Demo (24 page)

Instead he walked to the window and scraped at a dried-on splash of something with his thumbnail, rubbed the spot with his sleeve. I still miss the house I grew up in, he said. When Clare was eight months old, we moved out of the high flats to a bigger house, a four apartment in a tenement. I was nine. All my happiest memories are fae our first house.

What's a four apartment?

It's what they call a council flat wae three bedrooms and a livin room. He looked at her a little longer than was comfortable, switched his gaze abruptly and said, But here we are, comrade, standin about and me wi a hot date at the Job Centre. Canny wait. He pounced on the fallen ball of newspaper, kicked it through the doorway into the hall. Oh, ho! Postage stamp! Ya dancer!

It was a relief when Danny went out and she had the place to herself. Quiet. The coming and going of traffic and the odd shout from the street below were like natural phenomena, the sea beneath the hotel balcony on childhood holidays. She had a choice of where to go now. She could sit at Julian's desk at the window overlooking the drying green, the – what did Danny call it? – back court. Or she could stay here in the living room, pull a chair up to the bright bay window and watch life go by below. The seating in the room fell into two categories: saggy armchair in brown cord with scuffed arms and threadbare cushion – times two. Or straight-backed dining chair, its wood scratched, the seat in green velvet with the nap worn off – times three. Where was the fourth, she wondered. And there was the sofa bed, scarlet, aglow in the sunlight, a newer piece of furniture, with Danny's sleeping bag draped across the back. She dragged one of the upright chairs to the side of the window and took both diaries out of her bag, the black hardcover notebook she'd bought in Cambridge and Aunt Laetitia's hand-sewn work of art. It was hers she ought to be writing, but it was her great-aunt's life that intrigued her now. Her own seemed in abeyance, too indistinct to get a handle on. She set her journal on the floor beside the chair and picked up her great-great-aunt's.

The postcard had worked its way loose or else she'd forgotten to insert it again before Julian had hustled her from the café, but the book opened anyway at the page where Aunt L. revealed her irritation with Harry. Deception, deception. What could that be? Harry in drag? Was that really feasible? What else was possible?

A flock of pigeons flew onto the roof above the window, scattering light from their wings into the room. Down in the street, buses crawled towards the junction, the pedestrian crossing beep-beeped and a yellow car did a U-turn, heading back towards the city centre. It was quite like some parts of London really, this little bit of Glasgow. At street level, anyway, the shops: the Asian grocers; the African Caribbean fruit seller with his aubergines, mangoes and sweet potatoes spilling out onto the pavement; the café; the Italian restaurants; a little like Beechfield Road, a few streets away from Mother. But this road was broader. And through the newly translucent window she could see two church spires, one of them slender, elegant, touched gold by the low November sun.

She turned back to the diary in her lap. The depressions made earlier by her thumbs were still there and the edge of the right-hand page seemed to have fused to the one after; she had to ease them apart with the nail of her little finger. On the next page, Laetitia's large looping hand looked slightly different; it had a headlong quality, as if written with excitement at great speed.

15th of April 1915

Today in la Galleria degli Uffizi

we saw a painting of Judith

beheading Holofernes. As soon

as my eyes lit upon it, I knew:

a woman has painted this! And so

it proved. The painter's name was

Artemisia Gentileschi. Her subjects,

Judith and her maidservant,

working together to part

Holofernes from his head,

She turned the page.

while his life's blood gushed and

bespattered their dresses, were so

muscular and alive to each other,

it was clear no man could have

conceived the vision. Why was the

existence of this marvellous artist

hitherto unknown to me? Harry was

dreadfully sour, refused to share my

delight, uttered only five words

together: The maid-servant's name

is Abra. I do wonder…

The next page was torn out. Its ragged edge revealed only parts of letters, tails, a dot, something that looked like the beginning of a ‘b', or could have been an ‘h'. Damn! Damn, bugger and damn!
I do wonder
– what? What was she trying to hide? Assuming it
was
Laetitia who tore out the pages. Perhaps it was Harry. Or someone in the family. She reached inside her jumper for the two keys, pulled them absently on their chain from side to side.

An account of a search for more paintings by Artemisia Gentileschi for the next two pages. Then the one Julian must have seen.

In a painting by a little-known artist

I saw today in the Pitti Palace, the

robes of a bystander at some spectacle

were the very shades of purple and green

we once wore so proudly. It is not yet two

years, though it seems like decades

since we marched, Harriet and I, with the

WSPU, on our pilgrimage to Hyde Park,

resplendent in satin sashes, bearing the

beautiful banner H. had sewn for us, the

voices of women raised freely around us,

singing and laughing and calling for

justice. Oh, how I wish we could reclaim

the innocent fervour we shared throughout

those heady days!

She remembered something: the fob. The medallion attached to the key ring. It ought still to be there. She raked in her bag, unzipped her purse. There it was, the size of a fifty-pence piece, its enamelling largely rubbed off, little scuffed fragments only remaining of white and green and purple towards the edge. And around the perimeter, the inscription:
WOMEN'S SOCIAL AND POLITICAL UNION
1903. So, Laetitia and Harry, a.k.a. Harriet, a.k.a. H. were members of the WSPU and worked together for the cause of women's suffrage. What could have happened? Sometime during their trip to Florence, their friendship soured. But why?

There were footsteps on the stair, someone at the door. The letterbox clattered and she heard the sound of mail falling onto the wooden boards of the hall, the footsteps retreating, the outside door banging shut. While she'd been reading, the sun had gone in again and the room had reverted to dingy. Dingy, but at least no longer grungy. She crossed it and looked
at the mail lying inside the front door: three letters in white envelopes, a couple of items of junk mail. She went to pick them up. One piece of junk mail was for Julian, the other for Malcolm Finnerty. Malcolm X, presumably. All three bona fide letters were addressed to Arjun Singh. Jed? How did he get from Arjun to Jed? She laid them on the sideboard inside the front door.

She was restless. Glasgow was still a closed book to her. Julian ought to have been back by now, as he'd promised. The morning was gone.
She
ought to be getting on with Virginia Woolf as she'd said. Her new laptop hadn't been out of its case, and she had written not one single word since she was last in Cambridge, before heading off for Florence and the demo. At the moment, Great-aunt Laetitia interested her more than Virginia Woolf and Gertrude Stein. Laetitia and the shape-shifting Harry, who had now appeared to her in several guises: soldier, poet, war correspondent, husband, moustachioed transvestite, lesbian lover, seamstress, ardent suffragette. And a woman who would not participate in her friend's enthusiasm for art. Perhaps the letters still in the trunk in London would offer more clues. Perhaps. She clutched the keys on their chain round her neck. If she hadn't brought them, Mother could have unlocked the trunk and sent the letters on. Except she didn't want her to know that she wasn't in Cambridge.

Not that she'd mind terribly; not if she knew her daughter was with Julian Legrozet, who, even with dreadlocks and
unfortunate political views
, came from the proper background.

Tea.
A nice cup of tea
, as they said in Mother's circles. She went to the kitchen and filled the kettle, took the cherry mug from the drainer. The water was almost boiled when she heard someone knock at the door. Julian. He'd given her his key.

Coming, she shouted. At first she couldn't see anyone
through the glass, but that was because it was someone much shorter than Julian. She turned the Yale latch and opened the door.

Clare!

Is Danny here? He asked us to bring some claes for him. She held up a dark blue holdall. I didn't know you were gonny be here. Danny never told me.

Aren't you supposed to be at school?

And I thought he might like this CD player. I couldny carry his whole stereo. She thrust a portable CD player towards her. Her appearance was rather different from the way it seemed in Florence; she was much more an ordinary schoolgirl today, on an ordinary Monday. Danny's little sister, her red hair tied back in a single plait, lying coiled in the fur-trimmed hood of her white coat.

She realized she was looking through a narrow space between the door and its frame, like an old lady trying to keep out bogus workmen. The thought embarrassed her and she opened the door wide to Clare. Won't you come in?

When's Danny comin back? The girl made no move, but kept her big eyes on Laetitia's face. Defiant.

I don't know, she said. He went out about an hour ago. It was funny, she picked up a definite hard gleam at the core of Clare's demeanour, in the set of her mouth, the tilt of her chin, a little nugget of determination to stand up to this bossy cow. An Elizabeth Bennet moment:
My courage always rises with every attempt to intimidate me
. It was odd, this realization that she could be seen as threatening, given how much of a wuss she'd been lately. I don't imagine he'll be that long, though.

Well… maybe I will wait then if… She tailed off, the
if it's OK
left unsaid, the defiance hard to sustain.

Yes, it's fine. Come in. She turned towards the living room,
leaving Clare to shut the door and follow. You can put Danny's stuff in here; this is where he's sleeping.

Clare set the bag and the CD player on the floor beside the red sofa and looked around. Her eyes rested on the Bob Marley poster, then darted away. Laetitia could see the flush rise pink over her face.

I'm making a cup of tea, she said. Would you like one?

No, you're alright.

Well, I need one. Have a seat. It seemed impossible to avoid a school mistressy tone; the girl invited it.

Clare perched on the edge of the sofa, while she made for the kitchen. Why had she asked her in? She'd been caught off balance. Worse, Julian should be back any time, now. The last thing she wanted was a repeat of the scene in the
pensione
. She reboiled the kettle, poured water over the teabag, carried the mug back through and sat on one of the brown armchairs.

I tried him on his mobile, but it's switched off.

Who? Danny?

Aye. He doesny want to speak to my ma. She's dead worried about him. He left a message on her mobile when he knew she would be at her work and it wouldny be on. He said, Stayin wae Jed. That was all. My ma's up to high doh. Clare turned big worried eyes on her, two spots of pink on her cheeks. This was as animated as she'd been so far. She clearly took her role as family intermediary seriously.

Danny's fine. You can tell your mother. He's already organized Jed and… he's made a big difference to this place, I can tell you. It struck her as oddly touching that his mother should be worrying about him. If she was. What happened to drive him out? she asked.

Clare wriggled in her seat. Against the red of the sofa, she was the little white girl again. She spoke hesitantly. Him and my da… they had a big fight on Thursday. My da didny hit
him or nothin, don't get me wrong, but he was shoutin and bawlin. Callin Danny for everythin. He doesny mean it, my da. No really. It's like… He just… He's like…

It looked to Laetitia as if the girl was ready to cry and she wasn't sure she could cope with that. Reassurance seemed called for. She warmed her hands round her mug. Danny shouldn't be that long, she said. I think he was going job hunting – I'm not sure. Wouldn't you rather take your coat off while you wait?

Whatever hard edge Clare had had at the door, she'd lost it now. She did as she was told, unzipped and shrugged the coat off her shoulders. Underneath, she wore a white blouse and a black skirt, knee-length black socks, sensible shoes. No doubt her school tie was in her pocket. Her plait hung fat and red down her back.

And on Thursday night, Danny ran out and naybody knew where he'd went. He didny come here that night. Or the next. And we didny hear nothin from him.

Doesn't he have other friends?

Aye, we checked wi all the ones we could think of but and he wasny there. My ma was goin mental. She got my aunt Patsy to come up fae Helensburgh and drive her round the streets a Glasgow lookin for him. She even phoned the hospitals, the A&E departments, in case he'd landed up there.

Why was your mother so worried? Danny's pretty capable of looking after himself, I should have thought.

Clare gave her a look she couldn't quite read, but she had a sense it accused her of being obtuse. There was heat in her little Glasgow voice when she spoke again.

You don't know what it's like in the scheme. Two a Danny's pals fae school have topped theirsels this year already. And another yin tried last month. I know my da's worried about that too, even if he kids on he's no.

Topped
themselves. There was nothing she could say to that. A circle of light wobbling on the ceiling was the reflection of her tea. She studied the strong black liquid in the mug, looked out the window. The pigeons were on the roof across the road again, perched in grey serried ranks. Perhaps it was they who made the sound of footsteps overhead at night. A glance at Clare told her she was struggling to contain herself. Danny's fine, Clare. Really. He'll be back soon.