She pressed down and I felt her pubic bone bite into me. She rocked backwards and forwards, her breath coming faster and shallower until she collapsed, bringing her weight down on my chest and shoulders. I think I screamed, but it might have been her.
She brought the bottle and the melted ice and the mineral water to the bed along with the remains of the pie.
‘What happened to the curry?’ I said.
‘I’ll have it tomorrow.’
No ‘we’, and I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or disappointed. We drank and ate companionably, propped up against the pillows. The only light in the room came in from outside- a streetlight shining through some bushes creating a dappled effect on the bedsheets.
I rattled a tiny ice-cube. ‘D’you know what we used to do at times like this in the sixties?’
‘Probably I do, but tell me.’
‘Smoke.’
‘Are you talking dope or tobacco?’
‘Both, but mostly tobacco.’
‘If this is the I’m-too-old-for-you routine, relax. I know you’re too old for me, or too fucking young for me, or not Mr Right. Don’t worry about it.’
‘I didn’t mean anything like that. I was just talking. That was a good fuck. This is nice. I’m not saying any more than that.’
She leaned down and kissed me. ‘Your generation was, is, and always will be full of bullshit, Cliff. As well as being full of alcohol and tobacco and other nasty stuff. You can’t help it.’
‘We’re the same generation. Generations last thirty years.’
‘Hah! What generation laid that piece of crap down? Not a recent one.’
‘You win.’
‘You’re a nice man, but you wouldn’t say that about anything important, would you?’
‘Vita… ‘
‘Don’t worry about me. I’m a ball-breaker. You can stay the night. I wouldn’t throw a Florida Republican out in your condition.’
She pulled on her T-shirt and shorts and slid off the bed. I could feel the pillows getting softer behind my back and the sheet that was covering me beginning to feel heavy and comforting. ‘Who’s the dog named after?’ I said. ‘The rocker or the poet?’
Vita took the empty glass from my hand and gave me a gentle shove, not on the bad shoulder. ‘You choose,’ she said.
8
I woke up in Vita’s bed around 9 a.m. My tongue was furry and there was a dull ache behind my eyes as if I’d been drinking heavily the night before, which I hadn’t. A glance at the floor showed that the Jack Daniels bottle still contained liquid. It hadn’t been one of those bottle-emptying nights. I decided that my head hurt as a result of the blows I’d taken, an almost honourable injury. I began to roll off the bed and the pain in my neck, shoulder and arm made me gasp and sink back onto the pillows.
The shoulder was bruised, but I’ve had worse, including bullet wounds. This hurt more than bullets or broken bones. After lying still for a while, I figured a way to get off the bed without putting any pressure on the shoulder. I managed to stand upright. I cradled the left elbow with my right hand and shuffled out of the bedroom. The flat was empty but Vita had left a note propped up on the kitchen bench beside the Panadol packet.
Dear Cliffo
The working girl has gone to work. You were groaning in the night so I figured something must be hurting and you might need these. I don’t know what you eat in the morning but you’ll find some cereal and stuff in the cupboards. If you drink beer for breakfast like some men (and women) I’ve known, then you ‘re shit out of luck.
It was great getting to know you. Next move is up to you. I’d like to help with the matter on hand (being discreet here, see?), if you think I can.
The key unlocks the back gate, just be firm and confident with Dylan. I’ve told him you are a friend of mine and I think he understood.
Vi.
I stood in the sunny, warm kitchen, grinning and feeling good despite my injuries, infidelity and uncertainty about the matter at hand. Still nursing my left arm, I rummaged in the cupboards and found a packet of muesli that seemed to be so low on some things and so free of others that it was unlikely to have any taste. I toasted a few slices of wholemeal, low-salt bread, spread them with something called Canola and drank a cup of decaffeinated instant coffee with fat-free milk. This was an overload of self-denial-I felt as if I was training to be some kind of monk, but I was still happy.
There was something liberating and novel about being in another person’s house and not needing to snoop through their belongings to discover their secrets. She trusted me not to do that and I wouldn’t. I took another long look at the montage in a better light and all I could see were signs of good health and good fellowship. There were enough joints being smoked and cans being drunk from not to give it a God-bothering accent.
I was getting used to protecting my left arm, but the few times I tried to move it normally the pain shot through me and set up a throbbing ache. I took two tablets and poured a small measure of whisky into my cooling coffee. For medicinal purposes.
Her bathroom was about the size of a voting booth and I stood under the shower with hardly enough space to get the soap to the right spots. I washed my hair with her shampoo and dried myself off, performing both actions right-handed. I dragged a wide-toothed comb through my greying but thick hair, thought about using one of her disposable razors on my heavy beard, but decided against it. Clean was good enough; cleanshaven would be trying too hard.
I realised how incapacitating the injury to my shoulder was when I tried to get dressed. Like all right-handed men, I put my right arm into my shirt sleeve and take it from there. There was absolutely no prospect of dropping my left arm far and back enough to be able to bring it through the sleeve. The movement was hopelessly restricted, and any attempt to extend it sent shooting pains through the arm and shoulder. I swore and put the shirt on clumsily by slipping my left arm in first and shrugging into it. I felt like a child, just learning to dress himself, and my good mood evaporated.
I finished dressing, picked up my jacket from the couch and Vita’s key from the bench and went out into the yard behind the flat, slamming the door behind me. I was so preoccupied with the stiff shoulder that I forgot about Dylan and didn’t react in the normal wary fashion when he approached me.
The dog stood off and growled.
‘Don’t fuck with me,’ I said. ‘I’m not in the mood. Anyway, I’m the lady’s friend.’
He followed me to the gate and watched me unlock it. My having the key seemed to mollify him and he backed off. I went through the gate and was relieved to see the Falcon standing in the lane with all its bits and pieces apparently intact. The big question was-would I be able to drive it?
‘Shoulder cuff lesion,’ Dr Ian Sangster said. ‘Popularly known, although I shouldn’t say that because it’s bloody unpopular, as frozen shoulder.’
I said, ‘What’s the treatment?’ as I put my shirt back on by the left-arm first method which, for some reason, exasperated and annoyed me as much as the injury itself.
Ian lit a cigarette. He accepts all the scientific findings about smoking and disease but says smokers have to have some doctors they can go to without being lectured and he’s willing to make the sacrifice and assume the role. ‘Three ways you can go once it really freezes up on you, and this will, in my judgement. One, you can have an operation under general anaesthetic that turns the arm in the cuff, ignores the inflammation, breaks up the scar
