“I don’t have a costume though.”
She fished her key out as we drew closer to our patch of houses. “Try the old vintage store on the high street, a veritable treasure trove! If you get stuck I’d be happy to lend you something.”
“Thanks but-,” my expression wrinkled. As if she’d guessed my response she warned, “I won’t have no for an answer, have some fun for a change.”
God! I thought, she must see me as a miserable human being. It dawned on me that for some strange reason, what she thought of me mattered. I had no idea how that had happened. Despite my best efforts the small bag of DVD rentals was damp. I held it tighter. “Okay but don’t abandon me there. I hate it when someone invites you to a party and then ignores you for most of it.”
“The worst that can happen is you’ll be forced to interact with other people.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “Even mad butterflies are social creatures!” She winked, hand fluttering to the side of her right leg.
“Are you ok?” I reached to steady her as she rubbed.
“It’s fine, an old accident. It troubles me occasionally dear that’s all.”
I noticed a loose thread at the wrist of the white jumper peeking beneath her raincoat, imagined secrets clinging to frayed wrists.
“Here,” I offered, “I’ll take that.” I grabbed her bag. We’d arrived at her doorstep and she stuck the key in the lock. “Come in and take some macaroni cheese away with you.” I trailed behind her respectfully wiping my shoes on the mat with “home” printed across it. She flicked the lights on. “It’s an old family recipe, you can have it for lunch tomorrow. Tell me what you think!”
In the living room I looked up at the light. A tiny Anon sat in the bulb. She pointed to the side table where a copy of the day’s Evening Standard was flicked open to the property section. Doodles of forlorn looking stick men in various stages of distress sat in the margins. Drawn in red ink, they seemed to be calling to each other across the page. In the top, right corner, a smudged coffee stain was a canon ball rolling towards them. I glanced up and Anon had gone. The bulb flickered, as though she left her laughter to tangle with the light. Mrs Harris emerged, carrying a brown oven dish bearing tin foil as a makeshift cover. “Here, tuck into that tomorrow. You’ll sleep like a newborn.” The light continued to sputter. “I’ll have to change that,” she added, bending to untie the laces of her plimsolls. Heat from the bowl spread through my fingers and the smell of macaroni beneath a melted, golden cheese topping made my stomach rumble. I raised a hand by way of goodbye but back turned, Mrs Harris was already heading to her kitchen, whistling that odd, unrecognisable tune.
Later that night, I woke with vague strains of the tune running through my head. The sound of light rain hitting the windowpanes was comforting. I noticed the light in Mrs Harris’s garden was on illuminating the drops of rain on my window. Looking out I watched discreetly as she dug a hole then buried a multi-coloured cloth bag. I wondered what secret had to be hidden inside damp soil. Perhaps only Buddy the Buddha knew, watching bearing mouthfuls of water. After she wandered in, I made myself a mug of hot chocolate, unsettled by my growing fascination with her. And by Anon’s greed, not only invading my space but also creeping into Mrs Harris’s too. Outside, the street lamps cowered as a gust of wind howled.
Faces
In the week of the costume party I photographed Mrs Harris in several guises. Anon told me to do it. She danced around the room wearing the brass head, whispering instructions, waving arms the weight of silk. Each morning, I listened for the sound of Mrs Harris’s front door clicking open. Camera poised on the table, I’d lunge forward fully aware of the small window of time and take pictures. I shot the woman I knew in warm, earthy tones. I captured her face reassembling itself. I shot her dressed out of character in a dull, brown tweed skirt suit, hair restrained in a severe bun. On another occasion, she looked demure and sorrowful, swathed in an ill-fitting knee length black dress. As if she was attending a funeral. Only the hat she wore would raise eyebrows, it was a Phillip Treacy inspired, peacock-shaped number dotted with bits of gold in its netting. Another time she wore a red kilt, a short black tux jacket and sturdy, black heels. In that instance, I ran down to intercept her, pretending to be on my way to the shop.
“Hey, you look colourful today, off somewhere nice?” I enquired, slightly self conscious of still being in my pyjamas.
She bowed dramatically. “Thank you dear. I’m spending some time with my brother. He’s taking me on a surprise afternoon outing.”
Casually I said, “Oh, this must be the brother you mentioned briefly. I always see you as an only child for some reason.”
“It depends how you define the term brother,” she muttered. A leaflet distributor clutching a stash of flyers hurried past.
“Your leg seems better,” I noted. “Niggling injuries are horrible.”
“It comes and goes dear! Lots of people manage with terrible afflictions, things you couldn’t imagine. If ever I start to pity myself, I think of the Elephant Man.”
“Oh, ok.” I waved her off. “Have a good time.”
“See you on the other side.” She said breezily, hurrying on.
On the night of the party, Mrs Harris and I got ready at my house, listening to The Smiths blaring from the radio. We smoked spliffs and I felt high on camaraderie and possibilities. Our faces were painted like skulls, with drawn-on extended crooked smiles that were sinister no matter the angle of light. We wore “his” and “hers” skeleton costumes with me in androgynous mode and Mrs Harris encased in a corseted dress. Long, black capes floated from our backs. Our heads were decorated in crowns of dead flowers, made from rose petals, geraniums and old wires.
In the streets we encountered bursts of traffic. People swelled in and out of pubs, cramped restaurants and Weatherspoons! Mrs Harris took a swig from the small bottle of Captain Morgan rum tucked inside the pocket of her cape then tugged me along. “The guy throwing this party, Otto, got most of his front teeth knocked out from a gambling debt. Try not to stare when you meet him.” She advised. I nodded as we weaved our way past curious glances. We crossed a bridge that reeked of piss and alcohol, where a homeless guy holding a stick appeared like the gatekeeper and asked for my cape. We walked on. The distant, neon lights inside us threatened to become embodied.
Eventually, we reached a moody looking Victorian house with a shabby hedge. A few red bricks were stacked in the corner of the sidewalk. Music boomed and silhouettes jostled in the hazy gaze of the windows. We rang the bell. After a short wait Otto answered dressed as a pirate, sporting a patch over one eye. His exposed eye twinkling was the colour of a dark blue sapphire. “Greetings!” he announced with flourish, throwing his arms open.
We were ushered in, our coats taken and swallowed into the warmth. Mrs Harris introduced us as we weaved through the packed hallway. It was difficult not to stare at the row of missing front teeth in Otto’s mouth. It made his smile look dubious. Already high, I wanted to ask how much money he’d owed and whether the heavy handlers kept the teeth. The atmosphere felt tunnel-like. Oddly shaped rooms wound off in different directions and high ceilings drew close, and then receded. Alcohol and ash permeated conversations. Bodies in costumes were mutated rats bouncing under low lights.
In the kitchen, a makeshift bar constituting several bottles stacked on the countertop beckoned. A woman sang a deep-throated blues as Mrs Harris made me a gin and tonic.
“How was the outing with your brother?” I asked, shouting over the noise.