Demo (23 page)

Coffee. She needed coffee. There were two soft depressions on facing pages of the diary where her thumbs had gripped it tight. Under one, the letters were newly smudged. Damn! A smear of brown ink on her skin revealed the whorls of her thumbprint.

What's the problem? Danny was at the door, a bag of rubbish in each hand, his dark hair standing on end.

Oh! I didn't hear you get up. She slipped the diary into her cardigan pocket and kept her thumb between the pages she'd just read. As though the passage might disappear, as though it were written in ink that might vanish on exposure to the air.

Quiet as a mouse, that's me. Talking of which, have you seen any a they wee sleekit, cowrin, timrous bastards? He glanced around the kitchen.

What?

Mice. Meeces. What do yous call them in England?

Very funny. No, I haven't. Perhaps they've gone.

Well, paps they have. Let's hope so.

I'm not particularly bothered by them. I rather like mice.

I'm no tickly bothered either. I just prefer it if they don't go to the dancin in my fryin pan.

Are you taking the piss?

Would I do such a thing? He winked, gave one of his winning smiles and made for the door of the flat with the full bin bags bumping and clanking against his legs.

Danny?

Aye? He stopped at the open door, his voice amplified in the echo chamber of the stairwell.

Do you know where this café is that Julian and Jed talk about?

No really. Never been in it. On the corner, they says. Canny be hard to find but, just follow your nose. The words came back to her loud and stagey, then his footsteps, the same percussive diminuendo as Jed's earlier, with an additional swishing noise as a bin bag brushed the wall on the descent. Sounded like the heroine of a black-and-white movie, she thought, sweeping down the staircase in a long silk gown, petticoats rustling. She'd have to remember to tell him that. Why wasn't Julian awake yet?

Silvio's was as good as advertised. Well, the coffee was. The café was small with only about eight tables covered in bright cloths. She could see them through the glass of the door. Yellow, orange, apricot; antidotes to a dingy November day. A bell jingled to advertise her entrance, and the smell of fresh coffee picked her up and set her down at a sunny pavement café in Italy. Once she was inside, the mood was more sombre, despite nasturtiums, so vibrant they had to be artificial, dangled from the ceiling in rustic baskets. Could hardly be real at this time of year, of course. Chrysanthemums it would have to be,
such serviceable flowers
. There were only two customers apart from her: a girl about her own age, at a single table in the corner, frowning, her face lit up blue by a laptop screen; the other, a guy reading a newspaper, taking up two tables to spread it out. The table near the counter seemed the best option, furthest away from the other two, beside a glass cabinet of the day's scones and pastries, homely on yellow gingham.

She was onto her second espresso when he came in. A
silhouette in the grey light of the door, face in shadow, his shaved skull and tall wiry form, the slight stoop, unmistakable. He scanned the interior for her, seemed to miss her until she lifted her hand towards him. When he'd spotted her, he went to the counter, did her a little cup-holding, drinking mime with eyebrows raised, as he fished in his back pocket for money. She shook her head. Truth was she was feeling nauseous again after only one and a half shots of coffee. Perhaps she'd have to give it up as well as tobacco, though she couldn't imagine functioning without the caffeine kick. Her Prozac. She'd forgotten to take it this morning. And yesterday, come to that. She fumbled quickly in her rucksack, pressed a capsule out of its foil in the dark interior of the bag and swallowed it with a mouthful of coffee, just before Julian reached the table.

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.