Featherbones Page 8

  He wakes the next morning entangled in her arms. Quietly he moves from beside her. Stepping from the bed, he dresses quickly. It is still dark outside, the sky deep indigo blue. As he hunts for his jeans, he notices her muddy clothes, in a pile by the bed, her bare footprints black against the floorboards, the chain hanging from the latch, where he forgot to lock it. He feels violated in a way he could never openly admit. Not by the softly-sleeping shape beneath his bed covers, but by himself. It is the ultimate step in social obligation; to drink, to pick someone up, bring them home and sleep with them. He feels betrayed by the bar, where for one night a week he thought that he was free from these obligations. Mostly, he does not want what has happened.

  He leaves a mug out in the kitchen, beside a spoon and his last teabag. Beneath the mug he places a note, explaining nothing really at all. Then he leaves his flat and walks the short distance through the city. The streets are still littered with Friday night.

  Walking past a convenience store, he stares through the rain-speckled window at the contents. Chocolate glistens in translucent packets, beside which bulge vast bags of sweets, bloated and bright like jellyfish. Vestigial raindrops veer down the glass, breaking the colours behind so that they blur, running into one another, painting a picture of kaleidoscopic chaos.

  Further down the high street he notices properly a number of other shop windows, similarly distorted by the rain. Inside the window of a women’s clothes shop, three mannequins weep silent tears, their empty eyes fixed lidless on his. Scarves snake around their necks like shining eels, while floral scrunchies bloom by their small feet; fat mounds of cutting-fashion coral. Beside the clothes shop is a window filled with mobile phones, all of them voiceless on their stands; empty shells, lavish models suggesting luxury and perhaps langoustine limbs, barely concealed inside the husks.

  Hurrying down the rest of the high street, he comes to a stop before the statue. She stares over him, surveying her city. Standing in the shadow of East Park, he feels none of the fear or anxiety he felt before. She has shown him her worst. He can sink no lower. He feels very little of anything since leaving the bar the night before. If he experienced an hour of true happiness drinking and dancing, then he is prised open now; plundered, left broken at the bottom of the sea, where all things that are dropped or die or cannot swim eventually settle.

  If he looks into the sky he can still see the stars, winking as they are swallowed slowly by dawn. Pink blossom blows from East Park around the statue.

  “It’s my fault,” he says. “It’s my fault Harriet’s gone. She drowned because of me. She liked the rain too. I think you probably had a lot in common. She says you used to play with her. Her smiling statues. I don’t know if that was you, or if she was making it all up. I don’t suppose it matters. We first spoke to each other in hymn practice. Matthew Petty had stolen my verse sheet…”

  Sinking to the floor beside the memorial, he crosses his legs, huddles into his coat and continues talking. He tells the statue about that morning at hymn practice, and Harriet’s voice, which was so much like he imagined a Siren’s voice to be. He tells her about the other boys at school, about how they ignored him and how lonely he was. He tells her about the dreams he used to have; the bullying, the loneliness, the bird-faced children in the locker-room. Then he talks about how Harriet made all of it go away.

  He talks until the city stirs, announced by lively birdsong and the moan of waking traffic. People begin to walk past him, although not many. He does not hear these things, or see them, in any clear sense. He is aware of very little except his memories, spilling like waves from his mouth, growing lighter and less forceful with every lap from his tongue until their tide is spent, foam fading, his body hollow, and he knows relief.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Felix moves through crowds, down streets, past cars and trees, which line the walk by East Park. Blossom burgeons through the leaves, reminding him that even in this bright, grey place there is the soft promise of life, and that the city stands on the doorstep of the New Forest. Not a dozen miles away he might find himself in the dank, shining hollows of those trees, where worms turn in the soil and fruit swells on the branch. There is life in the city, and beside it. He sees that now.

  For the first time in months, the prospect of Monday morning is not entirely unwelcome. Sitting at his desk, he marvels at the mediocrity of it all. It doesn’t matter that he does not enjoy his job because he is not here to enjoy himself. He is here to work, like the rest of the city’s residents when they drag themselves from bed to make their morning commutes. He has been living in a dream, haunted by guilt, but now the guilt is gone.

  Movement outside makes him turn, and for a moment he imagines a ruined figure stalk past the window. Then he sees the long, black coat for what it is, the grey work trousers, his friend’s face, made more pointed by his restrained hair, and something that resembles a smile tugs Felix’s cheeks. As Mr. Coleson greets Michael at the door, the smile turns into a laugh.

  “Bastard,” says Michael, when Felix and he are able to speak properly three hours later. Planting his hands on the desk, he leans in close. Felix feels the word more than he hears it; a syllabic bite in his heart.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Not you. Coleson.”

  “Poetic,” says Felix, logging off and standing from his chair. He stretches, then shakes his arms until he feels vaguely human again. They wander outside, where he waits while Michael lights up. “In his defence, you’re a terrible employee.”

  “I resent that comment.”

  “Come on, you’re always late.”

  “I’m never late to drinks.”

  “No, that’s my job. You’re late to work, though.”

  “And who’s been having a better time of it lately, out of the two of us?”

  The road outside their office passes Felix by, figures blurring as they lurch across the pavement. Michael takes a long, crisp drag on his cigarette. Seeming to realise what he’s said, his arm finds Felix’s waist and sits there. “Sorry. Blame Monday morning. I didn’t mean that.”

  Pigeons twitch on the roadside, wings flapping, bodies flocking, a swarm of grey growing larger then smaller, like a puddle in the sun. Clouds blend into each other before speeding away, falling like fast-forwarded snow through the sky. The very pavement beneath Felix’s feet grows longer, thinner, stretching far into the distance until it seems like the only thing keeping him from falling into the racing concrete river is Michael’s arm, the grip of his fingers through his shirt.

  “Felix?”

  Blinking, he comes to himself again.

  “Felix? You in there?”

  “Yes, sorry. What?”

  Michael exhales slowly, smoky breath blowing around his face. “I said sorry, that’s all. Let’s eat.”

  The quiet bar and the promise of two seats at a table outside draw them to a small pub near the end of London Road. They order quickly; bottled beers, a bowl of spiced king prawns and two steak burgers. The day has grown warmer since Felix walked to work that morning. Sunlight shines persistently over the city, piercing clouds in the heavenly fashion that suggests it may yet later rain through the brightness. He realises he is smiling. Half-shielding his eyes, he browses a spare menu.

  “You look good today.”

  “Thanks,” says Felix, “I think.”

  “I mean better than you have been looking. Like you’ve slept.”

  “I’m feeling a little better. And I have slept. All weekend, really.”

  “No dreams?”

  “No dreams. I think you were on to something when you talked about association.”

  Michael stares at him a moment longer before he is forgotten in favour of the surrounding street. He follows Michael’s gaze to the kerb, where two pigeons are scratching for crumbs from a nearby bin.

  The side-order arrives; crimson seafood drizzled with oil and herbs. They each help themselves to a plump prawn, and while they eat he tells Michael about what h
e felt at the bar on Friday, about Angela and what had followed.

  “You’re welcome,” says Michael, when he is finished.

  “For your advice?”

  “For Angela.”

  Looking up from the table, he sees Michael’s lips, stretched into a long smile as they slide around a slippery prawn. He follows suit, his mouth filling with garlic and grease.

  “It shouldn’t have happened.”

  “But it did,” says Michael.

  “Not like that.”

  “But it did.”

  He looks back out over London Road. The street is busying with lunchtime traffic. The pigeons are fighting over a piece of sesame bun, pecking desperately at the bread, flicking it skywards with quick snaps of their beaks. Women wobble past on heels too high while men with faces shaven clean stride briskly in their wake. His thoughts turn to Sam, one day living his life as best he can, the next sitting wretched beside the street; swallowed by dark gutters, labyrinthine alleys down which entire lives are lost, flooded with shining shadows against which no man can swim until he is weak and prey to thin winged things, which hover in the sky, men’s fears made flesh and blood and feathered bone –

  “It helped,” he says, plucking another prawn from the bowl. “It helped to talk about Harriet, and what happened.”

  “Sometimes that’s all it takes. I would imagine statues make great listeners.”

  “I meant you, actually.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m here for.”

  “Seriously.”

  “I’m being serious. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  Their burgers arrive and they busy themselves with eating. For a few minutes nothing else matters except the scrape of their knives through thick steak, the crunch of crisp chips between their teeth, the saltiness of their meals, which so complements the saltiness of the sea air in the city where Felix has made his home and, for the first time in years, feels as though he might belong.

  “Are you going to see Angela again?”

  “We should get back soon. Coleson will have your head on a spike.”

  “Don’t care,” says Michael, swallowing back his last mouthful of steak. “It’s just a job. Are you going to see her again?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “It’s as complicated as you make it, Felix. Take her out. Call her, arrange a date. Make the most of this, before it starts raining again.” He raises his beer in celebration of the sun, face twisting, eyes closing in discomfort as he turns them to the light. In the bowl on the table between them, Felix fancies he sees the last prawn shiver; a sad langoustine ghost in its oily grave. “Because it will rain again. Especially here, in this place where the city and the sea make messy love.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The museum is not far from Felix’s block of flats. He has passed the old building, which had once been a medieval warehouse, many times before when walking between his flat and Leisure World. He even visited once, when still a student with the university. A paper on local history led him to the museum; the final resting place of some of the material objects salvaged from the icy waters, the night the RMS Titanic went down.

  Crossing the road past the convenience shop, he takes an alleyway, bringing him parallel to what remains of the old city walls. The ruins are among the oldest parts of the city to have survived the bombing that otherwise levelled Southampton during the Second World War. A sense of restfulness fills the air, a quiet detachment, which he finds both soothing and strange, as though the past is bleeding slowly into this moment. He thinks of blood and the sea and the city that has bathed in both. Southampton suffered greatly at the hands of that conflict. Looking at the later architecture, which has risen in place of the destruction, he does not think it ever really recovered; a city scarred by fire and screams, its citizens reduced to ruin and ghosts. If it is true man must surround himself with images of Heaven, it is also true he cannot live without reminders of death. He finds himself wondering if the two are not the same.

  When he reaches the museum, it is closed. A sign informs him that it has been relocated to the city centre. Anxiety stirs inside him, and he worries that he has made a mistake listening to Michael, that this is an omen he should not meet Angela again; Old Town telling him to turn back, to walk away from this woman and go home. The thought is tempting, except that they have already arranged to meet and he will not leave anyone waiting again.

  The city is heaving with weekend traffic. When he called Angela at the start of the week, Saturday had seemed like the best day on which to meet. Mostly he was relieved that she had said yes, and gave little thought to something as trivial as the time. They both worked during the week anyway, and neither of them had known when the museum closed on weekdays. As he steps around yet another group of shoppers, he remembers in no uncertain terms why it is advisable to remain indoors on Saturdays.

  Taking a side-street, he walks up Portland Terrace, where the tide of pedestrians is weaker. Bold, blue banners announce the museum and the woman standing beside it. He moves between the banners, down the flagstone path to where he can see Angela waiting. She is dressed casually in a pair of denim jeans and a stylish black thin-knit jumper.

  “Sorry I’m late.” They hug briefly, her arms finding the small of his back. The jumper is soft against his hands. Overhead, the banners whip in the sea breeze. “I went to the wrong place. It’s moved since I was last here.”

  “About two years ago, yes.” She stares at him a second longer, her eyes interrogatory, then smiles. “I’m sorry too. For the other week. I should have called, you should have called. We could play the blame game all day. Clean slate?”

  “Clean slate.”

  Turning, she surveys the outside of the building. Seeing her small silhouette framed by the towering building, Felix feels strangely humbled. When she turns back to him, her smile has resurfaced. “You know, I’ve always wanted to come here.”

  There is a small fee at the entrance. He pays for their admission, after which they find themselves in a long corridor. They move through the entrance hall, towards the galleries. A tall ceiling hangs over them, supported by rows of broad pillars. Standing beneath the spotlights, he thinks of tombs made bright and modern.

  Faded photographs line the walls of the first room, blown up for clarity. There are couples, and lonely children, some in smart dress, others wrapped up warm against the sea; men and women from all walks of turn-of-the-century life. They share the same story; survivors or the families of those who were not so fortunate. One frame shows five boys in flat caps, standing together on a school playing field. Another features a young girl in a simple plaid dress, a bear tucked beneath one arm. She stares down from the photograph, not quite at Felix but through him, and he wonders whether there should be a mother and father in the empty spaces by her side.

  He spends a long time studying one young man in particular. His features are sharp, with prominent cheeks and searching eyes, and Felix finds himself speculating who this man was. Not his name, which is printed underneath the photograph, but his identity, and what brought him to the Titanic for her maiden voyage.

  “He’s handsome,” says Angela behind his shoulder. “It’s so sad.”

  “He lived.”

  “Maybe, but lots of others didn’t.”

  Staring up at the man, he realises Angela is right. He wonders how it is this man lived through the disaster, and why he lived when so many others did not. He was a man with a face and a name, no better or worse than any of the other men, women or children who stepped proudly, unknowing, onto the ship that afternoon, and did not step off again.

  The next gallery is filled with cabinets. They take their time studying what they can of the contents. There is far too much to see in one afternoon. Angela lingers by some broken whalebone combs, which might once have lived on an expensive dressing table, before finding themselves returned to the depths of their natural element. He examines a pocket watch in the cabinet beside them. The ob
ject is tiny, its face set inside tarnished brass. The hands are missing, but there are shadows of the hands against the yellowing watch face, suggesting the time it stopped when its owner fell and was consumed by the waves. So much time was taken that night; entire lives snuffed out in the depths.

  “You’ve wanted to come here for a while, then?” asks Felix.

  “I visited the old museum, when it was still by the docks. But I was very young. I haven’t been since it relocated here.”

  “Did your family lose anyone?”

  “Not that I know of. It was so long ago. But I feel still attached to what happened.”

  “I suppose a lot of people do. Because of the city and the part it played.”

  “You would think so.” Her voice echoes around the room.

  While they wander the rooms together, they talk. It is a long time since he has taken anyone out and her gentle inquiries are perhaps more apparent to him than they should be. He uses the opportunity to return her questions.

  Aside from a short interval at Royal Holloway in London, where she too studied History, Angela has always lived in Southampton. She loves the city. That much is obvious from the way that she describes its streets, its distinctions; the kinds of nuances a person would only notice if they were looking through appreciative eyes. They talk about Old Town, where he had found himself wandering aimlessly not an hour earlier; about the cobbled pavements that still exist outside some of the buildings, the crumbling walls and the hush that hangs over the place, surprising for somewhere that has seen so much blood and death. She did her third-year dissertation on the history of the zone, and feels well-versed in its past.