Demo Page 16

  Ho, ho, she said. Piss off ! She raised her head to find him smiling down at her. Sometimes I simply forget to eat.

  Forget? You simply forget ?

  She slapped his thigh. Danny could make her words sound so prissy and silly.

  Well, nay wonder the country’s going to rack and ruin, if you ask me.

  Nobody asked you, sir, she said. She quoted the nursery song as she stood up. And if I don’t get that cup of tea pretty damn quick, I’ll be looking for this steward chap.

  Danny laughed; his face lit up with delight. Right you are, pal. Up the workers! This way, comrade, follow me. And he punched the air as he made his way to the door.

  Somebody had obviously been busy in the kitchen too. The surfaces were cleared and the rank stench of rubbish was gone.

  Did you do all this as well?

  I certainly did. Up at Krakatoa, while the rest of yous were still in your scratchers, givin it a row a zeds. Look at this, by the way. He picked up a big frying pan and stuck it under her nose.

  Yuck, suet, she said, and recoiled.

  Aye, look at it but.

  She brought her head closer again. There were two neat rows of tiny claw prints scratched into the surface of the congealed fat.

  Oh my God, mice!

  You’re damn tootin, he said. Our rodent brothers have been havin a rare tear in here, I’m tellin you. I kept this to shame they two clatty bastards.

  She felt the nausea surge in her throat again and swallowed it down.

  Right, he said, set the pan decisively aside and flicked on the switch of a pristine-looking kettle. Unaware as I was that the entire stock of a china shop was buried under the rubble through there, I took the precaution of pur-chasing some new crockery. He picked out two fresh mugs from a group of six. One had strawberries printed on it, the other cherries.

  They’re pretty, she said.

  And a kettle. There was nay kettle.

  You think of everything, Danny. I’m so glad you’re here.

  He turned away and busied himself with taking a packet out of the cupboard, opening it and putting a teabag in each mug, before looking at her again.

  Nearly there, he said. I’m ready for this, you no?

  Sure am, she said.

  And here, look, somebody’s supplied the croissants. He held a paper bag out to her. I’ll warm them up under the grill.

  Actually, can I have one as it is? Keep the hounds of hunger at bay. She pulled out one of the greasy pastries and felt a rush of saliva as she raised it to her mouth. It would be alright. It was going to be alright.

  Aargh!

  Danny looked at her.

  Julian, she said. Simultaneously they made for the hall.

  Oh my God! Julian said. It’s the Invasion of the Mrs Mops. He was standing at the door of the sitting room, his two forefingers held in a cross in front of him. Lord have mercy on our souls.

  Aye, very funny, Danny said.

  Trust Julian, she thought. She put her hands on her hips and tried for a scolding tone. And just who was going to clear this heap of junk if we hadn’t?

  No one, darling, no one, of course. But I don’t care. All young women should be locked in a tower and never allowed to set eyes on a mop or a duster. In case they are overcome by the urge to clean. Lest they turn into – oh, the horror! –housewives, charladies, cleaners. One never wants to shag a cleaner. Nurses, certainly. Maids, as long as they’re wearing short black skirts with little white frilly aprons and brandishing a stick with feathers on the end. But cleaners! Come awn! Gimme a break! He opened his arms and rolled his eyes. And when men are lured by the temptations of housewifery’s black arts, well… He looked at Danny, held his hand out and dropped his wrist.

  She could see Danny’s hands tense at his sides and she shut her eyes. No.

  When she opened them, Danny was looking at her. He was white round the mouth and his jaw was working. But he flexed his fingers.

  Know what, Julian? You’re a fuckin wanker. But I’m no gonny let you annoy me. No the day. No any day. But especially no the day. See, it’s my birthday. Twenty-five. The quarter- century. And nay cunt’s gonny rain on my parade.

  He stepped away from them and moved through the hall.

  She looked at Julian.

  What? He made his eyes wide and pulled his shoulders up to his ears. It was only a joke. Some people have no sense of humour.

  Cut it out, Julian. She lowered her voice almost to a whisper. You know damn well what you’re doing.

  She turned and left him; followed Danny into the kitchen.

  Happy birthday, Danny. He was leaning against the sink with his arms crossed and the cherry cup in his hand, propped on the crook of his elbow. You should have said. She stepped up to him and put her arms round his shoulders in an awkward hug. Happy birthday. The heat of his body radiated out through his damp T-shirt, along with the smell of his sweat and something more acrid, a whiff of anger.

  Aye, thanks, he said. He stayed where he was, arms still crossed, and gave her a close-lipped smile.

  Sorry, mate. Julian was behind her. He put his hands on her hips, rested his chin on her head, pressed each finger in turn into the flesh beneath her jeans. I’m sorry. Happy birthday. You know me, I’m such a prick.

  Danny stared forward for what seemed like ages. When he turned to face them, he kept his eyes on her. Aye, I know, he said.

  Julian stepped out from behind her and held out his hand.

  Danny took his time, but eventually he uncrossed his arms, set his tea down and shook Julian’s hand. There was a red ring on the white skin of his inner arm, where the mug had rested.

  Oh. She wanted to put her lips there in the centre of that circle and kiss the tender flesh.

  Right, Julian said, and clapped his hands. This calls for a celebration! He whirled round like a dancer, displacing the air, as if a freak wind had whipped into the kitchen. She could swear she felt it.

  What do you say to an all-day breakfast?

  She laughed.

  And Danny laughed. I don’t know, give us a clue, what do you say to an all-day breakfast?

  My dear boy, what did they teach you in that Glasgow comprehensive? You say, Oh glistening egg, oozing with golden yolk, let me prick your curved belly with my fork. He stopped, looked at the ceiling, drummed his fingers on his chin. Or should that be, fork your curved belly with my prick? No matter…

  Aye, we get the photy. Danny looked at her sideways.

  And those juices that run from the stretched brown skin of your fat little sausages; and your bacon, its pink, succulent flesh; and that sweet, oleaginous – oh, call it not fat! – quintessence of the child pig’s yet pure food…

  Danny looked at her. You’ve got to hand it tay the cunt, he’s never lost for words.

  No. True. She smiled at him. Even when they’re not his.

  You mean, he didny just make that up?

  Of course I did! Of course I did! Julian waved his arms about. It’s intertextuality, darlings. Interfuckingtextuality.

  Well, you can explain that ower the glistening egg. This lassie needs something to eat. And I’m payin. My ma gave us a bung for the birthday.

  *

  It wasn’t what she expected from a Glasgow pub somehow. Julian directed them to a table in the middle and went to the bar to order. She looked around her. There were a couple of old oak dining tables with fat, heavy legs, mixed in with more normal-looking small round pub tables. Staff ran up and down a shaky spiral staircase, decked with fairy lights, carrying orders of food and drink to customers on a mezzanine level above. The atmosphere was busy and relaxed at the same time.

  Danny sat down opposite her. The chairs had straw seats and strange little wooden shelves at the back. What for?

  What are these for, Danny? She leant over and touched the shelf on his chair back. He kept his eyes focused on hers a second or two longer than was necessary, a reminder she’d have to be careful.

  What, they things? he said, tur
ning to look at what she’d touched. That’s for your hymn book and your Bible.

  Really?

  Yeah, really. They no have that down in England? Whenever a church closes, some pub aye acquires the furniture. Fae reclamation yards and that. There’s a bar in town uses a baptismal font for ice. Wet the baby’s head here, they says; a spiritual experience with genuine holy ice. Mine’s a Scotch on the Rock of Ages, please.

  Oh, yeah, she said. And I bet the bar staff dress like vicars.

  Danny smiled. She was beginning to get the picture; he liked it when she sparred with him.

  Aye, OK, he said. They don’t gie special rates to christening parties, but they dae use a font for the ice. Moreover, he said, leaning across the big square table and moving the salt cellar in a circle, there quite a few churches in the city have became bars. What does that tell you about the spiritual health of the good citizens of Glasgow?

  Nothing I wouldn’t have expected, she said. A godless, drunken crew to a man.

  Oh ih, you cut me to the very quick, Ms Laetitia. Me a good Catholic tay. I bet you wouldny believe I was an altar boy.

  You’re right. In this I am a total unbeliever.

  Well, I can assure you I was. He put his hands together, turned his eyes to the ceiling and intoned.

  Erimus, erimus, erimus. Catch it.

  Erabum, erabum, erabum. Scratch it.

  It took her a moment to cotton on to the cod Latin; Danny sang it with all the bright-edged clarity of a Gregorian chant.

  Julian came back carrying three pints. He took small steps and kept his eyes on the frothy heads. Drinks all round, he said, and set them on the table. Breakfasts ordered.

  Great. I canny wait to talk tay mine.

  He sat down at a third side of the big square table, between Danny and her, but stood again abruptly and fished in the back pocket of his jeans.

  Oops. Forgot about this. He held Great-aunt Laetitia’s diary out to her.

  That’s mine! She heard her voice rise to a childish whine, and snatched the book from Julian. It was slightly curved now where he’d sat on it, the kid cover wrinkled. She smoothed the soft leather with her palm. You’ve ruined it, Julian. It belonged to my great-great-great-aunt.

  Sorry, babe. I forgot I’d put it there. Found it under your pillow. It’s not permanently damaged, is it?

  She didn’t say anything.

  What is it? Danny asked. He was leaning towards her again, his eyes catching flecks of light from the window.

  She smoothed and smoothed the bent cover and tried not to cry. It’s a journal that belonged to my great-great-aunt Laetitia. She kept her eyes on it, hoping attention alone would straighten the creases.

  How many greats? Julian said. I thought it was three you mentioned last time.

  I don’t know. And I don’t give a shit.

  Sorry! He scraped his chair round to her side of the table and put his arm across her shoulder. She shrugged it off. Their knees were touching now and Danny was watching them.

  My father gave it me. She was an ancestor of his. I’d only just begun to read it. And now… A big tear was rolling down her face and there was no stopping it.

  Tish, I’m so sorry. Truly, I am. I’m such a klutz, I know.

  Understanding was the last thing she needed. Julian’s fuzzy cheek was against hers now and Danny’s eyebrows were pulled down in sympathy. She sniffed and blinked. Sorry, Danny. Your birthday…

  Don’t apologize. It must mean a lot to you.

  Yes, I didn’t realize how much till now. The laugh that came out was half a sob, but it did the trick.

  Julian drew back, put a strand of her hair behind her ear.

  All this attention from two dishy guys could turn a girl’s head.

  They both smiled at her. Fondly. She squirmed on the straw seat, swallowed, fought to steady her breathing.

  Why don’t you tell us about it? Danny said. His voice was low. What’s in it?

  Well, I haven’t had time to…

  I read a page about a WSPU march for women’s suffrage, Julian said.

  What?

  The Women’s Social and Political Union, was that not it? Votes for women?

  Where?

  She doesn’t mention the route, I don’t think.

  No, where in the diary?

  I don’t know. I just opened it at random and there they were, marching bustle to bustle, banners aloft. She and Harriet.

  Who?

  Listen, gie the lassie a chance to read it hersel, Danny said.

  Of course, of course, Julian said. Sorry. This seems to be my day for abject apology.

  The guy who had been behind the bar earlier emerged through a door and laid three huge plates on their table. She was glad of the diversion. Her eyes focused on the yellow seeds of a fried tomato among the potato scones, egg and veggie sausages, as he set down cutlery and three starched white damask napkins.

  That’s the business, Danny said, and flourished his napkin. How does that go again, Jules? Oh, glistening egg… blabbity blah… let me… He paused, looked at her. Ach, fuck it! His broad hands lay open beside his plate. He picked up his fork and knife and addressed the food. I am just gonny wire right intay yous. Any objections? Nane raised. Good. He speared a fat pork sausage, bit it in half and held his fork up to Julian. Pardon me talkin with my mouth full, but sometimes plain speech is the best.

  She ignored Julian’s anxious face turned to hers and smiled at Danny. But the mood was broken.

  Julian moved his chair back round to his original place at the table. You may be right at that, man, he said. You may very well be right.

  She slipped Aunt Laetitia’s journal into her bag and spread her napkin on her knee.

  *

  On the landing, outside the door of the flat, she stood at Julian’s back as he hunted for his key in various pockets. He was swaying slightly on his heels after the beer he’d drunk.

  Sounds like Jed’s back, Danny said. Glad we got a carryout. Or maybe it’s no Jed at all; maybe it’s our rodent friends.

  I haven’t met Jed yet.

  He’s a good guy, Jed. You’ll like him. Danny was holding a cardboard twelve-pack of bottled beer in front of him. C’mon, for Christsake, Jules, I’m dyin for a pish.

  I have it about my person somewhere, Julian said, and patted all his pockets again.

  Fuck this for a game of sojers, Danny said. He stepped forward and rapped on the glass. It rattled in its frame. A pattern, engraved and frosted, of a bird among leaves was just visible beneath a layer of dirt, an echo of the stained glass on the window of the first landing. Amazing it had survived this long, she thought. An image of her mother with her crystal glass of whisky came into her mind. Sitting alone on the sofa, her bony feet pulled up beside her.

  Jed, Danny shouted. Gonny let us in?

  Ah, found it, Julian said, and put the key in the lock at the same moment as Jed’s shadowy outline appeared on the other side of the glass.

  Julian stumbled forward as Jed pulled open the door. Fuck, he said, and Jed stepped aside, leaving Julian to make a comical entrance, arms flailing, struggling to remain upright. Danny and Jed laughed and pointed. She wasn’t sure she was up to this; it all seemed to need so much energy. Her body ached and another crying jag threatened like a bad weather front over the horizon.

  Danny put the beer down on an old sideboard that stood, surrounded by fat black bin bags, in the square hall, and made straight for the bathroom.

  Hi, Jed said. You must be Laetitia. He held out his hand. She shook it and said, Hi, Jed, pleased to meet you. For some reason she hadn’t expected him to be Asian. He was taller than Danny, nearly as tall as Julian, and had a serious face. Or perhaps it was his glasses, heavy black frames round eyes that were equally black in the dim light of the hall. There was a scar over his left eye, pink against his dark skin.

  He turned and made for the living room, stopped at the door and looked back at her. I imagine we have you to thank for this, eh, Laetit
ia? A woman’s touch and all that? His accent was Glaswegian, but not as strong as Danny’s, and with an extra element that was recognizably Asian, though she’d be hard pressed to put her finger on it.

  No, actually. I was only the assistant. It was Danny who organized it. She wondered where Julian was and assumed he must have gone into their room.

  Organized what? Danny said. He came out of the bathroom, shaking drips of water off his hands.

  Well, in that case, Jed turned to Danny, what the fuck have you done with my uni notes? Maths and chemistry, two big folders?

  It didn’t take long to shift the remaining junk into a pile to one side of the room and find enough seats to sit on. She could see that Danny was itching to get at it again, finish the task. He kept glancing over at the heap, playing his beer bottle as if it had the stops of a clarinet. She tried to catch his eye, give him an encouraging smile, but he didn’t appear to notice her.

  There was a poster of Che Guevara on the wall now, a red one with the black iconic image. Jed must have put it up when they were out. And on the wall opposite the window, to the left of the door, was a huge poster with NO WAR! in bold black letters, and one of the DON’T ATTACK IRAQ ones on the other side.

  She tuned back into the conversation. Julian was discussing the demo with Jed.

  Fucking amazing, man, nearly a million marching. Should’ve been there.

  Aye, well, I told you the problems I had getting into France in the summer. Fuckin four hours detained at le douanier’s pleasure before they let me through. Whole a Europe’s fuckin paranoid about us dark-skinned brothers. If you’re no a Suspected Terrorist, you’re a Bogus Asylum Seeker, the new Bogeyman. Best you can hope for is economic migrant status and gettin snapped up by some capitalist bastard to do the jobs nay other cunt wants. Sweepin streets and shovellin shit. That no right, Danny?

  What? Danny looked up. His eyes took a moment to focus, his brain to engage. He flicked his gaze from Jed to Julian to her.

  Earth to Danny, come in please. Jed cupped his hands round his mouth and said the words small, as if from a long way off. A ventriloquist’s trick. She watched Danny gather himself and sit forward, elbows resting on his knees, bottle held in front. His eyebrows lifted and let in the light.