Frankie Styne & the Silver Man (18 page)

‘“It was what you wanted,” Dr Villarossa said. “At my surgery, everything can be arranged,” and she laughed, thumping the table with her fist.'

Frank filled the space between the last line of
The Procreators
and the bottom of the page with an arabesque. He exhaled and clicked the outworn pen into its cap for the last time. He went to his sitting room and checked the equipment. He lay on the sofa. He set the alarm on his watch, took two pills and closed his eyes. He would sleep now, sleep until just before the Hanslett broadcast came on the television. It was almost dawn and his light was the last in the street to go.

EXPLORATORY SURGERY

Liz opened the door to Mrs Purvis, smiled, and answered that she was fine.

‘Have a seat,' she said. She had spent several hours cleaning the floors, and the house had a strong lemony smell, though some of her footprints seemed to have soaked indelibly into the wood. Mrs Purvis knelt, groped behind herself, and settled awkwardly on the green cushion: the narrow circumference of her skirt meant that sitting on the floor was difficult. She had to spin her legs around and sit with them sticking straight out in front, the way dolls sit. I'd never wear a thing like that, Liz thought as she plunked down opposite her. You couldn't run.

‘You
have
put in some work outside!' Purvis said.

‘Oh?' said Liz, surprised.

‘And how are you doing for adult company, Liz? Are you seeing any of your old friends from the carriages?' A loaded question. It was a matter of making the story come out how Purvis wanted it.

‘No,' she said, which was both true and correct. It was not, Liz thought, as if she even knew where any of them were. Mexico perhaps. Mars. Maybe some of them were dead. And by now the carriage dwellers' traces would be completely grown over, if the weeds beyond the stuck back door were anything to go by.

She glimpsed last night's packet of chips in the corner, missed when she cleaned, but it was too late to pick it up now. She smiled at Purvis, to distract her from her surroundings.

‘Your life has changed a great deal, and very suddenly, hasn't it, Liz?' Mrs Purvis said. ‘But perhaps that's a good thing on the whole. What about the street? How are you getting on with the neighbours?'

‘I see a lot of the woman next door,' Liz told her.

‘That's good.' While it was impossible to assent to this, Liz found it easy enough to hold Mrs Purvis's gaze. The other woman smiled and leaned forwards a little. ‘I imagine there's quite a sense of community around here. You know, I really miss that, where I live. Flats aren't the same. I was born on a street like this, Liz. In Halifax. So intimate. People in and out all the time. And talking over the fence in summer . . .'

Perhaps, then, Liz thought, Mrs Purvis would want to go out the back next, through the door that had to be kicked open, into the waist-high grass, the piles of builder's rubble and old plaster slowly returning to earth, the collapsing fence. She quite liked it herself, and sometimes took a chair out back to sit in the sun and watch the wind in the leaves, but she sensed Purvis would disapprove. Perhaps she should offer tea now, to divert her. But Mrs Purvis continued.

‘Liz . . . I wonder if you'd thought lately of making contact with your family? You'd be surprised how often, even when things have gone terribly wrong in the past, a family will rally around at times like this.' Liz noticed for the first time that there was a faint echo in the room.
At times like this.

‘No,' she said very softly, so as to escape it. ‘Not yet,' she added. There was a moment's silence. The two of them looked at each other. Purvis was thinner and very pale, Liz noticed. She looked oddly fragile—and it was unlike her not to pursue the family question, not to say how all families were imperfect in some way, but that over time, et cetera, but simply to respond, ‘Well, bear it in mind. May I have a look at Jim?'
She struggled up from the cushion, Liz offering her hand just too late. Purvis's shoes clattered on floorboards.

‘Shall I take them off, Liz?
'
she asked, and did so without waiting for an answer, setting them by the door. Now she stood in her stockinged feet. Pale beige tights. Climbing the stairs, she gripped the banister and talked over her shoulder.

‘Liz, I'm very sorry I didn't get around sooner, but the department's been in crisis. And I've been under stress at home, too . . . Left or right?'

Jim lay sleeping on the middle of the bed. Liz had fed and changed him half an hour ago, and as luck would have it, he was on his side, the way Purvis had recommended. His hair was quite long now and his face, relaxed, looked more babyish than it normally did.

‘What a cherub. You don't use the cot?' Mrs Purvis asked in a low voice as she pulled back the blanket. ‘Co-sleeping does carry a risk. You really should… He's certainly grown,' she commented. ‘Looks very healthy. Well done, Liz. Any problems?'

Liz shook her head. ‘He cries if there's something wrong, and I just work out what it is and fix it.' She felt sick saying this because underneath the babygrow was the foot, perfectly healed, but not quite the same as the other one. The way he had cried that night! She felt sick mainly because of what she had done, but also because of lying: she'd rather not. The ankle was still stiff, though she hoped it would get better in time. And the woman in the pool had noticed it. But Purvis seemed to be looking at Liz more than at Jim, and liking what she saw.

‘Have you been to the mother and baby clinic?' she asked.

‘Well, last time it didn't work out. I missed the bus.'

‘Make sure to go to the next one.' Purvis sat down on the bed and patted the space next to her.

‘Liz, I think it's time to look ahead a bit. At this stage I suppose what you have to do is pretty much the same as with any baby. But it'll go on and on, and it is bound to feel harder, without the progress you might expect. Later on, you might start to feel . . . trapped.' As she spoke, Jim turned, opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, spellbound.
In the Silent Zone,
Liz thought.
Take me with you, please.
‘You must tell me, Liz, if you do get to feel that way,' Purvis said. ‘May I?' Liz nodded, dumbly, as Mrs Purvis reached over and scooped Jim up.

‘Oops, there you are. So heavy now! Did you read the leaflet I sent about the George Meridel Centre?' She stood and began to sway and jog as she spoke.

‘Haven't had time yet,' said Liz, still sitting on the bed. Mrs. Purvis patted Jim's back and sniffed the top of his head with her eyes half closed. It was bizarre to see her do that. As if he was hers! But all in a good cause. Liz smiled some more.

‘Well, George Meridel is a place where they teach you how to give a special baby like Jim proper stimulation. So that he reaches his maximum potential…' So this was it: more people telling them what to do. A whole other level of it. ‘Now you've settled in here,' Purvis continued, ‘I think it would be a good time to contact them and set up an assessment. If you like, I can call—'

‘But,' Liz cut in, ‘Mrs Purvis, I talk to him all the time. He's always with me. Never apart. We're fine how we are.'

‘I'm sure you do the best anyone can
on their own,
Liz,' said Mrs Purvis. ‘Of course you do. But the thing is, with a baby like Jim, just talking in the ordinary way may not necessarily be the best thing.'

‘It's
not
the ordinary way!' Now, Liz wanted Mrs Purvis vaporised, and failing that, for her to put Jim down. She stood and held out her arms, but Purvis ignored the gesture.

‘Of course, of course. He's very attached to you,' she continued, approvingly. ‘I'm just saying that you may need to work out other ways of communicating as he gets older. So that at least he can tell you what he wants, express his feelings and so on. And of course some of these children really are very special, you know. Despite how it seems at first, they can be very talented; certainly they can be happy. You'll want to give him––'

‘Mrs Purvis, we are already happy,' said Liz. ‘We do communicate.' And it was the absolute truth, sometimes at least. In the swimming pool or the bath. Sitting together on the back step. Walking. With effort Liz kept her face loose, the smile hanging there:
Hide. Look them in the eye.
If only Silly could back her up.

‘At the George Meridel, you see, they'd watch the pair of you together and then work out an individual programme for each family and their child. They can see things you or I might not notice. It's even possible that some of the things you naturally do even hold him back, Liz, and they could show you, if so. And of course you'd meet other mothers with babies a bit like Jim.'

It was even more people telling her what to do and asking her to agree with it and tying her down.

‘We're fine now!'

‘But perhaps a little later?' Purvis asked.

‘Perhaps.' Liz managed to say. We should have gone last night, she thought. But still, even now, there was—wasn't there?—always the possibility, the dream of escape. The hope that they might reach the Silent Zone first. At the last possible moment, bliss. As soon as she's gone . . .

‘Nothing happens overnight. There's quite a waiting list,' said Mrs Purvis. Jim had fallen asleep in her arms and she lowered her voice. Then she stood and settled Jim into the cot Liz had never used, and covered him with the spare blanket that hand been airing on its side. Straightening her back, she looked around the room: empty bar the bed and cot, an upturned box for a nightstand, beside which stood an ancient pair of Dr. Martens boots. Light poured through the windows and caught the motes of dust in the air. Opposite, the neighbour's windows were veiled in net.

‘You could claim for some furniture, you know,' Mrs Purvis said, ‘and carpets. A vacuum cleaner. Maybe even a TV. From the Trust.' She reached in her bag. ‘I have the application form here. Let me know if you need any help with it…' At the bottom of the stairs, she said, ‘Liz, I think I explained that I'm under pressure at work. I wanted to ask you how necessary you feel my visits are? Liz, I'm not trying to cut you off. I just wanted to check as to how often—'

‘We're doing fine,' Liz said. ‘I don't need anything.'

‘Perhaps every six months, then?' Mrs Purvis slipped her shoes on, hesitated by the open front door, then touched Liz awkwardly on the shoulder.

‘Please don't hesitate to get in touch at any time if you do need something. It's been lovely to see you getting on like this. There are plenty of mothers with normal babies
and
a husband who don't manage half so well. I'm really pleased. And Liz, it's meant a great deal to me to work with you. I'm proud of you.' Proud? Liz overrode her reaction, nodded. It was almost over, yet Purvis was not leaving. She stood there, smiling. Waiting? What for? Then it came to her.

‘Thank you,' Liz said, and Purvis leaned in and hugged her close. She smelled of a laundry, laced with a whiff of sweat; her blouse was damp, and the clipboard, still in her hand, dug into Liz's back. But a moment later it was over, and Liz watched as Mrs Purvis stepped into her car, wrestled with her skirt, then propped her clipboard on the steering wheel.

‘Another form,' Liz muttered. ‘Thank you and fuck off, then, why don't you just fuck off, form-face!'

Mrs Purvis's hands shook as she turned the ignition key. The engine spluttered, then failed. She felt dizzy, remote. It was as if she too was a machine going wrong, but on the third try, the car started and she glanced back at Liz, lifted her hand, and mouthed something halfway between goodbye and good luck. Breathe, she reminded herself, breathe.

It was all out of proportion: the way she felt giddy with panic now that she had seen Liz and Jim and knew they were doing well, and yet when Sim had presented her with his ultimatum in the middle of the night she'd felt nothing, nothing at all.

She glanced in the driving mirror for safety's sake but saw only her own eyes, brimming with tears. ‘I'll go back to the office and talk to Mandy,' she thought as she set off. Acid churned in her stomach, rose briefly and seared the back of her throat. She changed into second gear and felt for the chain around her neck. The car swerved, she righted it, then she was around the corner and into third. The road was wider; she put on speed. Trees and other vehicles flashed by in a lurid blur.

Liz watched the red car disappear and then, without warning, burst into tears. Through them, she saw her garden. No wonder Purvis had commented. It had been transformed. Transformed. A new gate had swung closed after Mrs Purvis; to the left of it a strip of freshly turned earth was planted with marigolds; to the right the tiny lawn had been edged and cut exposing a narrow border of herringbone brickwork on all four sides. In the centre was a small lavender bush, already in bud and wilting slightly.

‘You're lucky with that brickwork. It's original,' Alice leaned over the fence, grinning. She was wearing yellow rubber gloves. ‘We did it first thing this morning. Tom's got a day off. He did the gate and I did the rest. Another day we'll help you with the back. It's like an Amazonian rainforest out there. What's the matter? Are you okay?' Despite all that she knew, Liz shook her head. ‘Come around,' said Alice. ‘Come around for a chat . . .'

‘No,' Liz tried to say. But though her lips moved the sound wouldn't come out.

‘Come on, now. Bring the little one, or will he be all right for half an hour or so? I expect the baby alarm would still pick up over here.' Alice's voice was firm and she reached for Liz's arm. She'd removed the glove from one hand, and it hung limply in the other, like an empty banana skin. The exposed hand was pale and bluish, looked to Liz like something out of a film: some subtle nightmare where people mustn't touch, where their hands burned, sunk through others' flesh like acid—and to take off the rubber coverings could only be malice. She stood, spellbound, waiting to feel the bite.

‘It's okay,' said Alice softly, and smiled. ‘Come for a chat with me and Tom.' It seemed to Liz that there was triumph in that smile, but she'd become an automaton: obedient to Alice's will, she returned to her house, climbed the stairs. Jim's face was pressed into the cot mattress. She could see the rise and fall of his breath, hear the faint wet sound of it. The hair on the back of his neck was damp.