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We were like an island. Somewhere nearby was the city. Somewhere nearby was the sea. A wild slow gray sea reaching up to pull down old brown cliffs. A haunted sea where no-one swam. My older sister kept the time. She counted down the close of each day, to go out alone. Her small wrist-watch had slender hands like a compass. In her room invisible princes begged. Vases were filied thick with garden flowers, rushes, and feathers. I had to knock twice before I went in. Incense and candles burned in her room. Large blooming flowers on the curtains in crimson and orange and pink. Her picture-window opened a garden with deep cedar of Lebanon-green trees. The sky darker at the top. A framed picture hung on her wall - Pierrot the clown showing his pale hands. There were several beautiful shoes on the floor, high-heels with straps of supple leather. A bottle of uncorked perfume. Dresses flung across a chair, draped on the bed. The kind of patterns Romanies used wear, but softer and more chic. My sister drenched perfume on a little ball of cotton-wool, hid it in her cleavage. She rolled reddest lipstick on her parted lips. I watched from the dressing-table as she twisted into her gypsy dress. She knew everything. How it was done. How she could be favourite. She bewitched herself at her mirror. Linda Ronstadt played on her record-player. "Silver threads and golden needles cannot mend this heart of mine". She'd swig from a bottle of Drambuie before she went out, blowing long ghosts from her cigarette. She'd pick a flower from a vase for her hair. "All guys are bastards" she'd wailed after she'd ran in late, lain across her bed, the curtains pulled. I had stared at her pretty under-clothes tossed aside on the chair. "Don't ask", she put her foot down, when I pleaded the once-off loan of a dress printed with wild honey-suckle. Those woodbine flowers had climbed up castle walls. She said, "When you're old enough you'll have your own style". Saying "Don't touch anything", she left her room. The front door closed with a little bang. I watched her crunch across the gravel to the wide open gates. She looked like a very good time. I picked up a fallen dress like a bouquet of flowers. Stepped inside. My flat chest had no secrets of its own to tell. Gingerly I smeared the lipstick. My feet swam in her high shoes. In the hall dull light shone through a bird on a frosted lamp. A further green hall, steps leading down. Mother was upstairs on her bed. no-one was listening as I went outside. Far across the field trees were creaking. The crescent moon was a crisp scythe cutting heads of corn. I shut two heavy doors. I smelt the road behind the damp bushes. I smelt the dark brown clay. Foxes; eyes glinted in the house-lights. A chain of tall street-lamps bordered the hedge. I walked over the croquet lawn, tall grass swayed beyond the fence, like a womanÕs senseless hair. My sister's shoes fell off my feet. I walked barefoot, her dress dampening up my knees. Cold evening air touched my skin. Wet grass beneath me. I could hear cars slowly turn the turn. Couples whispering "I love you, let's do it upstairs over deaf granny's flat." Motors creeping the corner, to the blue dangerous sea. The couples never left the cars, they lay like stranglers on leatherette seats. I climbed the wire. A horse stood in the black, breathing heavily, cutting the grass with large horse teeth. The trees were deep green in colour. I thought of father in this field, a white autumn day. Burning fire, yellow flames wove like spirits. He told us "Go away". Wearing his secret face. I saw mother's dresses topple into the flames. Evening gowns she had worn down the hall late at night. Velvet lay on the pyre like splintering moss. We hid in the grass. Father aglow, autumn leaves falling down. Clouds wiped the sky. Pin-prick stars shone bright. I grasped my sister's shoes of burgandy softest suede, they smelt of indian musk. She'd bus, or hitch a ride. Any man would stop his car, take her in. She'd smile for a while so he could say "You are beautiful". Everybody said my sister was beautiful. She would talk and leave her door unlocked, idle sweet words, watching the city houses grow. Bedroom lights flick on. The lights of the tenant's lodge turned on, pale green through the curtain. Robins perched asleep up high dreaming of hot Africa. Cats in the outhouses radared rats. Crackers on the table for supper with cheese. Television vibrating in the basement, boys in blue. The stolen dress's hem was drooping. I snagged through the wet grass, turned my back on our holy house. Our tenant's windows generated heat. A slow puff of smoke swayed from his chimney pot. Trees shuddered about his white-washed walls. Father said the tenant didn't work, only cut wood with an axe. I said the Travelling people sometimes took away laundry. No-one listened in my family when I talked. The tenant's windows were like pools. A tall street lamp glowed into his vegetable yard. only I dreamed he killed women. Tied them tight with electrical cord. Pale white women in suspender belts, begging Jesus come set them free. When he was finished he would chop off their heads. His garden had painted cartwheels, black and white. A gate-way tied with string. If he came out and found me he would open the door wide to invite me in. The sky was slightly green by his light. His house morgue-silent. A shirt hung, all night reaching down from the wire. Before he was the tenant people kept new-born kittens in a cardboard box in the yard. Sleepy-eyed, four of them, drowned in a bucket at the side of the house. A shaft of light fell through a slit in the curtain. I stepped into its ray. Steadied close to the window. Colours inside. An electric bar heater throbbed. A naked woman lay on the table, staring with glistening eyes at the yellow ceiling. Pots and pans piled high on the stove. A chipped
saucer with cat food. Newspapers stacked on the arm of a sofa. A low watt
lamp with a golden shade.
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