Man with a Seagull on His Head Page 8

  Gregoire had done George of course, in the early ’70s (George was terribly pretty in the early ’70s). She’d seen the painting only a couple of times but there was a book at home with a reproduction spread across the centrefold. She didn’t know what made her open it out so often, for it only gave her a stab to see it: the languid twist of his limbs, the worn-out flop of his penis, the pink bloom across his chest …

  Grace knelt down in front of Mira, unbuttoned and removed her coat, and smoothed her curls away from her face.

  “Are you alright, sweetie?” she said without concern for the answer, wanting only to say something. The beauty and perfection of her own child was frightening at times. How close and how distant she was, her eyes dark and secretive like closed little sea anemones. She felt a pang—how cruel it seemed that they’d ever been parted. Nine months she’d waited to know what it was growing inside her and when it arrived—this living thing that breathed and moved inside its own little universe—she realized the time of closeness and of knowing was already lost.

  Her hands slipped down over Mira’s narrow shoulders. Tiny, bird-like bones she could crush with a firmer grip. She’d often thought of doing so. Or strangling, smothering, drowning. What thoughts! Her hands carried on down over the dry, coarse netting of her tutu. “The child can wear what the fuck she likes,” Gregoire had said, and Mira had chosen this: a greying, moth-eaten, ill-fitting item that had been donated to her fancy-dress box from the wardrobe department of the English National Ballet. It was far too big for her and the leotard hung loose over her flat chest, the faintly soiled crotch sagging and gaping beneath her own tight and innocent sex. Grace had made her wear a red polo neck underneath for warmth and to fill her out a bit, and on her feet she had a pair of red Wellington boots, which were Mira’s own choice of footwear. Today being a cold day, spring not quite having conquered the frosts, she’d worn her green duffel coat over the top on the way to the studio which, sticking out over the tutu, had made her into a neat little cone. As they left the house Grace told her she looked like a Christmas tree, which had made her smile and helped to shift the last traces of her temper. She’d fallen out of love with the tutu and had wanted to wear her pyjamas instead. “You can’t switch now,” Grace had said, forcing a stubborn woollen leg down into the tutu as it kicked and twisted. “You’ve made your choice and you have to stick with it.”

  Grace looked up again at the other sitters. The man with the dry, untidy beard and mustard shirt who would not stop licking his lips; the other man who was younger, considerably so, and had arranged himself elegantly against the wall, his back slightly arched, his palms flat either side, one foot raised upon the wall, and his thin features turned upon Gregoire, who pretended not to notice and carried on mixing his paints.

  The women matched the men in age. The older one wore a loose jersey dress that suggested a body underneath so soft it might be possible to knead it into another shape entirely. She hung down to touch her bare toes, and the gape in the dress as she did so revealed large, pendulous white breasts that elongated away from her body like lava in a lamp, as if she were morphing already. The younger, in contrast, was as boned as a corset. She wore a neat, black shift that finished above the knee, a smooth black bob that finished just below the jaw, and a pair of shiny black high heels that sounded out hard and hollow against the wooden boards as she paced back and forth in front of the far window.

  “You’re the prettiest by a million miles,” Grace whispered to her daughter.

  Gregoire coughed and the four responded, gathering quickly on the bench like birds huddled for warmth. This was how he wanted them: bunched uncomfortably in the centre rather than spread out more evenly along its length. Grace kissed Mira on the forehead and watched her run over to take up her position, which was lying on the floor at one end of the bench, removed from the other sitters by a distance of at least a metre. She lay down and was immediately still, her eyes suddenly vacant, as if dead.

  Grace stood near the door with her hands in her pockets watching the group gel and solidify into a single entity, lifted and bound by a silent camaraderie and a secret knowledge of themselves as Art. And feeling her own irrelevance, her own lightness of being off the edge of the canvas, she backed out onto the landing, turned, and made her way quickly back down the stairs and out onto the street.

  Something always happened between going in and coming out of the studio: a waking up, an arrival of life upon the streets. The stillness shifted and the new air, churned up by exhaust fumes swirling round the Square and the movement of people in and out of doors, always helped to buoy Grace on to the next part of her day—and today, she suddenly felt sure, would be the start of something marvellous. And as if to celebrate, or to encourage it in some way, she decided to buy something lovely. Something for Ray. He’d seemed a little melancholy recently, a little … but why did one always need a reason to buy presents? She walked to the end of Bruton Place and followed the road round into Bruton Street, the home of Patisserie Marie. There she bought six of Ray’s favourite strawberry tarts and, leaving the shop with a large white box and an appetite for shopping, set off for Jermyn Street to buy him a tie.

  For ties it had to be Christopher Earnest, for he sold nothing but silk ties, and besides, it was her favourite shop in the world. A secret little place tucked off Jermyn Street; she often felt she was his only customer. Certainly she’d never met anyone else in there, and when she came through the door Christopher Earnest would look up with an expression that said, “Ah, madam, here you are,” as if he’d been waiting for her all morning.

  He was a strange creature, a puppet, brought to life by the short discreet ring of the bell as the door opened. And small, so small as to appear more than just small, but rather scaled-down in some peculiar way.

  In she stepped, onto the plush green carpet that was a bed of moss across the floor, so lush that she felt in danger of sinking a little too deep if she stayed in one place for too long. There was a large crystal chandelier, a dazzle in the centre of the room, and all the ties were arranged around the edges in their own individual wooden compartments, rolled up to look like gigantic boiled sweets.

  “Ah,” she thought, taking it in, standing just inside the door. She stayed there for a moment, scanning, waiting to see what would draw her attention, and to her left a band of silvery weaves flashed at her like coins in the sun. She moved closer and there was one that stood out, with threads of gold, yellow, silver, black, and turquoise woven together in a way that resembled a mackerel’s belly. She would take it.

  “If I may say so, you’ve chosen the most beautiful tie today, madam,” chimed Christopher Earnest when she took it to the counter to pay.

  Every choice she made here was the best possible choice, every thing she picked out the most beautiful thing.

  “If I may hold it up to the light for you, madam, you’ll notice … ah! Do you see?” He held it up to the chandelier and sure enough the threads sparkled as though woven through with light. It was the face of Christopher Earnest that suddenly struck her though, caught in the creamy glow. His features were so delicate, held taut and poised upon his face: the nostrils fixed in a constant flare, the mouth curling at the corners as if pulled by strings. So pale he might have been pickled in a jar. And yet at his eyes, collected along the pink rims and sparkling even more than the golden threads, were little pools of tears. It was a thing as surprising as seeing a statue weeping.

  He put the tie on the counter and could no longer ignore the tears, for as his head lowered they threatened to spill and trickle down over his cheeks. Reaching underneath, he pulled out a perfectly pressed white handkerchief and, flicking it free of its folds, dabbed it along his eyes. “I do apologize, madam, I must confess I’m a little tired today.”

  “Oh?” she said quietly, coming closer to the counter, her movements small and slow as if drawing near to a wild animal. He looked up at her and she saw that hi
s flower-like features had been dislodged, that they trembled as though touched by a breeze.

  “I—” he began, and she withdrew, suddenly terribly afraid that he was about to confide in her, for she had glimpsed, as their eyes met, the taint of tragedy in his face—the pallor of the skin, the crêpey folds around his eyes. Petals on the turn. The thought had come to her that he was dying, and then she felt it with certainty. Christopher Earnest was dying. And she was dying too. She felt it not abstractly, but physically, a terrible pit in her chest. For one horrifying moment she couldn’t find her breath—so she laughed, forcing it back, and he coughed, then lowered his eyes towards the counter, his hands reaching underneath for a bag, resuming the transaction.

  She took her purchase in its small bag and left the shop, wanting now only to be home. The day was filling up. People were out, doing things and seeing things. On Piccadilly the tourist buses were revved and waiting, bodies were pouring out of the Underground like sand through an egg timer. Hurriedly she entered the park, keeping to the wide path that ran down the eastern edge, and then slipped into the dark passageway that dipped below her apartment block and took her to the entrance on the other side, on St. James’ Place. The lobby—cool, marbled, bare—was always a refuge of sorts, and she stood there for a moment letting the thick, solid walls subdue her jellied flesh. And as she stepped into the lift she felt a small sense of victory, of death’s shadow lifting as she ascended smoothly to the top floor.

  She unlocked the door of her apartment and, without taking her coat off or putting down her bag, walked quickly across the hall and stood in the doorway of the sitting room. There he was: her angel. She always hoped for more when she crept up on Ray like this, to catch something, some glimpse of his secret self, or even to find him floating or glowing, some outward indication of the inner worlds he sailed through. But still it was magic just to watch him when he did not know himself to be watched. One could love someone very easily that way.

  She did wish he wouldn’t stand so very close to the window though—like a moth worn out from bashing its head against the glass.

  What a funny creature he was. And George too. How had she ever ended up here with the two of them?

  Her great-great-grandmother had supplied hand-baked cookies to her local store. Her great-grandfather had the first small factory. Her grandfather built a worldwide cookie empire. Her father inherited it and drank a lot. And she, his last born and least loved, had only wanted to do something, something not made of butter and sugar and chopped-up nuts. Something not made of money. And yet there was nothing she seemed very good at doing. Maybe it wasn’t about doing, just being. Being with the right people. She’d gone on protests. To underground poetry performances in freezing, disused factories. She’d moved in with a woman, convinced it was the only way. But … maybe she could have chosen better. And then she’d found George, who lived in one room and ricocheted around it like a squash ball, a compact reactive thing lacking the protective casing that allowed most people to move through life absorbing its everyday extremes. Once she’d been in that room with him for a while, it was strange, all she wanted was to go back and be in it with him a while longer. This world he’d unearthed of outsiders, of maniacs and madmen and gentle geniuses and art that could not be stopped, even if you shut your eyes and your wallet—it was so very different from biscuits, sold in boxes, millions of boxes every single year.

  She had all this money, you see. Not a fortune, but a dull, lifeless burden all the same: every day like something she’d bought off the shelf, overprocessed and bland. What a sweet thrill to surrender it to George and watch it come alive in his hands. He didn’t make things with it, or even buy things exactly, but he transformed things. He turned perfectly worthless creations into masterpieces, perfect nobodies into artists. And it wasn’t magic, or a con, just an ability to see things others couldn’t. A fresh and penetrating gaze. This was art and beauty and life in its purest form. Extracted like gold from the earth, unrefined and raw. The rest was just more biscuits in boxes. How it frustrated him when others couldn’t see it, when reviewers talked endlessly about the funny old street cleaner who lived with his dear old mum, as if the miracle was not the work itself but that such a creature should respond to the world at all.

  To be honest, Grace found it difficult herself. She wasn’t an explorer like George. She saw the pettiness of life and longed to rise above it but … well, it wasn’t to see art and beauty and life in its purest form that she accompanied George to Southend-on-Sea in 1976. They’d been in the middle of a heat wave in the middle of a city. The chance of a sea breeze, her toes in the water, and some titillation from a small-town neighbourly dispute were what had persuaded her into their hot little car that morning.

  Her skin had felt as if it was melting into the car’s black plastic seats as they’d made their way out of London to the east. Out on the highway the sun made puddles on the tarmac, and the land on either side, brown and hedgeless, slipped hypnotically past. She’d been asleep by the time they reached the outskirts of the town, but as they drove deeper into the smallness of suburbia she woke, wallowing in a warm, sexy somnolence as she looked about at her new surroundings. Here, among the mini-roundabouts, the driveways and kiddies’ bicycles, her life seemed a most unusual, beautiful thing. She had a beautiful, unusual husband, a beautiful, unusual home; she really was rather unusually beautiful herself, she thought, catching the angle of her sweat-defined jaw in the wing mirror.

  “Let’s have a baby!” she said, turning lazily to George, and he smiled at her, reaching his hand around her thigh in a way that made her feel skinny and sexy.

  They found the road easily enough, a small cul-de-sac of bungalows, and picked a door upon which to knock. A woman answered, only moderately elderly, but settled already into the clothes, the hairstyle, and the lipstick that would do for her until the grave. Grace adored her; she was perfect. Number eight, she said, was the one they were looking for, her lips pursing as she pointed opposite. “Are you from the council?” she asked, and George said, no, they were art collectors, giving her a small smile and a gentlemanly bow of gratitude before setting out across the road.

  There was no answer at number eight. All the curtains were closed. “Let’s go, honey,” said Grace, kissing George’s earlobe and glancing over her shoulder. “Number Twelve is still standing there,” she whispered into his ear. “She has her arms folded and she’s looking very suspicious. I think we should go before she calls the police.” Grace laughed, taking George’s hand, but he slipped it free and started making his way around the side of the bungalow. She waited for a moment and, not knowing what else to do, followed him round, finding him with one foot inside the back door.

  “George!” she said, running over and taking his hand again.

  “Hello!” His shout disappeared into the house. There was no response.

  “Honey, come on. Let’s come back later. We can walk down to the beach from here. Ice cream?” She tugged on his hand to persuade him out but he pulled back, stronger, taking her in with him. They stood together in the empty kitchen. The lino was sticky under their feet. The whole room felt sticky. Ahead of them, a dense trail of ants made a pilgrimage across the worktop to a spilt dollop of tomato sauce. The air felt heavy, as if something awful had just happened. “It stinks,” said Grace.

  George moved slowly deeper into the room and, still clutching his hand, Grace followed on behind, stopping by his side in the doorway through to the entrance hall.

  “There you go!” said George, whispering now, letting go of her hand and stepping forward.

  The light was not good in the hallway. To begin with, Grace sensed rather than saw what was around her. The silence teemed with unseen life, as it might in the middle of a jungle. She too walked onward into the space, and slowly the dark shapes upon the walls took form. She could discern a face, a woman, and around her a kind of landscape. She moved a little closer. It
was not a naturalistic figure, not accurate or clear. Obscured somehow by the thickness of the paint or … what was it? She reached out her hand. It was grainy to the touch, dry and chalky, coming off a little on her fingertips. Grace had her face close to the wall now, close to this other face. Not real … and yet curiously and intimately recognizable. Like someone half remembered from a dream. A face that awoke something in her, like a deep nostalgia. It was a reticent beauty, the figure seeming to withdraw back into the wall, her eyes looking both inwards and out, as though beckoning shyly, wanting to be followed, to reveal something … some secret thing. Grace turned, disturbed by the sound of George’s feet on the carpet, and was met by the same figure again on the opposite wall—not dryly repeated, like on a sheet of wallpaper, but as if truly there anew. Everywhere Grace moved her gaze, there the figure reappeared, as if she was a projection of her own imagination, her own yearning.

  “It’s amazing,” she said, looking for George, wanting to know that he was seeing it too.

  “Come on,” he whispered. “There’s someone here.”

  As she moved towards him Grace could hear a soft, scratching, shuffling kind of noise coming from across the hallway. George started towards a door, and she followed slowly on behind. Slowly, he nudged it open—just a small way before it was blocked by a bed. But there was enough room for the two of them to peer round and see, in the far corner of the room, a small crouched figure, his face close against the wall as if communicating with someone just the other side. And all around, the same beautiful dark cloud of angels, as if he were whispering them into existence. So this was it. The source. This little rabbit.