Love in a Blue Time Read online

  Something attractive. We’ll have to get the bus and go east, to Holland Park and round Ladbroke Grove. This is now honeyed London for the rich. Here there are La restaurants, wine bars, bookshops, estate agents more prolific than doctors, and attractive people in black, few of them ageing. Here there are health food shops where you buy tofu, nuts, live-culture yoghurt and organic toothpaste. Here the sweet little black kids practise on steel drums under the motorway for the Carnival and old blacks sit out in the open on orange boxes shouting. Here the dope dealers in Versace suits travel in from the suburbs on commuter trains, carrying briefcases, trying to sell slummers bits of old car tyre to smoke.

  And there are more stars than beggars. For example? Van Morrison in a big overcoat is hurrying towards somewhere in a nervous mood.

  ‘Hiya, Van! Van? Won’t ya even say hello!’ I scream across the street. At my words Van the Man accelerates like a dog with a winklepicker up its anus.

  She looks tired so I take her into Julie’s Bar where they have the newspapers and we sit on well-woven cushions on long benches. Christ only know how much they have the cheek to charge for a cup of tea. Nadia looks better now. We sit there all friendly and she starts off.

  ‘How often have you met our father?’

  ‘I see him every two or three years. When he comes on business, he makes it his business to see me.’

  ‘That’s nice of him.’

  ‘Yes, that’s what he thinks. Can you tell me something, Nadia?’ I move closer to her. ‘When he’d get home, our father, what would he tell you about me?’

  If only I wouldn’t tempt everything so. But you know me: can’t live on life with slack in it.

  ‘Oh, he was worried, worried, worried.’

  ‘Christ. Worried three times.’

  ‘He said you … no.’

  ‘He said what?’

  ‘No, no, he didn’t say it.’

  ‘Yes, he did, Nadia.’

  She sits there looking at badly dressed television producers in linen suits with her gob firmly closed.

  ‘Tell me what my father said or I’ll pour this pot of tea over my head.’

  I pick up the teapot and open the lid for pouring-over-the-head convenience. Nadia says nothing; in fact she looks away. So what choice do I have but to let go a stream of tea over the top of my noddle? It drips down my face and off my chin. It’s pretty scalding, I can tell you.

  ‘He said, all right, he said you were like a wild animal!’

  ‘Like a wild animal?’ I say.

  ‘Yes. And sometimes he wished he could shoot you to put you out of your misery.’ She looks straight ahead of her. ‘You asked for it. You made me say it.’

  ‘The bastard. His own daughter.’

  She holds my hand. For the first time, she looks at me, with wide-open eyes and urgent mouth. ‘It’s terrible, just terrible there in the house. Nina, I had to get away! And I’m in love with someone! Someone who’s indifferent to me!’

  ‘And?’

  And nothing. She says no more except: ‘It’s too cruel, too cruel.’

  I glance around. Now this is exactly the kind of place suitable for doing a runner from. You could be out the door, halfway up the street and on the tube before they’d blink. I’m about to suggest it to Nadia, but, as I’ve already told her about my smack addiction, my two abortions and poured a pot of tea over my head, I wouldn’t want her to get a bad impression of me.

  ‘I hope,’ I say to her, ‘I hope to God we can be friends as well as relations.’

  *

  Well, what a bastard my dad turned out to be! Wild animal! He’s no angel himself. How could he say that? I was always on my best behaviour and always covered my wrists and arms. Now I can’t stop thinking about him. It makes me cry.

  This is how he used to arrive at our place, my daddy, in the days when he used to visit us.

  First there’s a whole day’s terror and anticipation and getting ready. When Ma and I are exhausted, having practically cleaned the flat with our tongues, a black taxi slides over the horizon of the estate, rarer than an ambulance, with presents cheering on the back seat: champagne, bicycles, dresses that don’t fit, books, dreams in boxes. Dad glows in a £3,000 suit and silk tie. Neighbours lean over the balconies to pleasure their eyeballs on the prince. It takes two or three of them working in shifts to hump the loot upstairs.

  Then we’re off in the taxi, speeding to restaurants with menus in French where Dad knows the manager. Dad tells us stories of extreme religion and hilarious corruption and when Ma catches herself laughing she bites her lip hard – why? I suppose she finds herself flying to the magnet of his charm once more.

  After the grub we go to see a big show and Mum and Dad hold hands. All of these shows are written, on the later occasions, by Andrew Lloyd Webber.

  This is all the best of life, except that, when Dad has gone and we have to slot back into our lives, we don’t always feel like it. We’re pretty uncomfortable, looking at each other and shuffling our ordinary feet once more in the mundane. Why does he always have to be leaving us?

  After one of these occasions I go out, missing him. When alone, I talk to him. At five in the morning I get back. At eight Ma comes into my room and stands there, a woman alone and everything like that, in fury and despair.

  ‘Are you involved in drugs and prostitution?’

  I’d been going with guys for money. At the massage parlour you do as little as you can. None of them has disgusted me, and we have a laugh with them. Ma finds out because I’ve always got so much money. She knows the state of things. She stands over me.

  ‘Yes.’ No escape. I just say it. Yes, yes, yes.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  ‘Yes, that is my life at the moment. Can I go back to sleep now? I’m expected at work at twelve.’

  ‘Don’t call it work, Nina. There are other words.’

  She goes. Before her car has failed to start in the courtyard, I’ve run to the bathroom, filled the sink, taken Ma’s lousy leg razor and jabbed into my wrists, first one, then the other, under water, digging for veins. (You should try it sometime; it’s more difficult than you think: skin tough, throat contracting with vomit acid sour disgust.) The nerves in my hands went and they had to operate and everyone was annoyed that I’d caused such trouble.

  Weeks later I vary the trick and swallow thirty pills and fly myself to a Surrey mental hospital where I do puzzles, make baskets and am fucked regularly for medicinal reasons by the art therapist who has a long nail on his little finger.

  Suicide is one way of saying you’re sorry.

  *

  With Nadia to the Tower of London, the Monument, Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace and something cultured with a lot of wigs at the National Theatre. Nadia keeps me from confession by small talk which wears into my shell like sugar into a tooth.

  Ma sullen but doing a workmanlike hospitality job. Difficult to get Nadia out of her room most of the time. Hours she spends in the bathroom every day experimenting with make-up. And then Howard the hero decides to show up.

  *

  Ma not home yet. Early evening. Guess what? Nadia is sitting across the room on the sofa with Howard. This is their first meeting and they’re practically on each other’s laps. (I almost wrote lips.) All afternoon I’ve had to witness this meeting of minds. They’re on politics. The words that ping off the walls are: pluralism, democracy, theocracy and Benazir! Howard’s senses are on their toes! The little turd can’t believe the same body (in a black cashmere sweater and black leather jacket) can contain such intelligence, such beauty, and yet jingle so brightly with facts about the Third World! There in her bangles and perfume I see her speak to him as she hasn’t spoken to me once – gesticulating!

  ‘Howard. I say this to you from my heart, it is a corrupt country! Even the revolutionaries are corrupt! No one has any hope!’

  In return he asks, surfacing through the Niagara of her conversation: ‘Nadia, can I show you something? Videos of the
TV stuff I’ve written?’

  She can’t wait.

  None of us has seen her come in. Ma is here now, coat on, bags in her hands, looking at Nadia and Howard sitting so close their elbows keep knocking together.

  ‘Hello,’ she says to Howard, eventually. ‘Hiya,’ to Nadia. Ma has bought herself some flowers, which she has under her arm – carnations. Howard doesn’t get up to kiss her. He’s touching no one but Nadia and he’s very pleased with himself. Nadia nods at Ma but her eyes rush back to Howard the hero.

  Nadia says to Howard: ‘The West doesn’t care if we’re an undemocratic country.’

  ‘I’m exhausted,’ Ma says.

  ‘Well,’ I say to her. ‘Hello, anyway.’

  Ma and I unpack the shopping in the kitchen. Howard calls through to Ma, asking her school questions which she ignores. The damage has been done. Oh yes. Nadia has virtually ignored Ma in her own house. Howard, I can see, is pretty uncomfortable at this. He is about to lift himself out of the seat when Nadia puts her hand on his arm and asks him: ‘How do you create?’

  ‘How do I create?’

  How does Howard create? With four word-kisses she has induced in Howard a Nelson’s Column of excitement. ‘How do you create?’ is the last thing you should ever ask one of these guys.

  ‘They get along well, don’t they?’ Ma says, watching them through the crack of the door. I lean against the fridge.

  ‘Why shouldn’t they?’

  ‘No reason,’ she says. ‘Except that this is my home. Everything I do outside here is a waste of time and no one thanks me for it and no one cares for me, and now I’m excluded from my own flat!’

  ‘Hey, Ma, don’t get –’

  ‘Pour me a bloody whisky, will you?’

  I pour her one right away. ‘Your supper’s in the oven, Ma.’

  I give her the whisky. My ma cups her hands round the glass. Always been a struggle for her. Her dad in the army; white trash. She had to fight to learn. ‘It’s fish pie. And I did the washing and ironing.’

  ‘You’ve always been good in that way, I’ll give you that. Even when you were sick you’d do the cooking. I’d come home and there it would be. I’d eat it alone and leave the rest outside your door. It was like feeding a hamster. You can be nice.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Only your niceness has to live among so many other wild elements. Women that I know. Their children are the same. A tragedy or a disappointment. Their passions are too strong. It is our era in England. I only wish, I only wish you could have some kind of career or something.’

  I watch her and she turns away to look at Howard all snug with the sister I brought here. Sad Ma is, and gentle. I could take her in my arms to console her now for what I am, but I don’t want to indulge her. A strange question occurs to me. ‘Ma, why do you keep Howard on?’

  She sits on the kitchen stool and sips her drink. She looks at the lino for about three minutes, without saying anything, gathering herself up, punching her fist against her leg, like someone who’s just swallowed a depth charge. Howard’s explaining voice drifts through to us.

  Ma gets up and kick-slams the door.

  ‘Because I love him even if he doesn’t love me!’

  Her tumbler smashes on the floor and glass skids around our feet.

  ‘Because I need sex and why shouldn’t I! Because I’m lonely, I’m lonely, okay, and I need someone bright to talk to! D’you think I can talk to you? D’you think you’d ever be interested in me for one minute?’

  ‘Ma –’

  ‘You’ve never cared for me! And then you brought Nadia here against my wishes to be all sweet and hypercritical and remind me of all the terrible past and the struggle of being alone for so long!’

  *

  Ma sobbing in her room. Howard in with her. Nadia and me sit together at the two ends of the sofa. My ears are scarlet with the hearing of Ma’s plain sorrow through the walls. ‘Yes, I care for you,’ Howard’s voice rises. ‘I love you, baby. And I love Nina, too. Both of you.’

  ‘I don’t know, Howard. You don’t ever show it.’

  ‘But I’m blocked as a human being!’

  I say to Nadia: ‘Men are pretty selfish bastards who don’t understand us. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Howard’s an interesting type,’ she says coolly. ‘Very open-minded in an artistic way.’

  I’m getting protective in my old age and very pissed off.

  ‘He’s my mother’s boyfriend and long-standing lover.’

  ‘Yes, I know that.’

  ‘So lay off him. Please, Nadia. Please understand.’

  ‘What are you, of all people, accusing me of?’

  I’m not too keen on this ‘of all people’ business. But get this.

  ‘I thought you advanced Western people believed in the free intermingling of the sexes?’

  ‘Yes, we do. We intermingle all the time.’

  ‘What then, Nina, is your point?’

  ‘It’s him,’ I explain, moving in. ‘He has all the weaknesses. One kind word from a woman and he thinks they want to sleep with him. Two kind words and he thinks he’s the only man in the world. It’s a form of mental illness, of delusion. I wouldn’t tangle with that deluded man if I were you!’

  All right!

  *

  A few days later.

  Here I am slouching at Howard’s place. Howard’s hole, or ‘sock’ as he calls it, is a red-brick mansion block with public-school, stately dark oak corridors, off Kensington High Street. Things have been getting grimmer and grimmer. Nadia stays in her room or else goes out and pops her little camera at ‘history’. Ma goes to every meeting she hears of. I’m just about ready for artery road.

  I’ve just done you a favour. I could have described every moment of us sitting through Howard’s television œuvre (which I always thought meant egg). But no – on to the juicy bits!

  There they are in front of me, Howard and Nadia cheek to cheek, within breath-inhaling distance of each other, going through the script.

  Earlier this morning we went shopping in Covent Garden. Nadia wanted my advice on what clothes to buy. So we went for a couple of sharp dogtooth jackets, distinctly city, fine brown and white wool, the jacket caught in at the waist with a black leather belt; short panelled skirt; white silk polo-neck shirt; plus black pillbox, suede gloves, high heels. If she likes something, if she wants it, she buys it. The rich. Nadia bought me a linen jacket.

  Maybe I’m sighing too much. They glance at me with undelight.

  ‘I can take Nadia home if you like,’ Howard says.

  ‘I’ll take care of my sister,’ I say. ‘But I’m out for a stroll now. I’ll be back at any time.’

  I stroll towards a café in Rotting Hill. I head up through Holland Park, past the blue sloping roof of the Commonwealth Institute (or Nigger’s Corner as we used to call it) in which on a school trip I pissed into a wastepaper basket. Past modern nannies – young women like me with dyed black hair – walking dogs and kids.

  The park’s full of hip kids from Holland Park School, smoking on the grass; black guys with flat-tops and muscles; yuppies skimming frisbees and stuff; white boys playing Madonna and Prince. There are cruising turd-burglars with active eyes, and the usual London liggers, hang-gliders and no-goodies waiting to sign on. I feel outside everything, so up I go, through the flower-verged alley at the end of the park, where the fudge-packers used to line up at night for fucking. On the wall it says: Gay solidarity is class solidarity.

  Outside the café is a police van with grilles over the windows full of little piggies giggling with their helmets off. It’s a common sight around here, but the streets are a little quieter than usual. I walk past an Asian policewoman standing in the street who says hello to me. ‘Auntie Tom,’ I whisper and go into the café.

  In this place they play the latest calypso and soca and the new Eric Satie recording. A white Rasta sits at the table with me. He pays for my tea. I have chilli with a baked potato and g
rated cheese, with tomato salad on the side, followed by Polish cheesecake. People in the café are more subdued than normal; all the pigs making everyone nervous. But what a nice guy the Rasta is. Even nicer, he takes my hand under the table and drops something in my palm. A chunky chocolate lozenge of dope.

  ‘Hey. I’d like to buy some of this,’ I say, wrapping my swooning nostrils round it.

  ‘Sweetheart, it’s all I’ve got,’ he says. ‘You take it. My last lump of blow.’

  He leaves. I watch him go. As he walks across the street in his jumble-sale clothes, his hair jabbing out from his head like tiny bedsprings, the police get out of their van and stop him. He waves his arms at them. The van unpacks. There’s about six of them surrounding him. There’s an argument. He’s giving them some heavy lip. They search him. One of them is pulling his hair. Everyone in the café is watching. I pop the dope into my mouth and swallow it. Yum yum.

  I go out into the street now. I don’t care. My friend shouts across to me: ‘They’re planting me. I’ve got nothing.’

  I tell the bastard pigs to leave him alone. ‘It’s true! The man’s got nothing!’ I give them a good shouting at. One of them comes at me.

  ‘You wanna be arrested too!’ he says, shoving me in the chest.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ I say. And I don’t really. Ma would visit me.

  Some kids gather round, watching the rumpus. They look really straggly and pathetic and dignified and individual and defiant at the same time. I feel sorry for us all. The pigs pull my friend into the van. It’s the last I ever see of him. He’s got two years of trouble ahead of him, I know.

  When I get back from my walk they’re sitting on Howard’s Habitat sofa. Something is definitely going on, and it ain’t cultural. They’re too far apart for comfort. Beadily I shove my aerial into the air and take the temperature. Yeah, can’t I just smell humming dodginess in the atmosphere?

  ‘Come on,’ I say to Nadia. ‘Ma will be waiting.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true,’ Howard says, getting up. ‘Give her my love.’

  I give him one of my looks. ‘All of it or just a touch?’