Man with a Seagull on His Head Read online

  “I—” Jennifer started to speak although she had no words to follow it with. She felt suddenly hot and suffocated, unable to breathe. “I’m sorry, I— I really must go.”

  She walked fast, almost running from the room, pushing past people in the hall, looking desperately for a way out, for air. She found the back door and emerged, breathless, into the small garden, just a patch of dry grass. Beyond it the smooth floor of the gallery continued, empty, until it hit the rear wall, and she let her eyes and her mind rest there for a moment in the space and the blankness.

  She couldn’t possibly go back in. So she walked round to the front of the bungalow, and without looking behind her, she made her way back up the ramp, very much in need of somewhere to sit. Plenty had made do with the floor. A few even lay down, looking up at the ceiling. But as for a chair or a bench there was nothing. She carried on outside, walking around to the front of the building and across the wide forecourt. Rows of silver birch were planted close together in slim rectangular beds like miniature forests, and their leaves hissed together in the breeze. The air smelt of onions, and she saw there was a cart selling hot dogs just beyond the trees. As she approached she could hear the sizzle and saw at last her place to sit: a single wooden bench, positioned on the far side of the wide walkway that ran alongside the river, just behind the railings.

  From here the bridge she’d walked over looked long and delicate, strung out across the water like a spine, and on the other side she could still see the reassuring dome of St. Paul’s. Behind the long line of riverfront buildings were many tall yellow cranes, like city-dwelling giraffes chomping at the small clouds that had formed in a uniform line along the tops of the buildings. She reached into her handbag and drew out her knitting. It was the time of year when she should have been thinking about Christmas presents but instead she’d gotten started on a cardigan for Francesca’s little one. She’d chosen a special yarn with a little cashmere in it, in purest white, each ball light like something that should be lifted and carried on a warm summertime breeze. She paused before drawing it out, letting her hand rest for a minute in the innocent softness. It was strange—she felt a lot like crying.

  She looked ahead, through the railings at the river. The water was pale brown. It moved quickly, a slight silkiness to the waves and ripples. She stared at it for a while, at the shapes that swam and dipped and morphed across the surface. Borne upon them were remnants of the emotions stirred within her in the bungalow, the feeling that at long last she had been touched, known. And now she just felt very sad, there was no getting away from it. She was sad that Vito was dead. That their chance at being alive together was over.

  But it wouldn’t help anyone, letting her thoughts float around like that. She pulled out the wool and her needles from the bag. The few rows she’d completed were huddled along one of them in that pathetic way that always disheartened her at the start of a new project. She wound the yarn around her little finger, nestled each needle into the hollow behind her thumbs, and, slowly at first, began to knit. The river was just a noise now, the occasional swoosh of boats on their way past, and there were other noises behind: the clicking of heels on the walkway, the tick-ticking of bicycle wheels, all carrying on around her as she settled her mind into the slow rhythm of the stitches.

  She saw, after a time, that someone had sat down next to her. It was in a glance to her right—drawing out a little more yarn from the bag—that she saw the pair of long, thin, black-stockinged legs, one crossed over the other. At their end, the toes just shy of the railings, was a pair of royal blue patent leather shoes. And next to her bag there was now a hand. It was the hand that delayed her, just for a moment, from starting her next row, for it was curiously placed: flat on the seat of the bench, the fingers spaced a little apart as if presenting itself to her view. It was a young hand, pale, long-fingered and delicate. The knuckles were pink, the skin blotched a little by the cold, the nails chewed down well below the fingertips and the skin around them dotted with tender little cuts. It seemed to quiver slightly, a frail and vulnerable thing, and as she looked at it there arose from somewhere a strange thought, not so much a thought even, but an impulse: to touch it.

  She fought against it, of course she did, but something was urging her on. And she somehow knew that were she to do it, were she to lay her own hand down gently upon this other one, the world would change, just a little bit. For perhaps the first time in her life she felt it was in her power to make something happen, to change her own course of events, which had seemed, just a moment ago as she’d sat staring into the Thames, destined to carry on their strange churning way to the grave with no resolution, no sense. Here she’d sat, as compliant as water, and yet here now was a spark of rebellion, gathering in her right hand. She had only to surrender to it and …

  But at that moment the hand moved. Just like that, as if it had been blown by a sudden gust of wind.

  It had disappeared into the pocket of a short, black jacket to draw out a packet of cigarettes and a lighter. Mira Zoob was cold. But she didn’t want to go inside, not yet anyway. She’d worked for two years to get it shown, but the little bungalow depressed her, seeing all those people crawling over it like flies. Tom was bringing his mother to see it but had rung to say they were going to be late. She lit the cigarette and drew the smoke deep inside her. She imagined, as she often did, it entering and filling the labyrinthine passages and cavities of her lungs. When she breathed it out she liked to think that it held their shape for a moment, lace-like, before dispersing in the air. The old woman beside her on the bench had stopped her knitting and was putting it away in her bag. Mira watched the mottled, reptilian hands with curiosity, regarding them as she might a creature in a zoo rather than as an image of what her own skin would one day become. They moved slowly, foraging about in the soft leather bag, then drawing something out, a dull metal object. It was a small Italian coffee pot. Mira became conscious that she was staring and looked away, drawing upon her cigarette and blowing out a thin cloud of smoke in the opposite direction. She flicked the ash upon the floor, staring down at the tiny nuggets of shattered glass that lay about the foot of the bench. And then she glanced again to her left.

  The old woman was now holding the coffee pot in her lap, both hands resting upon it with a kind of pacifying tenderness, as if it was a rabbit that might bolt. Then she lifted it up and began, very slowly and carefully, to unscrew the bottom from the top. She put the top half down on the bench beside her to her left, out of Mira’s sight, but drew the bottom portion close to her chest, cupping her hand over the top as if protecting it from the wind. Mira sat up a little straighter to try and see what was inside but the woman was holding it higher now, close under her chin, making it impossible to see in without overtly peering. There was something inside though, that much was clear, for the woman kept glancing down into it and kept her hand protectively over the opening. Then she touched the index finger of her other hand to her tongue, reached it carefully, almost trepidatiously, into the pot, and, after a moment, drew it out. Mira didn’t have a chance to see what lay on her fingertip, for the woman transferred it swiftly to her mouth, keeping her finger gripped softly between her teeth as if depositing something gently and purposefully upon her tongue.

  Mira got up. She felt suddenly as if she was intruding upon some terribly intimate act, some strange and private ritual. But also, for the first time in … perhaps for the first time ever, she’d felt something come alive in her mind, the start of an idea, and by leaving now, abruptly, she felt she might catch it, preserve it, before it merged and dissipated into the day. She’d wasted her time at college on sculptures involving dismembered dolls. The theme had drifted on into the start of her third year and she’d been thinking of dropping out. It was all so empty, so wildly unoriginal. But there was something about that little coffee pot, the tenderness of the hands upon it … She wouldn’t think any more about it, she wouldn’t force it, but put it away
at the back of her mind to germinate and grow.

  She walked round behind the bench and started out across the forecourt towards the entrance of the gallery. There were still twenty minutes before she was due to meet Tom and his mother at the foot of the Millennium Bridge. She entered through the automatic doors, walked past the shop and on through another set of glass doors into the gallery proper. She wandered onto the bridge that spanned the Turbine Hall and, in the centre, stopped to lean against the rail, peering down onto the roof of the bungalow. She looked one by one at the faces of those who stood in the queue to get inside. There was always the faint hope that he would be among them and she felt certain that if he was she would know him instantly, even though she remembered Ray Eccles only in the vaguest of terms, with the intangible fondness with which one might recall a childhood imaginary friend. As the run of the exhibit drew on and the likelihood of him turning up dwindled, she felt the emptiness of disappointment settling. She didn’t always admit to herself that finding the man she’d become convinced was her father was what this whole project had been about. But even in interviews with the press she’d acknowledged that the thought had crossed her mind: that he might show up to see the bungalow, that he might make himself known to her, if only out of curiosity. There’d been plenty of publicity. If he was alive he would have heard about it. If he’d wanted to find her he would have done so by now.

  She wished she could remember more about her childhood. She wished she knew more about where she came from. There was no one left now to fill in the gaps. There was so much that she didn’t know and would never know. She was always telling Tom to talk to his parents about the past while he still had the chance. Had they been happy? Had they truly loved each other? Did they have regrets? He just laughed at her, telling her he didn’t need to know all that. But he had no idea how it felt to be all alone like her, set adrift like a little boat upon the deep dark sea.

  She looked at her watch: there was still time. She would go and see a painting that she hadn’t seen for years. It was on the third floor. She took the escalator. Away from the shop and the Turbine Hall, the gallery was much quieter. She walked slowly through the rooms until she came to the du Feu. Group, sitting had a whole wall to itself and she stood herself squarely in front of it. Two women had followed her in and she listened to their one-word judgements as they circled the room. “Creepy,” said one when they arrived next to Mira, and then they moved on.

  Mira looked for a long time at the little girl lying on the floor in her tutu and her red wellies. Trying to figure her out. Trying, somehow, to get her attention. But it was no good. The look in her eyes was too sad and too distant. As if she knew what was coming and had decided to give up there and then, just lie down on the floor and wait for it all to be over.

  Outside, the air was alive with birdsong: Korean men were playing little wooden whistles by the foot of the bridge. Mira paced directionless around the forecourt, glancing now and then at the faces of the people coming over the bridge, searching for Tom. She was looking forward to seeing him, to kissing his lips, always so plump and smooth. She wished he was coming alone, without his mother. She wanted to talk to him. Their time together so far had been dominated by the planning of this exhibition and he’d been much involved, especially with the logistics of getting it here. The whole thing had cost a fortune, but she didn’t care about that. They’d stood together on the banks of the Thames watching it sail through an open Tower Bridge, the traffic stopped for the bungalow tied to its floating platform. And then they’d followed it hand in hand, half running, excited as a couple of children as it made its way upriver towards the gallery. She’d felt the pride and elation passing between them, uniting them, for only they knew of all the obstacles that had been overcome to make this moment possible. But now she was ready for more. She wanted really to know him, and to be known. How could she tell him that? She would try.

  Her attention was caught by a homeless man standing beneath one of the posters for 8 Belvedere Close displayed in a large lollipop-like structure planted in the concrete outside the gallery. She always noticed such people. She felt an affinity with tramps and beggars, people without a place in the world, and always stopped to give them money. Although money was so inadequate as a gift. She gave it and she smiled but it failed to communicate any of the companionship she felt. This man wasn’t asking for money though. He seemed to be genuinely interested in the poster. She ambled closer, wondering what it was about him exactly that made her immediately assume he was homeless. For if you examined his clothing it was actually kind of smart, or at least had been once. He wore a dark suit jacket, a little too big but not ill fitting, though admittedly it was dusty and shabby and had holes in the elbows. The trousers appeared to match and as she moved round the other side of the structure she could see he was even wearing a dishevelled tie, the silvery threads frayed and fluttering free. He was tall and thin; there was something almost elegant about him. Even his grey hair, hanging long, sparse and straggly on either side of his bald head, lent him a kind of weary dignity, as did his unkempt beard which blew softly in the wind like sheep’s wool caught on barbed wire. He was bobbing his head in a strange rhythmical fashion, some kind of nervous tic, she assumed, and had one hand in his pocket, the arm bent and slightly tensed as if he were gripping something in there.

  “You should go in and take a look,” she said, moving round to his side of the display board, looking up at it with him. “It’s free.”

  He looked at her but said nothing, and after a few further moments of silence she assumed that he hadn’t understood her. She was about to try again when she felt a hand on her shoulder and turned round to see Tom. He kissed her quickly.

  “Sorry we’re late.”

  “My fault,” said his mother, “there was some problem with the trains.”

  She also gave Mira a kiss on the cheek, keeping a hand resting on her shoulder for a moment after it was given.

  “How are you?” The sun was in her eyes, causing her to squint a little, an expression that emphasized the scrutiny Mira always felt under in her company. Concern for her son, that he should be caught up with someone carrying so much pain.

  “I’m good,” said Mira lightly. “I’m afraid there isn’t much time now though, the gallery closes at six.”

  “Let’s get going then,” said Tom’s mother, turning and setting off briskly towards the entrance.

  Mira and Tom followed and, to her surprise, the homeless man turned too, following just a couple of steps behind. Mira turned to him. “Yes,” she said, smiling at him and gesturing towards the gallery. “Come.”

  Tom took her hand and pulled her close. “Where did you find him?” he whispered into her ear.

  Mira put a finger to her lips. “Don’t worry,” she whispered, “he’s harmless.”

  “But who is he? What’s he doing with us?” he persisted, and Mira let go of his hand, feeling his questions opening up a distance between them.

  “Shhh,” she said, turning to check that the man was still following them.

  “We’ve got Mum here, remember,” said Tom, walking a little ahead to catch up with her.

  The four of them stood on the bridge looking down at the bungalow: Tom’s mother was between him and Mira, the homeless man next to Mira on the other side, a little removed from the three of them but clearly waiting with them. He still hadn’t said a word, but as they stood there Mira could hear he was making a soft sound, a kind of humming. She glanced sideways at him, free to examine his face as he stared, seemingly absorbed, at the bungalow. The lights from the rafters caught his eyes, lost almost entirely in the folds of his skin so that they were simply little specks of reflected light, so sharp and bright that there could only be tears within.

  “It looks so small,” said Tom’s mother.

  “Yes,” said Mira, turning her attention to the bungalow. Looking at it now it did, strangely, appear dif
ferent, smaller in some way. She found herself recalling her mother, her body lying flat and demure on its back in the undertaker’s chapel. The ravaged look that cancer had given her was gone completely. She was small and serene, like a little doll. Pretty, almost. So much more delicate and vulnerable than Mira had ever known her to be. The little house below appeared somehow similar, lying on the smooth concrete floor as if on a slab at the morgue, people poring over it as if all boundaries of personal space had collapsed. But how fragile, how sweet it looked. All those little tiles on the roof, and the little brown bricks too. The front door, the windows, the guttering running all the way round. It was so perfect, and yet too late somehow for its perfection to be of any use.

  She could hear Tom talking to his mother about it and felt relieved that she wasn’t having to do so herself. She was so tired of talking to people about it.

  “Yep, just a normal guy, and then one day he just starts painting.”

  “I wonder why.”

  “We don’t know. But these are the very first paintings he did of the woman on the beach. He used anything he had in the house back then. Food, all sorts.”

  “Shall we go down?” said Mira.

  She held back, letting Tom and his mum take the lead down the steps, then touched the old man lightly on his arm, gesturing for him to follow her.

  “We’re closing in ten minutes,” the steward sitting at the front door told them as they approached.