Tin Man(31)

I sing, I close my eyes. I look up. In the doorway, Sister Teresa is laughing. Ho, ho, ho, I say. I offer her my hand, and surprisingly, she accepts. We slow waltz at arm’s length, and between us is the faint smell of soap and incense. I’ve known her for many years and let my thirteen-year-old self serenade her with his confusion and chafing hormones. We separate and she returns to the doorway. I finger-click my way to the back curtain and when I turn round, I miss a beat. Ellis is standing there with a young woman by his side, her red-blond hair vivid against the shoulders of her navy duffel coat. There is a familiarity to them already, no space between their bodies, and I know they’ve already kissed. She’s smiling at me and she has eyes that question, and I know I’ll have trouble with those eyes, one day. I don’t want the music to end. I want to keep singing and dancing because I need time to know what to say because I know she’s the One, and I just need time.

I wake with a jolt. As if the car I’m in has crossed a cattle-grid. It’s a New Decade, I know it is. The nineties. How incredible. I roll over and stay put for days.

The clocks have gone forward and mornings are light. I go into Soho to do something enjoyable because I feel so fucking normal, it hurts. I’m out of the worst of it, I know I am. All I needed was time.

I sit outside Bar Italia huddled under a blue sky. I begin to read a newspaper but I can’t be bothered. I see faces I know and we smile and nod. I order a macchiato. I send it back because it’s not quite how I like it, but they know me and know how I am, I’ve been a regular for years. Inside, Sinatra sings ‘Fly Me to the Moon’: Annie’s song. It was legendary how badly she used to sing it.

Every time Annie sings an angel loses its wings. That’s what I used to say.

Be nice, Mikey, she’d say, stroking my face. Be nice.

I walk down Charing Cross Road and notice black blotches of chewing gum on the pavements. Why do people do that? Why don’t they care? I feel the effects of the coffee in my chest and back, a growing tightness.

I climb the steps to the National Gallery and feel dizzy. I sit by the bookshop and think of G. He’s distant. I feel nothing. He’s gone. I walk through the rooms, annoyed by the presence of others.

I stand in front of a painting of fifteen sunflowers, and I think of too many things and I start to hurt and the pain is intense. What did you see, Dora? Tell me what you saw.

I turn sharply. The man next to me is saying, Can you move?

I ignore him. I feel him pushing me. I turn. What? I say.

A photo? Wait, I say.

Pushing me, pushing me, pushing me.

Don’t fucking push me! someone screams. I have a right to be here! Got it? I have a fucking right to be here. A fucking right.

And I’m frozen because the words are mine, and I don’t know what to do because everyone’s looking at me, and now the security man’s coming towards me and I need to make people not feel frightened of me, because I’m not a frightening person. And I raise my hands and say, I’m going. It’s OK, I’m going. And I back out and people are staring at me, and I’m apologising. I feel dizzy but I mustn’t collapse, I have to make it to the door. I’m sorry, I keep muttering. Out into the cold now. Keep walking, I’m so sorry, keep walking.



June 1990, France


I’m here, Dora, I’ve come south. Stone cottages, fields of lavender and olive groves. Van Gogh’s dark cypresses spear the sky. I’m here for you, Dora Judd. Do you remember when I was twelve and, one day, you said to me, Call me Dora. Do you remember? And I said, Dora? Such a pretty name, Mrs Judd. And you laughed and said, You’re like an old man sometimes, Michael. And I said, Do you think you were named after Dora Maar? And Ellis said, Who’s Dora Maar? And you said, Picasso’s muse. And Ellis said, What’s a muse? And you said, A rare force, personified as a woman, who inspires creative artists. Just like that, you said it. As if you’d memorised it. I remember it word for word. No pause. No thought. Personified as a woman. That’s what you said. Why I remember all this now, I don’t know. Why am I scribbling to you, my dear dead long-gone friend, I do not know. Maybe, at least, to say you are my muse, Dora. I’m here because of you. Because of the night you won a painting in a raffle.

Lilacs are scattered around the scrubby land, and the chalky blue hills of the Alpilles rise beyond. I’m so tired now, I’ve walked for days. Humidity confuses my thoughts. My clothes are drenched and the sweating frightens me and an overwhelming need to shit propels me off the path. I ditch my rucksack and crouch behind a bush and just about manage to scratch away at the earth and squat a hole before I explode. The clouds are low and grey, acting as a thick blanket keeping the heat in, so stifling so still. A low rumble of thunder shakes the sky towards the Alpilles. But there’ll be no rain, there’ll be no surrender. Ah, the simple joy of finding a tissue in one’s pocket, it’s those little things. I pull up my trousers and cover the hole. Thunder rumbles again. No rain, but around me the ants are out in droves. I feel empty, finally, and wonder why that’s a good feeling.

I drink water and it’s warm. It leaves my thirst unquenched. I can veer off this track anytime I want to. I come across signposts to towns and hotels and could easily divert and seek comfort, but I don’t. I’m forcing myself into this solitude and keep on walking. There’s something about movement – the necessity of movement – to deal with trauma. Academic papers have been written about it and I’ve read them. How animals shake to release fear in their muscles. I do that too. Under the sun amidst the scrub, I shake, I shout, I scream. So I keep to the track, transfixed by the motion of walking, trusting in an invisible remedy that will make me feel human once again.