We Are All Made Of Glue Part 27

There was a poem, written out by hand, the letters squat and confident on the creamy paper.

I wandered through the city streets My heart was burdened down with care, And then I saw thee standing there With raindrops sparkling on thy hair wandered through the city streets My heart was burdened down with care, And then I saw thee standing there With raindrops sparkling on thy hair.

Sweet Saint Georgina, thou art The dragon slayer of my heart. TeR me thou love me, for I know We'll never be apart.

I couldn't stop myself; I cringed; then I covered it up with an embarra.s.sed kiss. "Mmm. That's lovely," I said. couldn't stop myself; I cringed; then I covered it up with an embarra.s.sed kiss. "Mmm. That's lovely," I said.

"Glad you like it, sweetheart. Have you got the...?"

"The...?"

I fumbled in my bedside drawer for the shameless accessories, and slipped them on. He checked the gusset. He tightened the satin handcuffs. Thank heavens for IKEA slatted headboards, where would we be without them? thought the Shameless Woman as she sighed and lay back on the pillows. But the poem-the ugly doggerel-jangled in my head. I tried to abandon myself to shamelessness but it was no use. "Sweet Saint Georgina...Tell me thou love me..." And to think I had once dreamed of having an entourage of poet toy-boys! In the end I just had to fake it. Afterwards, when I was lying tense and sweaty in his arms, and he was stroking my hair and doing his hanky thing, I had a sudden memory of the first night Rip and I had spent together in his attic flat in Chapeltown. We'd lain together in the crumpled sheets looking at the candlelight flickering on the sloping ceiling, and he'd reached down a well-thumbed book from his shelf and read me John Donne's 'The Sunne Rising'. "She is all states, and all princes I. Nothing else is."

What had happened to that that Rip-not the always-in-a-huny destiny-shaping Progress Project Rip, but the other Rip who was as bouncy as a puppy, curious, funny, eager, idealistic, who read Donne and Marvell when we made love, and brought me Marmite on toast in the morning? What had happened to Rip-not the always-in-a-huny destiny-shaping Progress Project Rip, but the other Rip who was as bouncy as a puppy, curious, funny, eager, idealistic, who read Donne and Marvell when we made love, and brought me Marmite on toast in the morning? What had happened to him? him? A pain like the shock of bereavement hit me right in the heart, making me flinch. What was I doing here? Why was I in bed with this man? A pain like the shock of bereavement hit me right in the heart, making me flinch. What was I doing here? Why was I in bed with this man?

"Why did you use those words, thee and thou?" I asked.

"Don't you like them?"

"I do, but...they're a bit old-fashioned."

"You strike me as being-how can I put it?-quite an old-fashioned girl, Georgina." He ran a finger down my cheek. "I can change it if you don't like it, sweetheart."

The trouble is, I realised, I only wanted him wicked and wolfy. I didn't want this touchy-feely gooey stuff. And I definitely didn't want the poetry.

"No, leave it. It's fine as it is. But...it should be thou lovest, not thou love."

As soon as I said it, I wished I hadn't. I didn't mean it as a put-down-it was just my Eng Lit degree popping out in the wrong place.

"Lovest?" He sounded utterly crushed.

"But it's fine as it is. Romantic. Please! Don't change anything!"

But he was already sitting up and putting on his neatly folded clothes.

"Mark, you've forgotten..."

"Lovest!"

The door closed with a quiet click and he was gone.

I lay there for a while thinking about the poem. It wasn't just the archaisms that bothered me, it was the flaky metaphor of Saint George and the dragon, and that ugly foreshortened last line, like a broken tooth. You'd have thought he could have found a couple of spare syllables to patch it up with. A sudden vivid memory caught me off guard: it was the first time Rip and I went down to Holtham at Christmas. Rip slipped his hand between my thighs as I drove and read me Donne's poem 'Nocturnal upon St Lucy's Day' as we crossed the wintry Pennines, rough with browned-off heather beneath which new shoots were already pushing into the black oozing peat. 'I am every dead thing, In whom love wrought new alchemy.' I was so overcome with pa.s.sion that we had to stop in a lay-by. It's not easy to make love in the back of a Mini, but I remembered how our bodies closed together like two sh.e.l.ls of a bivalve.

Riding in on the memory came an intense pang of longing for Rip-for his warm solid body, his alert clever mind. In spite of the Sinclair confidence that bordered on arrogance, in spite of the Progress Project and the destiny-shaping work, in spite of the dereliction of DIY duties and the irritating BlackBerry habits, in spite even of the Scarlet-mouthed s.l.u.t, he was still Ben and Stella's dad; yes, and he was still the man I loved. Maybe it was time to stop messing around with other men and start glueing my marriage together.

Just then, the front door slammed. It must be Ben letting himself in. I sat up and...no, I tried to sit up, but my wrists were still firmly strapped to the headboard. I tugged. Nothing happened. Irritated, I pulled harder, but the Velcro held fast.

"Mum?" Ben called from the kitchen.

"Hi, Ben. I'm just finishing something off. I'll be with you in a minute."

For G.o.d's sake. It was only Velcro. But because of the way it was fastened on my wrists, when I tugged I was just pulling tighter on to the join. I tried to squeeze up my hands and slip them through the loops, but there was no slack. I could hear the crickle-crickle of the Velcro hooks under strain. Then the crickling stopped. My thumb joints were still in the way. My wrists were getting sore. My arms were aching. My heart was racing. Don't panic. In-two-three-four. Out Don't panic. In-two-three-four. Out -two- -two-three-four.

"D'you want some tea, Mum?"

"Lovely, thanks. NO! No, it's all right. Just put the kettle on. I'll come down."

Next I tried using my teeth. I found that if I strained and wriggled, I could get my mouth within an inch of my left wrist. Half an inch. But no more. I tried the other side. That was worse. My arms weren't long enough. Or maybe they were too long. I went back to the left side. I strained and strained. If I stuck my tongue out I could even touch the Velcro with the tip of it-I just couldn't get it with my teeth. When my shoulder felt as though it was going to break, I gave up. Exhausted, I lay back on the pillows and considered my options. Then I realised I had no options. Well, the only option was to call out to Ben for help. That wasn't really an option. I'd rather die. Then I became aware of another unpleasant sensation. I needed a pee.

"Kettle's boiled!"

"Right! Thanks!"

I could tell Ben it was an accident. Oh, yeah. I could pretend I'd been trying out an experiment. Playing a game. Practising for a pantomime. Like you do. Trouble was, the duvet was down around my knees, and I was still wearing the red panties. And nothing else. There was nothing for it but to go back to the crickling. Each little crickle-crickle was a hook opening, I told myself. Just take it slowly. Forget about the bladder. Concentrate on the wrists. Concentrate on one wrist at a time. I seemed to have more power in my right wrist. I found that by moving the thumb joint and flexing my fingers up and down I could increase the crickling. Crickle-crickle-crickle. Crickle-crickle-crickle. The more gently I did it, the more it crickled. I could move my right thumb quite a bit now. I could fold it into my palm and ease it...ease it...yes, there it goes. My right hand was free. I reached across and freed my left hand. Then I grabbed my dressing gown and dashed to the toilet.

"Is everything all right, Mum?"

"Yes. Just get that kettle on."

Two minutes later I strolled into the kitchen wearing my jeans and jumper and an insouciant smile on my face. I poured the hot water over the tea bag.

"Thanks, Ben. Just something I had to get finished by today."

He studied me curiously. I slipped my hands behind my back so he wouldn't see the raw marks on my wrists.

"Are you all right, Mum? You look a bit...red."

"Red?" I blushed.

"Have you been in a fight?"

"No. Not exactly. Why?"

"You seem-sort of- irregular."

It wasn't until I had another pee at bedtime that I spotted the red lace-trimmed panties still crumpled up on the floor in the toilet. Had Ben noticed them when he went upstairs? Should I say anything? Should I pretend they were Stella's? (Shame on you, Georgie!) Or should I just keep quiet? That's what I did.

38.

Without walls Ben and I had taken to sometimes having our tea in front of the gas fire in the sitting room with the television on in the background-a comfy Kippax habit, which we'd adopted now there were just the two of us. So there we were on Thursday balancing our plates on our knees and watching the seven o'clock news-the usual gloom, doom and trivia. I was about to flick the remote when an item came up about the nuclear missile defence shield that the Americans were supposed to be stationing in Poland to stop missiles from Iran. I know my geography's a bit shaky, but wasn't that, like, the wrong continent? Then I noticed Ben had gone very still.

"I wouldn't worry," I said. "I'm sure it won't work, anyway."

Ben was staring at the screen.

"It's the prophecy. Gog and Magog." His voice was almost a whisper. "They're getting ready for the missiles."

"What missiles?"

Ben put his plate aside, slid off the sofa, and knelt in front of me.

"Mum, I'm begging you. Take Jesus into your heart."

He stretched out his hands to me as if he was pleading or praying-my poor broken-in-half boy. I took his hands-they were shaking. I knew that nothing I said would be the right thing, so I kept quiet and just held his hands tight in mine. Then he closed his eyes, and started to speak-it was more like a chant-in that grating up-talk inflection.

"Ezekiel thirty-eight? Thus saith the Lord G.o.d? Behold, I am against thee, O Gog, Prince of Meshech and Tubal. I will turn thee back, and put hooks into thy jaws, all thine army, horses and hors.e.m.e.n? Persia, Ethiopia, and Libya with them? Gomer, and all his bands; the house of Togar-mah of the north quarters, and all his bands? All of them clothed in all manner of armour, shields and swords?"

It reminded me of the Lord of the Rings Lord of the Rings poster on his wall, the Ores with their sub-prime dentistry, the vast exotic computer-enhanced armies marching into the field. I would have dismissed it as lads' fantasy, but for what came next. poster on his wall, the Ores with their sub-prime dentistry, the vast exotic computer-enhanced armies marching into the field. I would have dismissed it as lads' fantasy, but for what came next.

"In the last days I will bring thee against my land? Thou shalt come into this land, that is brought back to peace from the sword, gathered out of many people to dwell amongst the mountains of Israel, which had been a wasteland before, but is brought forth out of the nations. And they shall dwell safely? All of them? Dwelling without walls, and having neither bars nor gates?"

His voice was wobbling.

"Oh, Ben..." I squeezed his hands. Phrases from Naomi's letter from Israel-the letter I'd found in the piano stool, which I'd reread so many times, flashed into my mind. Our place of safety...this barren wasteland...our people gathered from every country where we have been exiles...a land without barbed wire Our place of safety...this barren wasteland...our people gathered from every country where we have been exiles...a land without barbed wire. But Mr. Ali had told me there were walls now, and checkpoints, and barbed wire.

"And I will rain upon him an overflowing rain, and great hailstones, fire, and brimstone." Ben's eyes were still closed. Then he looked up at me. "Take Jesus, Mum. Please? Before it's too late?"

"Okay, Ben. Okay."

He was pale and trembling.

"But you don't believe it, do you?" He shook his shaved head-covered now with fine dark stubble-in a gesture that could have been frustration or despair.

"Well..."

"You're just saying it to keep me happy, aren't you?" His eyes were liquid, backed up with tears. "What's the point? What's the point in being saved, if everybody...like everybody you really love is going to be d.a.m.ned?"

The television was still burbling in the background, and I flicked the remote to turn it off-to cut off that terrifying stream of madness that kept leaching into our own little fireside world.

"Come here, you." I pulled him up on to the sofa beside me, and put my arms round his shoulders, squeezing him tight. "It's just talk and posturing. It'll all blow over."

I said it with a confidence I didn't feel, putting on a brave face for Ben, for a part of me was scared, too. However much my rational mind dismissed the gibberish of prophets, there was a dark cave hidden away beneath my brain where the monsters slept, fears and nightmares chained up since childhood, but still with a residual power to instil dread. We sat together, listening to the silence settling back into the room. It was raining again outside, a soft pit-pat, not a downpour. I could hear Ben's breathing getting slower. His hands were very cold.

Suddenly, outside in the street, we heard the sound of a car pulling up, tyres splashing in the rain, a diesel engine idling, footsteps on the path, a knock on the door. Ben and I stared at each other. There was another louder knock, then a man's voice-an unfamiliar voice-"Anybody there?"

I got up and opened the door. I didn't recognise the man standing there, a bulky, dark-skinned man. But after a moment, I realised he was the driver of the taxi that had pulled up outside on the road. Then the door of the taxi opened, and out clambered Mrs Shapiro.

"Georgine!" she exclaimed. "Please-help me! Do you heff some money for the taxi?"

"Of course," I said. "How much?"

"Fifty-four pound," said the taxi driver. He wasn't smiling.

"Isn't that a bit...?"

"It should be more than that. We been going round in circles for hours."

I went to look in my purse. I had forty pounds and some change.

"Ben, can you help?"

He was standing behind me, trying to work out what was going on.

"I'll have a look."

He went upstairs. I remembered some loose coins in my duffel coat pocket. And there were some pounds I'd put in the Barnardo's envelope by the door. Ben came down with a fiver. Mrs Shapiro fished a pound coin out of the lining of her astrakhan coat. Between us we rustled together 52.73. The taxi driver took it crossly, mumbled something, and disappeared.

"Come in, come in," I said to Mrs Shapiro.

"Thenk you," she said. "Some persons are living in my house. Will not let me in."

As she crossed the threshold, Wonder Boy appeared out of the darkness and slunk in beside her.

She sat by the fire cradling a mug of tea in her hands, which Ben had brought on a tray, with some chocolate digestives.

"Thenk you, young man. Charming. I am Mrs Naomi Shapiro. Please-tek a biscuit."

Wonder Boy stretched himself out in front of the fire and started rubbing himself up against the Lion King Lion King slippers, making a gruff rasping noise which was as close as he could get to purring. Through sips of tea and mouthfuls of biscuit crumbs, she told us the story of her escape. slippers, making a gruff rasping noise which was as close as he could get to purring. Through sips of tea and mouthfuls of biscuit crumbs, she told us the story of her escape.

After the discovery of the dead body, the bonker lady had become totally bonkers.

"Crezzy. Brain completely rotted away."

Not content with hanging around in the corridor cadging cigarettes from visitors, she would embellish her patter with an invitation.

"I show you the dead body if you give me a ciggie."

That upset the staff-they thought it was giving a bad impression of the home. From time to time, just to wind them up, she would rush down the corridor yelling 'Elp! "Elp! There's a dead body in 'ere!" It came to a head when a party of relatives accompanying their aged mother on an inspection tour were accosted by the bonker lady, who somehow led them to believe (they were all smokers) that finding corpses was almost a daily occurrence. The staff member who was showing them round lost her rag and tried to push the bonker lady back into her room.

"But she was fighting them like a tiger. Clawving and skretching mit the hends!"

In the end the security guard had to be called. Then matron arrived in her green cardie with an ampoule of sedative and a needle, but the bonker lady kept struggling and yelling 'Elp! "Elp! They gonner kill me!"

The relatives, rattled by so much violence, tried to call the police on a mobile phone. By now all the residents-those of them who were upright-had crowded into the corridor and were cheering the bonker lady on. In all the kerfuffle Mrs Shapiro managed to slip unnoticed through the door into the lobby and out on to the Lea Bridge Road, where a pa.s.sing taxi whisked her to safety.

"And here I am, darlinks!" she exclaimed, flushed with the excitement of her adventure. "Only problem is some persons are living in my house. We must evict them now!"