Cathexis (21 page)

‘We will be running workshops, curating touring exhibitions and purchasing/commissioning for our own gallery space and archival collection. We receive core funding and are affiliated to numerous stakeholders and corporate sponsors.

‘Please do drop by if you are interested – I sincerely hope you are.

‘With best wishes,

‘Rosamund

‘Potarto, Units 1-20, The Old Jam Factory, Wareham Street, Kings Cross’

Dale's eyes floated before me and it felt sort of personal.  But it was Nancy's face that I summoned as I lay in bed that night, the cast adding authenticity to my hospital fantasy, but she kept fading out on me. I could see her face, but was unable to imbue it with any emotion: it occurred to me I'd never seen her cry. My mind fell on more comforting images of jam, stone and potartos.

Chapter 2

The leather sofa let out a grubby farting noise as I lowered myself into it. The receptionist, who had already eyed my cast with disdain, was now thinking I was the sort who would blow off in public.

My week
had been fraught with unforeseen problems, all cast-related. The first hurdle had been preparing food – as anyone who has tried to open a tin with one hand will tell you ...you can't. Tove, M8 and Frances had all visited to sustain me, ostentatiously cutting up my dinner into bite sized chunks.

“I can hold a fork you know” as Frances made enthusiastic chuff-chuff noises, steering a pronged gnocchi towards my mouth. Mostly I maliciously stabbed Covent Garden Soup cartons. Then there was the business of getting dressed. Since I'd been in my pyjamas all week, it hadn't been an issue until this morning. The lower ensemble had gone without hitch, but the Katherine Hamnett shirt I wore to important appointments wouldn't fit over the cast. So I opted for the Suffragette City t-shirt and half wore the suit jacket like a matador.

The clack of Rosamund's approaching heels on the polished concrete floor forced another fart from the furniture as I got to my feet.

“Oh dear” she said, “someone's been in the wars”.

The Potarto complex was impressive and had a new, expectant quality. There were six, fully kitted classrooms, three expansive, white gallery rooms, two of which overlooked the canal. I could see the blue barge, Celeste, her wood burner disseminating my second favourite smell. There was a small, open plan office and a social room with cafe facilities. All the internal ducting and pipework were visible and where the walls weren't rendered crisp and white, there were exposed engineering bricks, hinting at the building's former industrial purpose. The overhead north light rigging attached to steel girders that braced the building
...I could see myself living here if I were rich.

Rosamund put me down for eight Saturday sessions - ‘Exploring ourselves through Art: a journey into the body positive’ for 16-18 year olds.

“Oh and I'm CRB checked” I said as she ticked off the last of her boxes.

“I'm so glad you're on board, Minette” she said, pumping my good arm.

“Hi, it's Minette”. I'd pressed Dale's button but, disappointingly, Chris had answered. The red door was open and he was on his stool, tapping away.

“I expect you've come to see your piece” he said in a northern drawl.

“Not really, I just like it here”.

“What happened to your arm?” he said, without looking up.

“I broke it”.

Dale's fag kit on the bench; she couldn't have gone far.

He smiled and nodded. “She's on a delivery”, as if reading my mind. “I'll give you her mobile number if you like”. He raked through a tray of pens and selected a red marker. “Hold still” he said, finding a space on the grafittied cast and diplomatically ignoring my friends' crude scrawls.

He drew a smiley as an afterthought. “Wait if you like lass, she won't be long”.

“Thanks, but I'd better get going”. A shyness creeping up. He met my eyes for the first time I suddenly thought of Quincy and wondered how he was doing.

“I'll tell her you dropped by”.

“Thanks” I said, “Bye Chris”.

“Ta
-ra lass”.

Reclining on my sofa, nursing a whisky and watching 'The Karen Carpenter Story'…heaven. The big red numbers on my cast drawing my eye. They seemed to pulse in time with the pain, in an almost sexy way ...more whisky was needed. I read my friends' messages for the umpteenth time.

Tove had written 'At least it's not your shagging arm, K
üsse x'.

Frances had written 'You must get back in the saddle as soon as poss, knit quick! Frances Harriet Hooley x'.

M8 had written 'Hello Madhur Jaffrey! I guess that means you're out of the hokey-cokey finals, love Mr Magoo x', adding a tiny, spitting cock and balls for good measure, which never failed to make me laugh.

The Council Blackberry trilled its 'Smooth Latin' ringtone. My eyes flitted between the cast and the number displayed, cartoon style. It was Dale ...I wasn't ready. The chuckle chime of a left message. I pressed 1 to retrieve it.

'Hi Minette, it's Dale'. Her voice, husky with a breath of fluster. 'Listen, I hear you've broken your arm. I hope you're OK. Erm …I've got something for you if you want it. It's just a practice piece, I thought you might like it. Anyway, take care and I hope to hear from you soon, all the best, bye, look after yourself, bye, oh, it's Dale, did I say that already? Yes I did, OK bye.'

Necking my whisky, I focused on nothingness until my heart virtually flat-lined like poor Karen Carpenter's. I depressed the call back button. “Hello?” immediately.

“Hi Dale, it's Minette”.

“Oh hi, what the fuck happened to your arm?”

“Well, it's weird, after you warned me to take care on my bike, remember? I was only knocked off on Cally Road”.

“Shit, are you OK?”

“Yeah, just the double fracture, no big deal. I'm fine. You said you've got something for me, a practice piece?”,

“Yes, if you want it”.

“Are you serious? I'd love it”.

“I could bring it to you tomorrow if you're around. Where are you?”

“Stamford Hill”

“No, me too”.

“Where?”

“Belfry Road”.

I laughed at the serendipity.

“I'm on Grange Park, The Limes”.

“No way, I could walk round in five minutes
...freaky”.

“Why don't you?”

“What, walk round in five minutes?'”

“Yeah”.

“Well, it’s too heavy to carry that far and I'm over the limit to drive”.

“Oh, OK let's leave it then” (making sure she got my disappointment).

“But I could come without the practice piece ...just me'.

“Yes you could, why don't you?”

“OK, I'm leaving now. Which flat?”

“Flat 6, be careful”.

“See you in a bit, flat 6, bye”.

Dale was coming here! I sat stupefied, blinking blindly. Shit! Springing to my feet and banging my head on the bed, fuck! Scurrying about, hooking up clothes from the floor and draping them over the cast before stuffing them in the cupboard under the sink, slidey piles of bills and papers went there too. Emptying the ashtray, I lit a joss stick, sloshing mouthwash all the while, checking my hair. I needlessly flushed the toilet and felt my chin - luckily I'd de-whiskered earlier. Turning off the telly, I climbed the wobbly ladder to smooth down the duvet and snatch up the crusty tissues; she might go up there to take a look, guests normally did. Squirting cinnamon spice room spray at the bed, I plumped the cushions. I guessed she wouldn't mind the dust.

I was considering cleaning the bathroom sink when my buzzer sounded. Spitting out the mouthwash and adopting a tired but friendly expression, I peered in the mirror ...old and ugly, natch, so I turned on my smile. “Come on Minnie Bracewell”.

The door release hadn't worked for years, so I had to fetch guests. She was there, in profile through the half glazed door, studying the key pad, wondering if she'd pressed the right one. Sensing the movement, she looked up and waved, beaming. Something very specific and anarchic germinated in my belly and blossomed in my chest. I opened the door, we bumped a hug, her hair brushing my face; it did indeed possess that woolly washing smell.

“My flat is tiny” I said apologetically.

She moved about it, noticing my things, her eyes dwelling on paintings, photos and the heavy, black, iron screw down press I'd bought with the intention of making lino-prints. The black shiny floorboards, the lofty bed land, the white-washed, cladded walls and the stripped wood skirting.

“It's really cool” she said. “And clever”.

“What can I get you, red wine, whisky, coffee, tea and stuff?”

“I'd love a whisky” she said, sitting down in my plastic 60s red and white cone chair.

In the kitchen, I poured us two hefty measures. Fuck! Dale was in my bed/living room ...like a tiger. I took a slug from the bottle.

“How do you like your whisky?” I shouted.

“With just a splash of water” she said from the kitchen doorway. She'd followed me.

“Same as me” I laughed.

Once settled on the sofa, she watched with amusement as I rolled a cigarette, combining the use of fingers, thigh and chin in its construction.

“Dextrous” she said
.
“I'll roll you the next one”.

“Your name is unusual for a girl”.

“Yeah, my parents wanted a boy”. She rubbed her arm ruefully. “And as it turned out, they as good as got one”.

This was her confirmation code ...definitely a lesbian. “No, really I was named after my mother, Dalia”.

Her mother was Jordanian, her father Swedish, hence the Knudsson. A more handsome outcome I couldn't have imagined. Her eyes moved to the cast. “Do you mind if I read it?”, already scanning. Tilting her head back she let out a surprisingly raucous laugh and slapped her thigh, and now, thanks to Tove, I was also confirmed. “Your friends sound great” she smiled, slaying me with those glacial eyes I hardly dared meet. God help me, I could fall for this one.

We covered a lot of ground in a short time. After an hour, I brought the whisky bottle from the kitchen so I didn't have to keep going away from her. Swapping stories and laughing, we began to hold each other’s gaze in way that constricted my lungs and sent a sharp spire of desire through me. Those astounding eyes, like she'd died while being amazed.

She was forty two, the same as me but precisely two months younger. She squeezed my biceps and raised her eyebrows in approval as we discussed the trials of being a woman in a physical job, despite the fact I hadn't done it for years. She'd let out that rough laugh when I told her that once I'd caught Quincy in a client's garden, farting into a twelve foot length of discarded drainpipe and how I'd put my ear to the other end, giggling at each quack.

“Gutter press” she said, which was fairly funny, but we laughed disproportionately because we were drunk and excited. Then she inadvertently released a quack of her own, which set us off again. “Oh God, and now I've farted” she wheezed. “Disastrous”.

“No” I said, “priceless”.

Sitting end to end on the sofa, our legs touching, we purveyed ourselves.