I looked up at him and my smile froze.
‘Look again,’ he said.
I looked.
‘This is Maria,’ he said, drumming his finger on the woman she had said was her sister. ‘This.’
I looked at the mousey girl, the one who stood slightly off, away from the others. I scanned across and my gaze fell upon the glittering centre of attention; she was pretty, she glowed. I traced a line between them.
‘You didn’t have to,’ I said. ‘You didn’t have to tell me.’
‘It’s a fantasy. She has never been able to let her sister go.’
‘It’s her story. Let her be who she wants to be.’
‘Don’t you mind being lied to?’
‘It’s her story.’
‘You’re encouraging her to live in the past.’
‘I’m her friend. I look after her.’
‘If you want her money you won’t get it.’
‘Why would I want her money? She’s helping me find David.’
‘She said I look like him.’
‘You do, but in colour.’
‘Don’t you have any friends? Move on with your life. I wonder, what makes you think he’s here?’
‘Where else would he be? There’s nowhere else on earth. Only here.’
‘You’re both fantasists. Why don’t you live your life?’
‘I loved you,’ I said. ‘I loved David. Old-ma and old-da loved him but they didn’t love me because I was Goblin-runt born blue.’
‘Move on,’ he said. ‘Live your life,’ he said.
He closed the album.
Maria, Antonio, Juliana and I walked to a restaurant in the early evening. Maria and Antonio walked ahead of us, arm in arm. They stopped, the way blocked. I heard some heated words; Maria didn’t take well to having her routine disrupted.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
‘They’re filming,’ said Antonio, ‘we have to go round.’
‘What is it? What are they filming?’
I moved closer and saw the film crew and the cast.
‘They’re not even working!’ said Maria. ‘Just standing around, causing us trouble.’
‘They’re working,’ said the man who was blocking our way. ‘You’ll have to go round.’
Maria let out a grunt of dissatisfaction and turned dramatically, pulling her son. As they walked back, I hovered.
‘Is that Dirk Bogarde?’
‘Who?’ said Juliana.
‘You’ll have to go round,’ said the man.
‘What are you filming?’
‘Visconti’s Death in Venice.’
‘That’s Bogarde. I know him from the Doctor films in the fifties. He was a star,’ I said, turning to Juliana. ‘Before your time, he was a star.’
‘Please go round.’
I lingered for a moment, watching Bogarde talk with Visconti. I knew Bogarde had been a soldier in the war, though it wasn’t until later I found out he had witnessed the horrors at Belsen before being stationed in the Far East.
‘He served in the war,’ I said quietly, to no one in particular.
‘Round,’ the man said, raising his eyebrows and making a circle in the air with his finger. ‘Go round.’
Juliana took my hand.
‘We better go,’ she said. ‘We don’t want to lose them.’
‘It was Dirk Bogarde,’ I said when we caught up to them. ‘That star from the fifties. They’re filming Death In Venice.’
Antonio eyed me and said, ‘I know that story, about an old man who can’t let go of an illusion.’
I pretended not to hear and looked at Maria.
‘Do you know him, Maria? Bogarde? He was a dream.’
We sat at a table outside the restaurant, waiting for our food. Maria and Antonio were talking and Juliana and I held hands and drank our wine, watching people come and go. I removed my cardigan.
‘Why do you have those?’ Maria said, abruptly breaking away from her conversation with Antonio. She stared at me.
‘What? Why do I have what?’
‘Those tattoos. Why do you have them? How do you expect to find a husband with your body all ruined like that?’
Juliana made an exasperated huffing noise. I stared at Maria, dumbstruck, before laughing and shaking my head.
‘I don’t want a husband,’ I said. ‘And I wouldn’t marry anyone who didn’t like my tattoos, so what does it matter?’
‘You’ll never find anyone respectable looking like that,’ she said, ignoring me. ‘You should cover them up.’
‘Maria, you old witch. Sometimes you don’t know when to hold that tongue of yours. You know I have someone.’
Antonio squeezed Maria’s arm as she was about to reply.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Juliana.
‘I just want you to be happy,’ Maria said, brushing Antonio’s hand off. ‘You need a husband to look after you.’
Juliana let loose on Maria, a volley of Italian I struggled to follow. Maria blushed and laughed and said, ‘Nevermind, eh? I’m just old fashioned. To me, a tattooed woman is a loose woman who will never make a good life for herself. I just worry for you.’
‘I know, Maria. I know you do, but I’m happy.’
‘You can’t be that happy if you can’t let go of the past,’ said Antonio.
I could see Juliana was going to defend me, but I squeezed her hand and shook my head.
‘It’s okay,’ I said. ‘Antonio’s right. I think I should let him be.’
‘Let who be?’ said Maria.
‘David,’ I said, looking at Antonio. ‘I should just let him be. Wherever he is.’
‘Yes,’ said Antonio. ‘You should let him go.’
‘I should leave him in the past with everything else,’ I said. ‘I should let it all rot.’
I raised my glass and said to Juliana, ‘To the future.’
Juliana hesitated then said, ‘To the future,’ clinking her glass gently against mine. We all toasted and Juliana leaned in and kissed me. I heard Maria make a disapproving clicking noise.
After dinner, we all staggered, talked and laughed our way through the streets. I saw posters of David, of Maria’s son. We tore them down.
‘To the future!’ we shouted.
The next morning was the first day I received a postcard.
I didn’t know who they were from. They were unsigned. He said he was living in Edinburgh. That he was well. That he hoped I was well. There was no return address. A postcard arrived once a week, sometimes more. Beautiful scenes of Edinburgh.
“Dear Goblin, I’ve lived here for many years now. You would love it here. I’m well. I hope you’re well.”
Of course, I thought it was David.
But I knew it wasn’t. I knew who it was but I pretended it was this person or that person. It could be whoever I wanted it to be. Until one day he signed it and I ripped it to pieces.
He had attacked me, abandoned me, and now he was sending me postcards telling me he was well and he hoped I was too.
London, 16 March 1930
She died the day she was born. Goblin-runt born blue, not breathing, never to breathe. They buried her in Kensal Green and they lived happily ever after.
London, 16 March 1930
She died the day she was born. Goblin-runt born blue, not breathing, never to breathe. They buried her in Kensal Green and they grieved. They wept at her grave and rent their clothes and wailed. Their son David healed them, bringing joy. Only his love could keep them from clawing their way six feet under to join their baby blue. David became a musician and they were proud. He objected to war and they were proud. He lived until he was 102 years old, when he died peacefully, his wife by his side holding his hand, holding his dear true heart until the moment it stopped.