Personality Page 11

  The fairies took Prezzemolina, put her in a dungeon, and said they would eat her if she did not paint pretty birds on the white wall. ‘I would rather let the fairies eat me than allow a man to kiss me,’ said Prezzemolina when a man, Meme, the fairies’ cousin, offered to help her in exchange for a kiss. ‘The fairies can eat me before that.’

  ‘There were two major changes in sugar production during this period. The first was the adoption of the centrifugal machine, by which the sugar in the boiled crystalline mass is separated from the syrup in a few minutes. The second was the boiling of yellow sugars at a low temperature, causing the sugar to be turned out in a uniformly moist state, and with a pale and delicate primrose colour.’

  ‘This is sooooo boring,’ said Kalpana. ‘Shall we go down to the café?’

  ‘In a wee minute,’ said Maria. Her eyes were still lost in the scenery and she didn’t look round.

  ‘Are you actually interested in this guff?’ said Kalpana. She blew out her lips. ‘It’s bloody well freezing in here.’

  ‘What time’s it?’ said Maria.

  ‘Quarter to seven,’ said Kalpana. ‘I’m starving.’

  Maria looked along the empty rows of chairs.

  Tomorrow, when Prezzemolina has finished all the housework, we’ll have her put in a large laundry tub full of boiling water, said the fairies.

  ‘The Clyde yields were brought to a summit of 250,000 tons in 1881. But the influx of cheap European sugar brought this down by more than half by the year 1900.’

  But Meme showed her how to kill the fairies and save herself – by blowing candles out. One by one Prezzemolina and Meme blew out candles until the largest one, which stood for the chief fairy, was blown out and the danger passed. They did this together, and then Prezzemolina kissed him, and they lived happily ever after.

  Dr Jagannadham placed his hands on the sides of the lectern. He smiled over the audience as if he’d been addressing a capacity crowd at the Albert Hall. ‘So, ladies and gentleman, the story of sugar is for me a personal story and a historical one and a local one too. Sugar cane is gathered in India in December. It will soon be time for the harvest and for the process to begin again. The consumption of sugar is also fascinating, and perhaps there will be some future opportunity to discuss this aspect in relation to our customs and our health.’

  There were twelve pairs of hands clapping if you included the caretaker’s. ‘Thank God,’ said Kalpana. Maria was clapping but she was still thinking about Lucia’s old stories.

  *

  ‘Hello Maria.’ It was Michael Aigas.

  ‘Hiya Michael. How are the the tellies going?’

  ‘We’re doing some cool business because of you,’ he said.

  ‘Even the seagulls are taking out rentals with you coming on.’

  Maria blushed and flicked her hair from her mouth.

  ‘Away ye go,’ she said.

  ‘No kidding. You’re cooking by gas now, Maria.’

  ‘She’s in the paper,’ said Kalpana.

  ‘You bet. We saw it in the shop. Come clean then. I hope you’re thinking about driving lessons cause it’ll be a Rolls Royce next. Are you going to forget all about us or what?’

  ‘She won’t forget me but she’ll forget you,’ said Kalpana, placing a piece of chewing gum in her mouth. ‘That’s true intit, Maria?’ Maria’s face was warm.

  ‘Did you like the talk?’ she asked.

  ‘Really cool,’ said Michael. ‘Dr Jag’s a top man. I loved his evening rig as well, dressed up nice for the occasion.’

  ‘You what?’ said Kalpana.

  ‘I better go,’ said Michael. ‘Listen Maria, you mow them down, do you hear me? Down in London, give it loads.’ Maria just nodded and made an embarrassed laugh. ‘See you around, Kalpana,’ he said.

  ‘Not if I see you first,’ she answered without looking. Michael walked towards the door. Maria stood up, turned round and put one of her knees on the seat.

  ‘Michael,’ she said.

  He turned round and there was a smile on his face as he zipped up his jacket. ‘Yup.’

  She paused. She wasn’t sure what she wanted to say to Michael Aigas but she was sure she could say a thousand things to him and he’d be okay.

  ‘Good luck, Michael.’

  He took his hand out of his pocket and pointed at her before turning. ‘You,’ he said, ‘are going to be great because you’re great already.’

  ‘Get a load of him,’ said Kalpana. But Maria just stood with her knee on the chair and looked back at the slow-closing door with the shape of Michael Aigas fading behind the frosted glass.

  ‘Don’t,’ she said under her breath.

  15

  All That Move in the Waters

  Coming down Columshill Road, Giovanni looked up and noticed the dirty whiteness of the sky and he threw his cigarette into the grass and felt sick.

  It was early morning and the shops were closed. In the Amusements Arcade the heaps of coins were motionless in their glass cabinets; one on top of the other, the coins hung from the silver ledges of the Cash Rivers, and the pale light from outside crept like an illness over the carpet with its smell of spilled orangeade.

  It was the day of the flood. Before the sun was properly up, seawater was pouring over the sleepers of the pier and rolling across the road. There were sandbags at the doors of the seafront shops and tenements but the water was strong and they didn’t hold. By 7 a.m. the Amusements had flooded right up to the change kiosk; paper cups floated in brown water under the rows of toy-grabbing machines, and the stuffed animals looked down from the walls with expressions of surprise.

  The flood’s power seemed to grow, as if there were no carpets and floorboards underneath it, or concrete, or landscaped gardens, but instead the flood moved over Rothesay as if it had always been there, or had meant to be there, moving normally, like over barnacled rocks and swimming fish and sea caverns, the stuff of the ocean. At last one of the waves burst through the glass doors of the Amusements and struck the Cash Rivers; coins could be heard falling in the early morning and then cascading into the metal trays at the base of the machines.

  Rosa was standing in the bathroom. In the night she had turned in the bed and grasped that she was alone. The wind was bad outside, she could hear it rattling the window-frame, and falling back to sleep she had noticed the weather’s shadows leaping over the bedclothes and she sank down wondering where he was. At the bathroom mirror she wiped her face with cotton-wool and cleanser. She wanted to free herself of the night’s grime, and after she had put the cotton-wool in the bin and splashed her face with cold water, she looked at herself in the mirror and stood there until the mirror clouded over.

  Giovanni came walking up Victoria Street with the pressure of water holding him back. It was halfway up to his knees, seawater, drainwater, with clods of dirt and broken plants rushing past him. He spread his arms to steady himself: the flood seemed to be rising quickly and he moved slowly against the driving wind, thinking as the water lapped up his legs about rough times out on the boat.

  Boxes of crisps were floating inside the door of the café. As he turned the handle, more water flooded in, and he saw that the sugar bowls and sauce bottles were still upright and untouched on the tables. The ashtrays were emptied and cleaned and the tables wiped. Morning light settled on the sweetie jars up on the shelves and the famous Italians looked down at him with their prosperous smiles and placid cardigans. One of the shelves collapsed after he entered: jars crashed on the serving counter, and in seconds there were mint imperials and cola cubes floating in the water around his shins like doused confetti.

  ‘Where have you been?’ she said. Giovanni steadied himself on the counter and looked up to the back kitchen where Rosa was standing. Her hair was tied back and her eyes glistened; she stood in the water and he could see cartons and empty bottles floating around her.

  ‘Just a wee party,’ he said.

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘Och Rosa neve
r mind. It was just a wee party and it went on a bit long.’ Giovanni’s hair was full of old Brylcreem and was now sticking to his forehead. Even in the greyness of the room and with the door wide open and the wind blowing through, he smiled, his white teeth showing, and he waved his hand unsteadily over all the things that didn’t matter. ‘Look at the state of this place,’ he said. ‘They said it wouldn’t happen this time.’

  ‘Look at you,’ she said.

  ‘Come on hen.’

  ‘Look at you and look at this place. Stinking. Stinking and bloody disgusting.’ She breathed heavily. He stepped forward in the water to try and meet her where she was. ‘I’ll say it one more time. Where have you been?’

  ‘I’ve been out!’ he said. ‘I’ve been out getting fucking rotten.’ He lifted the jars from the water and tried to place them on the counter. He bent over and took a dishcloth and started to wipe the counter. ‘I’ll clean this up before you know it,’ he said. ‘We’ll have it tidy and back to normal soon as you like. We want to keep things nice in here, don’t we? You never know the time of day around here; it’s just an act of God.’ He picked up some of the sodden crisp boxes and stacked them on the tables; he scooped sweets and debris out of the water. ‘It’s a struggle intit darling?’ he said. ‘Trying to keep everything in good order. I’ll get a pump and we’ll have this place fixed.’

  ‘You’re a bastard.’ She almost whispered.

  ‘A wee bit of bleach will take the scum off these chairs … before you know it, we –’

  ‘You filthy bastard,’ she said. It was as if Giovanni was talking to himself.

  ‘This has happened before. I don’t know why the Council can’t be ready for this kind of thing. I’ll work hard to clean here …’

  Rosa cried and the tears stood out on her bleached face. ‘You’re drunk as a pig,’ she said. She looked at him and didn’t know whether to tidy him up, or run out, or slap him, slap his dirty face and push him down into the water where he belonged and drown him there. ‘You lie to me and my daughter, Giovanni. The bastard that you are. You are bringing evil into this house. You rotten bastard you are killing us. You won’t be content until everything’s wasted.’ She moved forward in the water and gritted her teeth as she spoke. ‘You’re not a man,’ she said. ‘You haven’t a decent bone in your body you fucking bastard you’re bringing fucking badness into this house.’ She drew level with him, swung her arm and slapped him. The towel fell into the dirty water. ‘You’re all the same,’ she said. ‘You selfish fucking bastard I wish you were dead.’ When he straightened up, holding his jaw, she spat in his face.

  ‘I can clean it,’ he said.

  Rosa stood staring at him, her lips trembling. She lunged and grabbed his hair and shook his head from side to side. There was lustre in his hair and she could feel the heat from his head and she almost stroked him, but her anger took over and she threw him down into the water.

  ‘We were meant to have a different life ya fucking bastard you. You’re bringing us all down ya useless bastard, not a man. Not a man at all. Look at you.’ Giovanni pulled away from her hand and jumped back. By now she was ranting in his face and her mouth was white with spit. ‘Go back to your fucking tarts.’ she shouted. ‘Away you go and give us peace. We don’t want you here. Think we won’t manage without you? You’re fucking wrong ya dirty messing bastard. We don’t need any of yous. You’re no use. None of yous are any use to us. All we want is peace and quiet ya filthy no-use pig of a man. That wee lassie upstairs disnae need you either. You’re no good to anybody. You’re no even her father and we were fine before you ya fucking lowlife. Get out of my shop.’

  Giovanni leaned forward. His jaw was loose and his eyes were red with tears and drink and he breathed hard. ‘That’s right,’ he said, ‘I’m standing in all this filth, Rosa, and I fucking love it. I love it. Fucking shite and dirt everywhere and I fucking love it. I’m no her father and I’m no your man. Aye. I’m filthy. I’ve worked here every day for ten fucking years. I’ve put everything into this shop and your own wee lassie. Big Giovanni. The fucking smiling Giovanni, eh. Always here. Always here and shutting his fucking mouth. Well I love it here this filthy bastarding place. Fucking clean clean. When was the last time any of you were fucking natural? When was the last time you were just yourself Rosa? Clean fucking clean, that’s all you ever hear.’

  He tore at the buttons on his shirt and swiped his hand over the boxes and scooped dirty water into his hands and threw it over himself. ‘Fucking filth!’ he shouted. ‘I love it, Rosa. Love it. Can you see me? Have a good look, Rosa, it’s miserable intit? Well have a good look. It’s a bad light, do you want me to come closer? At last Rosa, at last, this place is fucking bogging and so am I and you can just get your fucking cloth and wipe it all away, Rosa. Just get your fucking cloth. Wait a minute.’ He lifted the lemonade bottle with the punctured cap they used for vinegar off the counter. Then he turned in one quick move and hurled the bottle at the front window. It cracked the glass and fell heavily among the cakes. ‘There’s your window,’ he said.

  She stood without moving. She could’ve been a girl herself watching some terrible adult conflagration and not knowing where to run for cover or where to apply for understanding. She just trembled standing in front of him and her face was blank. At her knees a tray of shortbread came floating past like a framed picture. She turned to look at the back kitchen and could see water bubbling out of the toilet. Food bobbed up to her and past her: potatoes, rolls of wine gums, and then several tins of Vim, old playing cards with pictures of radio personalities on them, Fry’s Turkish Delight, and hairbrushes, clasps, a bottle of Domestos, packets of soap.

  His face was crumpled. ‘This can all be cleaned up,’ he said. He seemed to grow calm or resigned. ‘Give me a towel and I’ll dry this counter.’ He rubbed his head and stared into the mucky water. He turned with a rag and wiped the counter in circles while he trembled. ‘When the ferry stops we can all get away,’ he said.

  ‘No we can’t, Giovanni,’ she said. ‘There’s no a boat that will take us far enough.’ He looked at her. ‘But Maria’s leaving and she will have a life,’ she said. When she said this something caught in her voice and it was a different kind of weeping that came. She cried softly as he had seen her do so many times, but it was not the same crying as before, and if there was accusation in her eyes it was a different kind too, an accusation directed as much now at herself and the unfairness of words and the remoteness of the world as she found it.

  He walked forward and put his hand on the shoulder of her housecoat. ‘Get out of my sight,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘I don’t feel anything,’ she said.

  He dropped his hand and walked round her in the water and disappeared through the back. She heard his footfalls up the stairs. Around her in the shop the smell was bad; she looked into the white light and the cracked window and the flotsam at her feet. Spreading out her hands she saw his hair tangled in her fingers. Hating him, she thought of his hand stroking her face; she thought of him running his hands up to the top of her legs and him leaning in to kiss and lick her throat. She wished he were dead. She thought like this for a moment standing there, then she put a hand on one of the tables, bent over, and vomited into the floodwater.

  Maria had come down the stairs and was standing in silence behind her mother. She saw her crying and being sick and she stood watching as the stock floated into the kitchen. She didn’t move forward in the water or approach her mother and while she stood there she realised there was only a song in her head. Maria lifted the bottom of her nightdress out of the water with both hands and without making a sound crept back up the stairs to bed.

  16

  Kalpana

  Hello Diary,

  This is Maria’s last day on Rothesay. It’s dead sad and now it’s like I’m losing my best pal but Maria says you can’t stay in one place for ever can you and that is true. All this week it’s been cheerio to this person and
cheerio to somebody else but I want to say wait a minute what am I going to do with my free time but I don’t say it out loud because it’s a bit selfish. My mum says we can still get together on the holidays and I told her it would be pure brilliant if I could go to London for a visit. Mrs Tambini is going to keep Maria’s room just the same and Maria asked her if I could borrow Maria’s spare brushes and that but she said no because she’ll be too busy. I’m not bothered I’ve got too much stuff anyway and Alfredo said I can maybe get spare brushes if there’s any at the shop. Maria is not taking that much stuff considering it’s all the way to London, but she doesn’t know yet how much space there will be for her things but she said none of it was wasted in the flood anyhow and that’s good.

  Bloody hell!!! I still can’t believe she’s going to London. My mum was pure cracking up because she said I have to stop going on about it and start thinking about the work at school and I say BORING. Why does exciting stuff never happen to me?? Maria says the people she will miss most are me, her mum, Alfredo and Giovanni and her granny, old Mrs Tambini who lives up on the hill. I went into the shop this morning and gave Maria a shiny penny to keep in her pocket for good luck. There’s a typewriter up in the library and I can use it after school to write letters with all the news. Mrs Bone is really nice, she came in and gave her a Collins dictionary brand new and a tiny radio that says Radio Luxembourg on the front. At the special school Maria’s going to it’s dead lucky cause you only have to do proper lessons in the morning and the rest of the time it’s dancing and stuff.