The Lost Souls' Reunion (5 page)

Carmel folded up and clutched at the cramping pain.

‘I'm burning!' she screamed. ‘I'm burning inside!'

Constance pulled back the bedclothes to find what she expected – the sheets bloodstained.

‘Look at the cut of you! Well at least you didn't have to pay for it.'

Hours later a slither of deadness was delivered without a doctor into Constance Trapwell's hands. It had been a boy. Constance blessed it with water from the kitchen tap.

‘God forgive a heathen like me doing this,' said Constance, and flushed it into the London sewer.

When the doctor finally came he advised bed rest for a fortnight. Once he had left, Constance set the terms, ‘If you're not up in a fortnight you're out. I've nowhere else to bring them as yet, but here.'

Carmel got up four days later. Constance helped her to find work cleaning, in the early hours of each day while the world still slept. She knelt and with each circle of the wire brush rubbed out the face of the dead child staring at her. She begged those inside her not to talk so loudly in case others overheard talk of her badness. Those that did encountered only a strange woman on her knees, a stream of talking and scrubbing.

During the day she cleaned whatever mess Constance and her men had made.

When Constance learned Carmel could barely read or write she said, ‘You ought to write home. I'll write a letter for you and you tell me what to say.'

Carmel sent a letter to Noreen Moriarty, care of the post office, requesting it not be delivered to the house.

Mammy.

All's well here. I am in London and settled. Here is my address. The baby is gone.

Carmel.

She did not write one to Eddie. How could she when she had lost their child through her badness?

5 ∼ Meeting with the End

C
ONSTANCE
T
RAPWELL
had advanced in the world, though not in her chosen profession.

Carmel, hidden now entirely under the beat of Constance's wing, had moved with Constance to a small but tastefully appointed place of residence in Shepherd Market, W1, a stone's throw and a far cry from Soho. It was a place where the more select women paid court to the more select gentlemen.

‘It's an honour to be here,' Constance reminded Carmel. ‘Two girls from the bog, one posh accent between them. Strap me up.'

Constance would write letters for Carmel, which went unanswered. Still Carmel would ask her to write and she would watch as her words were put on to the page, as if a miracle was happening.

Once or twice the mistress had to take Carmel to task for answering the door to the men barefoot.

‘Giving them the wrong impression altogether, Carmel, with those big feet of yours. Keep your shoes on and your mouth shut and we'll all be happy.'

The stairs were no longer grey and uncovered – they were carpeted with a plush pile that cushioned the well-heeled from the world and made their coming and going noiseless.

Carmel did everything but wash Constance and feed her. Since neither could cook they were often seen in Soho cafés, Carmel lighting Constance's cigarettes, playing with the pearl lighter, passing her hand through the hot and single flame until Constance grew impatient and snatched it from her. Then nothing to do but listen to Constance's endless talk of the same things.

‘I'm earning more than I would in any show, Carmel. Most showgirls do what I do for nothing but a dinner and a bottle. By the time I start withering I'll have enough put by not to worry.'

‘I'd like to go home then,' Carmel whispered.

‘What's home got for us? A priest to tell us where we went wrong and a town to talk about us? If they don't pity you they'll hate you, Carmel. No, we're done with that and that's done with us.'

Constance and Carmel had spent many nights like this. Now one was thirty and the other nineteen. It still rankled with Constance that Carmel had never once thanked her.

Carmel was younger than her mistress, but not as well decked out. She dressed in Constance cast-offs as before she had dressed in Noreen's. A dress of her own was a world and a dream away.

That was not what she was thinking when she felt a pair of eyes on her, brown eyes with long fringed lashes. Eyes of the man who might have been my father.

Gomez was at another table, drinking strong black coffee, waiting for his shift at the restaurant to begin. He was a dishwasher who insisted on being a paying customer before he put his apron on. That was his pride. A pride I inherited, if it is his blood in me.

Carmel was thinking about putting her hand over Constance's endlessly moving mouth. But this time Carmel felt the eyes and the eyes said: ‘Look at me.'

When she did she was lost, for she recognized the look and felt she had returned home in it. It was only later, when things were different, that she realized. The eyes that Gomez had cast on her had been those of Joseph Moriarty, an expression in them that stood for a hatred of the world and all those in it who had stood against him.

Gomez came across to their table and introduced himself. Carmel's face came alive and something in Constance's heart said they had met with the end.

*   *   *

Carmel, now, could have all that she had not had before. She stood in the dress shop, afraid to touch anything.

‘You have to look, to try on, otherwise no point,' Gomez said impatiently.

She had always accompanied Constance into dress shops, had never been the one to choose. Now colours and fabrics and styles surrounded her. The clothes called out, ‘Choose me!'

And since she thought she would never have another chance to choose she chewed her lip and could not decide.

‘OK, I help.' Gomez walked through the rails and took up five dresses, held them against her milky skin and sighed.

‘Such a woman. My woman will be beautiful in these.'

He ran his hands over her to judge a size he already knew. It was a Monday morning and the shop was deserted. A bored assistant came across to them to see if they wanted anything.

‘No help,' Gomez dismissed her with a look that was long.

The assistant put the counter between them and did not appear bored any more. She looked at the door, hoping and waiting for other customers to come in.

‘Carmen, change now into these.' Gomez had taken to calling her Carmen.

He held up three, all blue, and he gave them to her and she had not chosen any of them.

In the empty changing room Carmel looked in the mirror and saw nothing but the midnight blue satin she was covered in.

‘It's like wearing the sky!' she whispered.

‘Ready?'

Gomez parted the curtains and saw a slight woman with full breasts whose beauty had been hidden under hand-me-downs. Exposed now. A beauty he wanted in front of those mirrors. He walked up to the assistant and gave her a pound note to keep everyone out. She put the pound in her purse and the closed sign on the door. Gomez went in to Carmel and closed the curtains behind him. Carmel was not looking at him, but at the sky around her. He lifted the starched skirt, his hands on creamy thighs and buttocks.

‘My Carmen.'

She was cold to the touch and this was what he liked about her. Being inside her was like swimming in a night sea. With the hot ones you learned everything quickly – with the cold ones you would never be satisfied. A secretive woman.

‘Mine,' he said, pulling the neckline of sky away to expose a breast.

Carmel looked in the mirror. She did not feel any of his touch until he placed his fingers on each breast and twisted the nipples hard so that she whimpered and then he emptied into her and took his tissue from his pocket and wiped her and himself before zipping up.

‘We don't take this one,' Gomez said.

Carmel did not smile and took it off and stood naked in front of the mirrors without the sky around her.

‘We take another,' Gomez said. ‘This one is used.'

He picked a turquoise blue.

‘You got to wear underwear now,' Gomez reminded her, for she often didn't. ‘You in London now.'

He paid the assistant and the assistant thanked them both for their custom and snapped shut the till before going back to a magazine which told her all about the violet eyes of Elizabeth Taylor, and how to get them with new eye drops. She avoided the green eyes of Carmel and the brown eyes of Gomez.

*   *   *

Carmen. Gomez gave her things, new bright things that she had never had. Her hair was cut in the latest style, her nails were polished and her feet were dressed in pointed shoes that cut them to ribbons. She did not know if she needed or wanted them but everyone else who had these things seemed happy.

All she had to do was give little and Gomez knew how to do things well. But he could not reach beyond her skin. When he was inside her, her eyes looked for Eddie's.

*   *   *

Constance Trapwell's successful business was going downhill. It was nothing to do with her technique going stale. But her clients were always somehow dissatisfied.

She could look no further than Carmel. It didn't do to have a better-looking maid. Nothing personal, lovie, but you'll have to move on to where you're going quicker. Remember what I said. He's trouble. Bye now. Call anytime.

And once more Carmel was on the street with a suitcase. Gomez was waiting.

6 ∼ Professional Love

N
O LOVING
was in store for Carmel Moriarty, though it had begun well enough. When she had turned up on his doorstep Gomez had moved Carmel into his attic flat in Brewer Street without a word.

Was she comfortable enough? Did she need any more clothes? Shoes?

Over the days they bought more new bright things and then they went straight back home. No more dinners or going to the pictures.

A bed and a wardrobe in one room; a bathroom in another; a stove, table and two chairs in the kitchen; blood-red linoleum and pale green painted walls with the marks of all the lives that had lived here. This was home.

Carmel looked at the sky through a sealed skylight window, a sky so close to her now but no longer familiar. They were strangers to one another.

Gomez brought a friend, a much brighter woman than Carmel, to help her with make-up. The friend used to work in theatre. She knew how to put a bit of slap on still, she told Carmel who did not utter a sound, who watched as a brush whispered against her skin. Her paleness was painted in and her lips smeared with a rich gloss that spoke loudly.

When the friend departed Gomez spread some receipts out on the table.

‘It is so expensive to keep a woman. See. You cost me twenty-three pounds and six shillings, for new dresses, for shoes, for make-up. You wear underwear now. I pay for that. I pay for everything. I take extra hours at the restaurant. I don't mind because you are a beautiful lady. You are mine.'

Carmel sat looking in the cracked mirror, which Gomez used to shave in. The results of the bright woman's painting were plain to see – she had coloured in the memories, brought fresh blue bruises to the eyes, made the blood pour from Carmel's lips as before. The sky was closed out and Joseph's hands were raised over her. Burn Carmel. Burn in Hell.

‘Carmen,' Gomez was standing over her. ‘What you do for me, now?'

She did not answer and he punched her neatly in the abdomen, not touching the face that was the picture of Carmel's memories, brought to life once more with paint and with powder.

She lay on the floor gasping like a fish on dry land, seeing the sky she had lost so clearly now. The clouds parted to reveal the blue that was not hers any longer. The colour in her skin drained, leave the paintwork set against white. She pulled in breath because that is what a body does.

Gomez bent down and whispered quietly in her ear, ‘You do what I say, Carmen, and I say I don't wash dishes no more.'

He had the first man on top of her three hours later. He was old and he worked long hours at a factory and would die of lung failure in a short time and he was lonely without his wife and needed company. He was kind to Carmel and he sobbed as he pushed into her and he wheezed loudly and the mucus in his chest rattled as he called another woman's name over and over. And Carmel, now Carmen, put her arms around his neck when he had done and he said, thank you, pet. He would come again and again to her, spending his overtime and his savings, which should have been passed on to children, but he'd had none. He would come again and again because of the way she would pull him against her at the end. He did not realize that she held him on her breast so she could see the lost sky.

*   *   *

Three years later, Carmen was no longer special. She was one of many. Most found her cold, too cold. Long after they had left her bed they felt they would never be warm.

Three years later in the dead of night she woke and saw Gomez beside her. He did not call so often now as he had other girls. When he felt a bad wanting he would come to her, because she was still cold to him. The other women moaned but Carmen did not utter a sound.

‘Carmen. My best girl. You give professional love.'

He would give her a lot to drink. She liked a lot to drink. Everyday. But it did not change anything except her eyes, which lost their stare and swam in a listless sea.

She could not feel the child growing inside the same way she could not feel the men who entered her. Nothing made her warm in life. But dreams protected her as her belly swelled. In them, she held me through her skin and spoke softly to me of the crib that Eddie was building. She saw him planning it. Telling her the walnut and rosewood was worth the price: ‘Nothing but the best for our baby.'

He told her how he had searched for the right nails, copper, because he was not a real carpenter and could not make dowels, join or turn wood. But he was a neat worker and he would make this like it had just unfolded, for their child.