The Beat (11 page)

“Now how many balls do you want?” He felt the whole floor was listening. He whispered his requirements hoarsely. The balls had all been separated by previous shoppers. It was really a counter of oddments. Sealed packets of two or three balls, odd ones coming unwound: Prissie was in her element. They started to turn them over. Prissie paused.

“What’s your name?” she asked suddenly.

“Geoff,” he replied self-consciously.

“Geoff, that’s right. Now you find what colours you want and I’ll match them up.” Through the turmoil he moved quickly, settling for the main colour at speed. She showed him how to match for shade and dye lot. He tried to obey but was scolded for digging out an odd ball that was unlabelled. Two other women began to sift through the wool also. Geoff and Prissie became separated, both engrossed in the same task.

“How about this for contrast?” she called and tossed a ball high over the table for him to catch. He caught it high in the air and grinned back. The two other fossickers looked surprised.

“Too bright,” he called back and returned it the same way. “I’m really very quiet.”

“Rubbish,” Prissie replied and threw a second ball just to show. By now the shop assistant was looking worried and making little unsure movements towards them.

“This one,” Geoff announced, pulling out a light yellow.

“How many?” Prissie demanded. He consulted the book. “Four,” he checked, and they went back to work. They located three. One to go and they were finished.

“Excuse me,” said a heavy voice. Prissie turned and looked. A young Italian woman was addressing her.

“How many balls please for a child?”

“What?” Prissie queried.

“How many balls please for a child’s jumper?” Geoff laughed. Prissie couldn’t see why. She looked at the infant with the woman.

“Four or five,” she snapped and returned to work.

“She thinks you work here,” Geoff confided. Prissie shrugged and returned to her chore of pawing through the oddments. Finally they triumphed and carried their selection to the counter. The assistant looked relieved and even managed a subdued smile.

“Needles?” Prissie demanded.

“I think I’ve got them,” Geoff replied.

“You’ve knitted before,” Prissie announced. The girl started to ring up the cash register.

“Don’t forget your tension check. It’s necessary when you use a different wool. But you probably know.” He shook his head.

“Thanks,” he said, and looked embarrassed. They paid the girl and received the package. Geoff looked plain relieved. Prissie looked exuberant. At the top of the escalator they stopped to part company. Geoff made a little speech. He said, “I would never have done it on my own. I would have died.”

“That’s alright,” said Prissie. She carefully extracted a paper bag from her back pocket and removed a card of strange-looking buttons. To Geoff s surprise she ceremoniously presented them to a gold mannequin draped in red tartan, and embarked onto the down-escalator. She waved him off in the street saying, “Let me know how it turns out.” If only she could be sure where she had met him before. It showed how far and wide the name of Prissie had spread. Outside the street was getting darker and crowded. It must be nearly late enough for her to go home. She thought how nice people could be, as she walked along the street. Really, it took so little to restore one’s faith. Less than an hour ago she had been pretty down in the dumps. All it had taken to lift her out of it was for a strange man to buy her a cup of coffee and someone to need her help buying wool. It had confirmed to herself that there was something she was good at. Something that she had or knew that others wanted. Playing butch had nearly ruined the afternoon. It was the real Prissie that had thrown wool around so joyously in Myers or picked up an insurance man over coffee. Sitting there with her knees crossed and her finger pointed as she held her glass, that was Prissie. Denim or blue check didn’t make the man. She was successful for what came from within, and hopeless when pushed to conform. She touched her face. She had quite forgotten the swelling there. It hadn’t affected the afternoon much at all. Now she was glad she had stirred from the flat and ventured further into the world. The shadow of last Friday’s exprience need not cloud her future. And what a strange experience it had been, for that too had been pure Prissie. That too had come from deep inside herself. It hadn’t shocked her at the time — why should it now? She felt in a way that she had almost initiated the incident as well as being there for the culmination. Now, now it was time to go home to Leigh. Ten to one she would find him still locked before the mirror, bedraggled tights and matted hair. How she envied and loved that mass of hair. How she loved that messed-up boy. Crazy wasn’t it, but Prissie loved the fact that he needed her. The tram stop was now crowded and she had to jostle with the crowds to even get on. No chance of a seat at this time of night. How she disliked these new trams. On the old ones you could avoid paying at peak hours. So much for progress! She stood sandwiched between office work-ers with bored, blank faces. They shuffled aimlessly along the carriage at each new stop, allowing more and more bodies to be packed on. No one spoke or smiled or even looked at each other. The exit doors were clogged up, the windows shut, the carriage airless. Prissie longed for the Walkman. Rush hour trams were more impersonal than those she usually rode but no more pleasant. She would be glad when the ride was over. A few people gradually got off, stop by stop. The crowd thinned. It became more bearable. Then at the hospital they packed on more than ever. By now Prissie was packed into the end of the carriage. She still hadn’t managed to get a seat. Rather than stay on the tram any longer than absolutely necessary, Prissie decided to walk the last couple of stops. Getting off the tram, she regretted the decision not to wear the duffle coat, it was so cold. She hurried towards home unsure what would await her there. Leigh would be in — he never left the flat these days — but in what state would she find him, that was the problem. She really couldn’t cope with ministering to someone else’s wounds and broken bones. Her own caused her enough concern. She could just envisage another night in the casualty department. A seat of dumb, worried faces opposite and nurses smirking away behind the reception desk. The same old torn magazines and stale, warm food from the vending machines to keep you awake. Day dawning through the plate glass doors as the last of the wheelchairs and stretchers streamed in. Seven o’clock in the morning and still waiting because you were not regarded as an emergency. Going home eventually unattended. Perhaps rest and your own GP were the answer. Swelling and bruising that lasted into the week and no one had got around to telling you why. Why was Leigh so stupid as to set himself up like this? No more stupid than she had been. What if the police had done the rounds of the hospitals making enquiries and found Prissie sitting there waiting for attention? She hadn’t thought clearly. She wondered what had become of the other men. She turned into their street and her thoughts returned to the present. She could see the flat from the street, but because Leigh had all the blinds closed there was no sign of life, no way of telling if life still existed inside. A brief desire to procrastinate longer, then she overcame it and continued briskly forward towards the darkened building that was home. Going up the stairs she thought she could hear the faint sound of music. The stairwell could play tricks on you and make it unclear which flat the sounds were coming from. She opened the door. The warm, soft air and music hit her together. Whatever had happened, it was alright. She stepped inside. In the hallway she took a few deep breaths just to be prepared, then she proceeded into the lounge. She stopped in the doorway. Leigh looked at her with a glazed smile. He was sitting on the floor playing with a tin box full of buttons. On his head he wore a set of plastic Mickey Mouse ears someone had given him months beforehand. On the floor with him crawled a filthy child. Prissie looked at them both. Leigh beamed as if at some profound achievement.

“Hi,” he said, “we’ve been waiting for you.”

“She came,” Prissie observed.

“Yeah. We’ve got Laurie ’cause I couldn’t pay.” Prissie laughed and came forward. “We’ve got Laurie” — it meant she had him to mind. In no time Leigh would be right out of it and lose all interest. Then it would be up to her as usual. She hated to think how many times the poor child had been dumped on her in the past. Jayne only kept him because it meant she got a single mother’s pension and everyone in the department kept off her back about not working. He would now stay with Prissie until one day when Jayne would swoop down and reclaim him as a long lost weapon against the welfare officers. The poor kid. Prissie would have kept him permanently if she only could. Adopt him, run away with him, what did it matter if only he could become hers? She just couldn’t see a way to achieve it.

“Hello darling,” she said, squatting on the floor next to him. The child turned and gurgled recognition. Prissie seized him up in a great bearhug, rocking in the sheer pleasure of holding him. The child held on. He always remembered Prissie. She was his surrogate mother. She had looked after him when he had come out of hospital. Only she understood his fear of water, his need to be held so tight. Others, specialists, said he was retarded. She knew better He was her baby. Leigh sat by contentedly and continued to let the buttons play through his hands.

“Don’t you lose any,” Prissie observed. They were for her dressmaking. Later she would add the new sequins to the tin. Leigh smiled up at her vaguely. It had all sorted itself out well. He articulated, “See, I’m happy, you’re happy, it’s all fine.” Yes, all was fine. His eyes wore their familiar unnatural, contented glaze and the heat within his veins bore out his fantasies. Leigh and Laurie, Prissie’s two children. Prissie, mother of two. One was retarded, one would be dead at twenty-five. She wiped the thought from her mind.

“Have you eaten?” she asked Leigh for both of them. He shook his head but seemed unsure. Prissie still held the baby in her arms. She rose to her feet, then held him out to look at him more clearly. Poor kid was filthy. The remains of something dark and sticky still stained his face around his mouth. She hoped it was only chocolate. One of his shoes was missing and he smelt distinctly of shit.

“Let’s clean you up, precious,” Prissie cooed. The child dribbled in response. She took it as consent. It was time to go into action. How could people let kids get into such a state? Jayne was hopeless and Leigh little better either. It was just laziness. They were a couple of sluts, nothing more. Jayne would now be off fucking some unfortunate eighteen-year-old who would still have to pay for his deal of dope. Leigh would shortly be in the land of the pixies and no good to anyone. The only difference was that Jayne would go on fucking young boys well into her forties, probably die with her legs in the air, while Leigh would one day descend into the land of the pixies never to re-emerge. This was a fact that Prissie had to keep a firm hold on. No matter how much she loved him, he was a lost cause. And Prissie would remain loyal until the end. A soft humming came from her lips as she carried Laurie to the kitchen. Perhaps she enjoyed tragedy. Let’s face it, she was a collector of stray dogs and derelicts. The small affection she felt returned was reward enough. “Unem-ployable”, “unfuckable”; but Prissie was doing what she did best. On the laminex table in the kitchen, she sat the child to undress him. She removed the super-butch roll-necked sweater Jayne had dressed him in. Who else would dress an infant in jeans and a fishermans knit when there were such nice things around for the picking? That woman had no sense of style. When she removed his vest, she saw the yellow of the fading bruises beneath. She closed her mind off, she didn’t want to know. She thought of the woman on the tram and her fat, healthy child reciting its meaningless French. That child was so lucky. And the woman too. People spoke to you when you had a child. The nappy was of course soiled. It hadn’t been changed for hours and had chaffed at his legs and bottom. It was one of those awful disposable pads that were neither absorbant nor disposable. Slow incineration was about the only way of getting rid of them. You couldn’t drop them in the garbage and they refused to flush away down the toilet. She had seen Jayne once in frustration hurl one from the window of a moving car. That was the closest thing to style that the kid’s mother had ever experienced. Laurie had his own special clothes that Prissie kept for him when he visited her. They were kept hidden away — good, old fashioned nappies and lovely little linen dresses. He was such a pretty child when he stayed with Prissie. Such wonderful things culled from “op” shops and restored lovingly by hand to pristine condition. Darned, stitched, starched — no child could ask for more. Gains-borough would have painted the child when Prissie had finished with him. She bathed him in the kitchen sink. Because of his fear of water, she could only use a few inches at a time. It meant changing the water several times but was worth it. Laurie stood through the whole operation, his hands gripping onto Prissie’s shoulders as she stood facing him. Such a solemn, trusting little face he had. No one could say her baby was retarded. It had just been the shock that was all. His physical development was back to normal. True, he was small for his age — but retarded, no. He knew his Prissie. He knew he was safe once he made it to her. Drying and powdering him, she again noted the tell-tale signs of the week’s abuse. Why the fuck couldn’t Jayne leave him alone? She secured his nappy, slid on the plastic pants and sat him upright. Lots of chidlren still needed nappies at his age. He had almost been out of them when the accident had occurred. Soon he would be ready to try and discard them again. It just required time and patience. “Accident,” Prissie thought. If only she had been there that day, Jayne would never have got away with it. One day Jayne would get hers, there were enough people willing it. But at present Laurie’s needs must come first. Prissie was needed. He sat patiently as she carefully brushed his fine wispy hair. He was so solemn. Such a vain little queen really. She wondered what he would be like when he grew up. If he would reject her along the way. At this age children were so accepting but later, in adolesence, she didn’t like to predict. Then it was through to play in the warm with Leigh until they had selected his clothes for the evening. Leigh was setting out buttons in a pattern before him. He smiled but said nothing. Laurie snuggled happily into the warm hollow between his knees and seemed oblivious to the lack of attention that Leigh displayed. In the bedroom Prissie opened “Laurie’s drawer”. She rested her eyes on the neatly folded clothes. They all looked so tiny. Tiny little pairs of socks, scrubbed and darned; little jackets; overalls; and the favourite: a little gingham smocked dress in blue and white. Prissie lifted it out. Hours of work someone had put into this little creation. White silk threads, blue ribbons, minute puff sleeves with a white lace edging. Prissie could have hugged the garment, it held so much love, but she didn’t want to crease it. She carefully selected matching socks, a clean vest and even slippers. Her baby was going to look special, he was special. She wanted to stay with him, see him grow up, see how handsome he became. She wondered if he would be straight or take after her. Would he always be pretty and so, so accepting? As long as he didn’t turn out like that boy in the park. He could reject her, that was one thing, but as long as he never became a bigoted thug to abuse her. But he wouldn’t, not her Laurie. Finally dressed in all his glory, he was again entrusted to Leigh’s care, to have his finger-nails painted. It was a painstaking effort that required all their concentration. The more out of it Leigh became, the more he laughed as he met Laurie’s solemn gaze, as the tiny bobs of colour took their place on the little nails. Laurie knew to keep his hands still and the effort was enormous. Prissie took one last look at her family and went into the kitchen. Tomorrow they would have to get some proper food. Tonight it was too late, there was nothing. In desperation she decided on custard. It was the only thing she had that he would be able to eat. She searched the cupboards for fruit or something to add to it, but in vain. They had a small amount of white bread. Cut fine that would do for breakfast but tonight it was just custard. When she returned to the lounge, Leigh was asleep on the floor amid the buttons. Laurie sat there, a large plastic button in his mouth. She took it away and together they sat there before the heater, eating bowls of warm, sticky custard.