably in a plum investment area. “This is an unparalleled opportunity to start our own lives, build something completely fresh, free from the shackles of the past.” It was cokes and crisps all round at the goodbye party best friend Alisha hosted.

“’Snot fair, Babsie, you moving way too far, you know what I’m saying? And you looking so beauoootiful!”

The two mates wailed in each others’ arms, relishing movie-star dramatics. “Cheer up ‘Lisha, it’s not like I’ll never see you again. There’s always the phone.”

But who could have foreseen that communication would be an issue in the world of these twenty-first century newly weds? Steve advocated mobiles, not land lines, boasting an extra-compact vibrating model. He refused to show her the PIN code forbidding her from giving out the number to her friends.

“You’re better than them now Barbara, you’re my wife,” he told her, “That was your old life. You’ve moved on, and up.” Life after marriage took place inside, not outside, four walls.

Four walls of red brick, simple clean lines, smoothed in pure white plaster. No clutter in style or content, just plain wooden doors and natural floor coverings made from twisted rope and hypo-allergenic sea jute grass in herringbone knot stitch.  Organic sisal hurt your feet, but was the choice of young professionals. This was the happy-ever-after matrimonial home, the culmination of Barbara’s desires since she had taken dating dolls Barbie and Ken on their first Caribbean honeymoon in the bathroom sink. When the toys had emerged from their basin bath, Ken had carried Barbie in his arms across the threshold of their duplex cardboard pad.

Unfortunately Steve hadn’t carried his living Barbie across the threshold due to his latent bad back. But that night they made love in every room in the house, to christen it. Later that week she wrote to her mother,

“Dear Mum, Well here we finally are, Steve and me, married at last! Can’t believe it?!?! The new house is fantastic, and we are having a swell time. Yesterday we had fish and chips for tea, from the local shop, it is cute they have a picture of a giant penguin that you can only see if you squint your eyes but Steve said they were too greasy and we are not having them again. Hope they’re better round your way! Love, Barbara xxxx”

Two weeks later a headache-inducing 3D postcard of the blessed Mary flew in courtesy of international post services, with the uplifting advice, “Worship the virgin, the fount of love, and do not stray from the true path. Therein lies happiness! Affetto Mamma.”

“Don’t write to her if it makes you upset,” said Steve. “I’m looking after you now.” His tone had oozed care and concern.

He fumed into their bedroom. “You’re useless, Barbara, you’re going to have to do better than this. I work my fingers to the bone for us, and this is trash. You’re trash. I saved you from your mad mum and your filthy friends. You’re going to have to sharpen up.”

“I’ve got the grey-blue ones.” Barbara held the socks up nervously.

“Don’t be ludicrous. You’re absurd, Barbara. I can’t wear grey-blue with these trousers.”

“I’ll wash and iron everything ready for when you get home.”

“Too late, Babs, too late. You’re always too late.” He snatched the socks out her hand and put them on his well-pedicured feet. Then he slipped on his dark leather brogues, hand-crafted for English gentlemen in the home counties. He left hurriedly, tripping down the stairs.

“When will you be back, Steve?” Barbara wanted to know what time to cook.

“Don’t know yet. I’ll call.”

Barbara laughed as he went out the door. How silly he could be sometimes, they didn’t have a telephone, he had completely forgot! So, he wasn’t as clever as he thought, and did need his sensible young wife to look after him.

If she didn’t know what hour he’d be back, she would cook early and leave the dinner in the oven. Fish and potato with long green beans. Something friendly and warming, that says “You’re home” when you get in from a dark autumn with its spooky smells of ghosts, goblins and witches. In the old days, Alisha’s mum had roasted juicy sweet potatoes on the back garden bonfire. She could taste them now, hot butter and pepper dripping down her mouth, followed by cold strawberry milkshake sipped through a red striped straw.

Immersed in this land of milk and honey, down beneath the frothy layer the fresh cream was already turning sour, alone in the ruthlessly clean white rooms. The tyranny of the immaculate house forced her to learn to dust, scrub, clean, vacuum, cook, wash clothes, wash pots, wash plates, iron, make beds, tidy, sort, arrange, polish…. Daily tasks included such possibilities as hoovering skirting boards, wiping bathroom taps to remove water marks, bleaching tea stains off sinks and spoons and dusting the top of the record player, penetrating the groves surrounding the buttons with a soft brush.

This was her maiden voyage into the wonderful world of adults. Barbara angrily used so much bleach the house stank like a municipal swimming pool.

But she preferred the disinfected silence to Steve’s waspish presence, which radiated static electricity like a ginger tom aggressively patrolling his territory. Nervously fidgeting, he would sit, smoking his brand of menthol, watching for an excuse to pounce. Poor bloke, she thought, the pressure of work must be hard to make him so moody. He craved the perfect domestic set-up to relax his weary worked-out soul. An Englishman’s home is his castle.

Within this stainless fortress Steve appointed himself media mogul of 8 Azimuth Crescent, overseeing TV and radio. The hi-fi was closed access to anyone but Steve, a vinyl junkie who despised CDs because, “You can’t hear the bass decently and analogue recording techniques are intensely warmer.”

Barbara sensed that her musical taste was “naff”. Her opinions about records were met with derision, as Steve criticised her ignorance of American rock. Unlike the British who had taken punk too far and now couldn’t play their instruments properly, he instructed her that Americans were real musicians. Steve approved of some new dance directions, but not all. Fat Boy Slim was overrated, but what did you expect from someone who began his career in the Housemartins? Barbara was astounded by Steve’s knowledge of the pop industry as he opened the door to a cool, musical realm at which Barbara was privileged to sneak a reverent peek. She relished his rantings. They were a couple who could talk about their interests.

She glanced round the austere room, seeing nothing that belonged to her. Steve held strong convictions concerning gender difference in spatial awareness. “Females have no sense of design. It’s all to do with testosterone and the right side of the brain. They can’t see the wood for the trees.”

Steve wasn’t completely authoritarian. In a magnanimous gesture, he had granted her permission to display one photograph, commenting, “Now, they were proper woman back before this Wymmin’s Lib lunacy.” This was a striking Victorian portrait of a voluptuous dame. Barbara placed her a jaunty angle on the plastic ebony sideboard (which showed up any fingerprints as unsightly random smudges that had to be eradicated).

The face in the antique picture winked back at its admiring viewers cheekily, raising eyebrows under an enormous feather plumed fiasco of a hat. Her breasts peeked out above her lacy corset, their milk white mounds following you round the room. This woman was stupendous. She would have been sought after by lords, barons and earls, coal-miners and road-diggers, flourishing a sensuality beyond class, race, creed, even gender. She sat gaily on a trapeze, draped Grecian muslin revealing plump enticing thighs. Clenched in her teeth she brandished a small, delicately worked dagger, which glinted provocatively as she alternately teased and threatened from her baroque perch.

In his affectionate moments, Steve reckoned he could spot a resemblance in this circus empress to his Barbara. “You’re a bit of a temptress yourself, Barbara. Managed to get me. Good catch, how did you do it? Clever girl, must have used some kind of magic.”

In large copperplate writing scrawled across the bottom of the ochre-tinted photograph was brazed the name, big and brash, “Geena Grappelli”.

Long ago, in the blanket twilight of Wayden winters, Barbara’s father had sat her on his nylon trousered knee regaling her with family stories. Geena Grappelli sprung from their wilder entertainment origins. Back in the golden days of the nineteenth century, the bohemian Rossis had toured Europe with their shows, and even today, the entertainment tradition continued through cousin Marco, nicknamed in Milan clowning circles as “The Nose” because he ran so quickly.

Baby Barbara had been enthralled by this charismatic ancestress. She had ripped sheets to drape over her skinny matchstick legs, clutched cutlery in her mouth, and rigged rope swings from the banisters.

Her mother mourned her daughter’s unfeminine antics, “Oh these children, they haven’t had the devil beaten out of them yet. It’s a passing phase in which Lucifer has the upper hand, but mark my words, the Virgin will out.” The Wayden mothers tutted disapprovingly and whispered to each other about the Rossi strangeness. And after the incident in the Rossi garden local parents refused to allow their offspring to play with Barbara.

The back lawn was the practice yard for the Barbara’s most ambitious childhood games. Her knife throwing ritual targeted any form of vegetable, fruit, or flower. Apples, pears, bananas and oranges littered the grass in a roughly hewn fruit salad. A determined rascal, Barbara practised hard, and at the height of her skill could split an apple at twenty paces. But it had taken four hours to sew the nerves back together in Tommy’s hand, and Mrs. Rossi was compelled to act. Cursing Barbara’s knife throwing antics as the work of Be’elzebub, she banned Barbara from the kitchen and handling knives, creating the unfortunate legacy that Barbara never acquired the culinary skills that Steve believed his wife should possess.

Secondary school had brought that early chapter to a close. Teenagedom engulfed her, hormones swept her down those rapids of savage physical changes. She joined the teenage tribe who patrolled the neighbourhood, imposing their generation’s presence on the Wayden streets. Girls’ days were dominated by filling in diaries and spying on boys.

The rules were: (a) Trail boys you have a crush on, and (b) Write a secret agents’ account. “Thursday: Peter left school at 4.10pm and went to karate. He didn’t go the normal way, and turned into Claret Street to pass Alisha’s house. Halfway down the street he looked straight into her garden. This is a Sign of True Love. (Ha ha!) Don’t like his hair, it is long and dirty (yugh!) He plays Mr. Whippy with his shorts under the desk. He nearly saw me, but I ducked down behind a purple Ford Escort. Still don’t know what Michael thinks  does he really like me? We’ll see tomorrow at the bus stop.”

This entry was closely followed by the First Snog. This had been with Michael on Sunday at 7.05pm outside Jonson’s Photographs on Wayden High Street. It was “Tru luv 4 EVER,”. But ulterior motives were uncovered by Michael’s confession that he’d kissed her only because she was Alisha’s best friend. Barbara’s next entry expressed noble, generous sentiments. “I’m glad for Lish and Mike, really I am. They make a handsome couple and should be very happy.” This page signalled a religious phase lasting for three and a half weeks.

The Second Snog had been initiated in the privacy of the domestic parlour. She returned from school to find the house hurly-burly and the Marys respectfully stored in tissue paper. Mrs. Rossi was re-designing the lounge, and instructing the workers to be careful with the divine ornaments, was a tall, well-dressed thin man. Mrs. Rossi was impressed by this supervisor’s bearing and authority, and noticing that he appeared to be rather interested in her gangly offspring, a little twinkle entered the matron’s caring eye.

Even after the painting work was finished, he carried on enjoying the Rossi hospitality. And after Mario’s tragic road accident the man became a pillar of support to the dowager as he ate her risotto Milanese. Mrs. Rossi appreciated his visits in spiritually barren Wayden, and inspired by his financial situation the Virgin sent the matriach a stunning idea.

 One late autumn day, she put her vision into practice. Making a point of ridiculing Barbara’s glum face and abject demeanour, Mrs. Rossi rounded off by suggesting that he take her listless daughter for a breath of fresh air to revive her pale cheeks. Barbara reluctantly set off with the eager supervisor, wearing her thick grey overcoat to keep out the approaching winter cold.

When they had walked past the duck pond, avoided the pack of dogs chasing the cyclists and observed Wayden High’s football hopes being hammered by the neighbouring borough, they paused for a moment on one of the park benches which had managed to retain half a seat through its battles of graffiti and vandalism.

He took out his regular pack of menthol, and lit up in the cold park air. The freezing atmosphere twisted the smoke and exhaled breath into dragon-like swirls that hinted of an adult, darker world.

 “Aren’t you going to give me a fag?” she asked dangerously.

“You don’t smoke.” He had the aura of a film star or maybe a Blue Peter presenter. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re very beautiful,” he’d offered.

“Stop that.”

“Someone as good-looking as you should have a special boyfriend.”

“How beautiful?”

“Beautiful enough to be seen with me.”

He had pulled her to his thin lips. At first she stiffened. Then, as she willed her body to act in a mature manner, she relaxed. She lost her oral virginity. She had a Real Boyfriend.

He was different to boys in the gang because he was genuinely interested in her personality. It was Steve & Babs 4 Ever! He boasted a car, he flaunted money. Barbara’s unexpected status as half of a yuppie couple propelled her into a new position of power within the gang. But just as she started to get used to the perks of power, the backlash came, and rumours about the lovers spread like wildfire round the common. “Babs is pregnant,” “She’s got VD”, “Steve’s a crack dealer”, “They’re Satanists.” “They’re sado-masochists  they’ll tie you up and brand you.” Even Alisha crossed the street to avoid her.

Sensitive Steve got jealous easily. In instructional sessions he informed Babs that she was too mature to have male friends. “They’re only after one thing,” he said, “You’re so naïve. You’re sixteen now, time you acted like an adult. You’re my fiancé.” He accused her irresponsible behaviour of cruelly stirring his emotions while he was working hard for their future together.

And he did slave industriously, never relaxing. But what he actually did baffled her. He dropped cryptic clues: “housing,” “finance,” “development,” “business,” but wasn’t a labourer or town planner, and had no headed notepaper or internet portal. But his trade was certainly lucrative for Steve spared no expense on his personal wardrobe.

Barbara scoured his daily routine for loose clues. The days and nights were choreographed with phone calls, journeys, rushing and cursing. He would disappear in the early evening, returning at 4am or 5am if at all. When he came in, his dinner was crucial. He’d demand that Barbara get out of bed to sit with him while he ate, his mouth serious, his eyes cold and strange.

Like Ruth amid the alien corn, Barbara gleaned snippets of overheard mobile conversations, such as, “Just open the bloody giros yourself, fuck you.” With his cool business head, Steve smartly obtained finance for building and renting, specialising in Multiple Home Occupations. How proud she was of his good work with the London homeless. She bragged all about it to the Big Issue vendors to excuse herself for not being able to afford a paper, hoping her information would brighten up their pitch on a rainy winter’s afternoon. Rifling his pockets for more clues only turned up packets of matches from London bars “La Bestia,” and “The Moondog,” and a giro belonging to a friend who must trust him terribly.

All these signs led nowhere. But she did learn that asking questions was a bad idea. To train her, he had slapped her a couple of times when she showed too much curiosity. “No one likes a nosy cow.” The blows weren’t very hard though. She couldn’t claim to be a battered wife. Once he had hit her on the head and brought her up in a nasty blue mark. They worked out that she must be susceptible to bruising on her face. But it had been worth it in a funny way, as Steve had been ever so kind afterwards. He’d confessed that he was truly sorry, and had bought her a fleece jacket with a hood, to cover the side of her face when she went to buy the bread.

And tonight she would soothe Steve’s ruffled mind with domestic perfection. She located socks and clothes, and set about washing and ironing with military efficiency. She crept among the horrible scorching stoves, kettles and toasters, a fearless scout in a no man’s land, where burns and scalds were the daily female threats.

The door flung open. Steve was back earlier than expected. Only 7pm by the digital clock on the fan oven. Husbands in 1970’s American sitcoms came home at this hour. She half expected him to shout TV-style, “Honey, I’m home!”

But he was not in a good humour. Drenched, with his raincoat soaked right through, his shoes slopping in water, streams trickling from his hair onto his reddened face. His eyes sparked demonically. She ran him a nice warm bath using his lavender oils to revive and unwind him. The perfume mingled in the steam, caressing the bathroom tiles with invasive swirls of hot moist air.

Dinner will be ready soon, she informed him softly, as she gently removed his wet clothes for washing, drying and airing. What is it? He asked, speaking shortly, to the point. Fish, mashed potatoes and green beans, she explained, observing him in minute detail to see if any ingredient provoked a negative reaction, however subtle. Oh. Okay. He’d been non-committal. Didn’t want to talk.

Barbara laid the table systematically. She check-listed the final show. All cups, plates, cutlery in the right places. Nicely organised. Napkins folded symmetrically. Water jug and two glasses. Now it was time to drop the pendant lamp down to the table, lighting the area to present the food as if for an expensive photoshoot. The fish was grilling nicely, she mustn’t rush the boiling, or overdo the green beans. At the instant of ‘al dente’ she fished out the verdant strands and strained them in the stainless steel sieve, lightly tapping it against the side of the sink to spray off the water. On no account must Steve’s plate have a puddle dampening the vegetables.

The show was going well tonight. The fish was nicely turned out, not burned, the rich round breadcrumbs toasted golden brown. She tumbled it onto the plate, ensuring stray crumbs didn’t bounce around making the plate messy. And finally, the potatoes. She creamed the fluffy mash with little milk, unsalted Normandy butter and black pepper.

She wasn’t allowed use of the turntable in case she blunted the stylus, but could use the tape-recorder to provide gentle music to top off the banquet ambience with Schumann’s piano accompaniment. She smiled indulgently as Steve descended to take his place at the near side of the round table. She cooed happily as he picked up his knife and fork. She waited on him contentedly filling his glass full of mineral water naturally carbonated with low sodium, magnesium salts and potassium traces.

Steve penetrated her doe eyes with a bright blue gaze as he sliced and pronged a bite-sized morsel of fish. He chewed the mouthful deliberately. Then he picked up the water and drank a gulp, washing the bits down his gullet, easing its passage down the oesophagus. He pushed a couple of the al dente beans around with his fork, passing the yellow hills of mash.

“Don’t cook me these again. I don’t like them.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Don’t keep apologising Barbara, it makes you sound like an old woman.”

He took a bite of potato. His expression changed. Opening his mouth as if he had eaten the devil’s claw, he spat the alien pulp straight back on to the plate. His face morphed into an evil walnut, lines dripping with violence. Despite the stink of danger rising to the roof, she was fascinated by his malevolent wrinkles. They were formed by a hate so revolting, so corrupt. His voice sounded vocoded, processed. Nasty, ancient vile words reeking with pollution. He spoke, or was it an alien speaking?

“This slop is fucking disgusting.”

“What?” She was confused. Both were standing now. She noticed she was panting, just slightly, like a little dog after a short run in the park. She formed a makeshift plan, keep something between her and him, maybe the circular table. If she dodged about, feinted, ducked, dived, and his reach was short, she would perhaps be able to escape out the door. If she was very, very nimble and quick as a boxer, or a fencer…. jump, jump, dance, keep moving.

“The pepper.” His voice was so quiet now, a forgotten whisper from the past, “I can’t stand pepper. Not in my mash. You know that. You knew that.”

Did she? Had she forgotten? She wasn’t sure. These days, everything moved so fast. She couldn’t keep up. Steve must be right, she was old for her age. But her vision was perfect. She could see very clearly. So as she saw Steve step out and his fist thunder in arrogantly, she lifted her hands to cover her face, to protect her grey eyes. She toppled like a young tree, bending, flexing but ripped up at the roots. Fortunately he had no shoes on as he had just had a bath, so when he kicked her in the stomach it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. All the other blows were methodical, rhythmic. Punch kick hit, punch kick hit.

When he’d finished, he threw his clothes on and left. She lay there, just there, happy in her own little corner. She didn’t feel like moving, this place was as comfortable and as warm as a chocolate-box cottage. The stiller she stayed, the less attention she might attract from the outside world. Wounded animal’s instinct took over. A secret nook was all she wanted, a retreat where she could shrivel down to nothing, to a little seed, back before she was born to that golden land of harmony and delight.

In fact, she was becoming, in essence, something quite bright, small and intense. And this foetus light was flying somewhere high in the room looking down on her abandoned shell. And from up here, she did look pathetic. Was that really her, that mess of broken body with straggling hair? Elevated to the very top of the room, the atmosphere was thinner, cooler. The ceiling was opening above her, revealing a long, dark tunnel stretching right up, extending into infinity.

She felt herself rushing blindly up the tunnel, first slowly, but then gradually gathering pace. Soon she was speeding fast as a bullet. In the distance she could see a faint light growing progressively brighter as she charged headlong towards this luminescent source of energy. But why should she say headlong when she didn’t have a head anymore? That ridiculous, redundant part was rejected on the kitchen floor with its headaches and pains. Good riddance to it too, with its silly thoughts and chattering nonsense. As water boiled in her non-existent ears, she rose faster than steam escaping from a kettle.

Then her movement slowed, and as her speed decreased, a dark cloud drifted towards her. The vapour diffused and redirected, taking the form of a human being, a female, but with an old fashioned silhouette like the Victorian paintings in Wayden Museum. But this lady was free of restrictive corsets and their pinching waists. She brimmed with gaiety, bubbled with infectious joy. Barbara caught the laughing disease, and giggled lightly, intoxicated. She grabbed Barbara vigorously by the hands and they whirled up the tunnel finely as dolls waltzing on a music box.

Tossing her curls, her fellow dancer spoke in a silvery undertone: “Leaving already Barbara? You’re only a child. Why give up so young?”

“Look at me sprawled down there. I’m such a useless lump. I’ve made a total mess. My life’s a disaster.” Gazing down the telescope tunnel of light, she viewed her own body, loose legs slumped across the sisal, limbs falling limply as a badly cut dress.

“So, you’ve made mistakes. This world is not for the weak of heart. But you can fight back. Do whatever you want, be who-ever you wish. To achieve anything, Barbara, you only have to desire.”

Barbara had rejected adult lectures the day she marched out of Wayden High flinging her books in a bin for Steve to set them on fire.

She rebelled again. “I want to die. I’m not going back to that bastard. It’s too miserable.”

The spirit frowned disapprovingly. “Silly girl. You must return.”

 “Get lost, you Victorian has-been. Stop trying to run my life”

“That’s better!” The rosy face beamed merrily. “Be Brave, bold, be yourself.”

“Stop patronising me.”

“Wonderful. You’re preparing for the Return. It’s called ‘The Transition Period’, the second stage of childbirth. From here you push  hard. I feel it starting.”

The idea of return to the bleak world below was too unwelcome. “That kitchen floor is totally uncomfortable, it’s that bloody sisal.…and what’s more, I’ve got no family, no friends…” Her nose twitched like a small grey mouse.

“Can I be your friend?” The woman’s silvery voice purred with anticipation at the tempting thought.

A new friend, to play, to laugh, to care. Oh, she had missed that.

”Yes. Come back with me. I won’t go alone.”

“Well, if you insist.” The spirit licked its lips, tasting nothing, hungry for the pain of reality, the salty sweetness of corporeal flesh.

 The two spun swift as a kitten chasing its tail. The spirit held Barbara’s hands tightly, sinking its claws into her ego, id and superego. As a cat pursues its prey in the cosmic chase of predator and victim, the two circled, accelerating….

…. collapsing, plunging. Next thing all Barbara knew was that she was lying on the kitchen floor with a splitting head and throbbing limbs. How long she’d been sprawled there was a mystery, a timeless void. Now the LED numbers were counting up on the electronic cooker. She couldn’t ignore the stinking reality that she’d been beaten up and that the aggressor would be back soon. The last place she wanted to be was in the same house as that bastard. So, she picked herself up quickly, went upstairs and threw a couple of clothes into a bag and went out the door into the freezing starry night. It was 1am.

Chapter Two

Il Penduto

The Fool, blithely and ignorantly following her superficial path, encounters her personal cross - an experience too arduous to withstand. This overpowering challenge humbles her, until she is forced to give up the past and surrender to her inner emotions. Through her sacrifice, she receives great comfort and can move forward willingly, in the glorious contradiction of the Hanged Man.

A celestial conspiracy had robbed Steve, hung him up and left him out to dry. They were all against him, from the highest point in the firmament right down to the lowest barmaid in London. He never got a break despite all his hard work.

Poor Steve. He only wanted what any normal, decent male is supposed to desire: a nice home, flash car, pretty wife, well-paid job, high standing in the community and all people to respect him. His simple need was to make a mark with his puny life before old age and the grave dragged him under.

He had made the best of his natural assets. They included both a wily cunning and a ruthless streak, characteristics the world loves and rewards. He had pulled off some successful coups in the dirtier sector of the housing business and was rich enough to pay for his new house in cash, dazzling the bank managers and negotiating a price so cheap his neighbours hated him.

But his brand new house and gorgeous teenage wife could not satisfy him. The spectre of sibling rivalry visited his dreams, presenting him with the images of his truly triumphant elder brothers. His meagre life could not compare with the achievements and possessions of Elliot (Global Marketing Director for Nuclear Power World Inc) and Jason (Chief Professor of Future American Scientific Progress, University of California), with their yachts, convertibles, beach houses, town houses, swimming pools, jacuzzis, personal gyms and trainers, Caribbean holidays and staked ownership of lunar surface parks (“It’s only a matter of time before total solar system real estate is a dynamic marketable proposition”).

Steve’s humble gains only served to rub salt in his mental wounds.  He was determined to rise up high, soar way above his peers and have respect. He demanded respect.

Large-scale benefit fraud had been particularly lucrative for him, and he was starting to use the accumulated finances to fund pharmaceutical-related transactions, which he believed could be the key to getting a leg up into bigger, national and international markets. The drugs-infested teddy bear which he had passed to the six year old at the airport as Barbara said goodbye to her dotty mother was merely the start of a new global operation.

Steve had been nurturing key contacts, and moving into more glamorous consignments. He had managed to arrange a significant meeting in a club with a select clientele, The Moondog. His favourite type of meeting place, a Soho strip joint, here he would display himself to syndicate leaders as a man to be reckoned with.

The day begun auspiciously. His bath was the right temperature. His towels were warmed on the radiator. Barbara had scrubbed the taps eradicating all water marks that could have soiled his vision. But this benign dawn was soured by incompetence. That stupid cow hadn’t sorted his clothes properly. The mis-matched socks ruined his mood. His wife would need better training to prevent her making future domestic mistakes. Obviously, she didn’t appreciate what an important man she was married to, and how she had to anticipate his every need. He would have to teach her a lesson later.

Despite Barbara’s inadequacies, Steve managed to look debonair as always, spraying his breath minty fresh for confidence. He had some very important contacts to butter up, and the Moondog was just the place to do this in. The club was owned by Steve’s chief contact. This guy seemed to know everyone. He’d put Steve in touch with dealers and dodgers on the hard scale of merchandise, and arranged some pretty eye-catching deliveries, which were beginning to build up Steve’s standing. He was a man who Steve begrudgingly respected due to a hard and business-like reputation, combined with an expensive and tasteful dress sense. Steve knew that with time, as they developed their working relationship, this man would recognise his own quality and treat him as an equal.

Steve Watts felt positive and assured entering the seedy but sexy club. A man of action, a man of means, he sat himself down on the best table in the club, salivating in anticipation of the business ahead. But immediately he was disappointed. A skinny, haggard old whore who must have been at least thirty, approached him for his drinks order. Steve didn’t like his women the same age, or older than himself. Even Barbara, when she got too old for plastic surgery’s rejuvenating knife would have to be relegated from the bedroom. It was just the way that men were, it was in the genes.

But although it was natural, when he commented on what a dismal shape she had, and how her aged appearance  well it had to be said  brought to mind an ugly old bitch that should be put down, she overreacted. Fair enough, his choice of language had been  rich and vivid  but she didn’t have to take to that extreme. All she needed to do was apologise for her face, and send over an eighteen year old with bright blonde hair and big tits. He had only got a little physical (well, no one likes being told where to go by a whore, for god’s sake). It was her fault for letting it all get out of hand.

He attempted to assert himself by throwing a table across the room and smashing glasses, and then to his disbelief he was unceremoniously ejected from the club. There was no need to chuck him out, it made him look like he was in the wrong.  He had been humiliated in front of his clients by a common prostitute. Didn’t they realise who he was? Was this the reward for the esteem he’d secretly felt for that club-owning creep? No one could get away with publicly disgracing Steve Watts. He would have revenge.

Meanwhile, he cooled off, and made his way back home, kicking a few parked cars on the way, breaking a couple of rear lights to let off a bit of steam. He came home, to the haven where a man can relax, and let go of all the pressures of work. When he got in, it was perhaps a little unfortunate that he took out his bad day so viciously on his wife, he hadn’t meant to go that far. But she had started the day’s downward spiral with her inadequate household management. And the best marriages have conflict, it keeps a relationship fresh. It’s the making up that counts. Thinking along those lines, late that night Steve popped into Waterloo station and bought a nice bunch of tiger lilies and chrysanthemums. He wasn’t very good at expressing his feelings, so he would say it with flowers.

Chapter Three

L’Angelo

When the angel calls, The Fool is reborn - cleansed of all guilt and burdens. The past and its mistakes are behind her, and she is ready to begin anew.

Barbara walked away from her house with the cold wind blowing on her jaw, making her poor face ache. Warm liquid flowing down her sad cheeks made her realise she was crying. There didn’t seem much point in stopping the stream. It was important to just let it go. It was some pleasurable in wallowing in being the victim, which a truth which saves many from going mad in the darkness and creates martyrs out of more.

Barbara dived into the inner hole she had been avoiding for so long. The more wretched she felt, the better, like a dog howling to the moon. Where once she had had family, friends, lover and husband, everything, now there was nothing. Only solitude remained, and the sound of her feet on the wet shiny pavement, a pain in her left toe where her shoe didn’t quite fit, and the sound of some (infrequent) passing cars on their way to real places as she wandered through her no-mans land.

As she walked, she became aware of the sky. Orion was in front of her, the clouds had gone and stars lit the path. She had a sense of a peaceful white light somewhere high above. It wasn’t a physical light. It was floating high above the cosmos. Up there, satellites were creaking their way around planet Earth, radiating signals to all the busy ants below working through the night. Like many city dwellers, Londoners often love the night more than the day. Night is a time to observe and reflect without being blindly carried along in the daystream of people.

Out of the night the light spoke to her. It gave her an inner peace that radiated out of her burning wounds as she made her way towards the town neon.

“I don’t have a clue where I’m going,” she said out loud.

“Just keep going, just keep going,” the inner light responded.

She walked up the main road by the river. Buses, taxis, all these seemed out of the question. She had ten pounds. It wasn’t enough for anything, not for transport, not for anywhere to stay. Walking was the only alternative. Suddenly, a cat ran out, fast, in front of her path.

“Shame it wasn’t black, I could do with some good luck.” She started humming to herself.

“Just keep going,” the inner voice prompted.

So she carried on. She walked past the bright lights of the industrial printing works, stopping briefly to let the lorries drive in with their ship loads of papers. And then, on again, over the grass lit up by small outdoor lights nestling in the green spikes, grey in the pale orange light. Over the bridge, she went, on over the car tunnel. She crossed the star-shaped roundabout with its extra clever-clever award winning design, kept as clean as Barbara’s lounge by international business maintaining their corporate image.

Down past the impressive bridges spanning the capital’s river, she watched a pleasure boat taking party-goers into the city centre, and thought briefly of the Marchioness, and ironically of happy days with her father. They had watched telly together as the news of its sinking was reported. Her father’s shock and sad eyes at the tragedy was typical of his gentle nature. The memory brought to life his sweet short portrait sitting next to her on an old red sofa in a cosy parlour, eating tea and currant buns on a wet afternoon.

Barbara didn’t stop to contemplate her lost childhood. She continued forward along the wide road as the occasional car whistled its way out of London. Cars with a home to go to. Here it was a little less isolated. At a bus stop a late night couple eyed her suspiciously. As she passed them, the girl tilted towards her boyfriend and whispered something close in his ear. She felt their eyes burning into her back as she moved on.

Closer into town she met an old guy walking his dog. As he coughed some irritant gritty phlegm into the gutter he noticed her. He stared straight into her face. Starting to get paranoid, she pulled her wispy brown hair and hood further over her face to make herself more anonymous.

Pavement, bricks, slabs, stones, tarmac, man-hole covers, gutters, it all passed beneath her step by step. The city had turned into a Zen conveyor belt. Life didn’t stop and interact, it was just something to pass through. Walking let all things pass behind you, let them go. This was a good philosophical trick. By travelling constantly you could turn the world into a river that streamed around you, preventing anything from hurting you.

She came to a cross-roads. Up towards the north was a bus link which she knew made the connection for Wayden. She hesitated for a second.

“Just keep going,” reminded the inner voice.

She was naked inside, there was nothing of the past that remained. Tonight her soul had been stripped bare. Her empty shell contained nothing of the person she had been. So she carried on towards the bright light of the city centre, and towards emerging hopes and dreams.

As she reached greater distances, travelling forward into the capital, the metropolis scenery kept changing. Night buses passed, roaring and fuming. They would soon be replaced, she thought, by more efficient eco-friendly models using electrical powered engines. She gaped at the black fumes being churned out of the bus exhaust and thought it was surprising more weren’t obviously dying from the pollution.

She resisted temptation to jump on a bus that stopped right in front of her. The motive in refusing the warmth, the seat and the company of the night bus was that her money was too precious. If she spent  what was the fare?  two pounds? - what would she have left for food? Besides the walk was doing her good, a sure sign of which was that she was starting to get hungry. The sweet and salty smells of the Chinese take-aways made her stomach move with desire. Aromas of boiling noodles wafting round red signs with gold writing beckoned her to stay and eat. But the idea of fortune cookies bearing messages of hope waved her on. It wasn’t time to stop.

“Just keep going.”

Through the quiet her steps echoed. Business buildings were sleeping, empty but for night watchmen sitting at brightly lit desks in bare clean foyers. She heard in her mind the morning racket of the clattering feet of millions of workers in hard heeled shoes, as suited men and women went their way to their various jobs, stepping to the orchestra of cars, buses and bikes stopping and starting, their mobile phones bleeping, and their briefcases and coats rustling. I have never worked in my life, she thought. I have never been a secretary, never cleaned, never answered the phone, never made beds or cleaned rooms as a chambermaid or cleaner. Back in Wayden, Alisha and her girl friends were earning a living through these kind of jobs. That is, those that were not already taking the direct boyfriend/mother route to adulthood.

“Just keep going.”

The air started to vibrate as she approached Soho. The quiet of empty office was replaced by the sound of nightlife, the chatting of people out to party, club, cinema, theatre and pub. Taxis, were being hailed, people ran across roads for night buses, couples, both gay and heterosexual held hands as they ambled lazily down the neon lit street. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to be with all these people  they were having a good time, she didn’t want to spoil it for them with her blues. Even the homeless, wrapped in crocheted blankets in chain store doorways were having a chat, a fag and a gossip with their friends. But Barbara was too tired to care. She could be homeless too. It looked quite easy. You just sat down in a warmish place, got a sheet and said, “Sssssssspare some change.” She’d noticed that underneath cashpoints were popular spots for begging, and it helped if you had a little dog on a rope lead. She found a back street behind a Chinese restaurant that wasn’t too busy, and sat down next to a bin liner. It smelt of fish.

She spoke out loud in the fishy stink,  “This walk is mental. I’ll sit here, get myself together, and clear my head. It’s not like Brad Pitt is going to appear round the corner and sweep me into his arms. This is real life, not a Hollywood blockbuster. It’s not even a video diary about young girls from the suburbs who end up in the gutter.”

With her head down on her knees limply, she looked like just another piece of rubbish. In her grey mac with her skinny figure and moonlike face, she could have been an advert for heroin chic.

“Who ho! Help! You nearly floored me there. My bad leg, and all.” There was a shape in the dark. Big, lumpy and clumsy it lurched towards her, tottering on stumpy legs.

“He’s been in the war, you know. He was a bouncing bomb.” Squeaky nasal tones came from the right. She made out a thin silhouette gangling in the street lamp.

“Think this is a nice place to sit, do you, missus?” The large shape continued.

“Steady on, Norm. Fall on her, and we’ll have pancakes for breakfast. “

“I’m going to go, I’m going to go!”

“Timber! Look out below! Women and children first!”

There was much great flailing of arms, as the one called Norm seemed to be falling towards the rubbish bag. As she stared he became less of a plump shadow and more of a flesh and blood human being wearing pale washed blue jeans, a shirt tucked into trousers that were held in place with brown leather belt, and an olive green bomber jacket. He looked so soft and comforting, she was sure he wouldn’t really hurt himself if he did hit the floor. He’d bounce up again  boing! As he was on the point of collapse he righted himself with not a second to spare. Like Oliver Hardy he had grace, as he waved his arms backwards and forwards standing on one leg like a ballerina. A little titter spread out from her left mouth’s side and became -

“Got her!” said Norm. “A smile.”

“Don’t mind him.” The thinner one with the South England vocal sounds squeezed in next to her on the doorstep. “Move up please.”

“Hey!” Righteous indignation from the Northerner. “I’m the one who nearly broke his leg, I am. That’s my doorstep, I’m the one should be sitting down. What’s your game?”

The thin one wearing a strange bee-like long stripy jumper with holes in rose up again at the challenge. A bloody duel was unfolding in the Soho night-air. Serious and intense, it evoked to Barbara the ritual of a classic eighteenth century duel, with slapping gloves on cheeks and pistols at dawn.

“Want a bunch of fives? Get your dukes up. You know you’ll lose, mate.” He Barbara, the thin one whispered behind his hand, “Hey darling, want to make some quick cash? Bet on me, I’m the best looking.” He made like a preying mantis. Barbara wondered if he really knew Kung Fu. Bruce Lee was one of her heroes.

The large one poised himself for battle, in the style of a traditional British boxer, with one fist guarding his chin and the other jabbing the fresh air in front of him. He made his pitch, “I’m made of steel. You can hit me anywhere. But not the face  not the face. I’ve got a photo shoot in the morning.”

“What, down the local station? Your ugly mug’ll break the copper’s camera. Still, I thought I’d seen you on Crimewatch.”

“At least I got on telly. That was one bet I won.”

“That was your last and final victory. Now it’s time to meet the master. Get your guard up, and say your prayers  the Killer Bee is about to sting!”

“Who do you think you are, Mohammed Ali? More like a poncey butterfly. Try and land on my face, sucker!”

The Bee let out a shriek like a cat (almost). It was so loud, the large one fell over on the rubbish with the shock. Barbara laughed. Norm was covered in mess from the bag. And the street reeked with the strong and pungent odour of shrimp paste.

Complaints came from large one as he lay in the garbage. “That’s not fair, the round hadn’t even started.”

“Yes, Norman. You are right. Someone should have rung a bell.”

“Yes. I want Marquis of Queensbury rules.”

“Her! She can be the ref.”

“Yes! She can ring the bell. Had any experience bell ringing, love?”

“No,” she giggled.

“Well there’s nothing to it love. All you have to do is go ‘ding-a-ling-a-ling’”

“Yes, you can do it. Have a go.”

“No.” It would be ridiculous. She was too embarrassed.

“Yes you can. No previous experience required.”

“Help us out here! Come on.”

Barbara gave in. “Okay. I’m ready. How’s this?” She pursed her lips and then let out a tinkling, “Ring a ding ding!”

“By Jove, I think she’s got it.”

“I think she’s got it!”

It was charades, the theatre, a late night film, or at the very least a different reality. Barbara wondered if she had accidentally passed through a wormhole on her long walk and ended up in an alternative comedy universe. Throwing herself into the part, as if improvising in school drama, she held out an imaginary bell. “Take your positions. Are you ready, boys?”

Norman said, “Wait a moment. I have to take put my teeth guard in.” Turning away he put something secretly in his mouth. When he turned back he had a piece of orange wedged behind his lips. Barbara hooted and snorted.

The Bee was disgusted. “Norman. That is too revolting. Did you find that in the rubbish?”

Norman couldn’t say anything. The peel was stopping any words. He smiled though in an “I’ve got a dirty piece of orange stuck in my mouth” kind of way.

The Bee conceded the battle. “I cannot possibly continue in combat with any opponent that is so distasteful as to put a piece of rubbish covered fruit in their mouth. If they will do that they could do anything. Their scruples are completely open to question  besides which, Norm, you’re violating Health and Safety Regs.”

Barbara announced, “Well, I declare the fight over and done with. Both win. I don’t want you to fight anyway.” As she finished her voice broke into a sob and she looked as if she was going to wail  loudly, like a baby, suddenly, hugely and uncontrollably. Norm ripped the orange out of his mouth and tossed it aside in the gutter. He smiled an orangeless grin, licking his lips and sucking out the orange taste. Barbara could imagine the sharp taste of the peel as well as the sweeter orange insides.

These two were the universal comic duo. As long as they engaged in perpetual conflict the cosmos was balanced. Neither could win. For one to vanquish the other would be as sacrilegious as Laurel murdering Hardy. They were the straight man and the fool in the dance of ages, acting in miniature the infinite struggles on which the earth spins. Fighting, arguing and contradiction makes the world go round, look at any normal family.

These comic knights both had the cheery look of wasted childhoods. Their soft eyes betrayed stories of playing pool, bunking off school. They wore the relaxed faces of those who didn’t care if found smoking, cheating, or wanking to jazz mags in their room (even if by their mums). Enjoyment and pleasure were the playmates of these eternal children.

The Bee bent a lanky head towards her, his stripy jumper flapping around his thin wrists from which long fingers limply fell. He had been one of those teenage boys that suddenly shoots up in late adolescence, growing eighteen inches in a year. When he stopped growing upwards, he never filled out widthways. He spoke in a high-pitched upper-class Kent accent that reminded Barbara of boys whose balls threaten to drop tomorrow. The Bee used those elevated tones to invite her for a drink, “My dear, we only play the clown and fight to please you. And now you’ll take a glass with us.”

Fearing the glare of social stares, Barbara became horribly aware again of her beaten-up complexion and aching bones. In her inner eye, her face stared back at herself, cheeks heavy with sores that said to society “Barbara Watts, you are marked out from the rest as a failure, a victim, and an outsider. From now on people will stare at you. You don’t belong to a world where people do ordinary things together, such as going out for a drink, borrowing a book from the library, buying a CD, walking down the road, going on a date. Don’t kid yourself, Mrs. Steve Watts. Both that name and marriage are a joke. You don’t know what a normal relationship is. You’re a ghost, condemned to wander alone forever, too full of torment to enter heaven. You’ve got the mark of Cain. Unclean. Dirty. Sick. Normal people don’t want you around.”

However she didn’t want to sit there on her own, wallowing in self-pity, lonely and cold, and smelling of  what was that  rotting lobster? She wanted to join the funny duo, become a third member of their gang just for tonight. But she was an alien from the Planet Misery and as such it was only polite to refuse. She reasoned it thus. When you’re at an event and you’re offered strawberries and chocolate cake, if it’s the last piece left you should say no because that’s proper etiquette. As a domestic violence victim, she was now a burden to the social machine, a millstone which would pull the whole apple cart off the road and topple it into the mire. She would not do that. She had her pride. Her portion was the lonely step and rotting fish, not the strawberries and cream. She refused, snivelling.

“Nah, s’all right. I can’t! Not looking like this  you go on, have a good time. Don’t worry about me. I’m alright.”

“Hoi! No such word as can’t,” said Norm. He pushed The Bee out of the way, took Barbara by the arm and pulled her up. “My name’s Norm, and this is my associate Rob, and this here’s our watering hole. Behind this ordinary looking door is a set of steps which lead to a world only known to members of our secret gang. We have our troubles but they don’t bother us down there in our special little hideaway. When you enter, you become one of the happy people. We’re all friends here. Would you like to be our friend?”

“Anyway,” butted in the Bee, “We need you  to stop us fighting!”

“But...” She hesitated. The doorstep was cold, and she was scared of getting piles. She gave up the protest and let Norm lead her to a pale blue flaking door. The Bee buzzed a grimy grey intercom. A blue crackle.

The Bee spoke, “Come on, open up, Rob and Norm here.” A click. Norm pushed the door and in they went, first Norm, then Babs following, and Rob bringing up the rear in a peculiar procession. Still, Soho had seen much more curious sights than this.

They descended under the street. It was quite bright on the stairwell. Beneath her feet, worn out damp axminster carpet was edged in by bright white walls. The corridor was lit by the version of fluorescent light used in girls’ toilets which makes skin display all its blotches, red patches and pimples in their full glory. This ugly entrance didn’t appear to lead to any form of bar she was familiar with. In her Wayden local there were tall chrome pink seats under giant neon cocktail glasses with a knowing eighties sparkle. But Norm and Rob were in their own neck of the woods, and she was a lost teenager, visiting the house of the three bears.  At the bottom of the steps, a vinyl hallway with fake terracotta pattern led to the right. At the end of the plastic tiles was a white door with a chrome handle. They entered. Norm first, Barbara second, Rob third.

Beyond the door Barbara saw nothing. Zero. This was the bottom of the sea, the end of the world. It was flat after all, and she had sailed off the end into the void. Then she blinked and shapes started to emerge out of the darkness. This was Jonah’s whale, the low underbelly of London and the cellar of Soho. Here was the curious habitat of deep sea creatures. Cold blues met warm browns, lit by candles that had dripped for a year or more, forming twisted, provocative sculptures over wine bottles. Silhouettes of differing sizes and shapes leant expressively across round tables, chatting loudly, gesturing boldly, boasting, bragging, gossiping, poking fun, laughing. People were scoring drugs, passing packets secretly and openly, snogging, groping bosoms and bums, confessing, pouring their hearts out… On the stereo, blaring out, was some modern techno jazz with a French male voice lilting from side to side over darkly studded bass and keyboard ramblings. How totally cool, she thought. This is so, so happening.

Norman pulled out a seat for her at a little round table. Why, this is just a room, she thought, glancing round. Faces loomed large, nodded and withdrew.  Visitors to this colourful basement all featured larger than life, especially an imposing coiffured blonde with heavy hanging eyelashes and enough make-up to sink a battleship. Her lips were bright purple, her cheeks wild orange, her eye make-up bright shining blue. Barbara found herself staring rudely, but the vision winked.

“Don’t stare too much,” whispered Rob, “He doesn’t like it.”

A transvestite? How exciting. It was like seeing a star. Up till now she’d only seen cross-dressers and sex-changes on chat shows, or telly personalities like Lily Savage and Dame Edna. She didn’t count Mr. Thorn the Wayden Upper High PE teacher who wore women’s nylons under his tracksuit.

“Rob lad, leave her be,” said Norm, “Here, my precious, what would you like? Tell, you what, let’s share a bottle of that merry old plonko that smacks of sun, sea, sand and something rude.”

“Viva España,” cried Rob.

“Olé!” The two chorused.

Rob passed some money to a shadowy figure and a minute later hands deposited a bottle of cheap French red wine on the table, plus three hand-painted goblets showing sweet designs of hearts and trees. A delicate artist had taken the time to sketch contours in wobbly black and filled the shapes with green, blues, reds and oranges. Cups such as these radiated appreciation of the finer things in life: colours, social gatherings, art, painting, friendship, eating, drinking and having fun.

“These glasses are too heavenly,” she whispered to Norm. Norm patted her hand, smiling contentedly. His wide, slightly hairy hands had short fingers which grew bigger towards the top, spatchula hands.  Barbara liked to have her hand caressed in this fatherly way. She already felt close to Norm. The two of them had something very strong in common. They smelt of fish from the rubbish.

Norm lifted his glass and toasted his old and new friends. “Cheers, big ears.”

“Down in one, or you’re a bum… ” warned Rob.

They stood up, threw their heads back and tipped back the booze. Red wine trickled out down the side of Norm’s face. They sat down in unison and slammed their empty glasses on the table.

“Olé!” They cheered.

Barbara took a sip of the fruity red wine, rolling it on her tongue. Wow. It lapped like flames round her cold, pained body. Central heating or what?!

“Wow  that’s nice.”

“Norm, I think she likes it,” commented Rob.

“Get it down yer, you skinny wee lamb,” Norm instructed.

 The wine had a sweet tinge, almost of cocoa butter, of chocolate and coffee mixed, of puddings and treacle. She gulped it quickly. Suddenly Barbara’s brain got up. It went over to the door and leaned out, took a deep breath of fresh air, walked back in and sat down. She was immediately awake to an incredibly sharp degree. She was in a lucid dream where she had total control. She had power. She could do amazing, superhuman things. Maybe she would just fly to the top of the room.

“Yum yum, in the tum,” said Norm, glad she was appreciating the tipple.

“A chirpy little wine, “said Rob, “With a hint of old lady’s arse.”

Settle down, she told herself, You’re just a little overexcited. She looked around her with interest. Her mouth and throat burnt a little from the cheap plonk, but in a pain-pleasure way. She drank more, wondering what would happen next. Norm looked protectively at her, resting his arm on the back of her chair.

Inspired by the faint salty water aroma rising from his table-mates, Rob began to tell jokes about fish. Geena was particularly fascinated by the ones about anchovies. She felt honoured, an unpopular junior joining the cool gang in the senior class.

Sniggering at Rob’s fishy stories, Barbara began to experience something radical happening. Boy, she’d never felt like this before. She was moving  not outside, but inside. Not deliberately, but unconsciously. Not her arms and her legs, but cells, veins, arteries, blood vessels. An army of tiny creatures were crawling up her spine. She felt their tiny sharp vibrations. She was getting mini electric shocks firing along her backbone as hundreds and thousands nervous cells detected something essential close by. Surely, this was just pins and needles. She must have got it from sitting in the doorway, hunched over in the night air. Or maybe Steve’s kicks and punches had echoed through her poor body, deadening nerves which were only now springing back to normal. She had a vision of herself, lying on grass in her back garden last summer. As she rose, the grass too slowly lifted itself back. Her spine was realigning itself.

But it was also as if hairs were standing up on the back of her neck. You shiver at times like this and say, “Someone just walked on my grave” or “I’ve just seen a ghost”.  She knew there was something, or someone lurking behind her. Bigger than a person, this was more like a presence, huge and amoral, with the force of a childhood nightmare. The axeman towering over her when she was falling asleep. The snake hidden, coiled, ready to grab her round the ankle and pull her under the bed to secret dark depths. This was irrational fear, enhanced by grim, repellent fascination.

She couldn’t see it, but it could see her. In the darkness behind it loitered, waiting for a moment to break into the charmed circle of their table. The three were happy and bright, but this entity was too great and powerful for their cheerful magic. Its energy could shatter dreams. It could spin you in a spiral straight down to the abyss or raise you up in a quicksilver second to the celestial plane. On the wall ahead there appeared to be the shadow of a huge pair of wings.

A deep handsome voice broke the spell. Normality was resumed.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Uncle Norm and Auntie Rob. Been fishing? Caught anything? Hmmm nice catch. Still waters run deep.”

“Hey, Leo, my man. Excellent to see you, excellent. Hey, pull up a chair, have a drink.” Rob was excessively pleased to see this guy. Barbara assumed they must be great friends.

Room was immediately made for Leo by Norm and Rob, the pair clucking like two aunties in a lounge being visited by a long lost nephew. Rob was making the most fuss. He would have brought out the best china if there’d been a little cabinet underneath the table. Instead he gave Leo a glass but the man pushed it to one side, not cruelly, but as if it was beneath his notice.

Barbara thought he was the best looking bloke she’d ever seen. He could have been on Friends, or in a BBC period drama or be a Hollywood leading man.

Rob sat as close to Leo as possible. “Listen Leo, about that job, I can really help you out, I’ve got a winning idea.”

 “Not now Rob, not the time.”

 “Remember I’m up for it. If you need a man  I’m your guy. I’m up for anything, me.”

 “Rob, where’s your manners? How about introducing me to your new friend? I don’t think I’ve seen you before, have I?”

Barbara giggled.  “No, I don’t think so.”

“This is Leo, he’s a diamond geezer, the top dog.”

“Yeah, he’s the boss.”

Rob and Norm were both embarrassed to let Leo know that they hadn’t yet asked their young guest’s name. They were relieved when he enquired for them.

“And who may you be?”

In for a penny, in for a pound. And she only had ten in her pocket. “Hi,” she stretched out one of her cute, slender, nail-bitten hands, “I’m Geena. Er… Geena Grappelli.”

Leo took the hand, in a gross moment of old-fashioned sleaziness, held it to his lips, and looked her straight in the eyes. Lowering the funny little child-like hand keeping hold of it as long as possible, he introduced himself. “I’m Leo. Leo Sergi, and very pleased to meet you, Geena.”

Once the lying and reinventing has started, it’s ever so difficult to stop, especially if the last thing you want is to remember the truth. Geena (for that is who she had become) drunk herself more daring as Leo ordered another bottle for the table. She was terribly excited and determined to impress. It was marvellous that he talked to her, directly, not through the other men as intermediaries.  With the direct focus of his eyes he was offering her exclusive membership of a very select club, one to which only real adults and the very best clientele were admitted. She hoped she would prove worthy of the invitation.

He had that olive or sallow skin that would tan beautifully when bathed in the sunshine. His hair was gorgeously curly, and a little longer than the current severe fashions, so you could really admire the way it fell round his face in circling waves. His hair looked expensive, in fact, his whole body breathed money and success. His clothes said textures and sensuality. In the subtle small things, the creases in his leather jacket, the fold of his sleeves, the meticulous cut, the neckline of his T-shirt, exuded the unmistakable subtlety of designer nonchalance. This man paid attention to detail. He had a heightened awareness of the physical, aesthetic and practical things of life. She had never met a man like this before. Next to him, Norm and Rob both looked even more ridiculous and scruffy, two clowns sitting next to the ringmaster.

Leo’s voice was heavy and warm. It was a sound she would like to hear telling her poetry, reading her bedtime stories, waking her in the morning. Gosh this drink was good. It burned down her throat into her stomach, so that every bit of her body was cooking blissfully. Internal heat rose and reddened her cheeks.

“So, how did you meet these two renegades, Geena? Where on earth!” Leo was talking.

“Oh. Just on the doorstep outside.” Her voice was suddenly coy.

“Yeah,” butted in Norm, “I tripped over her. Whoops!”

“A dangerous place to sit,” commented Leo. “And a little smelly as well. Still you could have picked worse, Rob and Norm come with my recommendation.”

Rob beamed at this point.

Leo continued. “And you look like you could use a couple of friends, what happened to you?”

She blushed even redder and held her face down reminded of the aching swelling. It was too embarrassing. Worse than having spots when you meet the man of your dreams.

“Leave her alone,” said Norm. “We’ve all got things we’d rather not talk about.”

“Shut up Norm,” Rob kicked him under the table. “If Leo wants to ask her that’s up to him. So Geena, what happened, tell Leo.”

She kept her head down. Leo frowned at Rob.

“She doesn’t want to say. She looks exhausted to me.” Leo asked Geena. ”So where do you live?”

Norm volunteered, “Don’t worry about Geena here. She can crash out on our couch, She wants to stay with her uncle Norm.”

Leo warned, “Watch out you don’t get too uncley Norm, looking after a young girl’s a big responsibility. I’m going to keep my eye on you.” He got up. “Well, goodnight, Geena, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Hope to see you around.” He shook her hand. Turning to Norm, Leo added, “Take her upstairs, will you?”

“Come on, Geena, beddy byes.” Norm led Geena by the hand out of the room. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Leo take something out of his pocket and pass it to Rob. “I want to take my drink!” she complained, grabbing her cup. The liquid sloshed. She wouldn’t be parted from the glass, holding on to it fiercely as Norm dragged her with one hand and carried her brown bag in his other.

He hauled her gently up the stairs into the cold night, then turned left outside the club. Looking back at the entrance to the underworld, it had returned to being a simple pale blue, flaking painted door.

Geena had the goblet to remind her of the universe beneath her feet, and continued to hold it tightly for evidence. Norm fidgeted in his stonewashed jeans and drew out a battered brass key on a chain, and unlocked the mortise of a dark purple door, number 11. As it creaked open he led her up a pungent damp staircase with dirty walls. At the top of the stairs was a small landing. A little picture with some pressed leaves from trees hung at a wonky angle. “A poplar,” she said, “An oak and an ash.”

Norm wasn’t having any dallying now. “Come along tree-spotter, you can sleep in here.” He pulled her through to a small room. No lights were on, but its own unique atmosphere was provided from the road outside. Crikey, I’ll never be able to drop off in here, she thought, It’d be like sleeping in a railway station, just like in the Whitney Houston song.

“Right, Miss Grappelli. You’ll be fine here on the sofa,” said Norm. “Hang on, while I get you some sheets and whatnot.”

The room smelt stale, as if it hadn’t been vacuumed since the early nineties. There wasn’t much in it. A blow-up green plastic guitar wilted in the corner. A goldfish swam lonely, orbiting its bowl on a bare wooden cabinet, its eyes saying mournfully, “I’ve not long for this world.” On an armchair a cheap TV was slumped flourishing its lop-sided aerial that would have to be constantly fiddled with to get decent reception.

Norm came back with a pillow and sheets. None of it looked too clean, but that was the last of her worries. He sat down a moment on the couch arms, his bottom spreading uncomfortably over the sides. Geena wondered if he was going to make some kind of move. That was what all men did to young girls on their own. Girls like her, that were obviously dodgy, leading seedy, battered lives. He probably thought she had been beaten up by her pimp in a Starsky and Hutch storyline. Alisha had said Steve was her pimp, and maybe it was true in a post-modern kinda way.

“Is there anything else you need? Bathroom’s at the end of the corridor, no one’ll bother you. Right, I’ll leave you to it. Sweet dreams.”

So Geena was left to take care of herself, something she wasn’t very good at. She felt her bruises, and decided not to take on anything too strenuous tomorrow. She crawled fully clothed under the sheets. Although her makeshift bed looked painful, her body melted into the cushions easily, releasing all tensions. This settee was the most divine place on the planet. She imagined herself a lazy angel stretching out on her favourite cloud of soft feathers.

The traffic, the light, the noise, nothing mattered, it was all an illusion. Tomorrow she would wake up aching but for now, she had peace. She fell asleep clutching the pretty beaker tightly.

And so she dreamt …not all restful, simple fantasies. She became caught in a, claustrophobic nightmare…she was hidden in a pitch black space, trapped, she couldn’t breathe. She fought against the murderous shadow grabbing her throat, sitting on her chest..she kicked the sheets in her sleep… when out of nowhere, the glorious sound of a trumpet ripped open the gloom…light appeared above, only a blue strip at first, which then gradually widened until she was staring at a splendid blue sky, across which baby white fluffy clouds were drifting gently. As she lay, she realised she was rocking from side to side, staring straight up at the tranquil sky, which was soothing her soul with bluey radiance. She was stretched out on a wood floor, as if she were swaying on the bottom of a small rowing boat. She lifted herself up, and found she was standing in a floating wooden box. She was naked, and it was nice to have the sun baking down on her white, slightly freckly skin. Looking up she saw the trumpeter, playing loud, clear and wonderfully. Around many other people bobbed and cheered, unselfconscious, naked and happy, alert to the message of the trumpeter. A majestic fiery angel was heralding peace and love, calling her to a new beginning.

Copyright (c) 2000 Jude Montague. All rights reserved.