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Vanessa Gebbie is widely published. Her credits include top awards from literary competitions including Bridport and Fish Short Story Prizes among some forty other short story competition successes. Many of her prize-winning stories are gathered together in her debut collection, Words from a Glass Bubble (Salt Modern Fiction 2008). A second collection of micro-fiction, Ed’s Wife and Other Creatures, is forthcoming.
Her work in the community has included tutoring groups of marginalised adults and has led to two anthologies: Refuge, stories from refugees and asylum seekers, and Roofless, writing by the homeless. (QueenSpark Publishing.)
She is contributing editor to Short Circuit, A Guide to the Art of the Short Story (Salt Publishing 2009) and contributor to the textbook A Field Guide to Writing Flash Fiction (Rose Metal Press 2009). She is founder-editor of the specialist ezine, Tom’s Voice, and was also sub-editor of Cadenza Magazine. Gebbie is Welsh. She is married with two sons and lives in East Sussex, UK. She is also a reader and a final judge for short fiction competitions and has just accepted an exciting invitation—to teach creative writing at Stockholm University, Sweden.
Vanessa Gebbie
The Comeback
The breeze carried the smell of the sea up over the rooftops to Philip’s studio and dropped it in a chill draught through the skylight. The draught played on his neck and shoulders, worrying him into semi wakefulness. He breathed in deeply, then opened his eyes and winced, screwing them up against the brightness and the iron bar of pain that beat his brain like a gong. He peered up through his lashes at the puffs of clouds jerking their way across the rectangles of blue, the line of skylights along one sloping wall that had sold him on this place. He stretched his arms up towards the light. His hands and forearms were still blotched with paint. He yawned, and his tongue stuck dryly to the roof of his mouth. Rolling out of bed, he groped to the basin, kicking over an empty wine bottle, which clunked and rolled over the floorboards until it came to rest in front of the canvasses piled against the wall. Careful not to disturb his brushes in their series of painted mugs, he cupped his hands under the tap.
When would he learn that the cold was on the left?
He drank, splashed his face, and straightened, running his wet hands through the rough curl of his hair. He ran a generous dollop of stripy toothpaste onto his forefinger, and rubbed his teeth vigorously. Still rubbing, and with a white froth oozing from the corners of his mouth, he turned towards the easel and viewed the work of yesterday from across the room.
He had little recollection of painting anything worthwhile. There had been a haze of emotions; a welling up of embitterment that had surfaced finally in the last few days, a vast sense of loneliness, and a kind of disembodiment. He had wanted to paint. Really paint. Lose himself in the effort. But there it was. Finished.
Philip returned to the basin, spat, rinsed his mouth, and had another drink of water. Then he squeezed into the bathroom and ducked his tall frame under the shower, a neat fitment under the slope of the eaves. He caught his shoulder on the corner of the cubicle as he came out; Jesus, this place is made for a midget.
He sat on the bed, and pulled on the jeans that were lying where he had thrown them, then went back to look again at the painting. He turned the easel to the light.
Not a muscle moved in his face as he gazed over the work, seeking out imperfections, cantankerous splashes of light, too-solid architectural detail that might unbalance the loose application of colour, inappropriate substance where nuance was all that was needed.
The West Pier on Fire.
He had caught it, the enormity of transition from solid to smoke. Reflected in the shallow water between the bones of the gracious iron skeleton was the sunset, the red ball of the sun captured and fractured in the gentle ripples from which rose the giant limbs of the pier, shimmering and crazed with the heat, braced with the imaginary weight of the vanishing frivolity above. Reduced almost to ash, he had caught the moment when the hunchbacked shape fed the flames for the last time, making the red sky redder, seeming to set the water alight around the brighter fire of the reflected sun. A grey billow of smoke blurred the stiffness of the structure and rose, the pall meeting the greying eastern sky.
This one was good. He could sell this one easily. Framed—a dull flat gold patina perhaps, which allowed the glow of the work to dominate—he could expect fifteen hundred. And that was in Brighton. In the London gallery, three to four thousand. It was ironic. He could really use the money. But this one was not for sale.
Standing back from his painting, he allowed in the sounds of the day. The raucous insistent cry of the seagulls, tussling over some scavenged piece of bread from the outdoor tables. The chatter of the shoppers and gawpers in the Lanes below fluttered up to the studio in waves like morning sparrows, laughter, shouts, the staccato of a barking dog, the muted rumble of the city, the more intrusive sirens and car horns on the seafront.
Philip felt suddenly very hungry. Grabbing a t-shirt and a fiver he went downstairs and out into the Lanes, making for the nearest coffeehouse.
***
The smiling dark-eyed girl behind the counter, whatever her name was, let him have an oversized cup of strong coffee and a glazed almond-filled croissant for half price. He picked up a copy of the Argus and went to sit at an aluminium table that seemed so light it could blow away in a decent breeze. His bare feet were uncomfortably cold on the white tiled floor. He took a bite of croissant, wet the mouthful with a slurp of coffee, and swallowed quickly before his stomach had a chance to protest after last night’s binge. He sat back in his chair and looked at the newspaper.
There it was again. Front page. The advert for “The Winds of Change” coming to the Theatre Royal next month. Tickets couldn’t have sold very well if they needed to advertise this heavily. And there was her picture again, taken at least twenty years ago, in semi-profile, shoulders angled, looking straight through him to some point behind the camera, the pose calculated to minimise the long thin nose, a half smile showing up the fine bone structure, and a careful tangle of hair lending her a wild sexuality.
He ran a finger lightly over her face.
One little month before that, the day he moved into the attic studio, he had gone back to the bedsit and collected the post. One from his social worker. His file had been found, finally, many apologies. Thank God it had come that day and not the next. And thank God he had taken ten minutes out of the chaos of shifting all the art things and clothes and other rubbish to call her, make an appointment.
He closed his eyes, remembered the conversation.
“Hi Brenda, thanks so much for seeing me so quickly. I really appreciate it.”
“That’s OK. It’s good to see you. You look great. Done any good paintings recently?”
“Oh, you know. I start this, and start that, get fed up, scrap things when I should really keep at them. But anyway . . . my file?”
“Of course. Want to read this through yourself?”
“No. I’m shaking too much. I wouldn’t be able to concentrate . . . do you mind?”
“Of course not. OK. Well, this says that your name at registration was Ishmael. Your birth mother’s name was Margaret Andrea Forsyth.”
“Ishmael? You’re kidding. I’m glad that got changed.”
“I like it. It’s sort of angular, intelligent, brooding. It would have suited you.”
He could still hear their shared laughter.
And then, his complete birth certificate had arrived. His real one. Only a copy, but still. Real. He slipped a hand into the pocket of his jeans—it was still there, folded very small.
He knew it by heart. When and where born. Name, Ishmael. Surname, Forsyth. Sex, Boy. Name and surname of Father, blank. Name, surname and maiden surname of Mother, Margaret Andrea Forsyth, student of drama. Occupation of Father, blank. Signature, description and residence of informant, Andrea Forsyth, Mother.
He shut his eyes, trying to summon a memory, however fleeting; anything that might have left its mark, but nothing came.
He had laughed with Brenda about Margaret Andrea Forsyth.
“It is just possible . . .,” Brenda had said. And then the drama student bit. And finally, searching Google, reading those transcripts of interviews done a couple of years ago, possibility had become fact. The Andrea Forsyth was his mother.
Philip looked again at the theatre advert. It was like looking into one of those distorting mirrors on the Palace Pier, but catching your reflection between crazy areas, so that what looks back at you is so almost, but not. He pushed back his hair, and stared at her face, willing the eyes to move and the lips to part.
He finished his croissant, wiped his fingers on his jeans, then fished in his pocket and brought out several sheets of paper, downloaded script and photo, dog-eared from folding and unfolding.
She had been talking in her London flat to a features writer from The Guardian. This was the big come-back, the return of Andrea Forsyth to the West End, cult actress who had flattened the critics in the seventies with her performances on screen with Terence Stamp, David Hemmings . . . she was really big then. There had been one long-running stage part, absolutely made for her, so they said, spiky, clever, enquiring, fast repartee, and of course the famous nude scene.
Then a TV sit-com that had bombed. An advert or two on the box, and a fade-out to voiceovers and provincial rubbish. Philip scanned the printout and flattened it on the table, laying it next to the front page of the Argus, comparing faces. A much more recent photo, this last one. Taken in her flat, she was wearing Capri pants, her long legs were crossed, and one arm stretched lazily along the back of a sofa. The foot on the carpet was half out of an embroidered slipper. The other foot, fine-boned, was bare, with painted nails. Its slipper had fallen to the floor. She was looking straight out at him this time. Philip wondered again why on earth he hadn’t noticed anything before. The angular face, the aquiline nose, the arched eyebrows, and the unruly hair—all his.
Each time he re-read the feature, it came as new. There it was again, the feeling of disembodiment. He shivered. She was a good interviewer though, this writer. Didn’t pull any punches.
“Why do you think you can hack it now after almost twenty years?”
“Isn’t the West End a bit different to provincial stages, pantos, and summer specials?”
He winced. She had countered all the points graciously, no doubt pre-warned by her new agent. And then there was the bit that had made him vomit.
“Have you made any decisions that you now regret?”
And the timbre of the piece changed. He could feel the interviewer sitting forward and maintaining eye contact rather than sitting back letting the tape recorder do the work. She had a story to tell, which took the interview by storm and provided not only the headline on that page but also a header on the front page of that edition.
FORSYTH: “MY SON—THE DECISION I REGRET”
Hunched in the coffeehouse, expressionless, her son re-read his story. The young student of drama, singled out already for the best roles, auditioned by the Royal Shakespeare Company, promised Perdita in “A Winter’s Tale,” gets pregnant. The Sixties hadn’t quite evened the score. She thinks everything will be fine, that she can have it all, but life isn’t like that. They want her to get rid of it, but she can’t do that. Her parents are too far away; there is their business to run, she can’t afford nannies, and she let herself be persuaded that this has happened at the wrong time and it’s all for the best. She often wonders what he is doing now.
Philip checked his change, and cadged another half price coffee from brown-eyes.
He drank the coffee slowly, and read the rest of the paper. His head was clearing, and he felt tired, that was all. That feeling he always got when he’d really poured heart and soul into something, a sort of clean exhaustion. He finished the paper, tore out the theatre advert, and carried his empty cup back to the counter.
Back at his studio it was airless and hot. He ran his wrists under the cold tap then curled up on his bed and slept, a foetal curve, his face to the wall.
For the next few weeks he left The West Pier on Fire on the easel. Sometimes, when he was waiting for sleep to come, he would watch the painting. There was one night when the full moon shone through the skylight and lit it with a blue-white light. He watched the waves move and the flames dance, the smoke billow and rise into the sky.
***
It is the night of the theatre. He has a dry throat, he’s carrying the canvas, wrapped in thick cream paper, and he needs a drink. He goes to the bar, all red and posters, and downs a beer. And another. He feels lightheaded, all the images of Andrea Forsyth in the foyer, larger than life and twenty years ago. He sees them down a howling tunnel.
The usherettes smile, and smell of cigarettes.
How much for a programme?
Plush seats, not enough room for his knees. Smiles wryly at his neighbour. Bloody place is made for midgets.
His heart beating so loudly they must be able to hear it in the gods.
And the play. Some farce about a sailing holiday, from the West End. Taken off earlier than planned and sent round the provinces. His mother in a striped jersey and white trousers, long legs, sailing shoes. Baseball cap. He doesn’t hear the words, just sees her. He doesn’t hear the words, just hears her voice. High, porcelain pitch, carrying over the waves. His mother. Long strides in long legs, straight back, slim torso that he tries to see pregnant. Theatrical gesticulating long arms that once held him, perhaps. Long fingers, holding a stage gin and tonic, fingers that brushed his head, as he was sleeping? And that face, smiling and laughing, that once bent to kiss him goodbye?
There is a tap on his shoulder. Sit back, someone says, I can’t see.
In the interval he pushes past people, and out into New Road. He stands and breathes deeply in the cool air over in the gardens. He can’t go back in for the second half. Should he eat something? He feels sick. He walks round to the stage door, and stands hugging the painting. He waits, his fingers making damp patches on the cream paper.
The door opens, and out come a few people who might have been on the stage, he isn’t sure. Then, there is Andrea, face shining, loose white jumper, and brown trousers, in a gaggle of friends. He crosses the road and stays behind them as they laugh their way to Havana’s. He waits at the bar, watching, and has another beer.
They are eating, steaks and salads, drinking a bottle of red. She is sitting next to the wall, a woman this side of her, two men opposite. He approaches the table. The man nearest him half stands and says, We’re not buying anything.
Philip ignores him and looks at Andrea, who is talking to the other man. She stops and looks up, then looks away. Then looks back, as Philip says, I saw the play. It was very good. I liked . . . then stops.
Listen, he says. I’ve brought you something.
The woman gets to her feet, and puts down her napkin. Miss Forsyth is very tired; perhaps you could leave your gift with me?
No. Hands the canvas to his mother.
She takes it but does not unwrap it, and slides it down beside her chair. Thank you so much. Perhaps you’d like my autograph?
No, not really.
She looks at him properly now.
Their eyes meet as he says, I just wanted . . . Oh, I don’t know what I wanted . . . I just did this painting, and I thought . . . but he doesn’t know what else to say.
She goes back to her food, and he walks away.
Outside, his eyes brim. This was wrong. This was not how it should have been. For weeks he has heard her voice, and now it should break in. Porcelain pitch.
As he lets the world back in he finds he has still, in one clenched fist, a screwed up theatre ticket. He relaxes his hands, and the ticket falls to the road. The evening breeze takes it, and for a short while it skitters on the paving stones keeping pace with him as he walks away under the street lamps towards Duke’s Lane. Then a stronger gust blows it down a dusty side street, and it is gone.
