Love in Revolution Read online

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said, hating the way my voice came out. ‘Of course the shops aren’t empty. We have loads of food at home. I’ll buy you food. What would you li–’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Suddenly she threw me off, and she was on her feet, wrapped in blankets. She stared at me, her top lip drawn back, showing her teeth. ‘When was the last time you were in a shop, Esteya? So you’ll buy me food, will you?’ She mimicked my voice, high and pathetic. ‘The shops are empty. The only reason you and your bloody family have food is because your brother is a bloody Communist. Take a look around, for God’s sake! You have meat and cheese and bread and potatoes and . . . and chocolate – but who the hell else does? Your friends at school? The priest? Just think about it. No one wants to get on your bad side, in case you go running to your pet Minister of Information or whatever he is. And don’t you –’ her voice cracked – ‘don’t you dare tell me not to be silly. You stupid, self-absorbed, lucky little –’

  She stopped, breathing hard, as if she’d nearly said something terrible. For a moment we stared at each other. My insides felt frozen, heavy and rigid.

  Then, like something finally breaking under a weight, she dropped to a crouch on the floor and put her hands over her face.

  I heard myself say, ‘I didn’t know. You’re right, I’m stupid.’

  She laughed, and went on laughing, until I realised she wasn’t laughing at me. I got up, knelt next to her and put my arms round her. When I squeezed she flinched, and hissed as if I’d hurt her, but when I went to pull away she caught my hand and held me there. I wasn’t sure, but I thought she was crying.

  ‘It’s such a mess – it was supposed to get better – and I thought, I really thought . . .’ Her voice was thick and blurred.

  ‘It will get better,’ I said. ‘It will. I promise.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ She was laughing again, sobbing with laughter as if she was in pain. ‘You know there’s still a notice in the town hall that says: no dogs, no alcohol, no Zikindi? And in one of your brother’s pamphlets it says we’re a problem the Communists are going to solve. And the bloody guards – now they’re shooting nuns . . .’ She sobbed helplessly, and this time it definitely wasn’t laughter. ‘And I’m freezing cold, I’m dying of cold, and I’m hungry, and –’

  She stopped, shaking her head, and rubbed her face against the cloth of my coat, like a cat. Her cheeks left wet marks on my lapel.

  I held her tighter, and she winced. She glanced up at me quickly – almost warily, I thought – and then away again. She stroked my hand with a fingertip, her mouth softening as if she could feel my gaze.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I said.

  ‘Nothing,’ she said, too quickly. ‘Well, I’m hungry and cold, like I just said.’

  ‘Why don’t you want me to touch you?’

  ‘I do,’ she said. ‘I’m just shrammed, that’s all. A bit stiff. You know. It’s so cold . . .’

  I twisted to stare her straight in the eyes. She looked away. I pulled the corner of the blanket gently away from her neck, and bent to kiss the skin I could see. It was cool and smelt sour and smoky. Then I tugged at the blanket again, and at her collar, until I could see the contours of her collarbone, and the edge of a bruise blooming purple and blue between her breasts. My stomach turned over. I started to unbutton her shirt, but she pulled away. She said quietly, ‘Don’t. It’s cold.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘A couple of men from the town. The butcher wouldn’t serve me, and then when I came out of the shop, they were there, and . . .’ She shrugged.

  ‘Did they . . . ?’ I stopped. I couldn’t breathe.

  ‘No. Don’t worry. It wasn’t . . . it happens. It’s not the end of the world. It’s not like it happened to you.’ She wasn’t being sarcastic; she really meant it.

  ‘When?’

  ‘A couple of days ago. There were some guards there, but they didn’t do anything. I mean . . . they didn’t help.’

  ‘Let me see,’ I said, and this time she let me unbutton her shirt. She was shivering, and her nipples were puckered and sticking up. There was a bruise – a chain of bruises – twisting across her ribcage like a purple scarf, ending in the middle of her collarbone. Here and there the skin had been broken, and the scabs looked thick and painful. It made my own skin tingle to look at them. I laid my hand on the bruise, very gently, and Skizi caught her breath and hissed through her teeth. For a moment I felt a surge of guilt that was so strong I couldn’t speak. This was all my fault, somehow. I should’ve been able to protect her. How could I have let this happen?

  I said again, ‘It’ll get better. I promise, Skizi. I’ll make sure it gets better.’

  ‘Course,’ she said, with a hint of a smile. ‘With you on my side . . .’

  I swallowed. She was right: there wasn’t anything I could do. For a moment I wondered whether I could get Leon to send a box of food, like the one he’d given us at Twelfth Night – a leg of lamb, bars of chocolate, jam, potted shrimps, a pineapple . . . I knew it would take days to get to us, and then Mama would ration it out, at mealtimes; but just for a moment I let myself imagine turning up with the food in my arms, and Skizi’s face lighting up.

  I said, ‘Wait here.’ I buttoned up her shirt again and wrapped the blanket round her, pulling the folds gently up to her neck.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’m . . . Just wait here,’ I said.

  ‘You’re coming back?’ Something in her voice tugged at me. She sounded younger than normal, helpless, like an animal.

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Just wait here. Keep warm. I’ll be back soon, I promise.’

  I got up, went out into the field and ran down the hill, towards home.

  Ten

  I didn’t know where Mama was, but the house was empty. I stood in the hall, listening to the silence. The air seemed to taste of dust and damp, and everything was still. For the first time I was glad that we’d had to send Dorotea away. I went into the pantry, and started to gather things into a tea towel. My heart was pounding, but my hands were so cold it was hard to pick things up. The last dregs of a jar of honey had crystallised. I wondered how long it had been since Skizi ate something sweet and put it into my bundle.

  Once I thought I had enough – or rather, once I’d taken everything I thought I could get away with – I ran upstairs to collect a cake of soap and a towel. Then I came back downstairs again, and filled a bucket with coal. There wasn’t much left, but Papa could always get more, and Skizi needed it more than we did . . . Finally I was ready. I eased myself out through the front door, trying not to drop anything, my arms full and already aching from the weight of the coal.

  Ana Himyana was at the corner, talking to another guard. She’d changed out of her school uniform: now she was in brown workmen’s trousers and a thick jumper, her hair pushed up into a red beret. She looked unreasonably glamorous, like the star of a film. I pulled back into our doorway, squeezing my eyes shut and hoping she hadn’t seen me.

  ‘Hey! Esteya!’ Her voice had a familiar, amused note in it, as if we were friends. ‘Are you running away to seek your fortune?’

  I was going to have to walk past her. I gritted my teeth and hurried down the street so that she wouldn’t be encouraged to go on talking to me. As I passed her I said, ‘No, I’m – I’m just visiting a – a friend of mine . . .’

  Ana laughed again, and stepped out in front of me. I stopped, because she was in my way, but she didn’t move. She reached out and plucked the soap off the top of the pile of things in my arms. ‘Oh, rose,’ she said. ‘How lovely. Do you always take soap to your friends, or is this one particularly dirty?’ She gave me a radiant smile.

  ‘It’s none of your business,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, Esteya! Your repartee is so withering,’ she said, putting a hand on her heart and pretending to swoon. The guard – he had a dark, narrow face and a thin moustache, and I disliked him already – chuckled and wiped his nose with his forefinger.
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  ‘Get out of my way.’

  ‘There’s no need to be so –’

  ‘Get out of my way, or I promise you’ll regret it.’ I just meant that I might lose my temper; but something like fear flashed in her face and she stepped sideways.

  ‘Sorry, Esteya,’ she said, ‘I was only teasing,’ and handed the soap back to me.

  I stared at her, and suddenly I remembered what Skizi had said: no one wants to get on your bad side, in case you go running to your pet Minister of Information . . . I swallowed. ‘You watch yourself, Ana Himyana,’ I said, hardly recognising my own voice. ‘If you put a foot out of line – if you do anything – I’ll tell Leon, and the Party will know about it. So be very, very careful.’

  She held my gaze for a moment, and then her eyes dropped. She said, ‘I didn’t mean . . .’ Her voice tailed off. The guard wouldn’t meet my gaze either.

  I walked straight past them, feeling my blood buzz in my cheeks. I felt like a witch who’d called down a curse on someone. It made me feel queasy and excited at the same time.

  Then I turned left, past the church and into the alleyways, and I was so eager to get to Skizi that I forgot all about Ana.

  Skizi was curled in her blanket in front of the fire, but now even her head was hidden, and only a tuft of greasy-ish hair was sticking out of the folds. She was shivering. The fire had almost gone out, and the smoke was hanging in the air like a cold fog. She didn’t move, even when I said her name. It was only the crash of the bucket of coal dropping on to the floor that made her emerge, blinking.

  I smiled at her, crouching to put down the bundle of food. I flipped open the corners of the tea towel, like a pedlar displaying his wares. ‘Look,’ I said, and I could hear the pride in my voice. ‘Cheese and sausage and a tin of sardines and olives and half a loaf of bread and – well, this was honey, once, but I’m not sure what it is n–’

  Skizi sat up. She said, ‘What’s in the bucket?’

  ‘Coal.’ I waited for her to smile, but she didn’t. ‘I thought – I know the hearth in here is a bit small, and it’ll take ages, but we can heat enough water to fill the hip bath, and then you can – I brought some soap –’

  ‘How kind,’ she said.

  I looked down at the food, spread out in front of me, and suddenly it seemed pathetic: there was too little of it – or too much, I wasn’t sure which. I cleared my throat. ‘Don’t you . . . I thought . . . aren’t you . . . ?’

  ‘Don’t I want it?’ She stood up, wrapping the blanket round herself, and came towards me. She reached out and nudged the jar of honey with her toe. ‘Oh yes,’ she said. ‘Of course I want it. I’m not proud. I don’t mind accepting charity.’

  ‘Skizi, it’s not –’

  ‘Nice, is it? To be a good, sweet little ministering angel? Nice to be able to raid your larder and give it all away. Wish I could do that.’

  I stared at her. I forced myself to say, ‘It’s not charity.’

  ‘No? What is it then? What do you want in exchange?’

  ‘I . . . Skizi, I love you, it’s a – a present –’

  Her eyes narrowed. If I hadn’t known better, I might have thought she was going to cry. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Esteya! Stop saying that. You don’t love me. I make you feel good, that’s all. You like feeling superior, you like playing at being in love, you like it when we –’

  ‘That’s not fair! I do love you –’

  ‘You don’t know anything about me. How old am I, Esteya? Where was I born? Where are my parents? What –’ her voice cracked – ‘what the hell am I doing living here, in this hut?’

  I dug my nails into the palms of my hands until all I could feel was the pain. ‘You never said, so I thought – I didn’t want to ask –’

  ‘Yes, I’ll take your food. I’ll even let you heat water for me to have a bath, and I’ll wash myself with your pink soap and smile at you and pretend to be grateful and afterwards, because I feel sorry for you, I might let you kiss me and undress me and . . . but don’t think it’s because I love you, or even like you particularly. All right? I’ll be nice to you because I’m hungry, and I want to be warm and clean, and . . . but you’re smug and self-satisfied and you make me bloody sick –’

  She stopped. She was staring at me, and her own face was appalled.

  I closed my eyes.

  When I opened them again nothing had changed.

  ‘You don’t have to –’ I swallowed. ‘But – why did you . . . Never mind. I’m sorry.’ I turned on my heel and stumbled towards the door. If I could only get out, and out of sight, before I started to cry . . .

  ‘And take your bloody coal with you.’ Her voice was thin and tired.

  I looked over my shoulder, and for a blessed second all I felt was anger. Then, before I could say anything, I saw Skizi’s face thaw and crumple. She gazed at me and blinked, and tears spilt out of her eyes and rolled down her cheeks.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said, so quietly I hardly heard her. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it.’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘No. It was stupid. I just . . . I’m sorry.’

  I kept looking at her, filled with an odd mixture of anger and pity. I’d never seen Skizi cry; it was like seeing someone else with the same face.

  ‘Don’t go,’ she said. ‘Please, Esteya, don’t go. I was being stupid. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry . . .’

  I stood still and silent. There was nothing I could say.

  She came up to me, and leant her head against my shoulder, rubbing her face against my coat. ‘Please, Esteya, I’m sorry. I’m grateful for the food, really I am. Don’t be angry.’ It was so unlike her that I almost pushed her away; but instead I lifted my hand and stroked her hair, very gently.

  She raised her head and pressed her lips against mine, suddenly, surprisingly. I put my arms round her and pulled her into a better position. For a moment we kissed properly – and then I felt her start to sob.

  I pulled back, staring at her. She glanced up, seeming to meet my gaze, but her eyes were blind, overflowing with water. She bent over, wrapping her arms round her ribcage, and wept. She cried and cried, as if everything in the world was broken.

  I had never seen anyone cry like that. It made me think of the way Teddy had cried, on his knees in our hallway, staring at the blue-and-white fragments of his English tea set; but Skizi wept with a kind of abandoned, unselfconscious grief that resonated in my bones and made me feel bruised. I crouched next to her, patting her shoulder awkwardly, saying useless things like, ‘Hush, Skizi, it’s all right, it’s all right . . .’ But she didn’t seem to realise I was there.

  After a while the cold got too much. My muscles were aching and prickling, and I couldn’t stay still. In the end I stood up, wincing as the blood flowed back into my legs. Skizi didn’t notice that I’d moved; she was still sobbing, with a hopeless, adult note in her voice, as if she’d go on for ever. I’d never felt so alone in my life.

  I wanted to sit down next to her and cry too; but that wouldn’t help. I clenched my back teeth together and walked around her to the food that was still spread out on the tea towel. I picked it up and put it on her shelf. The sausage smelt of grease and garlic, and the cheese smelt of old boots; I despised myself for expecting Skizi to eat them.

  I put the soap on the other end of the shelf, and went outside to fill her old metal bucket with water. The well-water was freezing, and my hands hurt so much it was hard to hold the handle. I was glad of the pain, though. It distracted me from Skizi’s sobs.

  I took the bucket back inside, built up the fire and put the water on to heat. I dragged the old hip bath out from its corner and put it in front of the hearth. Then I sat down against the wall with my knees up, waiting for the water to boil. After a long time Skizi quietened down, and her sobs turned to sniffs. I poured the water into the hip bath and went outside for another bucketful. When I came back inside Skizi was lying quietly with her eyes closed.

  It took a long time for the
water to get hot. By the time the second bucketful was boiling, the water in the bath was only just at blood heat, and it took four bucketfuls to fill the bath. But I didn’t mind: I felt empty, content to sit and stare at the fire, adding bits of coal until I could feel the warmth slowly filling the hut.

  When I’d finally filled the bath I said softly, ‘Skizi?’

  She opened her eyes, and then stood up, undressed and stepped into the bath, resting her hand on my shoulder to steady herself. Her bruises went right down to her waist, and there were more on her legs. She winced a little as she sat down. She rested her chin on her knees, clasping her hands around her shins, taking deep breaths. There was already a faint sheen of grime on the surface of the water.

  I unwrapped the soap and gave it to her. She took it and sniffed it, and the corner of her mouth twitched. She raised her eyes to mine, and gave me a watery smile.

  I smiled back, feeling a great surge of relief. I didn’t say anything – everything still felt too fragile – but I watched while Skizi washed herself, rubbing the soap into her hair, bending forward to work it into the spaces between her toes with an earnest, concentrated look on her face. Then she handed me the soap and said, ‘Can you do my back?’

  I knelt down behind her, and ran my hands gently down her spine. I cupped my hands and poured water on to the nape of her neck, watching the wetness slide down over her vertebrae and her bruises. Anyone else would have thought it was ugly: Skizi’s grimy, bony back, stained blue and purple . . . I ran the soap across her shoulders, and down, making my touch as soft as possible. The warm water made my fingers tingle. Skizi’s skin was smooth – familiar and unfamiliar at the same time – and it made me think of wet clay, as if I was remaking her. I rinsed the dirt away and the shape of her bones shone pale gold in the glow from the fire.

  ‘Thank you.’

  For a strange, dreamy moment I didn’t know if she’d said it to me, or the other way round. I said, ‘Thank you,’ and heard her laugh.