Astonishing Splashes of Colour Read online

The mother keeps moving. “Stop messing around, Henry,” she yells.

  I run forward and pick him up, putting him back on his feet. “Oh dear,” I say and smile at him. He’s only little, and as he turns round I see that his face is covered with a mass of freckles that are running out of control, spreading and joining up so that they are almost one giant freckle. He looks up at me, but doesn’t stop crying. His eyes are round and bewildered and he backs away nervously.

  “It’s all right,” I say. “You must be careful to watch where you walk, otherwise you’ll end up on the pavement again.”

  He looks at me and makes no response. “Mum!” he suddenly shrieks.

  She stops, turns round and sees us. Immediately, she leaves the pushchair with Emma and races up to me. “Keep your hands off him,” she yells.

  “I was only—” I begin.

  “Don’t you go near him,” she shouts. “What do you want?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “He just—” I realize belatedly that she’s much bigger than me in all directions, and expects aggressive confrontation, not reasonable explanations.

  The boy continues to wail noisily. People are watching us. I can smell the change of atmosphere, the burning, as another yellow flame dies into a charred ruin.

  I turn away. Rush back the way I’ve come. Listen for her footsteps behind me, her hand on my shoulder. Nothing. Just screams somewhere in the distance. Her voice fades away.

  When I finally stop walking, there’s no sign of the school. No children rushing because they are late, no mothers with pushchairs coming away from school. Somehow, I’ve separated myself physically and mentally, crossed a line dividing the life of school and the life of the rest of the world.

  I stand still for some time and try to look for something that will tell me where I am: a signpost, a shop, a road sign. I don’t even know what direction to take to get back to the city centre.

  Then I see the 11C bus stop and almost cry with relief. I know the number 11. It goes round Birmingham in a giant outer circle, so if you set off at one stop and stay on the bus for two hours or so, you arrive back where you first started. Clockwise or anti-clockwise. 11C or 11A. A bit like the young lady called Bright.

  There was a young lady called Bright,

  Who could travel faster than light.

  She set off one day

  In the usual way,

  And arrived there the previous night.

  Could you get back to the same bus stop earlier than when you left? It depends on your perception of time, which seems to move in straight lines or circles, a rotating spiral that goes up or down, forwards or backwards, fast or slow. I struggle to hold on to it, but lose the thread every now and again. Sometimes, whole days disappear. At other times, a few seconds feel like several hours.

  At the 11C bus stop, I wait and try to calm down. Breathing in and out, I pretend to watch the passing traffic, wanting to be invisible. It feels awkward, having to think about breathing. Shouldn’t it be automatic?

  The bus comes. I climb on and show my bus pass to the driver, who grunts briefly and drives off before I sit down. I nearly fall over, but save myself by grabbing the shoulder of a white-haired lady. For a second I think she is Miss Newman.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  She doesn’t answer or react in any way. I wonder if she is dead.

  I find a seat at the back, in a corner, and watch the changing passengers. They are mostly elderly. A younger man gets on with identical twins who look about three. They each have a packet of tomato-ketchup-flavoured crisps and sit staring at me, mechanically taking out crisps and eating them with their mouths open. They have a dull, jaded look about them with their green eyes and orange-stained mouths. They get off with their father at the job centre.

  I watch them until they are out of sight and wish I could take them and wake them up, shake them, tickle them, show them how to laugh …

  I sleep on the bus, because I’ve missed two whole nights—one reading Adrian’s novel, the other feeling myself disappear. As soon as I’m comfortable, I close my eyes.

  Voices drift in and out of my dreams.

  “Only six months to live—”

  “Mum! I want the green lolly. You know I don’t like yellow—”

  “Well. I told him he could get out, now—”

  “20p each in the market.”

  I make one complete circuit in a clockwise direction. Selly Oak, Harborne, Bearwood, Winson Green Prison, Handsworth, Aston … Sometimes the bus moves very slowly, as if it doesn’t have the energy to go on. Sometimes it stops altogether for ten minutes, waiting for a change of drivers. One driver stops in the middle of the traffic and gets out. He crosses the road and goes into a newsagent’s. Nobody on the bus speaks. I watch from my sleeping corner at the back and wonder how long they will all wait before they decide he’s not coming back.

  After five minutes, he returns, clutching a Mirror, two bags of crisps, three Mars bars and a can of Coke. He gets back into his cab and we can hear him opening a bag of crisps. Then the engine starts and we move off again very slowly. Perhaps he’s reading the paper.

  I sleep again and dream of the pink van that took Dinah away, with the slithering question marks.

  Sometimes it’s empty and sometimes—like today—it’s on the road, the people inside singing. “Blowin’ in the Wind.” Bob Dylan. Martin has all his records. He tapes them and plays them on his long journeys. He says the music does something to his in-sides. I spent many days of my childhood in his cab, listening to Bob Dylan. I know all the words.

  The mingling voices croon like a lullaby, but the sound of the singing wakes me up. I sit, half awake, half asleep, trying to focus on the singers. Is one of them my sister Dinah, whom I never knew? Or my mother? The question marks slide round me teasingly, leading me on, escaping when I reach out to grasp them.

  Why do I remember Dinah’s van?

  Looking out of the window, I recognize where we are: King’s Norton, near Jake and Suzy’s house. I think of Suzy when I last spoke to her, and I know in that instant that I should speak to her again. She will almost certainly be at home, because she’ll still have morning sickness. It lasts at least three months. I decide to wait and do one more circuit. I don’t want to see Jake. I need to see Suzy.

  I’m wider awake on the second circuit, waiting now for my return to Jake’s house. I look out of the window, noticing landmarks, and begin to check the time on my watch every now and again. I feel better.

  After about an hour, I start to feel hungry, so I rummage in my bag. I find a stick of chewing gum, a packet of mints and half a KitKat stuck to my comb. I separate them and start to lick the chocolate off the silver paper.

  “Kitty!”

  I nearly drop the KitKat and the comb in surprise. I never expected to be recognized on the number 11 bus. I raise my eyes and find myself looking into the slightly shocked face of Hélène, the au pair from outside the school.

  “Sorry?” I say, unable to think.

  “Kitty, it is I, Hélène.”

  “I’m sorry. You must have the wrong person.”

  But she knows. She looks into my eyes and knows that I’m Kitty. “You disappeared. You ran away, never came back.”

  I can feel my face going very red and hot. I reach up with a shaky hand and try to wipe my forehead, but the sweat keeps coming and I can feel it dripping off my eyebrows on to my cheeks.

  I look at Hélène, who seems to be opening and shutting her mouth as if she’s talking, but I can’t hear the words. “Got to go,” I mutter and stagger to the front of the bus.

  The bus stops obligingly and I get off, suddenly terrified that Hélène has followed me. But the bus sets off again and I can see her in the back window, looking out at me, her face sad and confused.

  I stand at the bus stop for some time, trying to stop shaking. As I begin to calm down, the next number 11 comes along and stops for me. I climb on and sit at the front. The young man next to me has a yellow and orange backp
ack sitting awkwardly on his lap, and his feet—in Reeboks—smell.

  I didn’t mean to abandon her. Twice. What else could I do?

  ILOOK INTO THE PORCH of Jake’s house, which is really Suzy’s house, and see the dark glossy-leafed plants wilting slightly, and dried mud from someone’s footstep lying where it fell. This tells me much about Suzy’s condition. I wonder why she isn’t in. She can’t possibly be feeling better already. I have a moment of panic when it occurs to me that she might have taken something for the sickness. Does she realize how dangerous that is in the first three months? Has she been to her GP, had it confirmed, received an appointment at the hospital?

  I remember that first appointment—the bumpy ride on the bus, jumping off to be sick, getting the next bus just as I started to feel sick again. I remember the feel of the hospital: sterile, alien, smelling of disinfectant; the doctors in white coats, some of whom must have been students; women at various stages of pregnancy being led round the system by competent nurses; flat stomachs, bulging stomachs, gigantic stomachs; people talking to you about “your baby,” when you’ve not quite identified this tiny being who lives inside you.

  I remember something I’d almost forgotten. Henry was a mistake. He took us completely by surprise and we didn’t know what to do, because we didn’t think we were grown-up enough to be parents. I was twenty-nine, James thirty-four, but we didn’t have any experience. James was as worried as I was. Then, one day, we were standing by the fountain in Victoria Square. It was very hot and several children had taken off shoes and socks and jumped in. Some of them tried to splash passersby, others practised doggy paddle, their little heads determinedly upright, swallowing the water and spitting it out. The fountain was alive with vividly coloured T-shirts, red, green, pink, turquoise, and parents sitting at the edge, bowed by the heat, longing to jump in too. The children looked very happy.

  “But the water’s dirty,” I said.

  James smiled and kissed my cheek. “We won’t let our children go in then,” he said.

  His voice of acceptance went right through me, cleaned out the fear and replaced it with a surge of warmth that had been waiting for exactly that moment.

  “It’ll be all right, won’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  I’ll go and find Jake. He’ll be able to tell me when Suzy is due home.

  I take another bus into the city centre and look for Jake in New Street. As soon as I catch sight of him playing his violin, I’m shocked, even though I knew perfectly well that I’d find him here. He should have gone to the hospital with Suzy. She must need his support if she is so sick, and he should be able to sympathize because of his vast experience of ill-health.

  He is playing Vivaldi. I stand on the edge of the group who have stopped to listen and I watch him. As he ripples through the frantic, glittering demi-semiquavers, he tosses out a misty, carefree spray of music on everyone who listens. In these brief, entertaining moments, the drops fly though the air, light and frivolous, and Jake looks almost cheerful.

  There is a group of workmen in the crowd. “Play us an Irish jig,” one of them calls out when he finishes the Vivaldi.

  So Jake plays an Irish jig and becomes lighter still, his left foot tapping as he plays. Most people have stayed and when the workmen start to clap along with Jake, everyone joins in. I clap too, carried away by the fun of it all, and we are laughing, clapping, dancing on the spot, while Jake plays faster and faster. I’ve no idea if he’s playing a recognized tune or if he’s making it up as he goes along.

  He finishes with a flourish and puts his violin down. His face is red and shiny with the exertion and he’s out of breath.

  The crowd, a big one by now, throw money into his open violin case and drift away. Some hang around and speak to him. He talks familiarly to them—he must have regulars, people who come especially for a cheap concert; free if they don’t have any money. I’m sure Jake doesn’t mind about the money. Suzy earns enough for both of them.

  He knows I’m here. He talks to a small group for a few minutes and then comes over to me.

  “Hello, Kitty. Shouldn’t you be at home, working?”

  I don’t understand what he’s talking about. Why should I be at home now? I can work all night if I need to. “Jake,” I say, “which hospital is Suzy going to?”

  His face freezes and I can see shock creeping up into his eyes. “What do you mean? Has something happened?”

  “No, no.” I lay a hand on his arm, realizing that I’ve confused him. “It’s all right. Nothing’s happened. Suzy’s fine.”

  His face clears and he turns away briefly to give a wave of thanks to someone who has put money in his case.

  “I mean the baby.”

  “What baby?” His face seems to close up.

  “Suzy’s baby. Which hospital has she been sent to?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  I swallow hard and try to relax my voice. “The baby, Jake. Your baby, Suzy’s baby, that you’re expecting in seven or eight months.”

  His voice is tighter and less familiar. “Go home, Kitty, and talk to James. I can’t deal with this. Adrian was right.”

  He turns away from me, a stranger. What happened to the kind, sympathetic brother who gave me sanctuary not so long ago? Why does everyone have more than one face?

  He lifts the violin under his chin and changes the tension on his bow.

  “But where is Suzy? Which hospital?”

  “Go home, Kitty. You’re distracting me. Phone me later if you want to. I’m busy now.”

  “But where is she?”

  “At work, of course. Where would you expect her to be?”

  He turns away from me and brings his bow down fiercely, but with absolute control. The music that comes out this time is deep and passionate. The violin almost speaks, the way the bow pulls at the strings and lingers on the low notes. A new crowd gathers almost immediately, drawn by the anguish of the sound, and I watch them for a while, wondering what they hear. Does he take them down his road, or does he open a different door for every individual?

  Jake plays to me, to Suzy, to the baby, even though he won’t acknowledge it. He refuses to turn in my direction, because he knows I’m still here. Now the music is so deep, so dark that it hurts me inside.

  I walk away, but as I walk, I can still hear the music and I can feel a cold fear creeping through me. I have to stop and catch my breath as I begin to understand what the violin is telling me.

  I step into Suzy’s bank and immediately see her at the far end, standing amongst the desks and paperwork, shaking hands in a business-like way with a middle-aged man with greying hair and earnest glasses. She’s wearing a green suit—just above the knee—and a white silk blouse covered with geometric patterns in a green that matches the suit exactly. Her hair is washed and flicked back in an immaculately carefree way. She looks very good.

  She glances past the man and sees me. She waves, says a few more words to the man and comes over to me.

  “Kitty! What are you doing here? Not arranging another mortgage, I hope?”

  “Why are you back at work?” I say softly.

  She looks confused, then smiles. “Oh, you mean my stomach upset. That was ages ago. It was just a twenty-four-hour thing anyway.”

  I examine her face. Now that I’m closer, I see that she looks paler, more tired than usual. As if she is not sleeping well.

  “A guilty conscience,” I say.

  She frowns. “What are you talking about, Kitty?” But she gives herself away. I see from her eyes that I’m right, and there’s only one possible explanation for her denial. Jake’s music throbs inside me. I want to scream at her.

  “The baby,” I say and watch her reaction. “Where is it?”

  She pauses for a few seconds. She has understood. “What are you talking about?” she says again.

  “You know.”

  She looks irritably at her watch. “Look, Kitty, I have an appointment in two minute
s’ time. Can we discuss this later—whatever it is?”

  “No,” I say, and my voice is louder than before. “I want to discuss it now.”

  People are watching us. Young men with open, friendly faces, in pinstriped suits, young women cashiers behind bulletproof glass, who smile a lot and know how to say “Good morning” pleasantly to everyone.

  Suzy turns to the next desk with a warm, genuine smile. Her voice is bright and professional. “John, I’m expecting Mr. Woodall in a couple of minutes—you know him, don’t you?”

  John nods.

  “Could you ask him to wait five minutes for me. I am a little behind schedule.”

  “Of course,” says John. “No problem.”

  “Come with me,” she says and leads me away from the working area.

  We go through a red door (“Please keep shut”) and up two flights of stairs. Two fire doors, another door and we arrive at a small office with a desk, a computer, two chairs and a filing cabinet. This must be the room they use when they call in the overdraft, refuse the loan. The room of bad news.

  Once we’re in the room, we sit down, Suzy behind the desk, me in the lower, comfortable chair.

  “Now look, Kitty. This won’t do. I’m in the middle of a working day. I’m very busy and I let people down if I can’t keep to my time commitments. You can’t just turn up and talk nonsense and expect me to be pleased to see you.”

  “I don’t expect you to be pleased to see me,” I say. “I expect you to tell me the truth.”

  “And what exactly is the truth? Why are you here?”

  “The baby.”

  “What baby?”

  “You were pregnant, weren’t you, when I saw you the other day?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I was ill.”

  “No,” I say slowly. “I can tell. I know how it feels to be pregnant, I know about the sickness.”

  She picks up a pen and starts to doodle on an empty pad. “This is nonsense, Kitty. I’ve told you, I was ill.”

  “No,” I say. “You were pregnant.”

  “I am not pregnant.”

  “No,” I say—Jake’s music was unmistakable. “But you were then.”