cruel.
She had to keep moving, it was too cold to stop. All the stores were open. A great crush of carriages had tangled up at the crossroads and everyone was shouting and swearing. So this is it, she thought. Here we are, the big life. People playing music on the sidewalk, selling you soda water, hot corn and roasted peanuts. She bought a comb from a booth, one that would build her hair up beautifully at the front, with a clasp made like a treble clef. The woman said it was made of shell. Further on she came to a long stretch of pavement where men in tights were calling people in to see the freaks: the giants, the midgets, the mermaids and savages and pinheads. Not one of them was like her. One of a kind, Mr Beach had said. Bearded ladies by the score, he said, oh yes, but no one like you. Madame Clofullia has a fine beard but you—
A drunk reeled from a saloon and nearly knocked her over.
‘Molly dear!’ he boomed, big red beaming face in hers, ‘I beg your pardon.’
She flinched and hurried on.
‘Wait a while,’ he called after her, ‘I meant nothing . . .’
But she didn’t look back. She walked on and on. The stores were bright and the streetcars rattled along, the poor scrawny horses clip-clopping in time. There seemed always to be music coming from somewhere, from windows and doors, and the sounds of singing and glass against glass, the plinking of a pianola. A crowd was surging over the next crossing so she went with them, turned and started walking back down the other side. A child selling papers, a boy no more than nine, bawled loud enough to deafen her. Such a fright he’d get if she drew back the veil. Go on, Julia. Just because you can. But she didn’t. Sleet again, small specks falling against a dark grey light.
She must start back. She knew the name of her stop, the name of her street. When she reached the jammed-up crossing again, she slowed down and walked carefully, studying the carriages intently. Why not? She had enough. A well-heeled lady and gent were getting down from one just in front of her, and she ran a few steps in her eagerness. Her boot heel skidded in the wet and she nearly fell, her heart thumping up into her mouth, and for a terrible moment she thought she was going to burst into tears, so strange and dangerous everything seemed. Supposing she knocked her head, and they picked her up and lifted the veil and – it didn’t bear thinking about. She righted herself. Ignoring his slightly wary look, she gave the man her address and climbed up into the welcome sanctuary of the musty carriage, still bearing a trace of the musky perfume the well-heeled woman had worn.
‘For Christ’s sake, Rose, you’re gonna have to chuck some of this stuff away.’
‘Says who?’
‘Says me. And I’m the landlord.’
She laughed.
At either end of the top shelf, she’d piled books of the same size on top of each other. She laid a plank on top. The stuff underneath was getting kind of squashed, so she’d been moving things up, carefully selecting.
‘Seriously though,’ said Laurie, ‘it’s getting ridiculous. You’re turning weird. It’s not attractive.’
She looked sharply at him. ‘So I’m not attractive,’ she said.
‘You are,’ he said, ‘you’re lovely.’ He was by the door, tying his hair back into a black ponytail that resembled an old frazzled mop. ‘But you must be able to see that this isn’t normal.’
‘What’s normal?’
‘Not this.’
She sat down on the sofa, saying nothing.
‘Now don’t get all funny about it. I’m only trying to help you. I’m beginning to think you’ve got a problem.’
‘Not my problem,’ she said.
Laurie shrugged on a leather jacket that looked a hundred years old. ‘You know you can get treatment for this sort of thing,’ he said.
‘But I want all my things.’
‘Don’t raise your voice.’
‘I will if I want to.’
‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘it’s just old crap off the streets. Where does it end? You’ll be bringing home snotty hankies next. Used condoms.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous!’
‘It’s no different! You bring home bits of paper and empty lighters, it’s just a matter of degree. Haven’t you ever thought there might be something just a tad unhealthy about all this?’
He checked his pockets. When he looked round, he saw that she was crying.
‘What’s the matter?’ She cried too easily and it got on his nerves. ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, I’m only saying what any normal person would say.’
But she stopped as quickly as she’d started, got up and went to the window. ‘You get it or you don’t get it,’ she said, looking out into the back garden. ‘And you don’t.’
‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t.’
She rubbed absently at a mark on the glass. ‘Some people just know what I mean,’ she said. ‘Some people think I’m mad. What? You know, just total misunderstanding? The other day I put on an old jacket and I put my hand in the pocket and there was this old earring I hadn’t seen for years. I don’t even know where the other one is. It’s like – like their little family was scattered far and wide, like it says in that old Irish song, you wouldn’t know it. I just feel for it.’
‘An old earring in your pocket,’ he said.
She turned and looked at him. ‘It’s not even a particularly nice one,’ she said.
‘Poor Rose.’ He smiled. ‘It must be awful to be you.’
She laughed and walked towards him, fluffing out her hair with her hands. ‘You haven’t got the faintest idea what I’m going on about, have you?’ she said.
‘None whatsoever.’
She came close and looked unblinking into his eyes. ‘Really?’ she said regretfully, ‘Really? You have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about’
‘None at all.’
Her kind of eyes gave away nothing at all. ‘Does that mean I’m mad?’ she said.
‘Of course, Rose.’
‘Oh well!’ She laughed and moved away. ‘Off you go,’ she said imperiously.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘it would do you a massive amount of good if you could just let all this go.’
‘At least it’s all clean,’ she said.
She made a cup of tea when he’d gone. One of her eyes kept watering and she gave it a rub. She liked her place. Who cares, she thought, stirring the pot with one hand and rubbing and rubbing at one eye with the other. Something had got in it, probably an eyelash.
