Butterfly Fish (32 page)

In the evening, a light shower of rain fell as I made my way down from the local DVD rental shop. It was after 8pm. Traffic had eased and cars drove by bearing shrunken snapshots in their side mirrors. I'd rented
The Big Lebowski
. I loved the idea of an ordinary character landing in an extraordinary situation. The rain began to fall more heavily and I counted some of its disciples. I tugged my coat hood over my head. Mrs Harris was standing at the traffic lights across the road, face illuminated by its flickering colours. Gone were the pained expression and her walking stick. She'd also changed clothes. Instead she now wore flowery red trousers, grey plimsolls and a dark, blue raincoat. Her hair was tamed in a loose bun and she clutched a white, plastic bag straining with the weight it carried. I waited for her to cross the lights and reach my side of the road. As she approached, she whistled, wet tendrils of hair stuck to the side of her face.

“My fellow water baby! How is the world according to Joy?” she enquired, smiling.

“Erm ok,” I answered, resisting the urge to launch into full confessional mode. “I'm ordering takeaway and having a night of film watching. What have you been up to?”

She held her bag up as we quickened the pace. “Costume shopping!” A bus sped past splashing us.

“For a costume party? I've never been to one. What's the outfit?”

“Can't tell you, it's a surprise! You've never been to a costume party? Quite the experience my dear! You'll have to come, cancel whatever you're doing this Saturday.”

“I don't have a costume though.”

She fished her key out as we drew closer to our patch of houses. “Try the old vintage store on the high street, a veritable treasure trove! If you get stuck I'd be happy to lend you something.”

“Thanks but-,” my expression wrinkled. As if she'd guessed my response she warned, “I won't have no for an answer, have some fun for a change.”

God! I thought, she must see me as a miserable human being. It dawned on me that for some strange reason, what she thought of me mattered. I had no idea how that had happened. Despite my best efforts the small bag of DVD rentals was damp. I held it tighter. “Okay but don't abandon me there. I hate it when someone invites you to a party and then ignores you for most of it.”

“The worst that can happen is you'll be forced to interact with other people.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “Even mad butterflies are social creatures!” She winked, hand fluttering to the side of her right leg.

“Are you ok?” I reached to steady her as she rubbed.

“It's fine, an old accident. It troubles me occasionally dear that's all.”

I noticed a loose thread at the wrist of the white jumper peeking beneath her raincoat, imagined secrets clinging to frayed wrists.

“Here,” I offered, “I'll take that.” I grabbed her bag. We'd arrived at her doorstep and she stuck the key in the lock. “Come in and take some macaroni cheese away with you.” I trailed behind her respectfully wiping my shoes on the mat with “home” printed across it. She flicked the lights on. “It's an old family recipe, you can have it for lunch tomorrow. Tell me what you think!”

In the living room I looked up at the light. A tiny Anon sat in the bulb. She pointed to the side table where a copy of the day's Evening Standard was flicked open to the property section. Doodles of forlorn looking stick men in various stages of distress sat in the margins. Drawn in red ink, they seemed to be calling to each other across the page. In the top, right corner, a smudged coffee stain was a canon ball rolling towards them. I glanced up and Anon had gone. The bulb flickered, as though she left her laughter to tangle with the light. Mrs Harris emerged, carrying a brown oven dish bearing tin foil as a makeshift cover. “Here, tuck into that tomorrow. You'll sleep
like a newborn.” The light continued to sputter. “I'll have to change that,” she added, bending to untie the laces of her plimsolls. Heat from the bowl spread through my fingers and the smell of macaroni beneath a melted, golden cheese topping made my stomach rumble. I raised a hand by way of goodbye but back turned, Mrs Harris was already heading to her kitchen, whistling that odd, unrecognisable tune.

Later that night, I woke with vague strains of the tune running through my head. The sound of light rain hitting the windowpanes was comforting. I noticed the light in Mrs Harris's garden was on illuminating the drops of rain on my window. Looking out I watched discreetly as she dug a hole then buried a multi-coloured cloth bag. I wondered what secret had to be hidden inside damp soil. Perhaps only Buddy the Buddha knew, watching bearing mouthfuls of water. After she wandered in, I made myself a mug of hot chocolate, unsettled by my growing fascination with her. And by Anon's greed, not only invading my space but also creeping into Mrs Harris's too. Outside, the street lamps cowered as a gust of wind howled.

Faces

In the week of the costume party I photographed Mrs Harris in several guises. Anon told me to do it. She danced around the room wearing the brass head, whispering instructions, waving arms the weight of silk. Each morning, I listened for the sound of Mrs Harris's front door clicking open. Camera poised on the table, I'd lunge forward fully aware of the small window of time and take pictures. I shot the woman I knew in warm, earthy tones. I captured her face reassembling itself. I shot her dressed out of character in a dull, brown tweed skirt suit, hair restrained in a severe bun. On another occasion, she looked demure and sorrowful, swathed in an ill-fitting knee length black dress. As if she was attending a funeral. Only the hat she wore would raise eyebrows, it was a Phillip Treacy inspired, peacock-shaped number dotted with bits of gold in its netting. Another time she wore a red kilt, a short black tux jacket and sturdy, black heels. In that instance, I ran down to intercept her, pretending to be on my way to the shop.

“Hey, you look colourful today, off somewhere nice?” I enquired, slightly self conscious of still being in my pyjamas.

She bowed dramatically. “Thank you dear. I'm spending some time with my brother. He's taking me on a surprise afternoon outing.”

Casually I said, “Oh, this must be the brother you mentioned briefly. I always see you as an only child for some reason.”

“It depends how you define the term brother,” she muttered. A leaflet distributor clutching a stash of flyers hurried past.

“Your leg seems better,” I noted. “Niggling injuries are horrible.”

“It comes and goes dear! Lots of people manage with terrible afflictions, things you couldn't imagine. If ever I start to pity myself, I think of the Elephant Man.”

“Oh, ok.” I waved her off. “Have a good time.”

“See you on the other side.” She said breezily, hurrying on.

On the night of the party, Mrs Harris and I got ready at my house, listening to The Smiths blaring from the radio. We smoked spliffs and I felt high on camaraderie and possibilities. Our faces were painted like skulls, with drawn-on extended crooked smiles that were sinister no matter the angle of light. We wore “his” and “hers” skeleton costumes with me in androgynous mode and Mrs Harris encased in a corseted dress. Long, black capes floated from our backs. Our heads were decorated in crowns of dead flowers, made from rose petals, geraniums and old wires.

In the streets we encountered bursts of traffic. People swelled in and out of pubs, cramped restaurants and Weatherspoons! Mrs Harris took a swig from the small bottle of Captain Morgan rum tucked inside the pocket of her cape then tugged me along. “The guy throwing this party, Otto, got most of his front teeth knocked out from a gambling debt. Try not to stare when you meet him.” She advised. I nodded as we weaved our way past curious glances. We crossed a bridge that reeked of piss and alcohol, where a homeless guy holding a stick appeared like the gatekeeper and asked for my cape. We walked on. The distant, neon lights inside us threatened to become embodied.

Eventually, we reached a moody looking Victorian house with a shabby hedge. A few red bricks were stacked in the corner of the sidewalk. Music boomed and silhouettes jostled in the hazy gaze of
the windows. We rang the bell. After a short wait Otto answered dressed as a pirate, sporting a patch over one eye. His exposed eye twinkling was the colour of a dark blue sapphire. “Greetings!” he announced with flourish, throwing his arms open.

We were ushered in, our coats taken and swallowed into the warmth. Mrs Harris introduced us as we weaved through the packed hallway. It was difficult not to stare at the row of missing front teeth in Otto's mouth. It made his smile look dubious. Already high, I wanted to ask how much money he'd owed and whether the heavy handlers kept the teeth. The atmosphere felt tunnel-like. Oddly shaped rooms wound off in different directions and high ceilings drew close, and then receded. Alcohol and ash permeated conversations. Bodies in costumes were mutated rats bouncing under low lights.

In the kitchen, a makeshift bar constituting several bottles stacked on the countertop beckoned. A woman sang a deep-throated blues as Mrs Harris made me a gin and tonic.

“How was the outing with your brother?” I asked, shouting over the noise.

She leaned closer, handed me a full glass. “What?”

“Your brother!”

“Oh! It was anti-climatic.” Her brow furrowed in irritation. I swallowed a gulp of drink. Too much gin and not enough tonic. “How so?”

“He took me to some pretentious play in Convent Garden. The kind of thing you'd see scraping the bottom of the barrel at the Edinburgh Festival. We argued over money, my inheritance to be precise, which he still won't give me.” She grabbed cubes of ice from a bucket and threw them in her glass so aggressively, whisky sloshed down the side. I leaned back into the counter. “How is that possible? Is he your blood brother?”

“No, my father remarried you see. The woman already had a child, Bryn. To make matters worse, my father legally adopted him. I wasn't the easiest of children. Anyway, when he died, he instructed
my share of the inheritance to be given to me at Bryn's discretion. And of course, he hasn't, claiming I'm mad and irresponsible.”

“But that's not fair!” I offered, genuinely annoyed on her behalf.

“You don't know the half of it!” she announced, shouting in my ear. “Bryn inherited the estate. After everything my father and I went through in that house, he and his mother just waltzed in and took it. It was as if my father rewarded them for being his new beginning.”

The track changed. David Bowie was signalling to Major Tom.

“You know what was awful?” she continued. “When I got admitted to the mental hospital, Bryn sent me a letter with a hundred pounds enclosed. He said he was disappointed by my circumstances and here was some money to spend wisely. Spend wisely! As though I was an idiot.” She sipped from her glass, shook her head frustrated. “So you see my dear, you're not the only one that has to wrestle with the burden of an inheritance. I'm not talking about just money and objects. I mean things people like you and I see clearly that others may not. Sometimes, I think I inherited a different destiny simply because my mother walked out.” She gripped my arm tightly. Her eyes glowed ominously.

Later in the evening, Mrs Harris and I decided to separate and mingle. After several extra drinks for Dutch courage, I relaxed more. I'd had no intentions of launching myself sober into random conversations with strangers yet I chatted amiably with a pope smoking a spliff by the piano in the cherry-coloured living room. I danced with a Charlie Chaplin who reeked of beer. In the kitchen, I watched Mr T and Darth Vader arm wrestle. On the stairs, two bumblebees kissed passionately. I felt light and floated amongst bodies whose lines were blurring, only to emerge slumped over tables, languishing on cramped sofas and pushed up against each other in doorways. My feet began to hurt so I took my ankle length, black boots off. I dropped them amidst the pile of shoes in the hallway.

When my energy began to dwindle, I expected somebody to slot coins in my back so my eyes could shine brighter. But nobody did
and the whites of my eyes continued to fill with the hand drawn movements of the night. More alcohol was shoved my way.

Hey! Have a Corona.

Want another Vodka and orange?

You're a lightweight; try some of this!

At some point, I wandered slack-jawed into the garden. Smatterings of people had gathered and I noticed Mrs Harris and Otto the Pirate by the swings. They appeared to be arguing but I wasn't close enough to hear what was being said. I felt a sharp twinge in my foot, looked down and a bit of broken glass was covered in my blood. I made my way indoors into the bathroom, where I spent some time washing a bloody, grimace from my foot.

My shoes went missing. A waifish, blonde dressed as Veronica Lake loaned me white slippers. “Cinderella you shall go home! Imagine if you could never leave the party.” She mused. “Imagine if this was all there was, just this party and the characters in it, twenty four hours a day, for the rest of your life.”