Animal People (23 page)

He could feel sweat on his eyelashes. He blinked. In the next room
ABBA
's ‘Ring Ring' burst on and off for musical chairs; the children squealed and shrieked.

But the kitchen was silent. Stephen stood in the room, with everyone looking.

‘What's the matter?' said Fiona, coming in with an armful of crumpled wrapping paper, staring around at them all. ‘Where's Maureen?'

‘I was just trying to,' Stephen said. His mouth was dry. He licked his lips, looking down the hallway, out into the front yard where Maureen and Pat stood by the front gate talking intently, Pat's hands grasping her shoulders. Maureen was nodding again, but now looking gratefully into Pat's eyes.

How had this happened?

‘Pat was the one . . .' Stephen said. Plaintive as a child. But Belinda interrupted. ‘Stephen seems to have upset Maureen by making a joke of her husband's cancer for some reason,' she said icily.

‘Noo,' said Stephen in a faint voice. He was finding it difficult to stand, the air was so terribly, terribly hot.

‘What
?
' Fiona was mystified. She looked at the glass in Stephen's hand. ‘What is the matter with you?' She was genuinely confused. He was upsetting her. He saw that she was tired of protecting him. He could see in her face what she was asking: why must he do this,
in front of them?

Stephen licked his lips again. ‘I was—nothing. Forget it.'

He propelled himself from the room, down the hallway. He went into Fiona's bedroom and shut the door. The bed was made up, the white sheets flat and clean and bare. This was the place, his and Fiona's place, this cool dark room, with the heat beating down beyond the wooden blinds, where everything had opened up. This was what he wanted. He lay down on the bed, the sheet smooth, the pillow white against his cheek. He closed his eyes. How had he suddenly got so drunk?

Outside, beyond the window, came a low scrabbling noise. It was Fluffy, he thought, hiding just out there under the darkness of the orange blossom bush, silent, waiting them all out.
Fright or flight.
The animals knew, alright, and Stephen knew too. He lay in the blissful quiet. In his head Fluffy shifted in the gloom. Then he realised:
fight
, not fright. He sat up, smelling the rank oil on his skin. He would spoil Fiona's fresh, beautiful bed with his filthy clothes; he had left her out there, all by herself. He had to go back to the party. He could not—yet—abandon her.

It was fight or flight, and this was not his refuge anymore.

The kitchen table was crowded with children, their elbows slipping and sliding on the thin plastic tablecloth. The room was all primary colours and high, excitable babble. Through the window Stephen saw the fairy smoking a cigarette in the garden, her meaty arms folded. She blew the smoke downwards over the costume's wisps and petals into her great cleavage.

He went to the fridge and lifted out a jug, poured a glass of cold water and drank it down. He would pull himself together. He stared outside, across the water. If he was out there he could be free, stepping onto the ferry as it pulled away, putting the cool dark harbour between him and this day, this terrible mess of a day. He would stand on the ferry deck, the wind cool in his face. He could step off the boat and sink, an anchor or a stone, straight down into the black deep.

He dragged his attention to the table.

Ella was perched on a mass of cushions in the big chair at the head of the table. Now she had regained centre stage she had stopped her sobbing, but Stephen saw that the hysteria lay in her, shivering like water about to boil. She wore the purple glittery bangle she had earlier hurled to the ground; Fiona must have found the other girl a compensatory gift.

Ella knelt on her throne of cushions. She leaned with her palms flat on the table as she craned about, scanning the feast laid out before her, inspecting the other girls' places for evidence of anything she may have been denied. Joshua had gone, gathered up by his mother and Pat; the table was ringed now only with the pink- and purple-clad girls, chattering and giggling and jostling.

Ella paid them no heed. She was completely focused on the task at hand—she must account for all the things that were rightfully hers: the special plate, the cushions, the fullest cup, the prettiest paper hat, each girl sitting in exactly the place Ella decreed.

Jeanette bobbed around the table holding her camera in her outstretched hands, aiming at Ella. ‘Smile for the photo, darling!' she called, hovering over the table, eyes fixed on the camera's screen. Ella turned to her and grinned a sickening false smile, squeezing up her cheeks and baring her teeth. All children did this now in the presence of cameras; it was expected of them. Photographs of children never really looked like them, but at least the images numbered in their thousands.

There was an exaggerated intake of breath from the adults as Fiona came carrying the cake, a massive pink-iced square covered in silver baubles and five striped candles. A murmur went up from the girls, and Richard led the singing of ‘Happy Birthday', his rich courtroom voice heard above all others. Stephen stood in the corner, drinking his water.

Ella sat up straight among her cushions at the head of the table, beaming, finally, with genuine delight. Stephen exhaled; her composure was restored. She had reached the shore.

Then two of the girls, who earlier had been sweetly subservient, began to snicker, their heads together, while the singing carried on about them.

Happy Birthday to you.
The girls fidgeted and giggled; one flicked a malicious grin Ella's way. Don't look, Stephen prayed—but she saw. She saw the tide turning. Her eyes widened in panic as she saw the girls' heads bent to each other in secret, laughing confidence. Stephen wanted to call out
it doesn't matter, they don't matter,
and take her in his arms. But Ella began to jiggle in her seat, her aggrieved gaze fixed on the faithless girls, desperate for their lost attention.

Happy Birthday dear Ellaaa.

The girls smirked, pushing sideways at each other, mocking Ella without even looking in her direction. This was the worst. She could not bear it—before the song finished she thrust herself bodily over the table, spat out the flames with wet breaths, then tore the candles from the cake and flung them into the air. The adults cried out and the children gasped, and Ella began to burrow into the cake with both her hands, clawing and shovelling clumps of it into her mouth, waggling her head, giggling shrilly at the traitorous pair, allowing cake to fall in sodden clods from her mouth.

‘That's disgusting, Ella!' cried Jeanette. ‘Stop it!' She leaned in to snatch the cake away. Now all the girls began squealing with horror and thrill while Ella pawed and smashed and dug, sending cake and clods of icing spinning. She drew herself up, chocolate dark as blood around her mouth, tick-tocking her crazed grin at the girls, shrieking in a high, lunatic voice: ‘Look at me,
look at me!
'

All around her adult hands tried to catch the cake, reached in to save tilting drinks, and Ella jolted and screeched. And the girls laughed their dreadful mocking laughs.

Stephen could stand this no longer. He strode to the table and lifted Ella up and away. ‘Let me
go
,' she screamed, writhing. The others watched as she clawed at him, convulsing and kicking, but he held her fast, carrying her across the kitchen, away through the next room, out of sight of them all.

In the hallway he set her down, crouched on the floor before her, breathless, gripping her firmly by the arms. ‘Deep breaths, Ella,' he commanded, inhaling deeply himself, showing her. He would deliver her from this. He would banish this alien, degraded creature, restore her true nature, her sweet self-possession. But she wouldn't come with him; she howled and spat, twisting and heaving in his grip. ‘Come on, Ellabella,' he called, low and calm, pressure building behind his eyes. ‘Don't do this, shhh, shhh.'
Come on
, he willed her.
Please.
But she would not be subdued: she arched and spun and flailed, dragging in the breaths, gouging at him. Her face was blotched red and black with smeared chocolate, her hair sticky, one fairy wing torn and bent. ‘I hate you,' she screeched, lips wet with rage. ‘Stop it,' Stephen said, tightening his grip on her. ‘Stop it.' Why could she not see that he alone understood? In desperation he began telling her things in a low, murmuring voice. He held her fast by the upper arms while she wrenched and roared, and he kept talking. He told her about when he was a little boy and went walking in the bush all by himself. About the twitching quiet and the fright of the occasional rustling leaves. He told her about the magpie that used to come to his bedroom window, how it would wipe its beak on the verandah rail, one side then the other as if it had a runny nose, how it would shiver its fat belly and the feathers there looked like fur. Ella still howled and lurched in his grip, but Stephen found he was calmed himself as he spoke. He held her firm and kept going, told how the magpie would jump with both feet up the steps, and it appeared the bird was jerked by invisible strings, like a puppet. Ella's shrieks began to stutter, to lose velocity. He talked about the puppet they had seen together at the Quay one day, and how she had learned to say
mar-i-on-ette,
that difficult word. She kept crying but she was listening now, her mournful eyes turned to him, snot everywhere. Please, he prayed. He would not let go, would not stop speaking. She drew a new breath to howl again, but the edge of hysteria had gone. He said remember the ferry, how she had sat on his lap in the great wind and how the water sprayed.

At last, her body began to soften; his grip on her shoulders softened too, and he could gently turn her to fall into his lap. Finally, finally, she stopped. He couldn't believe it. She shuddered in the silence, her face turned into his chest. They were both exhausted, but he had saved her. He prayed for this quiet to last as her halting breaths subsided, stroking her back in long, smooth strokes, not daring to stop talking about the ferry, how they had eaten chips they bought from the shop on the boat. She rested against him and he began to rock her with each stroke of her back.

There was a noise from the kitchen behind him. Jeanette bleated, and then he knew Richard was coming. He could feel the great body moving through the rooms. Please, he begged silently, let it not be ruined. Ella stayed where she was, surrendered, in his arms. But the hallway behind him filled with Richard's huge tread. It was imperative now for Stephen to hold this moment steady, keep Ella safe, save himself. He held her close with one arm as he twisted, gesturing behind him to show she had calmed down, batting away at Richard's enormous leaning bulk.

‘She's fine now,' Stephen murmured, low and authoritative, to the shape of Richard, begging for the oaf to get it, to fuck off until Ella was strong and steady once again. He curved his body around the child's. But he could smell Richard's cool breath, the chemical wash of his body, his malice. He felt the floorboards move beneath the great approaching weight, felt the iron bar of Richard's knee pressing at his back.

‘Come here,' Richard barked at Ella, his huge arms swooping down.

‘She's settled now, she just needs a
minute
,' Stephen hissed over his shoulder, shuffling round in his crouch on the floor, shielding Ella, holding her tighter. She jerked, her breath rising into a whimper.

‘Give her to me,' Richard ordered as he reached for Ella, the thick trunk of his arm grazing Stephen's ear, the elbow shoving at his cheek. Ella cried out, shrank into Stephen, clung to him. He would protect her. He pushed back against the force of Richard's great roving arm with his head, pushing and butting at it, like a goat.

‘I said just
leave
her.'

Richard's forearm was pressed against Stephen's throat; the grasping hands took hold of Ella, who began to wail. Stephen held on.

‘Let her go, you fucking loser,' Richard hissed into his ear.

And all the contempt the world had ever held for Stephen filled those last three words, and the great weight of this day swept up over him in a terrible wave, and crashed down. Just as Pat and the fairy opened the front door and appeared before them in the hall, Stephen sank his teeth deep into the flesh of Richard's smooth bare arm.

CHAPTER 6