Saturday, 20 March 2010

The yellow carnations are in full bloom now. The collective noun for them, I have decided, should be a volley. They fairly pepper the senses when they all open together. Should do something about the toaster though. Bottle green is kind of lame.

I decided to make Mental Fran dinner this evening, to make up for my grouchiness this past week. I didn’t think I’d properly spoken to her since she first came. This idea was a mistake though.

‘You’re a vegetarian, right?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Oh right,’ I said.

That was another mistake. With hindsight, you can see a theme emerging here.

I thought I would offset the doubtful quality of my home cooking by accompanying it with really quite a nice wine, courtesy of Alex Kyle last Christmas. When Fran’s attention was held by the melted buttons on my cooker, I nipped out to the wine cupboard under the stairs and pulled out a cheeky little number from ’95. I don’t particularly want her knowing that I know a little in the sommelier’s line – somehow it would seem arrogant – so when I came back I told her it was on offer at Majestic. The wine cupboard is, for now, a secret. The cost of this approach is that to hide my interest in the grape I’ve had to forbid her to open the cupboard, so it’s possible she thinks it’s the door to my S&M chamber. It is also possible that honesty really would have been the better option.

So – with the ‘cheap’ wine, I reckon I have managed to persuade her that I’m a very humble, approachable, down-to-earth kind of... pervert. Another mistake, that, if anyone’s still counting. Bel’s always on at me about my compulsion for half-truths, and she’s quite right - I wonder if they are in anyone’s interest, least of all mine.

Fran’s tongue did not seem to be much loosened by a glass and a half. In a question and answer session that was similar to a touchline interview with a football manager at half time, I learned little of much consequence about her.

‘So, you work in the market?’
‘Yes.’
‘On a stall?’
‘That’s right. On a stall. Yes.’

I could feel the restraint in the mad woman’s voice as she steeled herself to be polite to me. Every extra word was an act of charity on her part for the well-meaning landlord. When even an obvious nutter thinks you’re an idiot, it brings you down a notch. My self-esteem took five to get itself together. I focused on not splattering the walls as I ate - when in doubt, I try to look after the basics, in the hope that the rest will come together. I ate the spaghetti with quiet concentration, as if I were stitching a silken hem.

‘I sell men’s shirts,’ she said after a while. ‘It’s not my stall. I just look after it. Thought it might be good for me.’
‘That’s good -’
I thought hard.
‘- Fran.’

She looked at me.

‘Sorry, I’m terrible with names,’ I said.
‘That’s alright,’ she said hurriedly. ‘At least you got it right.’ She laughed, too quickly. ‘Not everyone does, you know.’
‘Sorry Liz.’
‘No problem Baz.’

Her face was so deadpan that for a moment after I genuinely believed she thought Barry was my name. I would die to be able to deadpan like that. And yet – the straight face wasn’t quite an affectation. I expected a smile at any moment, an acknowledgement of our little joke, but there no smile ever appeared. With hindsight, I wonder whether Little Miss Serious was upset I’d had to think to remember her name. I wouldn’t blame her.

‘Yeah,’ she said, though I wasn’t quite sure what it was in response to. She addressed the wall. ‘This is why I’m jealous of the heroines in Thomas Hardy’s novels.’
‘Uh. Righto.’
‘They knew where they were. They were basically screwed. But they knew where they were screwed. I like that. Determinism, I mean. The idea that any day, you could wake up and at least start where you left off. End the way you started.’
‘And that’s comforting?’
‘No, it’s about truth. That’s why I hate magic realism.’
‘Uh. So what was the question again?’
‘Then there’s Marquez, you see.’
‘Right,’ I said, picking up a theme. ‘Those are the ones where mad stuff happens, is that right? I know what you mean though. When anything is possible, every outcome is meaningless. No chains of consequence. Real life’s just not like that, is it? I mean, one impossible thing after another...’

I thought myself tremendously clever, but anger flashed in her eyes. I saw her jaw tighten as I spoke. I almost felt it tighten myself.

‘Actually,’ she said, apparently weary of my ignorance, ‘it is. Real life is quite a lot like that.’

And on that unexploded bombshell – always the worst kind, if you plan to sleep that night - the conversation ended. Or at least, my part in it did. As I write this from the safety of HQ, I listen to the cars passing by in the street; and in the silence in between, I can hear her voice in the other room, and her footsteps as she strides up and down. No peace for her. She is reasoning to herself aloud. The street is a quiet one, and the walls are thin, and a low voice carries. I nearly died... and now this... now this... how could he do that... and do this...shut up Fran...

There is a man in her life. It could be said there is at least one man in everyone’s life, one way or another, but this is still more detail than I feel I should know. I almost wish there were a god, if only for her; a god of peaceful sleep.

Oh shut up, shut up now Fran, shut up... don’t hate him, shut up Fran...