Alice — a Life in Parts

Frozen from the inside out, the blue-grey hand of fear turning her insides solid. Feet grip the edge tightly, the rock beneath her toes. She has stood there so long people are beginning to stare. Wind whipping her hair, lashing her face. Her hand tugs at a strand, she sways and wobbles. A taste of metal sick fills her mouth. For the first time she looks down.

The water is calm, glasslike, as if it might shatter into a million pieces if she jumped into it. Each sliver of glass would imbed itself under her skin slicing through fat and muscle, gnawing at her bones. She steadies herself, shuffles forward to the edge of the rock. Her pale, lumpy thighs covered in goosebumps; she raises herself onto her toes, her arms stuck out in clumsy semaphore. The wind slapping at her, teeth clamped.

Fear like a black cat, like a vulture circling. Fear like treacle. Thick and cloying. A tiny voice says I’m not afraid but the tiny voice is lying. A little bell trying to make its ring heard while a cannon booms. Heart beating out a salsa rhythm. Blood surging like a tsunami. Black clouds of treacle pouring over my head, dripping down my face onto my tongue, rendering it speechless, down my arms soaking into my skin. I can’t do it. I can’t. I can’t. I’m scared. Everyone is looking. Do it now. Go on. I can’t. Yes, you can. I am not afraid. Liar. Is She watching? Can She see me from there? Watch me. Are you watching me? The tiny bell rings again louder this time. The treacle subsides, the black cat sticks its tail in the air and springs over the wall, the vultures squawk and fly away to hunt another prey. I’m not afraid, the tiny bell rings out and, this time, I hear it.

The Girl propels herself forward, grimacing as the rock leaves her feet and she is flying. For brief seconds she spins through the air, plunging into the water cutting it with barely a ripple. The icy blue torrent rushes around her head, blinding her, filling her mouth and nose. She squints until she recognises the yellow light, shoots up, bursting through the surface, coughing and gasping. She licks the salt, rubs her eyes until the beach comes into focus. The Girl searches for the Woman with Max Factor lips in the green bathing suit. The deckchair is empty.

Alice eats oranges sliced, dipped in sugar from a saucer, while standing on a kitchen chair. The kitchen is warm, smells of freshly griddled bakestones and woodbines. She is wearing a large apron with the strings lassoing her into it like a young steer. She sucks the sugary coat off the oranges, watches a blackbird waltz in the garden. Round and round leaving snow sculptured prints. The radio playing softly in the corner, but that is not what she is listening to. The blackbird flies away. She mops the saucer with her tiny fat finger, licking it first to make the sugar stick. The key rattles up the front door as the piece of red wool is drawn up and shoots through the letter box. Alice jumps off the chair and runs to the door. Arms open, she throws herself onto the body of an incoming woman in a powder blue coat. The woman untangles herself and offers her Max Factor lips to the girl, receiving sugary kisses in return. Laughter like water tinkling on glass. Alice grips tightly to the woman’s legs, holding on.

The Woman with Max Factor lips drank a cup of cocoa out of her pink cup at ten o’ clock and turned off all the lights to go to bed. She slid between the flannel sheets in the damp back bedroom, listened to her children breathe in and out, clammy hot bodies in red pyjamas. Tiny arms and tiny legs, tangled. The Woman with Max Factor lips laid down her tired head on a pillow, stared at the dark ceiling, and wished to be somewhere else. She must have wished very hard. Alice woke up in the bleak March morning, unpicked herself from the tangled limbs and wandered onto the cold landing. The house, dark and still. She climbed down the stairs one at a time until she reached the bottom where she settled, crossing her baby arms, watching the key on the piece of red wool hanging limply on the front door.

Mr Fish is taking them in his car today. Alice is wearing her Paris-length skirt with white polka dots and the white knit top, which is her favourite. It has a pink butterfly on one side, a blue butterfly on the other. The Woodbine Lady, hidden behind a cloud of grey smoke in the front garden is waiting for Mr Fish to arrive. She has tied the piece of red wool to the strap of the handbag so she doesn’t lose it. She says it is good of him to take them because he is not a taxi, just a good neighbour and the bus takes ages to get to the Hospital. Alice doesn’t know where they are going exactly but her friend Janet says it has a green roof. You can see it from the back of the gym in their school. The Woodbine Lady invited Janet over for tea last night, to keep her company she said, because she doesn’t have the time to amuse children all day long. They had Angel cake and fish paste sandwiches. When the Woodbine Lady sat in front of the television, knitting long purple strands, the two girls huddled in the kitchen, warming their cold feet in the old gas oven. Alice doesn’t want to go to the Hospital. Janet says it’s where they keep the Loonies. The Woodbine Lady tells Janet not to use that word again and anyway they have to go and visit because they’ve booked Mr Fish now.

The Hospital is all green, smells of pee and stale cabbage. A kind looking face tells them to wait. The Woman with Max Factor lips is making rag-dolls. It’s what they do. The Girl squirms, uncomfortable in her Paris-length skirt with white polka dots. She wouldn’t mind a ragdoll though, she thinks. Old, pee-stained people keep passing them in the corridor. Sometimes hands reach out to ruffle their hair or pat them. The Girl doesn’t like to be patted like a pet dog or ruffled. She wants to go home but the Woodbine Lady won’t let them. She heard her tell Mr Fish they would get the bus back, because he wanted to charge them five pounds. The Girl could tell the Woodbine Lady would rather be smoking somewhere, but they stand awkward, silent, waiting for the ragdoll class to finish.

The room fills up as the tea trolley crashes through the double doors. Tea and the kind of mildew smelling biscuits that get left in the tin. The Woman doesn’t have Max Factor lips today. She looks old, shrunken, walking in a vague, stumbling way, clutching a doll made out of stockings and felt. She starts to cry, clinging to the Woodbine Lady

‘Take me home Mamma,’ she begs. ‘I want to go home with you, Mamma.’

The woman without her Max Factor lips doesn’t even notice the children waiting, nibbling on soggy biscuits and wondering who will get the stocking doll.

It’s a blue sky July afternoon. Alice sits on a wobbly set of garden swings waiting. They’ve been sent outside because they are not allowed to hear what is being whispered, but they know already it won’t be good. Alice scuffs her shoes dragging them along the grass as she swings, wriggling with boredom. Her brother has climbed to the top of the frame. The whole thing sways from side to side. It will come crashing down any minute, she thinks. The door opens, the Woodbine Lady snaps her handbag shut. Fat noisy girls have arrived to see an old lady with silver hair on her chin. They’re dirty and one of them has the stocking doll under her chubby little armpit. Alice wants to grab it, claim it for her own but it’s a battle already lost.

There are red balloons tied to the kitchen chair. The Woman with Max Factor lips is dripping icing over a cake. Trying to hide the damage. She so wanted to bake a cake this morning. She hadn’t known using the bread wrapper instead of greased paper would imprint the cake with candy stripe pink Mother’s Pride, over and over. The Woman with Max Factor lips is drinking cake brandy out of a china cup, dripping watery, grey white icing. Alice watches carefully from behind the yellow formica dresser. She likes cake, even candy striped Mother’s Pride cake, but nobody seems quite sure why they are having a party in the first place. This is making her nervous. She could ask, but thinks better of it, not wanting to interrupt the flow of watery, grey white icing. The china cup is filled with cake brandy for the third time, a grate of cigarette ash scattered across the table but so far the cake is untouched. The Girl tries to balance between the yellow formica dresser and the coal-house door, which no longer holds coal since they all got North Sea gas and the Woman in Max Factor lips stopped crying over firelighters in the mornings. Alice likes to sit in front of the new gas fire, making toast by hanging a fork off the bars, watching the scorched bread turn black.

The china cup is empty, a blob of ash falls smack into the grey white icing, covering a lonely chocolate button that sits in the centre. The Woman in Max Factor lips lights a fresh cigarette, holds it out in front of her. The glowing tip punctures the balloons with loud pops and bangs that make Alice jump. The ragged, red ends flap, still tethered to the kitchen chair. The grey white cake, speckled with ash, is stabbed through the heart by a lone cigarette, its brown tip drooping into the icing. Alice sits on the floor behind the yellow formica dresser hugging her knees, thinking the party is over.

A snake pit full of crying people. The shouting gets louder. Crashing plates. Breaking. Always breaking. Stop shouting, snarling, growling. Caged tigers. Old yellow eyed tigers with ruby red lips. Hands clawing, lashing. Make it stop! Make it stop! The black cat has come back for me. The treacle pours down, choking me. Wailing, more wailing. The door splinters wood, banging off its hinges. The key on the red wool jangles, bouncing, falls to the floor. Thunder. Voices like thunder. Crashing lightening tearing the air. Stop it! Stop it! The air like black tar thick. Can’t breathe.

Alice thinks Ginger Rogers is better than Fred Astaire because she goes backwards and wears high heels. The Woman with Max Factor lips let her buy a pair of pink, sparkly shoes in the Oxfam jumble sale. They are beautiful. Satin with pink sequins and stiletto heels like icepicks. The Girl likes to click and clack across the oilcloth. She swirls across the floor in her mother’s old wedding dress, wrapped in a veil. Alice wants satin sheets like the films on the telly. She is not sure if Ginger Rogers has pink, sparkly shoes because the films are in black and white, but Alice thinks they must be. The Woman with Max Factor lips says they can’t have satin sheets.

‘Only bloody Ginger Rogers can afford them and anyway you need to stop wetting the bed first. You don’t see Ginger in pee-stained satin,’ she says.

Alice thinks she wouldn’t wet the bed if she had satin sheets though. She has decided they would be pink satin to match her shoes. Before bed, Alice lays her pink sequinned shoes under the bed so she can reach down and run her fingers over the rough sequins and the smooth satin heel. The shouting wakes her, dark and confused. A tight burst in her belly. The voices carry on hissing. Alice squeezing out breaths. The tightness like an elastic band about to burst hot liquid over the sheets. Still the voices snarl and growl. Wild animals on the landing. Alice leaks tears. Hides her head in the eiderdown, waits for the morning light to rescue her.

The Woman with Max Factor lips pulls the soiled sheets off the bed, screaming and spitting. Pee-streaked sheets thrown in the ashcan, the splash of lighter fuel soaking them, flames whooshing and churning. Alice watches her burning shame, under them a glimpse of pink, sequinned charred remains.

Two she-cats roll around the grass, scratching and clawing. Fists lashing and lumping flesh. A finger twists through a silver hoop and yanks it hard. Alice screams, clutching her bleeding ear and curls into a bruised ball. She dabs at her sliced ear with her sleeve, sniffing and vanquished. The bell rings, voices jeer and cackle, laughter fades and the crowd disperses. Alice leans against the split red bricks, head in hands and drips blood into the crack on the concrete. School’s out.

Alice dyed her blonde streak with cochineal. She wanted it crimson like blood, hanging over her eyes. She let a boy carve his initials on her arm for fun. She liked how it felt, being carved like he was sculpting her into something new. They used India ink, dripping smoky blue onto her pale white arm. Today though the arm is pink and swollen, stings like a flame when her sleeve touches it. Alice was proud, she didn’t cry once. The boy said he might like her if she let him carve her. He didn’t though. Another girl wanted his carving more. She can’t go back.

Alice hacks at her fringe with pinking shears, drawing black kohl lines under her eyes and painting rum raisin lips. She spits some loose tobacco off her rollup, picking it off her lip. The Man with the Smiling Skull Ring has promised her things and she doesn’t want to be late. Alice pulls her green rucksack from under the bed. She checks the mirror and shushes the bedroom door. Alice is excited. Nobody has promised her things she wants before. She can’t tell anyone though. Alice thinks the Man with the Smiling Skull ring needn’t have worried. She doesn’t have anyone to tell.

The Woman with Max Factor lips is asleep in the chair. The television blasting football scores, the heat sweltering as the gas fire belches out, furnace like. A tiny river of drool dried on her lips. Her hand rests on a cockeyed glass balanced on the chair. Alice pokes her head around the door, checks once for signs of life and opens the door to the Glory Hole. She roots around, fingers stretching up to reach the button box. The gold tin hidden in the corner. Alice tips fingers around it. Flicking glances over her shoulder. A quiet pop of the lid. She reaches inside, pulling out her birth certificate. Clicks the lid back in place.

The Woman with Max Factor lips stirs, knocks the glass off the arm. She wakes growling. Alice shoves the tin back, bangs the door on the Glory Hole and grabs the old Army coat, which hangs under the stairs. She slams the front door defiant, pleased with the schizophrenic jingle the key makes scratching chipped yellow paint.

The light in the car park is dim, oily yellow. Pools of muddy water with loose gravel beaches surrounding them. Midnight follows four hours of cold, standing alone, waiting for the Man with the Smiling Skull ring. Alice sucks on her rollup, yellow fingers and cold hands. The clock chimes a dull, witching hour. She throws the rollup into the oily puddle and kicks grit as she crosses the car park.

The house is blacked out, no signs of life. Alice dumps her rucksack on the ground and reaches frozen fingers through the letterbox. Fingers wrap around the red wool, pulling it up and up. The wool pools in the palm of her hand. The letterbox clatters shut as it gives up the last inches. Two stubby clipped ends of red wool dangle, empty.

Leaving home. Bricks, mortar, peeling paint. Gone now. No yellow front door or sticky windows that need a hand rapped to force entry. Cold rooms. Huddling winter. Cries of ‘Shut the door.’ Giggling kitchen, teenage feet in the oven. Leaving. Empty rooms. Dusty voices hanging in the air. ‘Don’t upset your mother.’ ‘Well go then.’ ‘Don’t come back.’ Voices of women crying, of gossip, of laughter, of illness, a whisper. ‘She’s not well.’ Whispers of prayers uttered over, frantic pleadings, lots of voices — none of them heard. The night she ran away, the night the police came, the night she cut the key off the piece of wool. Making a home out of dust and voices. I left home a thousand times and it will be even better when home leaves me.

Huddled in a doorway, long army coat and grimy unwashed face. Alice pulls a dirty, red blanket around her shoulders. She drinks quickly, pulling warmth from the plastic cup. Opens up a torn paper napkin, spreads it over her lap. Gently laying slices of orange, Alice rummages in her rucksack, finds a screwed up envelope. She pours the sugar carefully over the orange slices, folds the empty envelope and returns it to her bag. Alice leans into the doorway, sucks the sugary oranges and slurps her tea. Black socks on her hands, crusty with sugar.