Element of Doubt, page 11
‘The parrot was hunched on its perch. It had been used to holding the floor, people hanging on its words, ready to laugh if it so much as scratched itself. Now they were hanging on the smiles of the girl and it’s my belief the bird was jealous.
‘Dooley and his cronies were having a bit of a party. They were gathered at one end of the bar and Billy saw his opportunity when Dooley, who was drunk, turned away to put whisky into the parrot’s drinking water. Billy went up to Phoebe and took her hand. He dropped the elephant into her palm – “It’s a present.” She was startled, it turned out she was short-sighted, she could hardly see the thing. “It’s lovely,” she said, peering, “what is it?” “It’s a lucky charm,” said Billy, “you know, like a black cat.” “But it’s not black.” “No, it’s white, a white elephant.” “And will it bring me luck?” “Yes, if you keep it with you always.” “Oh, I shall,” she said, “I can do with some luck.” Billy held on to her hand. “There’s something I want to tell you.”
‘He was going to tell her he loved her – in his innocence he thought to get it settled then and there. But before he could speak, the parrot bawled, “Take your corsets off and let’s have fun!”
‘It was the end of chosen words. Phoebe blushed and turned away. The parrot had everyone’s attention, it rocked on its perch and bawled the naval ratings’ lament – “I heard the voice of Moses say – roll on my bloody twelve!”
‘Billy went away to his corner. He had always been a mild man: only his mother, long dead, would have recalled the paddy he had on him as a baby. It was rising now, but now it was a man’s paddy, with more to it than kicking heels and screaming. He sat a long time watching Phoebe, waiting for another chance. Dooley kept her busy, setting up rounds for his friends, and, as he became drunker and maudlin, treating his enemies as well. Finally, he went down as if he had been poleaxed: Phoebe leaned her elbows on the bar and laughed to see them struggle to lift the man like his own coal sacks. It was Billy’s chance to get her to himself.
‘ “I’ll wait for you and walk you home tonight,” he said. “I don’t go home,” she said, “I’m living in.” “But I must talk to you – ” “You’re doing that, aren’t you?” She looked at him, serious, not pert, and he began to suspect that there was a bit of a game to be played – and he was one down already. “It’s private,” he said, “for your ears alone.” “No one will hear,” she said softly, and leaned across the bar so that her two shy pretty bosoms came close to his hand.
‘Billy’s head began to spin. He tried to speak, but his wits blew away like sparks. He managed to whisper, “I love you,” but it was lost, shot down, you might say, in a blood-splitting screech from the parrot. That bird was eaten up with jealousy.
‘Billy lost his nerve. As I said, he was innocent, a child where women were concerned, and like a child, dismayed and angry, he yelled, and because she hadn’t heard what he believed was going to change the world, he yelled it. “I love you!”
‘That was his undoing, the whole lovely bundle fell to bits. The parrot, which had a throat like brass, took it up and broadcast it right through the public, the saloon and the snug – “I love you!” – turning over and over on its perch like a split pin in a wagon wheel. “I love you, I love you, I love you!”
‘Everyone slapped everyone else and joked, and capped their jokes, and fell about laughing. Billy wasn’t a mixer, never one of the boys, and they enjoyed seeing him taken down a peg. Every face was split from ear to ear – he wouldn’t have cared a straw if the girl hadn’t been laughing too.
‘There and then he made up his mind. He waited in his corner for them to forget about him. Which they soon did, and when it was time for last calls, he slipped into the lavatory. He stayed there until the bar was empty. Dooley had been carried out, Phoebe had covered the beer engine and doused the lights and gone up to her room. There was no sound except the rattle of the parrot’s chain as it sidled to and fro on its perch. Billy came out, groped his way silently to the bar counter, took up the bird and wrung its neck.
‘He didn’t get off scot free, he was bitten on the hand. The stickiness of his blood and the shock of what he had done made him feel faint. To revive himself he took a swig of whisky from the bar. As his eyes got used to the dark, he saw the body of the bird dangling by one foot on the end of its chain. “Nothing to shout about?” he said, and wrapping his hand in his sleeve pulled back the bolts and went home.
‘His anger, slow to rouse, was soon over. He had no regrets, and he wasn’t the man to feel pleased with himself. He was reasonably satisfied that he had done what needed to be done, and now there would be nothing to keep him from speaking to the girl, or her from listening.
‘The wound on his hand did not trouble him, he bandaged it as best he could. Afterwards he went to bed and slept serenely as a baby.
‘Next day he worked at his swinging parrots. They were a good line, he had had repeat orders. It’s an ill wind, and he painted them the same colours as the parrot in the bar, grey with scarlet tail feathers. RIP, he thought, and hung each one up by its foot to dry. After that he didn’t give it another thought. That evening he did as he always did on entering the May Garland, he looked for Phoebe. He wasn’t a fanciful or romantic nature, but he had killed a bit of a dragon for her.’
‘Dragon?’ I said.
‘Dragon,’ the man in the corner insisted. ‘There she was, the sweet and pretty girl, his intended, and he went straight up to her, a free and honourable man, to declare himself. She had seen him come in and as she drew his beer she cried, “Who could have done it? Someone’s wrung poor Joey’s neck!”
‘ “If I catch whoever did it, I’ll wring his!” vowed Dooley. An angry murmur went round the bar.
‘ “I came in here this morning,” said Phoebe, “and found him hanging by his foot. It was horrible. I’ll never forget it.”
‘ “That bird was human,” said Dooley.
‘ “This place won’t be the same without it.”
‘ “There was blood all over the bar,” said Phoebe. “Joey bit whoever killed him.”
‘ “Who could do a thing like that!”
‘ “I couldn’t fancy a man that was cruel to animals,” said Phoebe.
‘ “I loved that bird,” said Dooley.
‘ “A man that could do that could do other things,” said Phoebe. “Other things?” said Billy. “He could kill a child, or an old woman,” said Phoebe. “It wasn’t a child or an old woman,” said Billy, and tried to take her hand. She picked up a cloth and wiped the bar counter. “A man like that could do a murder.” “It wasn’t a murder,” said Billy, “it was a nuisance, the riddance of a nuisance.” She stopped wiping the counter and stared at him. “Why do you say that?” When he reached out to touch her, she cried, “What have you done to your hand?”
‘ “Let’s see,” said Dooley.
‘ “It’s just a scratch,” said Billy, putting his hand in his pocket.
‘Dooley stepped up to him, “Show me your hand.”
‘ “Show me your hand,” said Billy. Dooley pushed his fist into Billy’s face. “There’s mine, it’s not scratched and it’s not bitten.” Behind Billy’s back, people started to murmur.
‘ “He said Joey was a nuisance.”
‘ “Good riddance, he said.”
‘ “He was here last night.”
‘ “When did he leave?”
‘ “I never saw the going of him,” said Phoebe.
‘Dooley pushed Billy up against the bar. Billy struggled, but Dooley was a big man, he held Billy by the slack of his waistcoat and dragged Billy’s hand out of his pocket. They all saw the bandage, heavily stained with blood.
‘ “It was him!”
‘ “Bligh killed Joey!”
‘ “Oh,” cried Phoebe, “he would never do a wicked cruel thing like that!”
‘Dooley hoisted Billy’s bandaged hand in front of them like a flag. They were all looking at him, they had never particularly liked him, whatever he said, they wouldn’t believe, they would hold it against him. But he knew what he had better not say. The murmurs were getting louder, like breakers that start far out and roll in and smash you on the beach.
‘ “You did it,” said Dooley.
‘ “You did it,” said Billy.
‘ “By God!” Dooley turned to his friends. “He’s accusing me!”
‘They came round, jostling Billy, men he saw every day in the May Garland. They looked different, ugly.
‘ “If you wrang that bird’s neck, is there any reason why I shouldn’t wrang yours?”
‘They shouted, “Do it, Dooley! Give him a good hiding!” Someone threw his beer into Billy’s face. “Speak up,” Dooley said, shaking him, “it’s your last chance.”
‘Billy put his head on one side. His tongue ran about his mouth like a mouse, but the words came out in a trumpet blast. “I heard the voice of Moses say – roll on my bloody twelve!”
‘He had a split second to raise his own goose prickles, and then they came at him, every man jack with hand, or boot, or both, lifted against him.
‘Billy wasn’t a hero, or a martyr. With his good hand he punched Dooley in the groin and broke free.
‘He dived through the crowd, using his head and his knees to split them. He was bent double when he burst out through the door of the May Garland into the street. No eyes in the top of his head, so he didn’t see the Peckham tram careering down the hill. Broke the boom and brought down the wires he did – and died of a broken neck.’
The man got up out of his corner and went to the door.
‘Goodnight, dear,’ the barmaid called after him. ‘See you in my dreams.’
‘See you in my dreams.’
Everyone to his taste, I thought. She was a big blubber-lipped girl and I did not fancy her.
‘Who was that?’ I asked.
‘Oh, he’s not a bad old bird,’ she said. ‘We call him Mr. Polly.’
The Doll
If I had liked my godfather more I might have disliked the doll less. I call him uncle Jack. He’s not my uncle, I don’t know what he is. I said to him ‘I’ve got a father, I’ve got Daddy, and God’s the Father, where do you come in?’ ‘I’m your fairy godfather,’ he said, and my mother laughed.
He was always buying me things to eat, chocolates and toffees and marzipan mice. I overheard my mother say, ‘You mustn’t, Jack, the child’s overweight as it is.’ To me, she said, ‘Too much sugar makes you bilious.’ After that, he bought me the doll.
‘Her name’s Lilli Marlene,’ he said. ‘She’s from Germany, where all the best dolls come from.’
Everyone said what a pretty doll she was, the first thing people said was what a very pretty doll. To me it wasn’t a source for rejoicing. When my mother said ‘It’s just like him,’ I knew she wasn’t talking about the doll but about the quality of the gift. And the giver. She has a dreamy look when she talks about my godfather. They’re not dreams I can share. To me, he was like the doll: he looks as if he’s been made and not born. His skin is china-smooth, his hands small and manicured.
From the first I didn’t know what to do with her. She’s a lady doll. She wears a blue satin gown, low cut, she has bosoms moulded in white kid, a spreading skirt which just clears her tiny feet in buckled shoes. Her hair isn’t real, it’s gold thread. I can see the beads of glue where it’s stuck to her head. She has a beauty-spot on one cheek but she doesn’t have any knickers, her legs are china at the bottom and cloth at the top.
I couldn’t undress her, she is stitched into her dress: I couldn’t comb her hair and I wouldn’t wheel her out in my dolls’ pram because she doesn’t go with my dear old Peter Rabbit and my baby doll which cries and wets its nappy when squeezed.
‘I don’t like her mouth,’ I told my mother.
‘Why not? It’s a perfect mouth – a rosebud.’ My mouth is square like a letterbox. From that moment I hated the doll.
I hated touching her. I put her in her box and hid her under my bed. My mother made me take her out. I was ungrateful, she said, there were little girls in the Third World didn’t even have enough to eat. As this was said whenever I didn’t finish my dinner I chose to ignore it, and took Lilli into the garden and left her under a bush.
That night I lay listening to the rain, thinking of her getting wetter and wetter, her satin dress going black and slimy like the things in the pond, her white and pink and gold running together, her hair sinking into the hole in her head, china dolls have holes in their heads. I thought she’ll be a mess, they won’t say she’s pretty and I’ll say I forgot her. I forgot Peter Rabbit once, it rained all night and he looked terrible and they wanted to put him in the dustbin. I wouldn’t let them, I’d let them put her. But next day when I went to look, she was gone from under the bush. My mother found her sitting in the summer-house, her hands in her lap. ‘How pretty she is,’ my mother said.
Uncle Jack teased me, took the doll in his arms, danced with her cheek to cheek, singing a song about Lilli Marlene, lady of the lamplight. The doll laughed at me over his shoulder, opening her rosebud to reveal a little red tongue.
When my father saw her he said, ‘Who’s this?’
Lilli Marlene, I said, from Germany. He said yes, he had heard. I said what had he heard, he said she was a bit before his time. I said what did she do? He believed she’d been faithful, he said.
He makes pipes, big ones for under the ground and has to go away to see they’re properly buried. That’s when Uncle Jack comes and stays because my mother doesn’t like being alone.
‘You’re not alone,’ I said, ‘I’m here.’
‘Darling, I must have a man about the house.’ She ruffled my hair.
We go to the seaside in the summer. I like the seaside. It doesn’t care, it’s always so busy. Eating up the land’s important. You can see how far it’s got when the tide’s out. The rocks are bitten down to stumps, every year it comes in closer. It wants to get to the soft sand which it will swallow whole.
My father doesn’t come to the seaside. My godfather comes. ‘I wish Daddy was coming,’ I said, ‘it’s not the same without him.’
‘August’s a busy month for pipes.’ Uncle Jack winked.
‘Pack your toys,’ said my mother. ‘And don’t forget Lilli.’
‘I don’t want to take her.’
‘Why not?’
I knew why not. I also knew that I was alone in this, and in anything which concerned my mother and my godfather. Nothing personal, they just seem to stop recognising me. I said, ‘She doesn’t like the seaside, it makes her bilious.’
My mother was smiling but firm. ‘Take Lilli with you or Uncle Jack will think you don’t love her.’
‘I don’t. And he’s not my uncle.’
‘Darling, a godfather’s a very special relationship.’
We stay in one of the bungalows overlooking the beach. It’s called Seabrim. If I stand at the gate and half shut my eyes I see towers in the sky. My mother said that was Cloud Cuckooland. Uncle Jack said it was Africa. He pinched her cheek to make her smile.
I’m allowed to go to the beach by myself if I don’t get out of sight of the house. I suppose they watch me, I don’t know, I never see them watching.
My mother said, ‘You mustn’t stay indoors this lovely day, go to the beach and play.’
‘There’s no one to play with.’
‘Make a sandcastle, we’ll come and look at it presently. And put on your sun-hat.’
I decided to take Peter Rabbit for company. The baby, Chuckles, I left asleep in his cot. Lilli I hadn’t unpacked. I sat Peter in the pram with the canopy down so that he would get a good view, he only has one eye. I went indoors to fetch my hat and when I came out Lilli was sitting in the pram with the canopy up and Peter was upside down in the bottom.
My mother must have done it, though I wondered when she could have taken Lilli out of my suitcase. Certainly not while I was fetching my sunhat. Anyway, I didn’t dare put Lilli out. ‘Stuff you!’ I said. She looked through me.
That first day on the beach I was lucky. I thought I was, I met Margie. She had stuck a bottle in the sand and was throwing pebbles at it and missing. She said, ‘Hi,’ I said ‘Lo.’ ‘Let’s use bigger stones,’ she said and we smashed the bottle. I worried about leaving broken glass where people came to paddle. Margie said she knew of a pool with crabs in. We went to look.
Margie wore a bright red swim-suit, she ran barefoot over the rocks while I was slipping and slithering on smelly seaweed.
There was only one crab in the pool. We poked it. Margie picked it up by one of its legs and ran screaming down to the sea with it. I hoped it would swim away but she said it was dead or would be when the big fish got it.
She wanted us to go for a walk along the dunes. I said I’d have to fetch my pram. Pram, did I think she was going to push me? she said. My dolls’ pram, I said.
She slapped her knees and shrieked with laughter. She was what my mother would call rough. I was beginning to feel a bit unsettled myself. She ran back over the rocks, I went up the beach and walked on the sand to where I had left the pram.
Margie was doing handstands which I’m not allowed to, my mother says it’s indelicate for a girl. ‘What’s that?’ Margie said, pointing to Peter.
‘Obviously it’s a rabbit,’ I said.
She looked under the canopy where Lilli was sitting, shaded and cool, her little pricky hands in her lap, pretty as a picture. If you like that sort of picture.
‘And what’s this?’
I didn’t say anything. Let her find out, I thought, let them both find out.
