When Mary woke Finn the next morning, he smiled at her sleepily and said, ‘Maybe we could take a holiday together soon. Somewhere it really is summer. Hot.’
‘I’ve got no money,’ said Mary. ‘I could probably just about afford a trip to Balham to see my parents.’
‘Maybe we could go somewhere else in England — East Anglia or somewhere. Mind you, I always get traumatised by trips to the English countryside. It’s too small, everything is so close together.’ He shook his head violently, as though with a chill. ‘Gives me claustrophobia just thinking about it.’
‘You are a Big Open Spaces Snob, Finnbar Morgan. No appreciation for the small and tidy. You don’t understand the true nature of Britain. You think London is all that exists.’
‘You mean there is more to Britain than London alone? You mean that Britain is a small, tidy and polite place after all? Gee, Mary, thanks for telling me that.’ Mary attempted to smother Finn beneath a pillow.
Finn’s an open spaces snob – he gets that from me. The English countryside is pretty, of course – but I grew up in the Rocky Mountains. This section reminds me of my complete hubris in thinking I could write a novel about London after having lived here for – what was it by then – six whole years? Trying to write a novel from right inside a city space, inside its heart and soul – hmm. I like that ‘East Anglia’ though – marks Finn, and me, out as a complete foreigner.
‘Oh,’ said Mary, defeated. She picked the stamps up off the counter and began to make her way home but changed her mind half-way across the Spring Gardens. She turned round and headed over to Charlotte’s. When Mary knocked heavily on the boarded-up door Charlotte stuck her head out of the first-floor window to see who was there.
‘It’s a bit like living inside a fortress,’ she said on opening the door.
‘I’ve come to have a look at the devastation,’ said Mary following her friend through to the kitchen. Already the glass had been swept from the floor and the fixtures pushed back into place, more or less.
‘I’m about to start on the plumbing in here today. First the water to the sink, then the gas for the cooker and the water heater. The bath will have to wait. I’ve fixed the loo, which makes life a bit sweeter.’
‘Are you working this week?’
‘Yes, this afternoon plus two more days. That’s okay though, I need time away from here. Besides I can have a shower at work.’ She paused. ‘Thanks for dinner last night.’
‘It was nice to meet Michael, finally.’ Charlotte was silent so Mary kept talking. ‘What did you think of Karl and Irene’s plan?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I felt a bit confused by what they said - they seem so cynical about the development plans but so eager to get to work. Seems kind of hypocritical or contradictory to me,’ she said, shrugging. ‘They’re your friends. Do you understand it?’
‘I suppose I have faith in Karl and Irene, especially Irene. I’ve always liked them, and they have great imaginations. They can be very determined and resourceful. As I said to Finn last night, I don’t think they are telling the whole story.’
‘It just seems kind of dumb, you know?’
‘It’s the spectacle that appeals to them I suppose. And they feel like there is a point to be made. Industry in this country is a thing of the past.’
‘Heavy industry is a thing of the past. Light industry is booming. There is money to be made in this country, Mary. You might not see any of it but not everybody lives in squatted property and finds their food in the market’s bins. There is a whole culture out there that by all appearances is thriving. People seem to be going places.’
‘You sound like Michael last night. Since when are you such an entrepreneur? France, Italy, Spain, Portugal, sure people are going places — they are all moving away from here. I have a hard time understanding modern life now. Sometimes I think I’m stuck in a time-warp along with my parents. Going nowhere. Not that I’ll ever be an enterprise success - not that I believe anybody else is either. I don’t think that people are any better off. I think we have begun
to believe the myths created by advertising. You don’t seem to have that Porsche that you deserve yet. They won’t give me a credit card.’
‘No. There’s the rub, I guess. Can you help me bend this?’ Mary hung on to one end of the copper pipe as Charlotte stuck the pipe-bender through it. ‘I want to try to get the sink finished before I have to go to work.’
The combination of continuous DIY with conversations about the de-industrialisation of Britain – this was the 1908s for me. It was a time of such extremes – politics were polarised, the gap between the rich and the poor was beginning to widen. It could still take two months to get a British Telecom landline installed. But it was also before surveillance culture took hold in Britain – before the CCTV cameras, when you could still live and function under the radar, off the grid, without necessarily being a complete renegade. A cash economy, dole cheques and Enterprise Allowance, where a Post Office bank account was all you needed to get by.
After breakfast Finn left for work and Mary walked with him on her way to the post office. She queued for about twenty minutes behind a large collection of people all waiting to cash government cheques. She needed to buy a few stamps for letters she had written to galleries, keep¬ing in touch with people who had previously exhibited her work. When she finally reached the counter the stamps she was handed were of a large and colourful new design.
‘What are these?’ asked Mary.
‘First class stamps, what you asked for.’
‘But they’re so big. They’ll take up too much space on the cards. And what’s this drawing supposed to be anyway?’
‘It’s celebrating the dual-anniversary of the birth of the steel industry and the coronation of Queen Victoria.’
‘On a stamp? Can’t I just have the plain old little picture of Queen Elizabeth the Second on a green background or whatever it is?’
‘These are the only first class stamps I have today I’m afraid,’ replied the clerk.
What’s this about? Weird. Boring too. Sigh.
worked quickly and efficiently and Mary was impressed. She remembered what a struggle her own plumbing had been and how long it had taken her to complete. Even now it wasn’t properly finished. Lots of bits of garden hose remained where copper pipes should have been, but as long as it did not leak, Mary did not care.
After stopping for lunch in a cafe, Charlotte went to work leaving Mary to find her way home alone. Feeling directionless and unable to think of anything to do, she wandered up the street, crossing from one side to the other, inspecting shop fronts. She wondered if the Romans had lived on South Lambeth Road. As she stepped off the curb a car whizzed by, narrowly missing her. Mary jumped back, swearing. When it was safe, she crossed the street again and went into the library. Picking up a newspaper, she read the headlines. Gun murders, rapes, child abuse, fraud: it was like a French thriller or a violent American movie about male-cop-bonding rituals. Mary wondered if Britain was really changing for the worse. Could she remember more innocent times when the family unit was wholesome and people were happy? A time when class and regional barriers were less rigid and people were freer and more kind? She decided she could not and went home to spend the afternoon painting.
Propping up her canvas outside on a chair, Mary set her paints on a table next to it. This painting was troubling her. It had become so abstract, moving further and further away from the storm scene she had initially intended to portray. The black, tumultuous background cut across with red slashes was frightening; Mary felt as though someone else had painted this with an anger she was not aware she possessed.
She began to mix some black and red oils together while watching the painting, half expecting it to change before she touched it. The garden was quiet in the warm, slightly humid afternoon. The sun was shining again and the transplanted lilac looked healthy. The pile of dirt in the middle of the garden had settled down a bit farther but still looked odd. Mary considered seeding it with grass and treating it like a small hill. Perhaps she should buy one of Irene’s statues to put on top of it. Garden Gnomes From Hell, No. 3 leering at the back door — that would keep the Archaeologists’ Trust away.
Mary paused before putting her brush to the canvas. The afternoon sun was making her feel soporific. She lengthened one of the dark, bloody slashes of paint, placed the brush on the table, slumped back in her chair and fell asleep.
Mary dreamed she was a Roman dressed in full metal armour. She was on the train from Rome to London returning to inspect the Baths. Annoyed to discover a house and garden on top of the structure she had built in the boggy ground of Londinium, she quickly nailed an official Roman eviction notice to the front door of the building, without sympathy for the occupants.
On waking, Mary discovered that her paints had dried out and that the painting itself had changed subtly. It looked a bit darker, slightly more angry. She wished she had not discovered the Baths, she was having a hard time forgetting them.
After carrying the painting back up to the workroom, she went into her bedroom and lay down. Feeling neither happy nor well, she decided to spend the afternoon reading and then, once again, fell asleep.
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