Demo Page 18

  What’s that? he said.

  Paracetamol. Got a bit of a headache.

  No doubt caused by that strong coffee you drink. He switched on his paterfamilias voice, deep, authoritative.

  You sound like my mother.

  Oh, heaven forfend! He put his mug of coffee on the table and made the sign of the cross, as he clattered his chair back to sit down. The man with the newspaper raised his eyes and scowled at them; Julian always attracted the wrong sort of attention. He ignored the guy and looked at her a little oddly.

  You alright, Tish?

  Fine. Why?

  You seem a bit…I dunno… out of sorts.

  Do I? No, a little tired I suppose. You know, I’ve just discovered something amazing. She made an effort to brighten her voice, convey more enthusiasm than she felt. Harry is a woman.

  Julian’s face was blank. Harry Who is a woman?

  Aunt Laetitia’s Harry. In her diary. Look. Here. She fished in her bag for the journal. I thought he was a he. A male lover, a man friend. Or a husband. But it turns out Harry is a woman.

  Your great-great whatever aunt had a lesbian relationship with a woman called Harry? In 1915? During World War One? How cool is that!

  Oh, I don’t know if they were lovers. But they were travelling together and one entry refers to their deception. She had marked the page with a postcard of the Palazzo della Signoria, bought in Florence for her father but never sent. It seemed appropriate for Aunt Laetitia’s narrative. She turned to the page, fretted once more over the smudge, smoothing it with her fingers as if that might restore it. Here. See?

  Julian twisted his head round and read out loud. I do wish Harry would shake off her new-found truculence. It makes it so much more awkward in company to carry off our deception, which she accepts as necessary, tiresome though it undoubtedly is.

  He lifted his eyes to her. So Harry and Harriet are one and the same? She and old Titty march together for the vote, then fuck off to swan about Italy, while our boys are dying in rat-infested trenches. Very fine.

  She felt her stomach clench in denial. Julian, need I point out that you’re farting about producing the odd bon mot on Henry Miller, while millions starve. What’s the difference?

  Only teasing.

  Well, don’t.

  Sorry. No more. I promise. He made his eyes look serious, but she could see the corners of his mouth twitch.

  Julian!

  Sorry. This is important to you, isn’t it?

  Yes. Yes it is.

  Why?

  I don’t know. She’s my father’s aunt, I’ve only just discovered her existence and… and she’s got my name. I don’t know. It sounded lame. Pathetic. Even to her own ears. But Julian appeared to take it on board this time. He reached across the table for her hand, lifted each finger in turn and bent down to kiss them.

  How nice to see two young people in love.

  They both turned. A man she hadn’t noticed come in was sitting at the next table. Bald on top, with a trim hedge of silver like imperial Caesar, his head was tilted back and he peered through thick glasses, beaming at them. Or she assumed he peered. The way the light fell on the lenses, his eyes were completely obliterated, giving him the air of a madman.

  It always cheers me, he said, to see young people doing what comes naturally. Orotund was the word that sprang to mind. His voice was orotund, the words carefully enunciated, Scottish but not Glaswegian. No glottal stops. It gave him a peculiarly authoritative tone, like the presenter of a current affairs programme. A contrast to his lunatic gleam.

  Fanks, mate. For some reason, Julian decided to affect a cockney accent.

  You’re not from round here. I can tell by the way you speak.

  Can you really, me old fruit? He was going for a music-hall version of an East End barrow boy. She dug her nails into the palm of his hand.

  No, you sound rather as if you hail from south of the border.

  Down Mexico way?

  Pardon?

  Nev mind. You’re right, mate. We come from good old England. God save the Queen.

  Indeed. He lifted his cup. To Her Majesty. May she reign over us many more years.

  Er Majesty! Julian raised his cup too. A game old bird, wotever anybody says. May she fall off er orse and flatten er corgis.

  The man stopped smiling and levelled his gaze at Julian. She could see his eyes now. He looked less mad and more alarming.

  I hope you appreciate, young man, what it is to live in a country where it is possible to say such things and not be taken out and shot.

  Of course. I’m ever so umbly grateful. Julian fumbled at the front of his head. I would tug me forelock if I ad any air, but they shaved me ead when I spent time in the Scrubs at Er Majesty’s pleasure.

  Oh well, I can see why that would make you bitter. But of course it’s not the Queen’s fault. A fine young chap like you must realize that.

  She watched the play of a familiar dilemma pass across Julian’s face. Shall I raise the stakes, wind the silly old buzzard up even more? Or am I already bored? She held her breath. At one time it had thrilled her, this flair, this bravura, his ability to eviscerate slowly the more asinine views of an unwitting adversary. But lately she hadn’t the stomach for it. Perhaps he read this in her expression, because he turned to the old man and said, No. No hard feelings. He stood up and held out his hand. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.

  The man smiled, delighted, raised his eyes to be blanked out again by the light, took the outstretched hand in both of his. Likewise, young man, likewise. If he thought it was odd that the cockney had switched to Received Pronunciation, he showed no sign of it.

  Without a word, Julian lifted her coat from the back of her chair, draped it over her shoulders, head cocked on one side, a silly smile on his face, and pulled her to her feet.

  Come, darling, we must go.

  She thrust the diary into her bag and followed him out. A backward glance through the glass of the jangling door, caught the old man craning in his seat, beaming after them.

  Danny had been hard at work. All the bin bags were gone from the hall and some semblance of order imposed. His whistle from the living room was underlaid by a peculiar squeaking noise.

  Hi, there, she said. He was at the window, his back to her, rubbing the window pane in circles with what looked like scrunched-up newspaper. It squeaked and squealed over the glass.

  Hi, he said, without turning round. Just finishin the windies. His voice was distorted by the vigorous windmilling of his arm.

  I thought you’d found your nest of mice. All this squeaking.

  That made him turn and smile at her. Nah, they’re away their holidays; I seen them wae their wee suitcases earlier, headin off tay clattier climes. His hands were black with newsprint.

  So they’ll be back?

  No if I can help it. What d’you think? He threw the ball of newspaper in the air and batted it at the window. Just then the sun came out and filled the room with light.

  Crikey! How did you do that? That’s the first time I’ve seen the sun in Glasgow.

  Danny shrugged modestly. Just one of my many talents. Explain it we cannot, believe it we must.

  She glanced round the room. It actually looked habitable. You’ve even done the Sweeping and Dusting and Washing of floors!

  He grinned.

  Six rhomboids of sunlight lay on the wall opposite the fireplace, illuminating half of a NOT IN MY NAME! poster, and a black-and-white Bob Marley in full swing, dreadlocks flailing.

  There’s a fireplace! An ornate carved wooden mantel surrounded a cast-iron Victorian grate. On either side, a vertical row of tiles depicted a bird among leaves, a red berry in its beak. It’s that bird from the, from the, from the…

  Aye, fae the landin windie.

  She realized he was laughing at her, standing there with her finger pointed and her mouth hanging open. And the door, she said.

  What door?

  The front door of the flat.

/>   Is that right? I havny clocked that yet. Did Julian get you, by the way?

  Yes. He’s gone to the university now to explain to his supervisor why he hasn’t produced any words for his PhD for the past three months.

  Man, I don’t know how yous can be bothered. Four years at university, then another five or six studyin some deid writer.

  Three years at university.

  What?

  In England we do three. Then five or six studying a dead writer.

  Aye well, whatever. What’s it got to do with the price of mince? How’s it gonny add to the sum of human happiness?

  Good question. Have you never thought of going to university?

  Nah. Didny stick in at school. Too busy runnin about the scheme wae my pals, gettin into scrapes. Nay Highers, two poxy Standard Grades. My da went mental the day the results came out, did his Big Red Clydesider. Danny straightened his back, jabbed a finger into the sunny room and shouted: Apart fae revolution, it’s education that’s gonny liberate the masses! There’s nay room for a stumer in the struggle. He turned and smiled at her. So that was me.

  You don’t really get on with your father, do you?

  How did you guess?

  With me it’s my mother. She looked at the sun slanting into the room and remembered her mother at Wellwood, sitting by the window in the morning room, writing letters, her dark hair tied back, sunlight streaming over her pale hands on the table, making them seem translucent. She found herself blinking in the brightness and turned back to Danny.

  Anyway, you’ve done a brilliant job in here.

  He looked at her sceptically. Aye, right.

  No, truly, it’s… Somehow she sensed too much praise would wound him. You’ve made it… almost habitable.

  He laughed. Aye, home fae home. Bit of a comedown for you but. You no live in a mansion at one time?

  Not quite! Wellwood wasn’t that big. Anyway, I moved when I was eleven. Unlike my mother, who still lives there in her mind fourteen years after the event. Da — My father calls it Wormwood now.

  You still miss it?

  This felt like dangerous ground. I miss my father. He left and they sold Wellwood and my mother and I came to live in London. She tried to give it an end-of-story inflection in the hope Danny wouldn’t pursue it. He didn’t.

  Instead he walked to the window and scraped at a dried-on splash of something with his thumbnail, rubbed the spot with his sleeve. I still miss the house I grew up in, he said. When Clare was eight months old, we moved out of the high flats to a bigger house, a four apartment in a tenement. I was nine. All my happiest memories are fae our first house.

  What’s a four apartment?

  It’s what they call a council flat wae three bedrooms and a livin room. He looked at her a little longer than was comfortable, switched his gaze abruptly and said, But here we are, comrade, standin about and me wi a hot date at the Job Centre. Canny wait. He pounced on the fallen ball of newspaper, kicked it through the doorway into the hall. Oh, ho! Postage stamp! Ya dancer!

  It was a relief when Danny went out and she had the place to herself. Quiet. The coming and going of traffic and the odd shout from the street below were like natural phenomena, the sea beneath the hotel balcony on childhood holidays. She had a choice of where to go now. She could sit at Julian’s desk at the window overlooking the drying green, the – what did Danny call it? – back court. Or she could stay here in the living room, pull a chair up to the bright bay window and watch life go by below. The seating in the room fell into two categories: saggy armchair in brown cord with scuffed arms and threadbare cushion – times two. Or straight-backed dining chair, its wood scratched, the seat in green velvet with the nap worn off – times three. Where was the fourth, she wondered. And there was the sofa bed, scarlet, aglow in the sunlight, a newer piece of furniture, with Danny’s sleeping bag draped across the back. She dragged one of the upright chairs to the side of the window and took both diaries out of her bag, the black hardcover notebook she’d bought in Cambridge and Aunt Laetitia’s hand-sewn work of art. It was hers she ought to be writing, but it was her great-aunt’s life that intrigued her now. Her own seemed in abeyance, too indistinct to get a handle on. She set her journal on the floor beside the chair and picked up her great-great-aunt’s.

  The postcard had worked its way loose or else she’d forgotten to insert it again before Julian had hustled her from the café, but the book opened anyway at the page where Aunt L. revealed her irritation with Harry. Deception, deception. What could that be? Harry in drag? Was that really feasible? What else was possible?

  A flock of pigeons flew onto the roof above the window, scattering light from their wings into the room. Down in the street, buses crawled towards the junction, the pedestrian crossing beep-beeped and a yellow car did a U-turn, heading back towards the city centre. It was quite like some parts of London really, this little bit of Glasgow. At street level, anyway, the shops: the Asian grocers; the African Caribbean fruit seller with his aubergines, mangoes and sweet potatoes spilling out onto the pavement; the café; the Italian restaurants; a little like Beechfield Road, a few streets away from Mother. But this road was broader. And through the newly translucent window she could see two church spires, one of them slender, elegant, touched gold by the low November sun.

  She turned back to the diary in her lap. The depressions made earlier by her thumbs were still there and the edge of the right-hand page seemed to have fused to the one after; she had to ease them apart with the nail of her little finger. On the next page, Laetitia’s large looping hand looked slightly different; it had a headlong quality, as if written with excitement at great speed.

  15th of April 1915

  Today in la Galleria degli Uffizi

  we saw a painting of Judith

  beheading Holofernes. As soon

  as my eyes lit upon it, I knew:

  a woman has painted this! And so

  it proved. The painter’s name was

  Artemisia Gentileschi. Her subjects,

  Judith and her maidservant,

  working together to part

  Holofernes from his head,

  She turned the page.

  while his life’s blood gushed and

  bespattered their dresses, were so

  muscular and alive to each other,

  it was clear no man could have

  conceived the vision. Why was the

  existence of this marvellous artist

  hitherto unknown to me? Harry was

  dreadfully sour, refused to share my

  delight, uttered only five words

  together: The maid-servant’s name

  is Abra. I do wonder…

  The next page was torn out. Its ragged edge revealed only parts of letters, tails, a dot, something that looked like the beginning of a ‘b’, or could have been an ‘h’. Damn! Damn, bugger and damn! I do wonder – what? What was she trying to hide? Assuming it was Laetitia who tore out the pages. Perhaps it was Harry. Or someone in the family. She reached inside her jumper for the two keys, pulled them absently on their chain from side to side.

  An account of a search for more paintings by Artemisia Gentileschi for the next two pages. Then the one Julian must have seen.

  In a painting by a little-known artist

  I saw today in the Pitti Palace, the

  robes of a bystander at some spectacle

  were the very shades of purple and green

  we once wore so proudly. It is not yet two

  years, though it seems like decades

  since we marched, Harriet and I, with the

  WSPU, on our pilgrimage to Hyde Park,

  resplendent in satin sashes, bearing the

  beautiful banner H. had sewn for us, the

  voices of women raised freely around us,

  singing and laughing and calling for

  justice. Oh, how I wish we could reclaim

  the innocent fervour we shared throughout

  those he
ady days!

  She remembered something: the fob. The medallion attached to the key ring. It ought still to be there. She raked in her bag, unzipped her purse. There it was, the size of a fifty-pence piece, its enamelling largely rubbed off, little scuffed fragments only remaining of white and green and purple towards the edge. And around the perimeter, the inscription: WOMEN’S SOCIAL AND POLITICAL UNION 1903. So, Laetitia and Harry, a.k.a. Harriet, a.k.a. H. were members of the WSPU and worked together for the cause of women’s suffrage. What could have happened? Sometime during their trip to Florence, their friendship soured. But why?

  There were footsteps on the stair, someone at the door. The letterbox clattered and she heard the sound of mail falling onto the wooden boards of the hall, the footsteps retreating, the outside door banging shut. While she’d been reading, the sun had gone in again and the room had reverted to dingy. Dingy, but at least no longer grungy. She crossed it and looked at the mail lying inside the front door: three letters in white envelopes, a couple of items of junk mail. She went to pick them up. One piece of junk mail was for Julian, the other for Malcolm Finnerty. Malcolm X, presumably. All three bona fide letters were addressed to Arjun Singh. Jed? How did he get from Arjun to Jed? She laid them on the sideboard inside the front door.

  She was restless. Glasgow was still a closed book to her. Julian ought to have been back by now, as he’d promised. The morning was gone. She ought to be getting on with Virginia Woolf as she’d said. Her new laptop hadn’t been out of its case, and she had written not one single word since she was last in Cambridge, before heading off for Florence and the demo. At the moment, Great-aunt Laetitia interested her more than Virginia Woolf and Gertrude Stein. Laetitia and the shape-shifting Harry, who had now appeared to her in several guises: soldier, poet, war correspondent, husband, moustachioed transvestite, lesbian lover, seamstress, ardent suffragette. And a woman who would not participate in her friend’s enthusiasm for art. Perhaps the letters still in the trunk in London would offer more clues. Perhaps. She clutched the keys on their chain round her neck. If she hadn’t brought them, Mother could have unlocked the trunk and sent the letters on. Except she didn’t want her to know that she wasn’t in Cambridge.