You Must Be Sisters, Page 5

  ‘Never mind the rain,’ cried Claire. ‘Let’s get out and walk.’

  It was a pure pleasure to walk down the street. Up above them four storeys of golden stone faced each other across the trees whose trunks were glistening in the rain. The street was deserted. It was nice to be alone and talk about sisterly things without boring anyone else; nice, too, just to wander at will and not have to point out places of interest, as one would with anyone but a sister.

  Just then they stopped. They had turned a corner and there in front of them stood a figure tugging at a cigarette machine. He was hunched over it, in his long flapping overcoat from the Army Surplus shop.

  ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘This thing sticks.’ The drawer shot back and he staggered, then he looked at them, pleased. He had very, very gentle eyes and a droopy moustache. Droopy hair, too. Everything drooped.

  ‘Goodness, this is Andy,’ Laura told Claire. ‘He does psychology like me, but he’s second year.’ He’d been at that table in the Berkeley Café; she prayed that John had told him nothing about the episode that had followed that meeting. Andy’s vague, benign look told her he hadn’t; no little spark there.

  Andy looked through Laura vaguely. ‘You and your friend want to come inside or something? It’s pissing down.’

  ‘Well …’ Laura hesitated. He’d think they were mad, but actually they’d been enjoying their damp wander through the streets. And yet … curiosity triumphed. So did his unsuitability, with his long and matted knots of hair.

  They followed the stooping figure down the street and arrived at some basement steps. Andy went down and disappeared through a door. Laura halted, struck by another thought.

  ‘Do you really want to?’ she whispered.

  ‘Yes. Why not?’

  Laura had never been to Andy’s place before, but as all his conversations seemed to revolve around the subject of cannabis, she presumed that his Sundays would revolve around its consumption. The fact was, to her terrible and secret shame she’d never actually had any of the stuff. And what about Claire?

  They went inside. Andy seemed to have forgotten about them and was sitting down in the middle of the room. Claire and Laura hovered. The curtains were half drawn and a light bulb was lit, as if the room couldn’t quite choose between day and night. Five or six people were sitting about on mattresses, and in the air was a damp bedsit smell mingled with a faint farmyard scent that must be It. Pot. Laura found a space and sat down.

  ‘Come on,’ she whispered to Claire, who suddenly looked foolish standing up there, clutching her handbag. ‘Sit down next to me.’

  A girl with lots of tiny plaits came in carrying a tray of tea. ‘Oh,’ she said when she saw Laura and Claire.

  ‘They’ve come,’ said Andy, ‘to join us for the Sunday joint.’

  ‘But we’ve already eaten, thank you,’ said Claire.

  Laura blushed. Someone laughed. The girl rolled large black-rimmed eyes at Claire, took in the woollen suit and proper handbag, and wordlessly squatted on the floor. She started pouring the tea. Andy had taken off his coat and was emptying the cigarettes out of their packet.

  ‘Well, Laura and Laura’s Friend,’ he said, ‘so you’d like to have a smoke, would you? Join the merry band.’

  ‘When I was fourteen,’ said Claire, ‘my father gave me twenty-five pounds not to start and I was so miserly I never did.’

  Laura hid her burning face. How could anyone, even Claire?

  ‘Hey, hey.’ Andy smiled at Claire, eyebrows raised. ‘Not smoke – Smoke. Grass. Dope. The good weed.’

  ‘Oh.’ A pause. ‘Oh, I see. Well, I don’t think I could. I can’t inhale, you see.’

  Andy looked round at the others. ‘Hey, hear that? Well, Laura’s Friend,’ he said, turning to her, ‘just watch Uncle Andy. He’ll show you how.’

  By now he’d taken some papers from his pocket and filled them with tobacco from the cigarettes, and something else he tapped out from a little brass box. Everyone watched. He was the priest. Now he stuck the papers together into one loose sausage. ‘A light,’ he said, and the plaits girl leant over with the holy flame.

  He put the sausage to his lips; it flared; through the smoke Claire saw his eyes bulge. For a horrified moment she thought he was asphyxiating. He drew the thing away from his mouth and then, with a sudden hiss and shudder as if he’d been stabbed, his lips drew back from his teeth. It was a long hiss, exquisitely painful, his lips stretched, his eyes glazed, the veins in his neck bulging. Then suddenly he subsided; his breath was let out in a shuddering groan. He slumped down, head lolling, and proffered her the smouldering sausage.

  ‘Oh no,’ she cried. ‘I couldn’t, really.’

  ‘Hey, just try,’ he said. ‘Take it right down, deep.’

  Those eyes were watching, waiting for it. Eyes all round the room. Claire quickly passed it to Laura.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Laura asked. She took it between her thumb and forefinger, her other fingers arched as she’d seen Andy arch his. She put it to her lips.

  It burned down to her lungs; it tore, red-hot, down, and she was transfixed. Everything went black. She couldn’t breathe.

  After a moment she could open her eyes, just. But still she couldn’t breathe. There was no hope of her ever breathing again. How could she, with her lungs full, her throat full, her mouth and head full?

  The next hand hovered, waiting. Suddenly she could gasp. A fit of choking strangled her.

  ‘Good grass, right?’ said Andy. ‘Not too strong; just a gentle high.’

  ‘Is it?’ Claire asked Laura with interest. ‘What’s it like? Do you often smoke it?’

  Andy was listening, so Laura tried to seem blasé. Difficult when she was dying, but she tried. ‘Er, sometimes.’ Why, oh why couldn’t she be as honest as Claire and admit she’d never done it? Why? Why couldn’t she be as nice as Claire? The question reeled round her head. Why? In fact, the whole room was reeling. The Eric Clapton poster on the wall buzzed and wobbled. Hell! It was just like that awful thing with John all over again, but worse this time because she had, in some way she couldn’t make out with her dizzy head, been disloyal to Claire.

  The hissing next to her stopped. She turned to her neighbour; he was pressing his neck. Claire leant forward to look at him too. ‘Why are you doing that?’ she asked brightly.

  There was a pause, then his eyes slowly opened. ‘It gets me stoneder than stoned,’ he said, then he closed his eyes again.

  Enveloped in themselves, people didn’t speak. The room was heavy with smoke and concentration. Then a voice came from the opposite mattress. ‘I need jam,’ it said.

  ‘And why not,’ said Andy. He heaved himself up and went into the kitchen, reappearing with a loaf and some jam. ‘Let’s get into the con –, the con –, how’s it go?’

  ‘Conserves,’ said Claire helpfully.

  ‘The conserves. Yeah, who wants a jam trip?’ He cleared a space on the floor which was covered with things – ashtrays, teacups, ‘Rupert Bear Annual’ and a Sunday paper. It was open at the page about the aborigines.

  ‘Have you read that article?’ Claire asked Andy, pointing to it. He shook his head. ‘It’s very good.’

  ‘Read it, then.’ He turned round to the others. ‘Listen to a story, children.’

  Claire read it. When she had finished she looked up.

  ‘Wow,’ came an impressed voice.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, pleased. ‘It’s extraordinary, isn’t it.’

  ‘Wow, those ants … big green ants, really big …’

  ‘… with huge staring eyes …’ came another voice.

  ‘… and big shiny bodies, leaping through the woods …’

  ‘… their eyes all red and their bodies all – all green …’

  ‘… and pow! You’re face to face with one,’ said Andy. He started giggling. They all started giggling. ‘A mighty monster ant. And you say, hey, don’t touch me, mister monster ant, don’t woggle your long green tentacles at me …’ Gigg
ling, Andy put a spoon into the jam and heaped it on to a piece of bread. He lifted it; the lump of jam slid off on to his jeans. ‘Whoops.’ He was shaking with giggles.

  ‘But don’t you see?’ Claire cried. ‘About the aborigines –?’ She stopped. They didn’t understand what it was about at all; they didn’t care.

  The thing was back in her hand now; it was shorter and damper. She passed it to Laura.

  ‘Er, no thanks,’ said Laura, who was still fighting for breath.

  She’d just noticed that the dropped ash had left round white holes in the knees of her black tights, holes the size of sixpences, widening and shrinking ones. The room still swayed to and fro, most oddly. ‘We must go,’ she said.

  ‘Splitting?’ Andy raised his head from the inspection of his jeans.

  ‘Yes,’ said Laura, longing for air. ‘Claire has to drive back to London and I have to go back to Hall.’

  ‘In Hall, are you? Dead place, full of straights.’

  ‘Oh but –’ Claire began, and stopped. She thought of Mike’s passionate voice as he read about the aborigines. This lot didn’t seem to care about anything at all. ‘I’ve met such nice people there today.’

  Andy turned to Laura. ‘Well, my girl, the sooner you get out of there the better.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Laura casually, ‘I’m thinking of leaving next term and moving in somewhere else, so I can – you know – be myself.’

  ‘Laure!’ cried Claire. ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Though actually she’d never considered it until now.

  Avoiding Claire’s eye, she got up carefully. The room still slopped backwards and forwards, but once she was outside she felt better. Night had fallen and the rain had stopped. She took a deep, deep gulp of air.

  ‘Do you feel high?’ Claire was inspecting her with interest.

  ‘No,’ she replied, truthful at last. ‘Sick.’

  Laura being disinclined to talk, they walked back to the car in silence. With what pleasure had they walked down this street! But now the mood was spoilt. Passing the black railings, Laura wondered angrily Why? Why can’t I just be myself like Claire? Why do I have to try to make an impression when Claire doesn’t?

  And later that night, having seen Claire off on her dark voyage, she wondered about moving out of Hall. Perhaps, if she lived alone, her character would tauten up and she would no longer find herself bending with every different person she met. Claire, in her charitable way, would call that being sympathetic, identifying with people. Not true. Even with Mike, Laura thought, nice friendly Mike, I was tilting my head at the right, thoughtful angle when he was reading that thing from the newspaper.

  She was in bed now. She pulled the blankets up to her chin and gazed at her silent room, its washbasin glimmering in the moonlight. I’m a whole mass of people, she thought That’s my trouble. And none of them – except when I’m alone, or with Claire – none of them is convincing.

  Somewhere out in the echoing night a dog barked. Outside these four warm walls there were real sadnesses, and real problems, and spaces and aborigines …

  Laura snuggled down in bed, cosily wrapped up in her blankets and complexes.

  six

  CHRISTMAS EVE, AND all along the Harrow avenue lights glinted in the windows; fairy lights, lanterns. Stretches of hedge, then fence, then stretches of hedge again; in between them, gates – The Lilacs, Woodland View, Greenbanks. Beyond the gates, pale in the gathering dusk, gravel drives and beyond them houses, similar but not identical, each with its shadowy double garage.

  Out of the gate marked Greenbanks, a house whose double garage had Tudor eaves, issued a little party of three – two sisters and Badger, who was a border collie with a black and white face.

  ‘Woods?’ suggested Claire.

  ‘No,’ said Holly. ‘I’m always going there.’

  ‘Rec?’

  ‘Shut. It’s dark.’

  ‘Oh yes. Well, what about that bomb site place Laura and I used to play in?’

  ‘It’s got a house on it now.’

  The two of them stood on the pavement, thinking. Laura was usually the leader, but Laura had disappeared somewhere. Actually, it was rather a relief being without her. She had seemed so grumpy this holidays, mooning about and telling their parents how hideous their furniture was, things like that. One felt more Christmassy without her.

  Badger looked up at them and waved his white plume of a tail.

  ‘I know,’ said Claire finally. ‘The roofs.’

  ‘What roofs? What roofs?’ cried Holly.

  They set off down the road, past the similar houses, past the large dark gardens, past the Rec with its closed iron gates. Holly, thrilled at this sudden sisterly adventure, skipped along the pavement. Now it was dark, there was that unmistakable Christmas feeling in the air, a sense of timelessness, a hushed expectancy.

  At the bottom of the road they turned a corner. Here they passed a wrought-iron fence and Holly slowed down from a skip to a walk.

  ‘What on earth are you doing?’ asked Claire.

  ‘Touching each of the twiddly bits. I have to when I go past.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘So none are left out’

  Claire laughed. ‘Do you know, I did that? At least, I used to run my hands along those bobbles at the top.’

  ‘So you’d be sure there would be chocolate cake for tea or it wouldn’t hurt at the dentist’s.’

  ‘That’s right.’ They moved off down the road. ‘What else do you do?’

  ‘Oh, I canter this bit when I’m being a pony.’

  Claire looked down at the pavement. ‘And you never tread on the cracks.’

  ‘Of course not. You are, though.’

  Claire looked down where she was stepping. She felt a vestigial tweak. Fear? Guilt? She started avoiding them.

  With crack-avoiding strides they made their way down the street. They stepped in harmony. Soon they arrived at the block of flats with the roofs, the roofs where Claire and Laura had so often played. They crept through the shrubbery, past the rows of lighted windows; up the fire-escape at the back they tiptoed.

  ‘This is super!’ whispered Holly. Badger’s claws made little scrabbling clatters as he followed them up. Claire gripped the iron railing; she peeped furtively into the lighted kitchens they were passing; she ducked when a shape appeared and closed a window. Her skin prickled with delicious fear, a feeling she thought she’d outgrown. Badger barked, once. ‘Ssh!’ hissed Claire. That exquisite, dry-throated alertness was still there, hardly blunted with her adulthood.

  They tiptoed on to the roof. It was an interesting one, full of skylights and tanks and large strange air-ducts. Claire looked around; just for a moment she wished that Laura were there. Now they’d arrived she hadn’t the faintest idea what they’d ever done. But she’d think of something; half of her was tingling with excitement. Half, the adult half, just thought of it as a nice view.

  The skyline was jumbled with shapes; they were creeping past them when Holly drew in her breath. They stopped.

  Holly pointed. ‘Look!’ she hissed.

  Claire looked. ‘What is it? I can’t see anything.’

  ‘Look at that shape. It’s a person. It is.’

  Claire stiffened. Holly was right: it was the hunched shape of a person. Someone was sitting there.

  Just then Badger barked. The shape jumped up, suddenly familiar.

  ‘Laura!’

  They stared at each other, then giggled. ‘Goodness, what a relief!’ They laughed, each pretending they hadn’t been frightened.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Claire asked.

  ‘Just thinking. Dreaming. Escaping from home for a while.’

  They both looked at Laura. The surprise subsided, leaving the atmosphere changed.

  ‘I came up here to breathe,’ said Laura. She threw her head back and gazed up. ‘To look at that beautiful sky. Amazing, isn’t it.’

  Holly frowned. ‘What about our game?’ she ask
ed.

  ‘We can look at those incredible stars,’ said Laura.

  Holly treated that suggestion with the contempt it deserved. ‘You’re not saying the proper things.’ She looked from one to the other. ‘Anyway, if you two are so feeble I’m going off with Badger. First I’m going to explore. Then I’m going to see where those pipes go. Then I’m going to try and get down one of those window things.’

  Claire, with the faintest sense of loss, sat down beside Laura.

  ‘Don’t go near the edge!’ she called to Holly, as boringly as an adult. Then she turned and stared down at the strings of street lamps.

  ‘I feel so stifled at home, Claire,’ said Laura. ‘They don’t realize I’ve grown up. All the nagging! Why don’t you give just a little tidy to your room, darling, if you’ve nothing else to do, and couldn’t you possibly wear something a little more becoming, you know that Marion and her mother are coming for drinks and I do like you looking nice. That sort of stuff.’ She threw her head back and gazed at the sky. ‘You know, even when I was younger my real reason for coming up here was to breathe.’ To illustrate this she breathed in, deeply. ‘You see, I needed space and freedom.’

  Claire burst into laughter. ‘Laura! You were as ordinary as me! You came up here to play! To boss me around. Don’t you remember?’ She looked at Laura’s brooding profile against the night sky. Childhood was far away; it did seem a pity. ‘Really, you do seem muddled.’

  ‘I am muddled. And I analyse myself so endlessly I get into a worse muddle. I just think about what I’m doing all the time, how I’m reacting, what impression I’m giving. Very claustrophobic, it is. It’s only when I’m alone that I can really relax and breathe again.’

  ‘But don’t you feel free at Bristol, with your lovely independent room and all?’

  ‘Not really. It’s different pressures there.’

  ‘What like?’

  ‘Oh, pressures to look as if one’s got masses of friends and one’s doing no work and one’s sexy and careless. Insidious things, those.’

  ‘So at home it’s pressures to be tidy and in Bristol it’s pressures to be messy. So to speak.’

  ‘I never thought of it like that. And each is as bad as the other.’ She fell silent. How was it that Claire, with her cramped flat full of landladies’ cast-offs and Yvonne’s tapestry pictures, with the difficult pressures of her teaching job – how was it that Claire seemed curiously freer than she, Laura, felt? For, even in mid-grumble like this, she knew that if she were honest she had all the freedom in the world – time, liberty, her own room – heavens, poor Claire even had to share a bedroom! And yet Claire in her unobtrusive way had managed to become much more independent inside herself than she, Laura, with all her gesturings, had ever done. Somehow she’d never had to be the loud one; there was no need. She’d grown up without a fuss, leaving home as naturally as fruit falls from a branch. No traumas, no complexes, no knots that had to be tugged against, then examined at length.