Author: Kirsty Lewin

2019 Portobello, Edinburgh

‘I didn’t expect it to be so…’ Amy paused, ‘so violent.’ She was sitting in Janet’s living room, sipping warm milk from a short stubby glass. ‘It really stung,’ she said, holding the glass against her cheek for a moment. ‘It was like being shot at.’ Her face was flushed and her fingers trembled. Water droplets hung in her hair. Her eyes looked moist. Dan, who’d stood up to give Amy his seat, had his hand on her shoulder. He was scowling. The couple on the sofa opposite were looking at Amy with entwined fingers and wide eyes. No one replied.

Janet was standing in the doorway, watching her visitors. She’d ushered Amy out of the bathroom, shut the door, and warmed up milk for her. She’d have given Amy a rusk if she’d had one. It had seemed the only sensible thing to do. But now she didn’t know what to say. She’d been surprised by Cyril’s icy outburst. But somehow glad. He’d never done that to her. The cloud must trust her. Must think he’s safe. He’d defended them both. Prevented a catastrophe. She smiled. She felt a pleasant fuzziness around her chest. He must like her. Perhaps even love her. She wanted them all to get up now. To offer to leave. To leave them both alone.

‘I think I should have a look.’ Dan’s words interrupted her thoughts. The young man on the sofa, still without a name, let go of his girlfriend’s hand and stood up.

‘I’ll go with you,’ he said. Janet shook her head. She braced herself in the doorway. Pushed her feet firmly down on the wooden floorboards. The two young men moved towards her. They walked like dancers. Straight and lithe. Soft-footed. They were taller than her, and the skin of their hands was still smooth and unblemished. They stopped in front of her in the doorway.

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ Janet said. She felt the quiver of her words. They’d know she was afraid. She thrust her elbows into the door frame. Felt the pain of her shoulders immediately from the strain. ‘It’s not a circus, you know,’ she said, her eyes on the men’s slim legs. ‘We’re not freaks.’

‘Back off,’ Dan.’ Amy’s voice came from behind the men. Janet couldn’t see the young woman’s face.

‘We’re here now, Amy. And we agreed. We all did. She shouldn’t have it in captivity.’ The nameless man had swung his head around to speak to Amy but kept his position. Janet caught the smell of him. A woody smell. Cut grass or fresh figs. The patchouli scent must be from the girlfriend. An odd combination, those two smells. The ache in Janet’s shoulders intensified to a deep snarling throb. She couldn’t hold out much longer.

‘Come on, Janet,’ Dan said to her, speaking to her as if she was a child. ‘Just a quick look and we’ll be out of your hair. What harm can it do?’ Janet dropped her arms to her sides. Felt the pins and needles around her shoulders, her elbows. She looked up at Dan’s face.

‘Please don’t ask me again,’ she said. And as she rubbed her hands together to bring back the circulation, the young man without a name pushed past her, shoved her forward into Dan’s arms, and shut the door behind him. Janet, engulfed in an unexpected firm hug, heard a sharp squeak that could only mean one thing. The bathroom door had been opened. And that fresh-smelling man was going to take Cyril.

To be continued.

1966. On board the SS Himalaya

‘Heh, Wee Janet, what’s that on your lips?  Philip was standing over Janet as she lay back in the blue and white striped deckchair beside the ship’s swimming pool. She was wearing a yellow polka dot swimsuit, and she’d draped a white ship’s towel over her waist and thighs. Her knees, shins and feet were shrimp pink.

‘You’re in my sun,’ she said, without looking up from the book in her lap.

‘Your lips are like blood,’ her brother continued. ‘You’re like a vampire.’ He paused and leaned in to her, inspecting her face. ‘Is that Mum’s lipstick?’ He spoke the two words separately, with a slow mocking emphasis. Lip. Pause. Stick. ‘Is our Wee Jan wearing Lip Stick?’

‘I said you’re in my sun.’ Janet waved a hand at Philip, and held the paperback closer to her face. Philip, just out of the pool, flopped down beside her, dripping water onto the warm wooden decking.

‘You’ve painted your toenails too,’ he said, stroking her foot with a wet hand.  ‘That to impress your boyfriend?’

‘Get off, will you?’ Janet tried to kick her brother’s hand off her foot.

‘Anyway, it’s probably too late.’ Philip stroked each of her toes in turn with cool damp fingers.

‘For God’s sake, Philly, I’m trying to read.’ Janet folded in the corner of the page she was at, stood up, and gathered the towel around her. She slipped her feet into the new yellow rubber flip-flops that Angus had bought her in Aden when the ship’s wooden decking had become too hot to walk on. You have to look after your pretty feet, Angus had said laughing as he’d handed her the package. Janet had let him kiss her full on the lips for that, despite the old couple that had been watching them from further along the deck. Angus had winked at them and slipped his hand under Janet’s t-shirt to cup one of her breasts in a small cool hand before he’d skipped off.

Philip wrapped both his arms around her leg and tugged. ‘Let me go, Philly. Go and torment someone your own age.’

Philip didn’t let go. ‘Ed said not to tell you,’ he said, dropping his voice to a whisper and looking around at the other passengers lounging by the pool. ‘But I think you should know.’ There was something about his tone and the anxious creases around his mouth that sent a flutter through Janet’s belly. She stood still and looked down at him.

‘What do you mean?’ she asked. Philip looked around the deck again, then released Janet’s leg. He stood up and spoke close to her ear.

‘We saw him with someone else.’ Janet’s chest tightened. ‘The waiter. We saw him with another girl.’ Janet turned to walk away from him. She didn’t want to hear. Couldn’t bear to hear.

‘It was in the room with the pool stuff. He had his hand up her skirt. Right up it, Wee Jan. And then we ran.’

To be continued

2019, Portobello, Edinburgh

Janet stood with her arms folded watching the water in the kettle steam and stutter until it reached boiling point and the red light flicked off. She’d emptied the coffee grounds from the small Italian expresso pot, filled it with cold water, but changed her mind. She’d give Dan instant coffee.That would teach him. She kept a jar of Maxwell House for workmen, political party activists, and god botherers. It was three years out of date but no one had dared to complain yet.  She heaped two teaspoons of the pale brown powder into a mug, poured in the water, and gave the liquid a vigorous stir. She put the mug on a tray, along with two glasses of water, and carried the drinks through to the living room. The four visitors stopped talking when she entered the room.

‘Here you go,’ Janet said, handing the coffee to Dan. ‘It’s good and strong.’ Dan held the mug up to his face and sniffed. He frowned, and put the coffee down on the low table beside him. ‘Would you like some sugar?’ she asked.

‘No thanks,’ he said, ‘I’m not keen on sweet things.’ Janet nodded and handed the two glasses of water to the couple on the sofa whose names she still didn’t know. ‘About the cloud,’ he continued. ‘Could we see it now?’ Janet’s left eye twitched behind her glasses.

‘OK,’ she said. ‘But just one of you at a time. We mustn’t frighten him.’ Amy, still standing beside the window, beamed at Janet.  

‘Of course. You know best. But it’s a cloud, Janet. Not an animal. It won’t even know we’re there.’ Janet looked around at them. Their patronising smiles. Their confident hands folded quietly in their confident laps.

‘Who wants to go first?’ she asked, avoiding Dan’s eyes. Dan stood up. ‘What about you, Amy?’ she asked. She lifted a hand and beckoned to the young woman. ‘Come through, and meet Cyril.’ Amy walked across to the doorway, giving a small thumbs up to the couple on the settee. ‘Sit down and finish your coffee, Dan,’ Janet said. ‘You look like you could do with something warm.’

She watched the two of them exchange glances. The sort of glances only new lovers do well. Dan sat down. Janet put her hand on Amy’s arm and led her out into the hall. As she opened the bathroom door there was a sound of tinkling. ‘Come in and shut the door behind you,’ she said to Amy. And keep your hands to your sides. You mustn’t do anything that might make Cyril feel threatened.’ A burst of ice crystals struck Amy’s face and neck.

‘What the fuck?’ she shouted. ‘What the fuck is that?’

To be continued.

2019. Portobello, Edinburgh

Janet’s narrow dark hall wasn’t designed for five people. Especially when four of them were tall, young and gave off a heavy scent of patchouli oil and what Janet assumed was probably marijuana.

‘Come through,’ she said, ushering the four visitors into her living room. ‘Sit down. Can I get you something to drink? Tea, or water?’ She stood in the doorway and waved a hand in the general direction of the two settees. Dan sat down, crossed his legs and asked for a strong black coffee. Amy walked over to the bay window, put her hands on the glass, and looked out, saying something about the lovely view and all that beautiful sky. The other two, possibly also a couple, sat down on the settee opposite Dan, hips and knees touching. Janet couldn’t remember whether the young man was one of the Erics or not. And she didn’t recall ever having seen the young woman before. Amy hadn’t introduced them and Janet didn’t ask.

‘So where is it, then?’ Dan’s voice was firm, authoritative. Amy interrupted him.

‘Steady on, Dan, we’ve only just arrived.’ Amy looked at Janet and smiled. ‘He’s a big softy, really, Janet. Can’t bear the thought of suffering.’ Dan stared at Amy, shook his head, and frowned.

‘There’s no suffering here,’ Janet said, holding onto the door frame for support.

‘Of course there isn’t,’ Amy said. She was running her fingers around the window frames. ‘Assume you have to keep the windows shut all the time. In case?’

‘Not really,’ Janet replied. Only when he’s moving about. I’m very careful.’ Dan uncrossed his legs and looked up at her.

‘Careful to stop it getting out? Or careful of its well-being?’ he asked. Janet didn’t know how to reply. What did they know? They didn’t have clouds. Probably didn’t even have children. They couldn’t begin to understand how precious Cyril was. That she would do anything to protect him. Anything at all. She put her hands down by her sides and took a couple of deep slow breaths.

‘I’ll get the coffee. Anyone else want one?’

‘Just water for us, thanks,’ said the woman on the sofa.

Janet left the room and went into the hall. The bathroom door was closed. She put her hand on the door handle, turned it back and forwards and checked that the door was properly shut. The visitors had left their bags in the hall. One of the bags was a large black holdall. The visitors had dropped their voices and she couldn’t hear the specifics of their words. She lifted the holdall up. It was big enough to take Cyril’s Perspex box. And it was empty.

2019. Portobello,Edinburgh

A week after the meeting, Janet stood in her hall staring at the intercom system. They were late. They should have been there at 12. It was quarter past and still no sign of them. Perhaps they wouldn’t come. They’d have lost interest. Moved on to another cause. They’d be picketing the Parliament. Or climbing a rig in the North Sea. Or locking themselves to a chemical plant. Not wasting time inspecting the home environment of a pet cloud.

Janet walked into the bathroom, looked at herself in the mirror. She frowned, pulled the thin silver string of her eyebrows together into a single curved line then forced her mouth into an artificial smile. She needed to stop worrying. Assert her authority. She’d been someone once. Someone to reckon with. An opinion former before the influencers came along with their pointless trivia and their turquoise highlights and their Instagram accounts. She’d been a woman who was invited onto panels. A woman who appeared in newspapers. A woman who was interviewed on the radio. Five whole years of it on and off. And then, soon after the second inquest, they’d dumped her. Moved on to a higher scale of misery. Two lost lives weren’t enough. The men in desert boots and bulging waistcoats wanted tsunamis. Earthquakes. Pandemics. Twin Towers. The falange of microphones had left as fast as it had arrived.

‘For God’s sake,’ she said to her reflection. ‘They’re young enough to be your children.’ She pushed her shoulders back, stood on her tiptoes, took a lipstick from the shelf, opened her mouth and painted her lips cherry red. Cherries in the Snow. Imagine having a job naming the colours of cosmetics. She smacked her lips together. Dabbed the excess waxy paste off with a tissue. The neighbours’ kids had given the lipstick to her for Christmas. We know you love cherries, Janet, the two of them had said to her in chorus. And it will make you pretty.

She ran her fingers through her hair and tousled her fringe. Her hair was thinning back from her forehead, exposing the dry scaly skin of her scalp. She turned to Cyril who was draped over the shower head. ‘What do you think, Cyril? Will I do?’ The cloud dropped a shower of tiny ice crystals into the bath. They bounced and tinkled on the enamel. ‘I guess that’s a yes, then.’ The intercom buzzed. ‘That’ll be them, Cyril. Look happy will you. And stay up on the ceiling. Just in case.’

1966. Tilbury

Janet’s father led them up the covered gangplank in a line that was either ordered by enthusiasm for the adventure, or height, Janet couldn’t quite tell. Either way, she took up the rear. Behind her father was her brother Edward, fifteen then, an inch taller than their mother and three inches shorter than their father if he stretched his neck and pushed up his hair. A new Brownie 127 camera swung loose from his shoulder and he’d insisted on taking several photos of them all lined up with their leather suitcases in their sunhats before they boarded the ship.

Next was her mother, who’d fretted for several weeks about what to wear that first day on board and had opted for a daisy yellow sundress with matching sandals and a white cardigan with swirling green mother of pearl buttons. Janet’s father had commented that Bernadette was showing rather too much thigh for a married mother of three but, he’d whispered to Janet, he’d been disinclined to make too much of a fuss given how long it might take to choose another outfit.  

Next was Philip, almost fourteen, the baby of the family. Philip, who’d recently discovered the Rolling Stones, walked from the hip and cultivated a frenetic fringe at eyebrow level. Philip’s eyes were red and, unusually, no one in the family commented. Janet stamped her feet as she followed Philip, forcing the gangplank to bounce the family into unsteady steps as they approached the Captain and his outstretched arm.

‘Welcome to the SS Himalaya’, he said to every passenger as they shook his hand and looked around, wide-eyed. ‘Looking forward to having you onboard.’

A neat young man with a blue uniform showed them to their cabins on Deck A. Cabin 90 for her parents, 92 for the boys, and 94 for Janet. The family were on the port side, a minute’s stroll from the swimming pools, a bar and a family restaurant.

‘Best part of the ship’, the neat young man said to Janet, winking at her. ‘Just you let me know if you need anything. Anything at all.  There’s a bell here.’  He pointed to the brass button in her cabin, ‘or ask at the reception area for Angus.’  He put a hand on her shoulder for longer than felt necessary, left, and shut the door behind him.

Janet put her handbag down on the lower bunk and looked around. The cabin was fitted out with the micro-efficiency of a dolls house. Two bunk beds, a wash basin with hot and cold water, a narrow shower with a high entry step, a writing desk, and a wardrobe. A sign under the porthole said DO NOT OPEN. Janet lay down on the bunk. Through the porthole she could see the waists and torsos of people walking by, beyond that, the freshly painted white railings, beyond that, the sea, and beyond that, the sky. The sea was oily grey, and thick slate clouds were stacking up on the horizon. The cabin smelt of furniture polish and washing powder. There was a small pocket of sick bags at the end of each bunk and a sheet of instructions on what to do in an emergency.

Six weeks. It was going to take six whole weeks. The ship pitched and swayed. Nausea rose in her stomach. She wanted to change her mind. Run off the ship. Run down to Pop George, who was probably still standing there on the quay in his long black raincoat, giving them a military-style salute. Tell him that of course she’d look after him. She’d made a terrible mistake. A terrible selfish mistake. But beneath her came a thick rumbling vibration. And from above, a long low reverberating wail. There were sounds of cheering, shouting, clapping. A skirl of bagpipes from afar. It was too late. They were on their way.