Demo (19 page)

Home, she said it into his neck, her breath coming back to her, hot on her cheek. I feel as if I'm home.

Home and wet, he said, muffled. Very. Very. Wet. He thrust with each word and he groaned when he came. Stayed inside her. Stayed.

Nets of silver and gold have we…

She didn't even care that she hadn't come. They fell asleep entwined.

It was Danny's voice that woke her first, a door banging, another male voice. Jed. Sometime in sleep, she and Julian had disentangled. They lay back to back now, each facing a blue chair covered in clothes. A strange symmetry. Though it was too dark to see the chairs, to do anything other than infer their colour and shape from her earlier observation. Were they really there? She turned and moulded herself to Julian's back, squashing her breasts either side of his bony spine, flattening her cheek on his shoulder blade.

Fucksake man, she heard Danny say, before she fell asleep again.

So now she was awake for the remainder of the night. With her free arm, she reached over the edge of the bed. Yes, her laptop was there in its leather case. She eased open the flap at the front. The rip of Velcro was loud but it didn't wake Julian. She waited; his breathing was steady. Her hand fumbled in the front pocket, wrist encircled by a cool bangle of air outside the duvet, till she found Aunt Laetitia's journal, the kid cover soft and flexible beside the rigid covers of her own. She still hadn't shown it to Julian. Why not? The right moment hadn't
yet presented itself. What with… But that wasn't it, because she hadn't even told him about it. Hadn't mentioned it to Daddy, when he phoned to ask how she liked her laptop. She'd intended to; felt the words tingle in her mouth, but somehow couldn't release them. Why? The conversation had rushed on, entered familiar territory, cosy, collusive, savouring Mother's latest misdemeanours, laughing at her
deeply shallow
nature. Perhaps it was guilt; the niggling awareness that it was to her mother she owed the gift of the journal, her mother's idea she should have Aunt Laetitia's trunk. Whatever the reason, the moment was lost. Her father rang off and the journal lay quiet in her bag, untalked about. A secret. Like the tiny dead crab she found on holiday once, that she wouldn't throw away, though her mother told her to; kept it in her pocket till they got back to Wellwood, transferred it to a sweet tin, hid it at the bottom of her wardrobe. The whiff of something rotten, fish, seaweed, when she opened the tin again a week later. But still she wouldn't throw it away; it was so pretty with its little white articulated legs, its bleached, brittle body. She covered it with scented petals from the rose garden, to keep it warm, to mask the smell. White rose petals. Only white would do. And she took it from its hiding place two or three times, replaced the browning petals while the roses lasted that summer. Then she forgot about it. Never saw it again.

Now the notebook. She eased her thumb under the flaps of leather, found the edges of the paper, fanned them. Or maybe it was Aunt Laetitia's secret she was keeping, the one contained in the missing pages. So tantalizing. Sketchy accounts of their visits, Laetitia and Harry's, to various tourist spots in Florence and round about. A travelogue. Il Duomo:
such lightness for a building so immense; it lifts one's spirits. Brunelleschi's magnificent dome.
Ponte Vecchio:
the good people of Firenze, the bustle, the
smells; all life is here
. A spin to Fiesole in a motor car owned by
a brash young American
. Nothing much more yet. One or two mentions of the war, speculating about Italy's intentions: would she come in on the side of the Allies; would Harry and she be forced to cut short their stay? True, there were plenty of pages still to read, but the overall impression so far was of information withheld, secrets kept.

Julian shifted slightly behind her, gave a great sigh. She let go the journal and pulled her hand back under the duvet, settled it lightly on Julian's arm. He flinched in his sleep, turned over, leaving her to warm her hand between her own thighs.

When she opened her eyes, Julian was gone from the bed. She had drifted off again after all. His voice was coming from somewhere in the flat. His early morning, not-quite-awake voice, an aristocratic drawl, she teased him, when they first met. Ought to be accompanied by the whine of peacocks.

Hark who's talking, he said.

We didn't have peacocks at Wellwood. We weren't that grand.

Oh, yeah! You are the only person I know, darling, who had an honest-to-God, bona fide, old-fashioned nanny. As opposed to a Danish au pair. Or a woman from the village, who
did
for one.

Nanny Rosenthal was my father's. She'd been with the family for years. She wasn't really mine.

Lordy, lordy, one just can't get the staff these days, he'd said, and caught her by the wrist when she swung at him, hoisted her onto his desk and shagged her again.

She shook off the memory and looked about the room. A thin, grubby light was straggling through a bashed venetian blind beside the desk. She leant over and prised two dusty slats apart. Through the gap, she could see some kind of back area
with washing lines and a bin shelter, a child's scooter on its side in a puddle. Beyond that, bare trees. The River Kelvin, perhaps. Julian said it was near.

You're awake. He had a roll-up in one hand, a small card- board coffee cup with a plastic lid in the other, and stood at the end of the bed.

Madame's espresso, he said, bowed, straightened, drew on his cigarette and scattered a few flakes of ash on the white cover.

Oh. She sat up, brushed off the ash and reached for the coffee. You've been out already?

Yeah. Great little café on the corner. There are croissants too. In the kitchen. If you…

What? He was looking at her with a strange smile on his lips.

Nothing. You just look… You look just… right there. As if it's exactly where you ought to be.

She smiled back at him, pulled the edge of the duvet over her breasts.

He straightened, waved his arms. And it is. It's exactly where you ought to be. Here in the Palace of Grunge with Captain Fuckwit. He bowed. At your service.

Charming. Who were you talking to out there?

Jed. He's off out. Doing a leaflet drop with some of the guys. He offered her a draw on his cigarette, but she shook her head. Might do some flyposting too. Sunday morning's a good time for it. Streets are quiet. Fuzz are all shagged out trying to keep the lid on a Glasgow Saturday night.

And Danny?

He went out earlier. Kipped on the floor in Jed's room. Couldn't stand the mess in the guest room.

Not surprised. She was glad he wasn't there. Another brief reprieve. Good coffee, she said, and raised her cup to Julian.

My pleasure, ma'am. Shall I roll you a cigarette too? He was smoothing a cigarette paper, the smoke from the roll-up between his lips making him screw up his eyes.

You're not the greatest of adverts for it! She laughed at his cowboy-contorted features. No, thank you. I haven't felt much like smoking since I got back from Florence. Thought I might as well seize the opportunity and stop altogether.

What? What the fuck d'you mean you haven't
felt
like smoking? How can you just go off it? Normal people take years. Forty sessions of hypnosis, a library of self-help books, multiple relapses, before they finally quit. What kind of a smoker are you, anyway?

Clearly not a
normal
one.

You can say that again. A dilettante, I'd call you, my dear. An amateur. No commitment.

He rolled the cigarette paper into a tiny ball between his fingers and pinged it at her. Take that, traitor!

It bounced off her cheek, disappeared under the edge of the duvet. She felt it trickle down her warm belly.

You realize from now on you're going to have to ask the question abhorred by all hopeless addicts, she said. With her free hand, she explored under the quilt, till she found the little ball.
Mind if I smoke?
She threw the paper towards him, but it fell short and disappeared in the folds of the cover. And I shall say,
Yes I do mind. It is a filthy habit, injurious to one's health, so kindly do not light up in my presence.
It shall be my mission to bully you into joining me on the path of righteous abstemiousness.

No! No! He turned and launched himself backwards onto the bed, his boots leaving great smears of mud at the bottom of the cover.

Julian! You are
such
a Pig Pen.

But you adore me. He reached over and grappled her into
a bear hug, scudded the cardboard cup from her hand. Droplets of coffee scattered onto the white cotton.

Oops! Well and truly christened, he said, and slipped his hand under the cover onto her breast.

She watched the neat arc of spots glisten for a moment, before turning matt black. Later they would dry to dark brown.

You have the soul of a chimney sweep, she said, leaving black footprints on a white carpet.

I'll climb up your chimney any day, honey, he said, and caught her nipple between dry lips.

Danny came back about midday. She heard him in the hall.

Man, that is some day. It's chuckin it down. Cats and dogs, as the wee wumman says.

There was a rustle of supermarket bags, the sound of a coat being shaken. She slipped Aunt Laetitia's diary under the pillow. Who was he talking to? Julian had dozed off again on top of the quilt and she hadn't heard Jed come in. Must be Danny's way of announcing his arrival. Letting them know he was back in case… In case what? In case he caught them
in flagrante
; in case she was wandering about with no clothes on? It was quite sweet really. Danny without the tough-guy veneer, the Glasgow machismo. Time to say hello and get it over with. She stood up from the bed and smoothed down her jeans, tugged her brown sweater over her navel.

Julian, Danny's back. Come with me and help break the ice. His chest rose and fell; a faint snore purred from his open mouth.

Julian. The memory flashed into her mind of Danny's face when they'd approached the bus in Florence. The hurt look, quickly extinguished, disguised in a bit of stage business with his rucksack.

Julian. She pinched his bare big toe between her finger and thumb and squeezed. His foot jerked back on the cover, he folded his arms, turned slightly and went on sleeping. The smear of mud was dry now. And the coffee stains. She'd have to find out the arrangements for laundry.

For a moment before opening it, she listened at the door. Some sort of activity was going on; banging, shuffling, knocking. And, skewering the other sounds, a whistled tune. Not one she recognized. She breathed in, stilled her hand on the doorknob, turned it and went into the hall.

The only light came from a fanlight at the top of the outer door and from the wide open door of the living room, where the noises were coming from. She crossed to it quickly before she changed her mind.

Danny didn't see her at first. She watched his dark head bob up and down in front of the big bay window, his face in shadow, as he scooped up armfuls of rubbish and dumped them into one of five black bin bags, arranged in a semi-circle, following the curve of the window. The banner was gone, she noticed. Each time he bent, the tune he whistled was distorted for a moment, before rising sweet and piercing again, as he straightened. The muscles on his arms flexed and unflexed smoothly while he worked, and his white T-shirt was already grimy.
Ah don't want you to be no slave…
The words sang themselves in her head, an ironic counterpoint to his mournful Irish air. All she needed was a can of beer to pass him.

Can I help?

He stopped mid scoop, with his arms full of rubbish, his mouth still puckered, and exhaled a low note that could have been part of the tune. Or could have been an expression of appreciation. She felt her ears burn.

He glanced away. Oh, hi, Laetitia. Then in one smooth move, he tipped the load he held into the nearest bag. Aye,
sure you can. All assistance gratefully received. What d'you make a they mingin bastards but?

It was going to be OK, she thought.

That Jed one. His granny will be birlin in her grave. He wasny reared to live in a pigsty like this.

She had to hand it to him. Apart from that one faltered note, one would never know there had been anything between them. She waded into the room.

Where shall I start?

That's the game. Get the sleeves rolled up, and then you can choose. This here is the Wastepaper Disposal Section. He turned a pointed finger and a cocked thumb on three of the bags.

Or perchance your aptitudes might lie here in the Crockery Retrieval Department. She followed his gesture; in a small clear space on the floor was a pile of miscellaneous dirty dishes.

On the other hand, mair job satisfaction might be derived from the merry clink of bottles tossed into this particular black plastic receptacle here.

My goodness, spoilt for choice, she said, and he grinned at her.

And, at the risk of causing you to salivate in eager anticipation, further down the line there will be Sweeping and Dusting and Washing of floors.

There's a
floor
!

I can assure you, comrade, there is. And it is our job to excavate it from under myriad strata of archaeological deposits.

Right, let's go to it! With a steady hand and a ready heart. She did a little marching step on the top layer of rubbish, over to where the bags were lined up.

Danny laughed. I think the term you're looking for is
Haud me back
!

And whistle while we work. I do think we ought to whistle. She liked it when he laughed. It transformed his Celtic scowl into something much more open and appealing.

What was the tune you were whistling before? It was terribly evocative.

Now, that is a little oul Irish air me mother sang to me. Tis called ‘She moved through the fair'…

How lovely.

That it is.

And she made her way homeward with one star awake,