Desire Line, page 10
‘Sara?’
She feared she was about to turn and run. Then as quickly as the panic had arrived, the sense of things emerged. ‘It’s a fire,’ she told Meg. ‘I can see sparks from a fire… and people.’
‘Well, yeah.’
Her fingers caressed the bottle nestled in a pocket. ‘Do you want a…’ of course Meg didn’t want a drink. No one could ever be relied on to want a drink. Only she wanted a drink every waking hour of every day. ‘Just give me a moment.’ She drank deep and, ‘Freezing,’ she explained. ‘And I’m nervous. I need to find out everything I can. But I don’t like having to ask strangers about her. D’you understand?’
‘Bit awkward, I suppose.’
‘Usually it’s… my research, I mean, it’s documentary in the main. From archives and libraries. That’s how I do my work. Not from people. We should have brought Josh.’
‘No, we shouldn’t. You’ll see.’
She attempted restraint before allowing herself one extra swallow.
‘Come on,’ Meg said.
An arm thrust itself through hers. The wife and the mistress walked arm in arm, ran through her mind though not who nor where. From absolute shadow the backbeat of the music reached out or maybe it was her blood drumming… she couldn’t do this… she could not… and then they were across the divide into a world of sound and smell and movement and illumination as flames leapt and smoke and sparks headed for the treetops above an encampment of tents and vehicles scattered in a rough crescent with the horns stretching into the field. At the centre of the open area a massive bonfire of logs crackled while straw bales were being disentangled, sliced and fed in by a couple of genderless figures who prodded the red heart of it with sticks, as though the inferno needed any encouragement. They approached them. Meg scanned faces before discounting the duo… while Sara narrowly avoided stepping on the outstretched paws of a dog and felt the full force of what it was basking in. ‘Will you know everybody here?’
‘Prob’ly not,’ Meg said cheerfully.
The real action was further off; a flimsy domed structure had been erected and beside it a generator to power coloured lights and a sound stage with a drab-clad, dreadlocked giantess presiding. In this semi-open amplified music, though mind-numbing, was just bearable and Sara appreciated Clive Upton’s arrangement. Overspill from the scene might filter away across the land to any neighbours in the vicinity but fail to reach Green Fields itself and disturb the equine occupants.
Maybe fifty figures were up and dancing. Despite membership of a host that was rhythmically in sync, most moved in a solitary, self-absorbed way: no looking, no touching. A boy, a stripling, naked to the waist, baggy jeans clinging on precariously, circled the dancers. He was juggling with fire, ignoring both dancers and music with his gestures, and was ignored in his turn. But the bright passage of the fire-sticks was compelling, as was the thought of the flame sweeping across childlike arms, that pathetic concave chest, the seared flesh left in its wake… Between the main event and the blaze proper, small huddled groups of non-dancers sat on blankets or in entrances to tents, drinking and smoking. What she had thought the scent of burning straw was in fact a fug of skunk.
As if reading her thoughts, ‘D’you… you know, like a smoke?’ Meg said.
‘Not for a long time, not since undergraduate days. You?’
‘No… well. But you see what I meant about Josh? It wouldn’t work would it?’
‘I’m amazed your father allows this.’
‘He’s been known to come down… if he’s in the mood. If the hips let him. It’s a great painkiller.’
Sara tried to scrutinise her more closely, tried to see beyond the benign simplicity of responses: this woman was intimate with Josh, with Eurwen. But for a second time Meg as if aware moved off. ‘Come on then.’
‘Who do we speak to?’
‘That’s the thing, nobody just now. Come and warm up and we’ll see what happens, huh?’
There were intact bales spread in twos and threes around the fire. Someone had constructed a sofa with a back and arms but that was already occupied by a pair of skinny, intertwined bodies, fully clothed, booted but linked at the groin and moving in slow tempo. They were near enough to bathe in the glow; occasional shooting sparks fell on them, unacknowledged. Meg chose a spot as far as possible from the coupling and sighed at the heat. Fire-juggler apart, everyone else seemed to be sliding down into a slower form of being, in time to the music whose rhythm was a faltering pulse and whose words were so languorous they melted into each other without boundaries or meaning. Perversely Sara came alert, the vodka and whisky and adrenalin an unholy alliance. ‘We just sit here all night do we?’
‘It’s cold. Don’t worry, they’ll come to us.’
‘I see.’ Behind her back one of the lovers gave a sustained rasping moan. ‘You and Josh… are you seeing each other?’ Almost she gestured behind her but thought better of it. ‘If people still do that, do they? Date?’
‘I’m into him, of course. Why not? But mainly it’s been with Eurwen when I’ve seen him. We had a gymkhana here and a bit of a party afterwards he came to.’
‘Lovely. It’s not my business. We are separated. Who here might Eurwen have—?’
‘You’re sorry you let him go aren’t you?’
For the dozenth time she found herself challenged by Meg Upton’s candour. I didn’t drop his lead on a country walk! came to the tip of her tongue but fate intervened by means of a slim, female figure’s wandering over. The trailed fragments of what had been several skirts, tattered and worn one on top of the other dragged heavily in the dampness… an inconvenience of skirts? In a swirl, she sat down next to Sara and Meg grabbed at the chance: ‘If you stay I’ll do a quick once round. See who I can see.’
When she had gone the woman said very softly as though it was a secret to be kept from the lovers, ‘I’ve seen you in town.’
Sara almost leapt. Fire was the kindest illumination, especially as the woman was in profile, seeming to address the foundry-like heat. Nevertheless Sara recognised the owner of the ruined face as the one she’d almost knocked down that first day… and since followed. Kind had she said? Kinder than kind: when she turned to Sara now she seemed to reference beauty. And she had been near Eurwen, perhaps on this very spot and not long ago. The desire just to touch the woman was intense.
Kim said, ‘So who’re you?’
‘I’m nobody.’ She tried for a self-deprecating note, false even to her own ears. ‘My name’s Sara. I’m staying… for a while.’
‘Thought you hadn’t been round much.’
Laughter rose from the direction Meg had disappeared and immediately Sara imagined her out there not on a mission as promised but sharing gossip, enjoying her freedom. A search for Eurwen had never been the intention; rather she, her mother, was the butt of some joke. Josh would be in on it, had colluded.
‘Hey,’ Kim whispered. ‘Got anything?’
‘I’m sorry? Oh… I have got this.’ She found the bottle, could virtually feel its level without looking and handed it over. Distaste at having to share was disposed of by Kim’s downing most of the contents and, at Sara’s shake of the head, finishing the dregs.
‘Ta. You’re all right. I’m Kim. Sara, yeah?’
‘Actually I’m here looking for my daughter.’
Kim nodded as though this was something suspected and now verified and ran her tongue around the interior of the bottle cap before tossing it away. The bottle was also dropped and it took effort for Sara not to protest… a cheap, sweetish odour was coming from Kim’s clothes as they warmed and steam began to rise from their ragged edges and you could see the vodka doing its work of relaxation. Kim seemed to blur from the inside out. In a rush of fellow-feeling that just pre-empted resentment, ‘Her name’s Eurwen,’ Sara said. ‘She’s not quite sixteen. Red hair. Very pretty and talks… well like me, in an Oxford… shire accent.’ She added details. Too many: Kim yawned. ‘Have you seen her? She’s been in Rhyl since the end of June and it’s a small place.’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I might have done.’
‘Recently?’
‘Dunno. Red hair. Yeah. But you don’t always, like, clock who you’re seeing and when—not me anyhow.’
‘But where was it, the very last time you saw her? You’re certain it was Eurwen? Please, if you can remember—’
‘Wel-ll.’
Suddenly Meg was there. ‘Sara, I think you should come and talk to someone.’
Eyes fixed on the prize, she said, ‘This is Kim. She thinks—’
‘Yeah, hi-ya Kim.’
Kim was on her feet, stepping on the skirts, swearing… now in a complete tangle of skirts, so for a moment she could easily have gone into the fire. Her leaning forward may have been part of a genuine loss of balance but then her face came close to Sara’s, shielded from Meg’s line of sight. ‘See you tomorra by the bridge, ‘bout eleven,’ she whispered.
When Sara made to go after her she found an arm out, barring the way. ‘Don’t! Please— that woman’s seen Eurwen!’ She tried to push Meg off, turning one way then the other in frustration but still losing track of the departed Kim and, a sudden breeze maliciously in her face, the tears sprung from saying Eurwen’s name became streaks of ice, ‘She has seen her.’
‘Sara! That’s just Kim for you. She’ll tell you anything, if only for a bit of attention. You have to know what she’s like. She hasn’t see Eurwen. Or if she had she’d never remember next morning. Kim’s lit up most of the time. But never quite bright enough, get it? You need to be careful with—’
‘She’s at your party or whatever you call it. On your land!’
‘It’s not like that. Come on.’
There were more vehicles arriving and the crush around the sound stage had definitely grown. Dreadlocks were everywhere framing pasty faces. Scanning for novel clothes, new heads, there were too many androgynous bodies and with hanging on them either strata of clothing, like Kim’s, or not nearly enough, like the fire-juggling boy. A selection of over-sized felt hats topped off some of the girls: pantomime-wear. Under any one of which Eurwen could be lurking. But was not.
And yet… and yet. For a split second she heard Eurwen’s voice, only in her head but true and clear, clearer than clear. ‘No,’ it was saying, ‘no, no.’
Anticipating a faint, Sara gripped the empty bottle in her pocket and staggered against Meg.
‘Sara?’
‘It’s all right. I thought that… that… for a moment.’ But Eurwen had no other messages.
‘Over here, then.’
Meg pushed their passage through, though it was getting harder. Something in the atmosphere was definitely evolving, the dance more purposeful, fuelled by a fresh sound that seemed to fill the field at ground level and swell higher than the treetops. What baffled was that the rhythm had not quickened, yet from faces close enough to be read, this new pulse, its focus internal, was strong enough to burst organs. Heads flicked in violent negatives, hands clawed the air… at the decks the woman crouched and loomed up again, weaving and flexing, even her own shadow failing to keep pace. Now she grinned, mouthing lyrics that were stale but turned potent to one listener: …gabbing on threads that are well beyond dark/ You don’t know who you’re rumouring/ He bites like he barks/ You think you’re playing him girl/ You think so, you think so/ But it’s you that’s the mark/ You’re the girl, you’re the girl/ found dead in the park.
‘Dear God,’ Sara said.
But if Meg heard, it signified nothing. ‘Are you coming or what?’
They dodged the action, making for the far hedge where, in grid pattern, most of the bigger vehicles had been parked with the darkness between like black pits. Meg’s object was a high-sided van, pale, possibly yellow but streaked with overlaid designs. Its side shutter was rolled almost down but not quite and it was this attracted Sara’s attention until an entity jumped from the driver’s seat, slamming the door. A boy… another woman? The latter, though muffled up. She was less than Sara’s height, was smoking and the kindled end as she inhaled showed up a sharp, pixieish face, not unfriendly: as to generation, her own or Eurwen’s…? Indeterminate.
‘Hiya!’ Her voice was sing-song. The smoke was offered to them both in turn. ‘ Megs? No?’ She turned back to Sara. ‘You’re Eurwen’s mum, yeah?’
Meg said. ‘Jay, poor old Kim’s been spinning her a line. Tell her, will you?’
‘No one has been spinning me a line!’ Sara heard it come out loud and brusque but too late. ‘If you know anything about my daughter, I’d like to hear.’
‘Can we move it away, d’you reckon? Neil’s in the back trying to chill. He’s just done a twelve-hour shift. Give it a rest, huh?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘She’s upset,’ Meg explained.
The woman, Jay, exhaled with the slowness of a yogi. In her pockets Sara’s very fingernails ached.
‘Neil and me, we got this rescue down backaways—’ she gestured vaguely into the darkness. ‘We get a lot of abuse cases. Eurwen asked him if she could come over, just to hang, be with the animals. She’s got a way with them. We got this old staffie come in, nobody else could get near him, first. Some scrote had—’
‘When was the last time you saw her?’
‘—painted him. And, like, it’s his poor coat’s on fire with the reaction.’
‘Yes, but Eurwen. This is very important. Please! When?’
Jay shrugged. ‘Sorry… not sure when. She did tell Neil she oughta be going back by now but wasn’t gonna.’
‘What day was this? What actual day?’
‘Like I said, nada.’
‘I’ll talk to Neil, then.’
‘You’ll have to let him have his kip first. And he’ll only tell you same as me—’
Meg cut in. ‘We’ll catch you both later. Thanks anyway. It’ll be a cold one, huh? Come on Sara. Let’s go find—’
She let herself be herded in the direction of the bonfire again, but once out of earshot, could not contain her outrage, found she was shaking with it. ‘If you don’t do something I’m going to go back and I intend to pull Neil or whatever his real name is out of that grocer’s van. I will get to the bottom of what happened between him and Eurwen. And you and your friends can try to stop me! Or I’ll phone Josh to come here with half of the North Wales Police and let them get it out of him. Which he will do. Eurwen’s his daughter. You are nothing in comparison, believe me. You are! I am as well!’
‘Shush! Calm down. We’re not missing anything. We’ll talk to Neil. Or you can if you like. But not now— he’ll have come off shift. And Josh’ll just make it worse. That’s why it’s you and me. Neil and Jay are good people but when Neil gets his act together, they’ll be selling legal highs. D’you understand?’
‘No.’
‘OK. Whatever. They’ll have their skunk with them as well. They won’t get caught with that, they’re old hands. Most of the other stuff’s not… illegal. But—’ she seemed confused herself as though unused to considering the concept of illicitness. ‘You don’t need to say anything to Josh.’
‘I’m meant not to react? I’m supposed to stay calm when you tell me Eurwen’s involved with people like these?’
‘Yes,’ Meg said. ‘Come on. We’ll go get a coffee.’
At the lighted back of an old Land Rover someone else was dealing, but in bottled water, chocolate in unfamiliar wrappers and scalding coffee that could have been made from ground acorns. Certainly it had nothing to counteract the— would it be five spirit measures she felt stifling her will? Meekly she went with Meg as near to the fire as she could get though now besieged by a replacement crowd and Kim was nowhere. Jay appeared carrying steaming cups, saw them, and veered off… Sara closed her eyes, counted fifty and opened them again looking straight up. Gradually the cold, glittering constellations were discernable. It was the sort of sky that swung over the Boar’s Hill of her childhood, for spotting meteorites in and waiting for the next, making wishes, all the while feeling her singularity, the experience of discrete selfhood as Sara Severing painfully there on the cool of the lawn. Only a daub of grey in the west threatened the perfect arch of it now. Then the stars came alive or some of them did, clustering and rising in families, adding more to their number all the time, moving up and yet remaining in sight. ‘Good God!’ she tried to will away the hallucination, and clutching at Meg’s arm.
‘They’re just sky lanterns. You never seen them before?’
‘Lanterns. I… Yes. I suppose I have.’
‘Candles. They’re in balloons, you know? The girls said they’d got a load dirt-cheap. That’s all they are.’
In Vauxhall Gardens servants light a thousand lamps at a signal of a sudden to banish the shade. Thomasina Swift, sixteen, up from the country to London with her lover,saw the spectacle once. Like night in Heaven but with kissing and sweetmeats! she had written guilelessly to a Betsy Clark, her less fortunate, more virtuous friend.
‘Just lanterns,’ Sara repeated. Yet divine. The word liberated, letting her fasten onto Thomasina as her spirits rose. The Peerless Girl, never abashed, never fearful was herself a sort of stimulant. Did she trust in anything? No! Here was the Thomasina that had enthralled a subsequent age, musing on life, playing God off against the Devil? There were rumours: among them that an Oxford education had spurred on innate inquisitiveness and edged her towards dangerous ground. Atheism, Magick. But correspondence destroyed by the husband meant it wiser not to take a view. And Thomasina put faith in learning, at least, and had believed in that…
Eurwen was with her next as though by Thomasina’s agency. Eurwen is saying Rubbish! All rubbish! yet the barb is blunted now, the desire to wrap Eurwen in her arms intense, to whisper that even if this is all there is, no hope, no meaning, no ultimate Saviour, the indifference of space over us and the cold earth waiting, even if the lanterns are a cheap trick designed to make us cry, still they offer a glimpse of night in heaven. Of kissing and sweetmeats before we fade.
When she came to, she saw amongst her fellow stargazers an addition; a new man had arrived and taken up station on the other side of the fire. An Oriental. Alone, apparently, since he’d claimed sole occupancy of the ragged bale vacated by the lovers. She stole another look at unremarkable features. There were smooth planes to the brow and cheeks that provided no haven for shadows, and yet it was not a calm face and, more arresting still, he was observing her. As an interesting object. Or maybe a misjudgement, catching him in a moment of abstraction? She peeked, peeked again, shivered though more irritated than troubled, feeling a touch curious as to what he saw. Nothing sexual. A thin pale woman in garments bulky enough to erase gender. And he was young, judging by the vigour of his physique. The legs in the inevitable jeans were thrown out towards the warmth and all his weight rested on widely braced arms, with the neck being thrust forward out of a dark fleece zipped to the chin. Not a position to maintain for long. He kept it though. Flames blazed up between them and still he did not flinch, making her suspect this was not imagination, this was more than a random act and she herself had been singled out. He meant to speak but was failing to and she was just about to rectify the situation when the single word Oriental came back to stop her mouth. Was it quite proper… ever? …any more? Oxford’s School of Oriental Studies operated blamelessly in Pusey Lane and Geoffrey spoke of the Oriental perspective on world trade without embarrassment or fear of correction… but a sudden loss of confidence over that singular person (masculine) usage meant she never did summon up the will to meet his unblinking stare.
