Cathexis (18 page)

I understand you are busy, but my invitation is heartfelt and I would very much like to discuss your thinking behind the marvellous construct and would be most interested to learn of any future projects you have planned.

Yours,

Simon Sweet

'Oh Lordy' I thought.

A dress or at least a skirt was required for a date such as this. For that's what it was, a date. I didn’t own either.  Then there was the issue of footwear; I owned only boots and slippers, as if I had just two modes.

He should take me as I am I thought. Hopefully it would put him off.

Wearing my usual arrangement of jeans, a checked shirt over a white t-shirt and my Blundstones, I drove down Kingsland Road in Fritz, for he was Fritz again, having eradicated the furious bitch-mobile myself with a fresh coat of pea green, or 'summer parsley' as the colour chart would have it.

“Welcome, Minette” he beamed, arms spread wide as if to embrace me.

“Hi” I said, offering a bottle of Australian Shiraz from Costcutters. No class.

He steered me into the garden where we settled into antique steamer chairs with batik cushions and he filled my flute with Bollinger. Having previously only seen him in a suit, I was surprised to see him in the coolest t-shirt ever; pistachio green, emblazoned with 'Suffragette City' in magenta, Princeton type.

“I love that” I said, eyeing it covetously.

A small man, shorter than me, his balding head shaved, but sizeable sideburns added an ironic, caddish twist. He fed me salmon with samphire, followed by a subtle syllabub, while we investigated common ground and then ventured into the more challenging territory of art and literature. Attentive and kind, enduring my half-baked concepts and crackpot theories with patient amusement. He talked about his childhood ...sublime, and he quizzed me about my art degree
.
He found it fascinating I'd financed myself, holding down four jobs, my parents long since out of the picture.

“What do you think about installing a light within the pedal car structure?” he asked, “so that I can see it at night from my window?”

“Simon, there's a fine line between haunting and just plain creepy”.

This prompted him to slap his knee with mirth.

“You're extraordinary” he said.

We gazed at the garden in silence, a smile playing around his lips as his eyes fell to my boots.

“I'd very much like those boots of yours” he said. “May I see one?”

“They've almost had it” I said, prising one off and handing it over. He examined it as if it were a vintage Chateau Margaux.

“These boots encapsulate you” he said.

“Yeah
...knackered”.

He batted the comment away.

“They speak of hard work and integrity, they possess much character. This is art; in the right context, I could sell them for a fortune”.

“I tell you what, Simon, when I can afford to buy a new pair, you can have them”.

“Do you promise?”

“I promise”.

“I would like you to have this, Minette”, slipping an envelope into my hand. I'd held enough of these to know it contained a serious amount of notes. When I protested, he became impatient and reasoned when he had done a good job, he received a bonus and that my work merited reward. His cheek, seemingly smooth, prickled my skin as we kissed goodbye.

Cross legged on the floor in my bed/living room, one thousand pounds in twenties stacked before me, beside the necromancy of numerals and crowns.

That night, I dreamed I was in the carpeted claustrophobia of a conference room. I was meant to speak on something I knew nothing about – I felt scared and a fraud. Gradually though, I realised no one, no matter how corporate and professional, knew what they were doing either; the whole affair based on bluff and bluster. It was as if the rules of some complex game had been revealed to me.

This segued into that landscape where everything was out of kilter, as through a fish-eye lens. Sea soaring higher than the land, shimmering like a tsunami on pause and people pluckily swimming up to its quivering vertices. A small hand crept into mine and looking down, there was
Sasha, her curls bouncing as she led me doggedly towards an ersatz Belle Époque hotel, where in the darkness, Nancy enfolded me in a purple, beaded quilt. We tumbled to the floor, turning like a top, the tightening material squeezing our bodies together. My ribs cracked as the silk swaddling bound us ever closer, forcing our hot breath into each others' faces, our very cheekbones knitting together like fossils fused under eons of compression. We resonated through a fabric of galaxies, achieving critical mass. I shuddered to consciousness on the crest of a rolling orgasm. For a split second, snatching at the tail of the dream as it receded, I understood everything in the cosmos and kept the fragment in the fist of my mind.

The buzzer summoned me down the wobbly ladder to the communal front door where I took delivery of a brand new pair of Blundstone 500s, stout brown, size 7. An envelope – 'Remember our deal? Simon x'. Plus the freshly laundered pistachio green t-shirt with the magenta Suffragette City motif ...it was a red letter day.

Children and parents sauntered from the playground in ethnic groups, consolidated by vegetables. Those with Caribbean roots toted bags of calaloo and Scotch bonnet; the Chinese
,
pak choi and spring onions; the Indians, coriander and green chilli; while the Arabs favoured courgettes and beans.

I could hardly wait for next year and my fresh batch of kids as I gathered mini forks and pint-sized spades and hung them in the shed, which although I'd built it only two years ago, had the inspirational reek of ancient earthy moss.

“Knock, knock”. Mrs Matthews' hand waved round the door.

“Who's there?” I said playfully.

“It's me, Claire Matthews” she said, missing the point.

Mrs Matthews, the Head Teacher, had gained many plaudits for this project.

“Minette, I wanted to thank you for all your marvellous work” she said
.
“The children have really taken to you”.

“Thanks” I said, looping a yellow hose between hand and elbow. Sniffing a catch though, I squinted suspiciously like a yokel.

“I wondered what your plans for next term might be?”

“Well, there won't be much to do over the winter, we'll just put the plots to bed for this year”.

“I see” she said. “It's just that one of the mothers, you may know her, Helen – Cosmo's mum, has volunteered to run the session next year”.

I knew Helen. She knew jack-shit about growing stuff and focused all her attention on Cosmo.

“And with our budgets the way they are...” she added.

(Fuck, fuck, fuck).

“I understand” I said.

She came towards me, clutching my arm, raptor-like. “I'll give you a glowing reference, of course, should you need it”.

Barely able to contain any more shit, I managed to make room for a little more.

“Thank you” I said.

Driving home, I repeated the word cunt twenty times as I assessed my financial situation
...it was desperate. All I had now was the vestiges of a maintenance round, which wasn't even beer money, plus there was nothing for Nancy.

Sunday morning, up at five. I loaded Fritz and drove to Enfield where I sold my power tools and some of my paintings at a car boot sale. The things that defined me raised £187.32.

It's because you saw my fragility, isn't it? You thought I was a robust, rakish sort of boy. But I'm only a girl, not enough for you, or perhaps too much. One day, I'll meet you on equal terms, when I've evolved, when I am better, altered. In the meantime, the light doesn't die, Nancy.

Chapter 9

The time had come to try and be a grown-up. So I set about applying for jobs and attending interviews, something I'd never done before. Armed with references
,
both real and fake, I attempted to shoehorn my 'skill set' into posts which bore only a passing resemblance to anything  I could or wanted to do: teaching homeless people horticulture at St Mungo's, instructing community gardeners at the Pepys Food Growing Plan and capacity building community payback workers. Apparently, they'd keep me on file.

Finally, the standard of candidates must have been particularly dismal the day I interviewed for the post of Contract Monitoring Officer at Hackney Council, because I got the job.

“Hi Minette, nice to meet you” said Natividad. Soft billows and a deep prow gave her the appearance of a black galleon in full sail. She extended her hand, about to teach me the ins and outs of monitoring park maintenance.

Grass, hard-standing, litter, borders, benches and sight-lines, each judged from A to E, A being excellent, E extremely poor. This would suit my compulsion down to the ground.

To my mind, most things merited only D or E but I had to learn, she explained, to be realistic. The limitations of the gardeners in terms of time and skills rendered the contract virtually unworkable, she hinted confidentially.

At the depot, issued with a bottle-green polo shirt, council insignia embroidered on the pocket like pips, and a matching fleece. Up to me to purchase the mandatory black, army surplus style trousers, for which I'd be reimbursed
...all very fair. With the uniform came a sense of belonging and permanence.

Having traversed the borough, my findings were entered onto a computer, but I'd stretched the truth as far as IT skills went, claiming proficiency in Word and Excel, whatever the dickens they were. After a crash course with Tove, I found it tedious but do-able.

It was soon evident the London Borough of Hackney was too big to be negotiated on foot, so I cycled on a cranky mountain bike that M8 and Eve had found behind their shed. Propelling myself from Springfield Park in the north, across to Clissold, Hackney Downs, Clapton Pond, Mabley Green, London Fields and down to Haggerston and Hoxton, taking in dozens of pocket parks on the way.

Having always been self-employed, I tilted myself at the task with an urgency and thoroughness unusual by Council standards. The only monitoring officer
,
there was no-one to compare me with and also no-one I could loaf about with in cafes, drinking tea. I didn't gel with my colleagues at the depot
,
who were bit-players, adding a small semblance of background colour like the bar scene blue folk in 1970s sci-fi films, a viable but essentially peripheral species.

Pedalling through winter into spring, my stupid legs finally attaining a firmness and definition I’d thought impossible. What with paid annual leave and sickness allowance and the fact I just had to do the work and not generate it, the sense of liberation was immense. Almost as if I were on holiday, compared to my previous incarnation.

My debt to Nancy honoured in a few months, except for one hundred pounds which I kept in a white envelope in the Nancy tin, unsure why.

On a long leash, far away from senior management, I devised my own strategy for park improvement, adopting a practical approach, rather than a punitive one. Obvious that the gardeners were understaffed and demotivated, rather than issue a default (for which the contractor would be fined and the gardener bollocked) if say, the grass was too long or there was broken glass in the playground, I'd tip the men off so the problem could be fixed before I marked it. The gardeners became happier and consequently the parks improved.

Funny how I'd ended up in parks, a childhood haunt. A solitary little girl watching others play until they trailed off at twilight for tea. I'd linger beneath the pink sky as even the rusty hinged geese headed off to roost. Homesick, but not for the perfidious place to which I'd eventually dawdle. Parks were synonymous still with that cool, empty feeling. That's why I didn't like them.