This Is All Read online

  I met inside me at that moment a great deep beauty which I knew was my soul. I think this was the first time I used that lovely forgotten rejected ancient word as the name for my most essential self, my very own being.

  hand in hand

  into air

  white bird flying

  flowing in my ears

  feeling

  everything was present

  I met

  a great deep beauty

  called my soul

  Ding dong

  The doorbell startled me out of my happy state.

  ‘Rats!’

  Doorbells. I don’t know what they do to you, but unexpected doorbells always make me petulant. They are to grumpy what instant is to coffee. I think it might be fear of suddenly facing an unknown attacker, which is my worst nightmare. Like waking in the night and finding a monstrous hairy man looming over me with rape on his mind. Opening a door to an unknown visitor is a bit like that in miniature. For me, anyway. I’m one of those irritating people who peek at you through a window or call out ‘Who is it?’ before opening up. And then I get even more peppery if the visitor calls out something meant to be jokey like ‘Not it but I’ or ‘The cat’s whiskers’ or worst of all ‘Guess!’ Whereas if I’m the visitor, being asked to shout out my name locks me up completely because I can’t bear the entire neighbourhood knowing it’s me standing outside waiting to be admitted. So I mutter ‘Me!’ so quietly no one can hear, not even the person inside, which, when other people do that and I’m the one inside, prickles me again because I can’t help thinking what a dunk this person is, not only to turn up without phoning first to let me know, but without the gump to say clearly who they are.

  ‘Don’t move,’ I said to Izumi. ‘Whoever it is will go away.’

  But saying this sent a skinquake through my facial, giving it a bad case of craquelure.

  The bell rang again. And again.

  Then a voice called through the letterbox, ‘Cordelia? Are you there? It’s Will.’

  Which sat me up with a tug.

  ‘It’s Will!’ I said. (Why do we repeat the obvious when in shock?)

  And stood up. Instantly catching sight of myself in the mirror. A resurrected mummy or an inmate from an eighteenth-century madhouse.

  ‘Lordy! Can’t go like this!’

  Izumi was on her feet too. Making hand gestures that meant ‘Stay here, I’ll go,’ and me waving my hand, meaning ‘No no!’ But she was gone.

  I thought, I’ve got to get this mask off. I remembered the written instructions said ‘Peel off from the jaw line’, but the picture showed it being done starting from the forehead. And as I guess pictures speak louder than words in a moment of crisis, I scrabbled at it from the top. But you know how, when you’re peeling an orange, sometimes the skin comes off easily in one piece, but sometimes it tears off in little ragged bits? Well, my Dead Sea Spa Magik Algimud Seaweed Facial decided to come off in raggy little bits that looked like scabs from a mega-rash of acne.

  While I was thus defacing myself with one hand and discarding my bath towel with the other in order to attire myself in something more presentable, I was listening all ears to what was going on downstairs.

  What went on when Izumi opened the door was a squawk, a guffaw, a contortion of William-only laughter, followed, when he could draw breath enough to speak, by the words, ‘The grave gives up its dead!’

  And, after further chortles, ‘O Death, where is thy sting?’

  And then, ‘My god, Cordelia, what have you done to yourself?’

  Cordelia! … C O R D E L I A!

  Vesuvius erupted.

  ‘You trepanned oik!’ I howled. ‘You bombazoon! You dingbat!’

  I was stumbling around as I spewed this out, struggling into jeans, a top, shoes, scrabbling with any spare fingers at the remains of my facial, all the while continuing with my larval flow.

  ‘You slop-bucket! You cheap jerk! You apology for … for a man!’

  Really, I don’t know what-all I said, making it up as I went along mostly, I was so angry with him for mistaking Izumi for me, and frustrated because he hadn’t turned up when expected, and exasperated because he had turned up when not expected, and flustered because he’d caught me when I was togged up like a bozoette from Dumboland. Plus (detestable conjunction), I was hating myself for being so discombobulated by a boy and for letting it show.

  By now I was parading down the stairs and—

  ‘My god, it’s you!’ Will said.

  – was pronouncing much too loudly to appear in full control of myself, ‘What the hell d’you think you’re doing here?’

  ‘Everybody has to be somewhere,’ he said through his infuriating grin.

  ‘Please do not make old jokes. Or any jokes at all. Why didn’t you phone?’

  I reached the bottom of the stairs. Will was standing just inside the front door. Izumi, face-mask ruinously cracked, turban coming loose, shoulders bare, but the rest of her from breasts to ankles encased in bath towel, confronting him like a puggish guard dog.

  Will said, all eyes, ‘What’s happened to your face?’

  ‘None of your business,’ I said. But my heart sank into my stomach and my stomach churned it into sour pus, all in an instant. There was a mirror on the wall in which Doris and I always checked ourselves before going out. I forced myself not to consult it.

  ‘How dare you,’ I said with as much haughty calm as I could manage, ‘mistake Izumi for me?’

  ‘Is that who it is!’ he said, staring at her.

  To her eternal credit, after a moment for reflection Izumi stamped on his foot. Unfortunately, as Will was in his Doc Martens and Izumi was bare-footed, her punishment had no effect on him but made her stumble with pain. This in turn caused her to tread on the hem of her towel, which in turn dislodged it, in turn causing her towel to collapse round her ankles, which in turn revealed her dishabille, i.e. in nothing at all. I must say, she behaved with admirable aplomb in the circumstances, muttering something in Japanese before stepping with dignity over her tumbled towel and stalking off up the stairs to my room without a hint of haste or embarrassment. I think she might even have been strutting her stuff a little.

  The vision thus presented of her front and back was a sight to ravish the eyes – she really was meltingly beautiful – and Will’s popped as he tracked her with unblinking attention till she disappeared from view, and remained staring fixated at the vanishing point until I said,

  ‘I thought it was me you came to see.’

  ‘Ah,’ said he, refocusing.

  ‘Ah, nothing!’ said I.

  ‘Ah well!’ said he.

  Only then did it sink in how he was dressed.

  ‘Why,’ said I, ‘are you dressed like that?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like in a used black dodo suit and white dodo shirt with a dodo pointy collar and dodo black tie, and, well, everything all – dodo.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Well, I’ve just been to a funeral, haven’t I.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘I – have – just – been—’

  ‘No. I mean, you haven’t come straight here from – that – have you?’

  ‘Yes. In the hearse. It’s outside.’

  ‘Outside?’

  ‘Waiting.’

  ‘Waiting?’

  ‘A state of inactivity in readiness for further use.’

  ‘Thank you so much. All my life I’ve been desperate to know what “waiting” means.’

  ‘Glad to be of service.’

  ‘Waiting, for what?’

  ‘Not what. You.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘And me of course.’

  ‘Will—?’

  ‘Cordelia?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘What I’m talking about—’

  ‘Please do not talk to me like that, thank you.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like you’re talking to your stupid little sist
er.’

  ‘I don’t have a little sister, stupid or otherwise.’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘Look – let’s start again, okay? I thought – seeing as how—’

  ‘Your grammar is deplorable.’

  ‘I let you down – Well – I came straight here—’

  ‘In a hearse?’

  ‘Only available transport. The cars were taking the mourners back home.’

  ‘Sorry I mentioned it.’

  ‘No problem. I came straight here, thinking I could pick you up—’

  ‘In a hearse?’

  ‘– and take you home so I could change—’

  ‘That was a good idea. You changing, I mean.’

  ‘– and then we could – No! – I could take you—’

  At this point Izumi reappeared at the top of the stairs still completely naked and said, ‘Cordelia?’

  ‘Yes?’ I snapped, my eyes still fixed on Will, his now returning to, and consuming, Izumi, dammim.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt,’ Izumi said.

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘But you’re wearing my top and—’

  This time there was no resisting the mirror.

  Picture this: Hair in the kind of derangement that might be considered attractive if wearing a skein of ravelled string on your head ever came into fashion. Face blotched with scales of turd-brown skin as if suffering from some deeply corrosive disease. Body squashed into an armless cotton top so tight it was in danger of splitting at every seam, while my boobs, small though they were, were not as small as Izumi’s and were therefore struggling to get out.

  At sight of my audacious image I said something resembling ‘Spit!’ ran upstairs to my room, slamming the door behind me, burst into tears, and prostrated myself on the catafalque of my bed. And at that moment I really did wish I were dead and buried.

  How could I – I wrote soon afterwards in my pillow book – how could I how could I how could I make such a fool of myself!!! Why did I have to come on so hoity-toity, so nose in the air, so totally dud? Why couldn’t I stay calm? Why did I scrum about like a wild thing instead of taking my time? I mean, where was he going to go, what was he going to do, if I made him wait? Why should I care if he thought Izumi was me? Because Izumi is beautiful and I am not, is why! And why does he make me fall apart just at the sound of his voice? I hate him, I do, I loathe&detest him. But I’m the bombazoon, not him, that’s the fact, I’m the dunk, I’m the panting jerk. Me!!! If Izumi hadn’t been there to rescue me it would have ended in disaster, I just know it would.

  This tale

  When I started making this book for you, I meant to make most of it out of my pillow book, and only write new bits here and there to fill the gaps. But I’m enjoying telling you this tale of William and me so much that I’m using my pillow book mainly as ‘raw material’. Not that it matters. One day you’ll have my pillow book as well, and then you’ll be able to compare the raw material with my retelling of it. More fun, don’t you think? Also I have to admit that a lot of my pillow book embarrasses me now. It’s so gauche and naïve and everything about the way you are in your teens that makes your toes curl once you’re through that phase of life.

  Things it helps me to remember

  When in a bad mood, keep quiet or still.

  Baggy jumpers don’t suit you.

  When you’re tired you get doubtful.

  Difficulties come in spurts.

  Listen to the echo of your own voice. Avoid being strident.

  All aeroplanes go through clouds during their journeys. So do people during theirs.

  Often greater clarity comes out of confusion. You have to be puzzled before you find a solution.

  PMT often brings on a crisis of confidence.

  Ordinariness is restful.

  If someone is explosive in front of you, be silent. If you feel explosive, be silent.

  Wood words

  ‘Why have you brought me here?’

  You was Will. Brought by him on his motor scooter (from hearse to motor scooter, I ask you!). Me on the back of his scooter, wearing his brother’s crash helmet, which was two sizes too big so most of the time it was slumped over my eyes preventing me from seeing where we were going and for the rest of the time, whenever I tried to look up, it was yanked backwards by the wind, almost choking me. Here was an arboretum about fifteen miles from home.

  After my hissy fit Izumi had sent Will away, telling him to change and come back, then made me, really made me, pull myself together and dress – jeans, sweater, no fuss, not even make-up – just in time for Will’s return. When, me thinking we’d play Schumann together, he scooted me away instead, saying, ‘I want to show you something.’ No time for argument. When you’re in the right mood there’s nothing like being dictated to, decided for, commandeered, carried off. By the right person, that is. All I knew was that after my calamity I wanted to be taken, to be required by Will. As we puttered along at the top speed of fifty-five an hour, I clung to him, arms round his waist, using fear of falling off as my excuse.

  Around us trees, trees, trees, and no one anywhere in sight. We’d hardly exchanged two words since we left the house.

  As we ambled along I said, ‘Why have you brought me here?’

  ‘To show you something.’

  ‘Weren’t we meant to be practising Schumann?’

  ‘Thought you’d like to listen to a different kind of woodwind.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘You must have been here before?’

  ‘Must have?’

  ‘Famous. One of the biggest and best arboretums in the world.’

  ‘Trees trees trees.’

  ‘That’s what an arboretum is. Many kinds. Specimens. So you can study them in the flesh.’

  ‘A library of trees.’

  ‘Nice one! A museum too. Don’t you like them? Trees, I mean.’

  For some bloody-minded reason I’d been determined not to give in to him. But a tinge in his voice warned me to go carefully. His question wasn’t idle. I sensed much hung on my answer.

  ‘Hard not to like trees.’

  ‘But you don’t know much about them?’

  Now it felt like a test. And I could only fail. Silly, but tears gathered. I looked up at the surrounding timber, as if for inspiration but really to hold my head back and drain the impending shower.

  A few strides on, I said, ‘I read somewhere that someone asked Rupert Brooke – the poet?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. Asked him what was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The sun shining through a new beech leaf in spring.’

  It roused me that this put a silence on him.

  We walked on, not just wandering, he knew where he was taking me.

  And all the lives we ever lived

  And all the lives to be,

  Are full of trees and changing leaves.

  We reached an out-of-the-way area thick with smallish trees and bushes. A path was mown through rangy grass and tangled undergrowth and mini forests of bracken. A sign carved on a strip of wood at knee height said NATIVE SPECIES COLLECTION.

  Will led the way. A few metres along the path we came to a bench, roughly made of a plank of wood stretched across two slices of tree trunk for legs.

  Will sat. I sat beside him. In front of us across the path, stilted above the undergrowth, was another wooden sign with 12,000 YEARS AGO carved on it and painted white. Nothing was said. I knew I was meant to sit and listen. It was what he wanted. And I was still in the mood to be commanded.

  Deep heavy silence. Not even a breeze to rustle the autumn leaves. And, I noticed, for it seemed strange at the time, no bird song either. But not a dead silence. Alive. As if we were being watched by the trees. No, not watched but observed, for the feeling was not of being spied on but of being an actor on a stage with the trees for audience all around. Before this, I’d never felt that trees w
ere beings, not beings like humans or animals. But I caught a glimpse, heard a whisper of their own beingness, their own thereness. I don’t know why I felt this right then. Perhaps because of Will, though I didn’t understand this till later, after he explained about him and trees. When you love someone you pick up their perceptions. But this was such a weird feeling I couldn’t keep quiet for long. And perhaps like an actor on a stage, I felt I had to say or do something or the audience might get restive.

  When I could bear the silence no longer I said, ‘What does it mean, twelve thousand years ago? This part can’t be that old, can it?’

  Will chuckled. ‘No,’ he almost-whispered, the way you speak in church. ‘There’s no wildwood left.’

  ‘Wildwood?’ I almost-whispered too.

  ‘The way Britain was before human beings. This area is being left to grow wild, and only with the kind of trees and plants that grew here thousands of years ago.’

  He swivelled on his bum, lifted a leg over the bench and sat astride, facing me. His body was so rangy and so supple, it roused me again. I stared ahead to avoid giving myself away. For a funny moment I felt we were characters in a Chekhov play (Chekhov being one of my favourite writers ever since I was taken to see The Seagull when I was about fourteen). We could have been Nina and Konstantin – before she went off the rails and he shot himself:

  Nina: Oh, Konstantin, Konstantin, wasn’t life so good before! Remember? Everything was so simple and clear and happy. The feelings we had! So beautiful! Delicate as lovely little flowers!

  Is life ever that simple? Is it ever so clear and nothing but happy? That it isn’t, at least never for very long, is the sadness of the play, I suppose. But it can be for a while, from time to time. And in short measures life may perfect be. I was happy at that moment, sitting with Will among the attendant trees, and knew that I was. Happy as you can be happy only at the beginning of being in love. Such a brief happiness, a butterfly time, as beautiful as anything in life, and as delicate and to be as treasured as butterflies themselves.