pulled my bike out, then my diary and squeezed the canal from its pages. Pushing my bike with one shoe on, I came home to him bleeding and crying. It wouldn’t be long until he couldn’t take it any more.
6
FLITTING
I HEARD IT SAID THAT in London you’re always looking for either a job, a house or a lover. I did not realise how easily and how fast I could lose all three.
I woke up crying. It was 1 May and I should have been hopeful and happy but something in the night, some dark unease, had crept into the room and into my dreams. Although I’d been warned it was coming, I hadn’t known it would be today. Without telling me, he had taken the day off to pack up his stuff, separating his plates, papers and clothes from mine, untangling two years of intermingled lives. When I got home from work all that was left was my belongings, with dusty spaces where his had been.
When he was gone, I spent a week alone in the flat, making it through days in the office blankly. I’d been told I was losing my job and was working out my notice period. Our bedroom was destroyed – violently rearranged furniture, lines of poetry on the walls, books and photos on the floor. I couldn’t afford to live there alone.
I threw an apple against the wall and it lay rotting on the floor until the day he came round to clean for the new people who would be moving in. He told me that would be the last time and afterwards, using Sellotape, I collected his chest hairs, which had gathered in the sweat in my navel, and stuck them in the pages of my diary.
He had an escape route and he took it. He’d never meant to get so tangled with the wild girl on the phone box. I’d caught around him, like tights in the laundry.
When we met we were both drunk, then we drank together but at some point we no longer did. We didn’t have wine with meals. He wouldn’t touch me when I’d been drinking. He’d get home from work late and I was on the floor. He tried to take the glass from my hand and pour the rest of the bottle down the sink but I cried and said I hadn’t done anything wrong. I was allowed to drink, I said. He drank when he went out with his friends. I drank myself apart – from him and from everyone. I undid myself. I tried to pretend the bottle was the first when I knew he’d heard me go out to the shop for more.
The eye contact dwindled. I squeezed the last love from him.
That May was, I felt at the time, the worst month of my life: shaking in the office surrounded by powerless colleagues, smoking nine cigarettes in my lunch hour, developing an aggressive obsession with my mobile phone, going on a shopping spree for smaller-sized clothes – yellow skinny jeans from Dalston shopping centre – getting my eyelashes tinted in a salon and having an allergic reaction. I had four job interviews and four rejections.
I remember swigging expensive vodka from the bottle in a suite at a fashionable hotel before falling asleep at a bus stop, climbing over fences and being dragged angrily around a polished floor by my ankles in a silk party dress, trying to go to an AA meeting but ending up in a ‘spirituality workshop’, surrounded by middle-aged ladies in long skirts with bells sewn to the hems.
I spent eight days in southern Spain, with Mum, unsuccessfully trying to get the sun to bleach my mind, writing pages of distress in my diary in red biro, drinking one-euro beers, watching the Eurovision Song Contest in an Andalusian bar, convinced I was having a proper conversation even though I couldn’t speak Spanish.
Trying to make an afternoon pass by spending my dole money on an unsustainable pose of iced coffees and political magazines, I had a dish of Turkish stew delivered to my solitary table where, with papers, diary and phone spread out, I looked like someone with things to do. At the next table six silent women were munching joylessly through fried breakfasts. They were all wearing bunny ears.
I scanned the internet blank-eyed for a solution that was not forthcoming, I cycled round east London aimlessly, with a bag full of confusion. I was drinking more than I was eating.
* * *
In Orcadian, ‘flitting’ means ‘moving house’. I can hear it spoken with a tinge of disapproval or pity: the air-headed English couple who couldn’t settle, the family who had to ‘do a flit’ quickly due to money problems. In London I was always flitting but was too battered to see it as an opportunity. I wanted to flit quickly so that no one noticed, slipping from one shadow to the next.
I boxed up my things and moved them to a storage unit, then went to stay with my brother, who was living with his girlfriend in Dalston. He helped me move my belongings but he didn’t know how to help with my bottomless pain and increasingly out-of-control behaviour.
Tom is twenty months younger than I, and as toddlers we were zipped into jackets and shod in wellies, and rode in the tractor cab together. As children, we made dens at the top of the hay barns, above the bales in the eaves, where it smelt sweet and dusty, and mice would dart out. We played in the barley store, the grain like quicksand. In summer we swam in the rock pools with friends, the water always bracingly cold. We reared caddy lambs with bottles before they were put back with the main flock – always a bit different, smaller and misshapen.
In the rafters of the big shed, raised from the ground, there is a hut made from half caravan, half wheelhouse-from-a-fishing-boat, and from there we would jump onto woolsacks at shearing time, soft and oily. When we were teenagers I often shouted at him to get out of my room but sometimes we rode the horses along the Bay of Skaill, galloping across the sand and in the sea as tourists at Skara Brae took our picture. I could never do impersonations but he could and I’d ask him to perform Orcadian characters: our grumpy primary-school bus driver, who swerved to hit rabbits and in his spare time ran an abattoir; the dinner lady who called out, ‘Plenty o’ seconds!’; the man who read the mart report on Radio Orkney.
Tom followed me to university, where we went to raves together and then to London, where we had many of the same friends. Later, he watched me drunkenly posting on the internet and answered when I phoned, distressed, late at night. It was Tom who came and got me from the hospital the night I was attacked by a stranger.
Sleeping on Tom’s sofa was a temporary arrangement. I knew I had to find somewhere to live, and looked at adverts online for flatshares. The adverts described households as ‘chilled’ or ‘creative’, perhaps euphemisms for their choice of drugs. Sitting in the park with a bottle, or in an internet café with a can, I called the numbers numbly, gave basic details about myself and arranged times to visit. I marked the addresses in my A–Z with a green felt tip, forming a dot-to-dot of my search on pages 68-9, Hackney and Tower Hamlets.
I looked at around twenty rooms, groups of people – friends or strangers – who wanted to be in London enough to pay the high rents and live in flats where five unrelated people shared a kitchen. Some were proud to tell me they had a sitting room, even when it could barely fit a sofa. A warehouse was split into apartments and the small room I was shown had a bed raised on a platform and no windows. I imagined shutting myself in there with books and whisky and said I’d take it. They chose someone else.
In a Haggerston tower block where most of the windows were either broken or boarded up, I went to see a room on a Saturday afternoon. The curtains were drawn, loud trance music was playing and the place smelt of cannabis. I said I’d let them know. In Homerton two girls, both said they were actresses, were just moving into a large, bright apartment, their handsome boyfriends carrying their boxes of clothes and antique furniture up the stairs. They gave me peppermint tea and asked why I was looking for somewhere to live. I mumbled my story. They chose someone else.
One sunny evening I cycled to see a room in Clapton,
