Observe those two euphemisms for verbal wit. Both are bodily. Is irony, my irony, quite so penetrating? Does it have a physical manifestation? Believe me, I am not malicious; my wit is meant to strike glancing blows only.
And you are armoured, Mark.
And me, I have decided that enough is enough.
Christmas is coming and I don’t want to spend this one alone.
I think the time has come for some straight talking. I want to sort a few things out. Here I am—Jim’ll Fucking Fix It—and I’m going to sort out our lives. All our lives. Watch me pass into the present; I’ll insinuate myself into our current lives and I’ll cause a disturbance. I’m moving in on you all.
Too long, too long I’ve been a disturbing memory, a ghost somewhere on your horizon. I want to make myself imminent. Sam, I assume you are reading this first, as usual. Let me warn you first. You, to whom I am an obscure, invisible enemy. I shall manifest myself from Mark’s past, subtly as a virus. Here I come.
You, Sam, you and your jolly policeman friend were right. No; they don’t hand out lilac writing paper in prisons. My lilac paper was a little scam, another piece of irony. I wondered how long it would take to click. It was, literally, a piece of textual irony. Fingering those delicate sheets, I wanted both you, Sam, and you, Mark, to reach separate and horrifying conclusions. The conclusion that, no, I wasn’t really languishing at Her Majesty’s leisure. She would never waste her pastel paper on convicts. No; I was languishing at Sam’s leisure instead. I was waiting for the realisation to click and then, then I would strike.
Now, in fact.
Rest assured, Mark, I’m coming back for you.
See you soon,
Tony.
ELEVEN
“THEY’RE JUST DARLING,” IRIS GASPED AS SHE FONDLED ONE OF MARK’S proffered golden cherubs, adding, “darling” once more with affection.
“I thought you’d appreciate it.” Mark and Iris gazed together at the Kellys’ Christmas tree, which Mark had arranged the previous afternoon. His chosen theme had been angels and fruit.
“Haven’t the false grapes got a funny texture?”
“Plastic,” Mark grinned.
“Yes, but quite pleasant.” She weighed a pendulous clump thoughtfully in one hand.
“Let me take your coat,” he suggested and waited till she put her bags down. They were bursting, he noticed, with crackling parcels. Sam would have another go about the old dykes ruining her daughter. He took Iris’s heavy fuchsia coat, under which he saw she was wearing an extremely baggy scarlet cardigan.
“Got to keep the chill out,” she said, “I know; I dress like a bad lady, don’t I?” Almost nervously she hugged that expansive girth and Mark felt ashamed of his staring. “Peggy always ribs me about the number of layers I wear.”
“Does she tell you off that you’ll ‘never feel the benefit’ when you won’t take them off?”
“Something like that.”
Mark was surprised; he had never seen Iris anything less than skilfully and dynamically sure of herself. Here, in the corner of the flat’s sitting room, dwarfed by the silver tree and cast in the magenta haze of its fairy lights, she was…well, flinching at almost everything he said.
He decided to put her at ease, as he would any visiting old dear. (But Iris, surely Iris never needed putting at ease? Once, even, he had seen Iris eat a whole half-pound of Quality Street as she shopped in Gateway, and throw away the box, unconcerned, before reaching the checkout. Iris lit cigarettes in libraries and complained there were no ashtrays. Nothing that was known could put Iris off her stroke.)
He said to her, “Why don’t we both dig our feet in and keep our many layers on for the evening?” Saying this, he winked broadly, and she saw, with a jolt, the bright green iris and blue pupil drawn on that eyelid.
“I think we shall need thick skins tonight.” She smiled, returning to fondle his fake fruit.
This was the cause of Iris’s perturbation. Part of her was worrying at the door into the kitchen. As she exchanged Christmas chitchat with her ostensible son-in-law, the protective and responsible part of herself was prying its way through the serving hatch, under the door, into the damp heat of the kitchen, trying to listen in. She wanted to interpose her layered bulk between mother and daughter, and yet the sensible remnants of her scattered thoughts suspected strongly that this was simply not on.
Mark caught her glance. “Don’t worry.” He smiled. “I’ll fetch Sally in a moment. She’s been in her bath long enough now. I’ll get her ready for bed and bring her to see you both.”
And that would ease the tension they both could feel building up through the wall. Sally could become the focus for a while and teach them the true meaning of Christmas. Iris cursed herself inwardly. She remembered a swift jab of spite she had once felt towards Sam, newly pregnant and espousing the most banal of her views on Christmas: “It’s for the bairns, really, isn’t it? And New Year’s for the grown-ups. That’s how it’s always been.”
Iris had nearly choked on her own venom. I could tell you, she thought, of other Christmases. When children rarely existed as such; they were merely young animals, dressed and fed almost for amusement’s sake. Those were brutal winters and the creatures often died. Here in the north we huddled by candlelight in halls and the music was rich and the dances were regimented. And Christmas—the solstitial rite—was all for adults. It represented the sharp end of the wedge, the frozen hinge of the year, and it was all about self-gratification.
Only adult human beings know fully about gratifying themselves. There is a vocabulary of sensuality acquired only by living and if childhood is anything, it is a bodily progress towards bearing the full weight that learning this language involves. Perhaps, Iris might have told
